#but it's more like it finally dislodged the last piece in a long drawn out realisation.

[t4tnt]

finished reading solving counting sheep. what the fuck! what the fuck. i mean this in a good way. what the fuck

[littleoldrachel]

"well, it's the thought that counts"

for the wonderful @rachfielden-xo who literally sent this in a month ago (sorrrrry and thank you!!) and asked for well, it's the thought that counts with scott and alan from this prompt list.

this legit turned into scott teaching alan to make pancakes and i'm not even mad about it. the recipe the boys are using is [here].

[if you wanna prompt me, hmu!]

*~*~*~*~*

There are lots of things Alan doesn’t understand.

Black holes. Why his momma isn’t coming back ever again. The reason a Mars sunset streaks blue. Why Virgil has become some soulless cavity and John won’t say a word. How, despite year after year of technological advances, there’s still no evidence of alien lifeforms out there.

Why Scott never has time for him anymore.

It’s been days since Scott even said more than a few words to Alan, weeks since he last crushed Scott at videogames - he hasn’t even taken him to the park since -

Well.

And it’s not that he doesn’t love spending time with his other brothers; Gordon annoys the heck out of him on a daily basis but makes him laugh till it hurts far more. John is the one who gets him, who refuses to dumb down scientific explanations, who shares his passion for all things space. And Virgil - Virgil Before, that is - is the only person who knows how to hug him just right, who listens no matter how banal Alan’s worries are.

He loves them so much his heart might explode apart like a zombie’s head meeting his videogame character’s bazooka - except Alan’s not ever leaving them, not ever, not now he knows what that does to them all.

It’s just that Scott is fast turning into Dad, notable only by his absence.

And Alan doesn’t need another one of those.

More than that though, he can see the way his brother is running himself ragged trying to be mother and father and everything in between, and despite Virgil’s interventions and John’s best efforts, it’s not getting any better.

Which is where Alan comes in.

Alan is going to save his brother because he’s no baby, despite what everyone thinks.

What he lands on is simple but effective: he’s going to make Scott his favourite breakfast and draw him a card to say thank you, because he wants Scott to know Alan sees everything he’s doing to keep them afloat.

The card is straightforward enough - he’s no Virgil, but he’s pretty sure it’s clearly a rocket that he’s drawn. His tongue pokes out as he colours in as carefully as he can, only going over the lines a few times. He draws himself and Scott in the window of the rocket, grinning wildly (perhaps a little manically if he’s being honest) and adds Mars to the background.

Inside, in wobbly, looping script he prints:

Deer Scotty

Thanks for bing the best. I love you.

Love

Alan

Mission: Amazing Card - completed.

Now he just needs to make the pancakes.

Right then. First step is the ingredients.

In theory, this should be straightforward enough. Alan has seen Scott do this numerous times, had half-listened when Virgil taught John, and has eaten more of these pancakes than he can begin to count (but never enough!).

Alan pushes a chair against the counter, uses it to hoist himself onto the surface, and scrambles to the cupboard.

He knows that there’s a mountain of flour involved, because the little puffs of white powder always fluff through the sieve and make him sneeze. What he didn’t anticipate was that there would be different types of flour, in neat colour coded packages. He picks red, because it’s his favourite colour, and dumps as much of it as he can through the sieve, poking at it with his fingers to push it through.

It doesn’t look as neat as when Scott does it, and the entire surface is already dusted with flour, but most of it is in the bowl, so he’s doing okay.

He goes for brute strength with the eggs, smashing them into the side of the bowl. Little pieces of shell slide into the mixture with the yolk, but it’s so slippery he can’t get them out. Fingers coated in sloppy flour, he retreats. Maybe Scott won’t mind the crunchiness.

The milk carton is far heavier than Alan anticipated, and he loses his grip on the condensation-slick handle, watching in slo-mo horror as a glug of milk hits the side of the bowl, ricochets off it -

And splat!

It lands straight on top of Alan’s card, and Alan -

He’s not going to cry, he’s not -

His mom always said he shouldn’t cry over spilt milk, except this time it’s ruined everything.

Milk drips off the counter and Alan clenches his fists, willing the baby inside him to shut up. Eventually, the upset reassembles itself into a grumpiness that has him whisking furiously. The mixture slops all over the place, decorating the floor, countertop and his too-big apron with splatters of batter. It’s a lot runnier than Scott’s usually is, but by now Alan Does Not Care, he just wants to get this done and hug Scotty.

He’s just standing in front of the oven, wondering which dial is for which of the flame things, when the kitchen door opens.

Sixteen-year-old Scott, whose eyes have circles far deeper and greyer than they have any right to be, is standing there, and Alan becomes Very Aware all of a sudden of what the kitchen must look like through Scott’s eyes:

Flour absolutely everywhere (he can feel on his eyelashes and tickling his nose), little pools of batter all over the floor, Alan with his hand on the stove to work out how to make the fire come out -

“What the hell.”

Scott takes a deep breath, presses the heel of his hand to his eyes and says, “what are you doing, Alan?”

Alan forces himself to stand up tall like Dad always says. “Making you breakfast.”

There’s a pause, and Scott surveys the disaster zone once more. “I can see that,” he says finally, voice a little faint.

Alan swallows because this isn’t at all like he wanted it to go, but he brandishes the bowl of batter and does his best to peel the card from the surface. “For you!”

Scott stares, but takes the bowl. “Is this.... pancake mix?”

Alan nods eagerly, “your favourite! And here.”

The cursed milk smudged his amazing drawing, but it’s still sort of a rocket. Scott carefully prises open the card, and his whole body softens as he reads the message inside. “Allie,” he manages, “Allie, this is so -”

He presses a fist to his mouth and Alan watches in horror as his Neptune eyes shine overly-bright. This was supposed to be a nice thing, but he got it all wrong -

“I’m sorry,” Alan cries, flinging himself at Scott in a hug. “Don’t cry, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to make such a mess -”

“Allie, no -” Scott’s voice is firmer now, but Alan can’t bear to look at him falling apart like Virgil and John and Dad, because Scott is Scott and he can’t fall apart. It will obliterate Alan’s heart like a grenade in a zombie hideout if he has to see Scott cry.

Scott crouches though, and Alan’s forced to make eye contact. He’s relieved to see that Scott’s face has lost its sadness.

“Thank you so much for all of this, Allie,” Scott says, so sincere and so strongly, it washes something warm and safe over Alan’s shoulders.

“But it’s t-t-terrible! The pancakes are all wrong and I don’t know how to cook them and the card got milked and - and -” Alan can hear the wail in his voice and he resents it; it knocks hard into the defiant figure inside him that insists I’m not a baby!

“It’s not terrible, Allie. It’s - it’s lovely.”

“You’re saying that to make me feel better.” He can’t help but pout.

“No, I mean it. I love it - all of it.”

“Even the mess?”

“Even the mess.”

“Why?”

“Because… Well, it’s the thought that counts, Allie.”

Alan wrinkles his nose and Scott grins, using his sleeve to wipe off some of the stray flour. “I mean it. The fact that you wanted to do something nice for me makes me really happy.”

Alan hmphs, but tucks himself into Scott’s side and Scott obliges, squeezing him tight in one of those cuddles Alan has missed so much.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around much, Allie, but I love you and I’m gonna do better, ‘kay?”

Alan stiffens and pulls away. “Wait no! That’s what this was for, Scotty.” He wants to stamp his foot in frustration so bad, but knows that’s Baby Behaviour and so he settles for a scowl. “I don’t want you trying to do more when you already do everything! I just miss you, I don’t need you to do anything better. I just need Scotty.”

Scott is blinking too fast for the second time in ten minutes. “Did Virg put you up to this?” he says a little hoarsely.

Alan frowns. “No. But if he thinks the same thing, shouldn’t you be listening?”

Scott’s eyes widen, and he ducks his head, covers his eyes again.

Alan goes back in for a hug, presses his cheek into Scott’s chest and listens to the steady thump-thump of his heart. He feels Scott take a deep breath and put his armour back up, and Alan’s heart makes a sad little clench.

“What do you say we make some pancakes together? Ones that are actually edible?” Scott clambers to his feet with a grin.

“Hey! They would be!” Alan protests, but then he looks back at the mixture, which is congealing in watery lumps and he fights a smile.

“But first,” Scott flattens the card and clips it to the fridge with a magnet, and Alan -

Alan’s heart skips.

It’s been a long time since any of them - even Virgil - have had anything hung on the fridge. But his little card - his silly, ruined card - is up there in pride of place and that means more to him than he knows what to do with.

Scott ruffles his hair, dislodging the flour that’s gathered itself there, and for once Alan doesn’t have the words to protest. Scott half-turns, catches Alan’s lost expression, and shoots him the gentlest of smiles.

“Ready to make the best pancakes in the world?”

As if he even needs to ask.

Scott easily sorts through the cupboard, drawing out the blue flour, a pot of baking powder, and some sugar. It’s all white.

“Why do they have to make all the important stuff the same colour?” Alan complains, and Scott laughs, loudly and easily. It’s a wonderful sound.

“Here’s something that’s a different colour,” Scott says, tossing eggs between his palms with an assured ease. “It’s egg time.”

He passes one to Alan, and Alan goes to smash it against the bowl, when -

“Wait!”

Alan pauses, mid-swing, and Scott plucks the egg from him.

“Gently, Allie. Like this.”

Scott repositions his hands so that his grip on the egg is looser, then gently moves his wrist to give one sharp tap against the side of the bowl. The egg breaks, golden yolk dripping out, but miraculously, no shell escapes.

“Reckon you can do the next one on your own?” Scott asks, and Alan nods at once. He looks to Scott to check he’s doing it right, and every time Scott is there to meet his gaze.

(As he always is, always will be).

Scott helps him to lift the milk carton, and between them, they pour it into a little well that Scott instructs him to dig in the mixture. Scott hands Alan a whisk with a solemnity that Alan recognises from Gordon’s pranks, and sure enough, no sooner than he’s taken it, Scott is brandishing a spatula and yelling “en garde!” and then it’s all out war.

“Loser has to whisk the mixture!” Scott says between parries, and Alan knows he’s being deliberately slow and clumsy but if that’s how he wants to play, then so be it. Alan blocks a few of Scott’s easy strikes, and feigns left, before darting right to jab him in the ribs.

“Victory!” he yells.

Scott crashes to his knees in mock agony. “You got me!”

Alan pushes the bowl towards him smugly. “Your punishment.”

“So merciful.”

“No talking! Only whisking!”

With Scott’s expert hands, the batter turns into a smooth, creamy mixture, and he guides Alan as the chocolate chips are poured in. “And now we fold.”

“Fold? Like paper?”

Scott grins, and Alan scowls. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“Sorry kiddo. Like this.” Scott shows Alan a gentle scraping motion that turns the mixture towards the centre of the bowl.

“Are we there yet?” The chocolate chips are making Alan’s mouth water, and as messy and inaccurate as his recipe might have been, it was at least quicker.

“Nearly. Let me just heat the pan.”

Scott dashes the pan with a blob of butter, and smiles softly as it begins to sizzle and melt, before he turns sharply to Alan.

“Hey, Allie?”

“Mm?”

“Please don’t use the stove without me or Virg there, okay?”

A ladle of pancake batter goes into the pan, and Alan stares at it in anticipation.

“But it was an emergency.”

“And you could have asked Virg, even if you wanted to surprise me.”

Alan frowns, crosses his arms. “He wouldn’t have helped, he’s always in bed these days.” Scott swallows, the crease of concern back between his eyebrows and Alan’s heart sinks. “I didn’t mean that. He would help, really.”

“He’s just really sad, Allie. Give him some time.”

“We’re all really sad,” Alan says, in a smaller voice than he intends.

There’s a pause, and Scott says, equally small, “I know.”

Scott removes the pan, passes it to Alan, and gently adjusts his grip, until -

“One, two, three, flip!”

The pancake does a perfect somersault, landing uncooked side down in the pan, and Scott beams, even though his eyes look so sad.

Silence falls once more, and Alan finally looks up at Scott, surprised when he’s already watching him.

“I love you, Allie. So much.”

Alan blinks, but the words come easily - he’s not yet at Gordon’s age where such declarations are Deeply Embarrassing. “Love you, Scotty.”

“I know the last few months have been really rough,” Scott says slowly, as though he’s measuring each word out like ingredients. “But never forget that I love you and all of us love you. It’s okay to be sad, but you don’t need to deal with it on your own, okay?”

Alan nods, tucks himself into Scott’s side once more, because the contact feels more important than words right now. Heck, he doesn’t even know what he could say to that. It’s everything he knows technically, but hearing it said out loud? It hits different in a way that knocks all the words right out of his head.

On cue, the pancake has turned into a golden-brown puffed up beauty, and Scott grins widely.

“Bets on who’ll be the first to smell this and make their way down to join in?”

Alan laughs. “Definitely Gordon.”

“Nah, Virg has a weird sixth sense about pancakes.”

*~*~*~*~*

They’re both wrong as it turns out.

John slinks into the kitchen, followed shortly after by a bright-eyed Gordon (“that doesn’t count, Allie!” “Does too!” “Does not!”) and a dull-eyed Virgil.

Whilst Scott and Alan stack up the pancakes, Scott corrals the others into beginning the clean-up process. There’s some good-natured ribbing about the Disaster pancake mixture, which has started solidifying alarmingly quickly, and Virgil spots the card on the fridge, turning to Alan with the first genuine smile he’s seen from him in so long.

Everyone is ravenous by the time there are a sufficient amount of pancakes for them all, and then it’s every man for himself as they wrestle for sauces and squabble over the last pancakes.

It’s the first time they’ve all eaten a meal together in so long, and it’s the best gift he could have ever given Scott, even though he couldn’t have planned the highs and lows of this particular adventure. Virgil is actually laughing about something with Gordon, and John is inserting the occasional comment with a smile, and Scott -

Scott meets Alan’s eyes with a proud smile.

Alan’s heart feels like it’s actually glowing, a soft, golden light in his chest, because he did that - he and Scott.

They make a good team.

And they always will.

[morganaspendragonss]

Hello! Fic request please. Okay, so TK and Carlos never got together. During the Boba date, TK let Carlos know that they should be friends and Carlos understood. So they became good friends but TK just self sabotages a lot so he loved Carlos then but didn't want to let Carlos in so he thought it better to just let him go and settle for a friendship. So one day, they decide to check out this new place for lunch. TK excuses himself for the bathroom and he hears this huge explosion and feels the impact. When he gets out, it's a fiery mess. All that is on his mind: I have to find Carlos. Even when the 126 respond to the explosion, TK refuses to leave until he has found Carlos. Carlos is found unconscious, injured and with severe smoke inhalation. 📍

holly's august extravaganza day 13: couldn't utter my love when it counted

thank you! you've given me such wonderful prompts and it's been a pleasure to write every single one of them! 💚😊

ao3 | 3k | canon divergence, explosions, major character injury, angst with a happy ending, love declarations

TK has made a lot of mistakes in his life, but undoubtedly one of the biggest was letting Carlos Reyes go. He hates the person he was back then, the one who was too blind to see that what he needed—what he wanted—was right in front of him, in a very literal sense.

“How long are you going to avoid talking about it TK?”

“Us?”

“What are we? Are we even a ‘we’?”

TK wants to say yes. He looks at Carlos with his soulful brown eyes and kind tilt to his mouth and he just knows that this is someone he could let in. He’s already seen some of TK’s darkest depths, and yet he’s still here, still asking, still wanting to be with him.

Then again, Carlos isn’t the only one who has been with him despite, and the last person who did that ended up growing tired of him. Carlos would promise against it if he knew what TK was thinking, but it’s an impossible promise to make, far easier said than done. He isn’t that kind of person, TK knows this—but then, neither was Alex, until he was.

He can’t risk it. Besides, he barely recognises his life anymore, and he can’t ask Carlos to hang around indefinitely until he can get his head in order again. If there’s one thing TK is certain of, it’s that Carlos is a good man, and he doesn’t deserve to have to deal with all of TK’s bullshit, however much TK may want it.

So. That’s it.

“I like you, Carlos. I want to get to know you better. But as friends. I’m not in a place for a relationship—I don’t know if this is where I belong, or even if I can be a firefighter anymore. And I just. I just think that I have to work out who I am before I can let someone else in on that, you know? So… Can we? Be friends, I mean?”

Carlos would be well within his rights to say no, after all. But instead he smiles, a little sad, but still as gentle as ever, and says, “Sure. I’d love that.”

TK realised three things pretty quickly after that moment.

One: Austin is his home.

Two: He belongs at the firehouse—but as a paramedic.

And three: He is in love with Carlos Reyes.

But his moment has come and gone. That conversation is the kind that can’t be taken back; the damage has been done, and now TK has to live with the consequences. It’s not all bad—he still has Carlos in his life, and things are… Things are good. They hang out regularly, they have an ongoing text thread, there’s no awkwardness or resentment between them. All things considered, they’re in a better place than they were back during their pseudo-dating phase.

But still, TK misses him.

It’s a strange feeling, missing someone who’s right there beside him. TK hadn’t realised how much he would lose when they became ‘just friends’ for real, but now he finds himself noticing more and more the absence of a flirty twinkle in Carlos’s eye or the suggestive lilt to his words. There’s still an air around them, a sense that, if he just pushed a little, they could easily tip over into more. Into whatever they were on their way to becoming before TK drew his line in the sand.

He won’t, though. It wouldn’t be fair—Carlos has already put up with so much from him that it’s a miracle he’s even still around at all—and TK is not willing to risk what is now the best friendship of his life. If having Carlos in his life means keeping his hands to himself and forever refusing the urge to kiss him senseless, then it’s a small price to pay.

*

“You’re such an ass!” TK shoves Carlos lightly as they walk down the street, rolling his eyes at the smirk sent his way. “Why can’t you just suck it up and accept that maybe you don’t know Austin as well as you think you do?”

Carlos raises a solitary eyebrow. “Because I’ve lived here my entire life?”

“That doesn’t mean anything. Besides,” he cuts in, before Carlos can come back with some other stupid, logical argument, “this place only popped up a few months back so there’s no way you’ve had enough time to make a proper judgement.”

“And you have?”

“Shut up.”

Carlos laughs and, though TK tries to glare at him, he can’t help but be drawn into it. He shakes his head and looks down to avoid Carlos’s eyes, only for his gaze to catch on their hands, swinging in sync mere centimetres apart. How he aches to close that distance and thread their fingers together; to tell Carlos everything he’s been pushing down for months—

Carlos lifts his hand to run his fingers through his hair, and the moment is broken. If he noticed TK’s lapse, then he doesn’t show it, instead turning to him with an amused smile. “Alright,” he says, “how about this? You take me wherever this is, and next time, I’ll take you to the actual best pizza place in Austin; then we’ll see who’s right.”

TK wishes he could kiss that self-satisfied smirk off his face. See how smug he is then.

“Fine,” he agrees. “Prepare to eat your words, Reyes.”

“Looking forward to it.”

God, TK hates him.

*

Carlos is being infuriatingly quiet as they eat, and it’s grating on TK’s every nerve. TK is well aware he’s doing it for that exact purpose, but he’s never been known for his patience—a fact which Carlos knows all too well and is rudely taking advantage of.

“So?” TK demands, folding his arms on the tabletop. “Was I right, or was I right?”

Carlos hums, pretending to consider the slice in his hand with great care. Then, he meets TK’s eyes and drops it back on the plate, re-settling in his seat with a shit-eating grin. “It was okay.”

TK’s mouth drops open. He blinks at Carlos for a good few seconds, then snaps his jaw shut with a click, shaking his head and sighing. “I hate you,” he grumbles, refusing to look Carlos in the eye.

Carlos has the audacity to actually laugh. “No, you don’t,” he says, and he doesn’t know quite how true that is. TK feels a blush start to rise on his cheeks, which cannot happen, so he clears his throat and slides out of his seat.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” he says. “Maybe you’ll have reconsidered by the time I come back.”

TK can’t stop a grin from forming the second he turns his back, his heart doing a stupid little dance in his chest. He doesn’t need a mirror to know that his face is bright red, and he’s going to have to splash a significant amount of water over him before he can even think about facing Carlos again.

He takes his time in the bathroom, stopping to stare at his reflection in the mirror for several minutes and trying to talk himself down from any more-than-friendly feelings towards Carlos.

Later, they’ll tell him that this saved his life.

But that won’t be for a long time, until after the smoke has cleared and the dead have been counted and the statements have been taken.

For now, TK steels his resolve and nods at himself, then turns to the door, a hand reaching out for the handle.

That’s when the explosion rips through the building.

*

He’s floating.

He’s… He doesn’t… Something’s not right. Something…

Underwater. He can’t hear anything and he’s floating and he’s underwater, except he can’t be because he was just in a restaurant with Carlos and they were talking and—and—

The world slams back into him with the force of a freight train and TK coughs as he instantly feels like his entire body is being compressed, his airways closing up. It takes a few seconds to realise his eyes are closed and several more before he can open them, only to be met with even more darkness.

He blinks—so he definitely has opened them—but he still can’t see a damn thing. Is he… He can’t be blind. He can’t.

TK’s chest tightens even further and the panic causes his limbs to twitch, to scrabble at the ground, and the movements must be enough to dislodge something because suddenly there’s light streaming into his eyes. He slams his eyelids shut instinctively, and it’s a long moment before he can crack them open again.

His surroundings come to him in bits and pieces. To his left, a pile of cracked porcelain—the sink, he realises. The floor glitters with a material TK can’t identify until he catches sight of his reflection in a shard of glass just in front of him. And on top of him, something heavy, rough—wood?

The door!

Slowly, agonisingly, he manages to shift to all fours, then to his knees, then finally staggers to his feet. He sways in place, watching the bathroom door hit the floor, and—that’s strange. It doesn’t make a sound.

He can’t hear anything, actually, aside from a faint, high-pitched ringing. The paramedic in him tells him that this is a bad thing, but he feels separate from both his brain and his body; he’s floating somewhere outside his body, this whole situation feeling like a dream, or perhaps a nightmare.

A thought drifts through his mind then. No, not a thought, a name.

Carlos.

He was with Carlos. He has to find Carlos.

TK stumbles forward, grabbing onto anything within reach as the battle to stay upright gets harder with each second that passes. An intense heat hits him as he makes it into what he thinks is the main seating area and the change in atmosphere is instant—thick, black smoke invades his lungs, sending him back to his knees, body heaving with coughs.

The restaurant is on fire and TK can barely keep his eyes open as he searches for any sign of Carlos. He forces his aching body further, any pain taking a back-seat as the need to find Carlos grows. He’s still not sure what’s happening or how they got in this mess, but he knows that Carlos is in danger, and TK isn’t going to let him die. Not now. Not ever, if he can help it.

He crawls through the restaurant, blind and deaf to where he’s going, but he’ll know it’s Carlos when he finds him. He knows he will. There’s nothing that could stop him from recognising Carlos.

TK doesn’t know what’s happening when he suddenly feels himself being lifted, something bulky being placed over his face. It’s a shock, the sensation of being able to breathe clean oxygen, and it goes to his head for a moment, the dizziness growing even as his vision begins to clear up.

He catches sight of 126 emblazoned on a helmet and familiar, worried eyes looking down at him, and that’s when it connects. His family are here, they’re here, but Carlos is still somewhere and TK is not leaving without him. He struggles in his father’s grasp, managing to squirm and flail enough to get his feet on the floor and for his dad’s grip on him to falter.

But the relief is momentary; no sooner is he standing than the vertigo and nausea takes over, and he crumbles.

This time, when the world goes black, it stays that way.

*

They tell him it was a gas explosion in the restaurant’s kitchen. They say he’s lucky to be alive, that his trip to the bathroom saved him. They say he needs plenty of rest and time to heal.

They don’t tell him anything about Carlos.

TK asks, he’s been asking since the moment he woke up in the hospital. But the team knows nothing and the doctors keep saying to focus on his own injuries rather than worrying about someone else.

Someone else, as if that’s all Carlos is. He’s the love of TK’s fucking life, but they might never get the chance to be anything more than friends; TK has seen the news. His dad had switched it off the second he caught him watching it, but he’d seen enough to know that survivors are few, and, of those, most of them weren’t as lucky as TK.

His injuries were serious, but they’ll heal. He’ll probably have scars from the shrapnel from when the explosion first went off and from the burns he acquired looking for Carlos, and he’s going to have one hell of a tinnitus case for a while, but it’s nothing. Less than nothing.

He’s alive, which, if Carlos is dead or dying, is far more than he deserves.

*

On his fifth day in hospital, they tell him he can go home later. He should be grateful, but it just feels like another thing that’s happened to him in a long line of things. He’s waiting for his dad to come back from picking his prescription up when there’s a knock at the door, and TK looks up to see an older Latino couple, the woman looking at him with a deep sadness in her eyes.

“I… Are you TK?” she asks haltingly.

TK frowns and nods, surprised by the relief that floods her face when he does. He doesn’t have to wonder for long, though.

“I’m Andrea. Carlos’s mother. This is his father, Gabriel.” She gestures to the man next to her, who nods at TK, his mouth pinched. TK swallows nervously, terror building in him at the thought of what Carlos’s parents could be doing here. “The doctors tell us you’ve been asking about our son,” Andrea continues. “We wanted to come and talk to you and give you the news ourselves.”

TK swears his heart stops in his chest. “Is he…”

He can’t get the words out, can’t put the idea into existence, but Andrea clearly picks up on what he’s thinking as she crosses the room, taking his hands in hers.

“He’s alive,” she says. “He… He lost a leg in the explosion and his lungs were damaged from the smoke, but the doctors have told us that the worst danger has passed. We’re just waiting for him to wake up now.” Andrea pauses, biting her lip. She looks at Gabriel, then back to TK, releasing his hands. “How do you know our son? Are you…”

“We’re friends,” TK says, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. “He’s the best friend I’ve got. Thank you for telling me.”

*

He leaves his number with Andrea and Gabriel, and they promise to keep him updated on Carlos’s condition.

Four days after TK goes home, he gets a phone call to say that Carlos is awake. He’s back at the hospital within the hour, racing as fast as he can (which, infuriatingly, isn’t very fast right now) to the room number they gave him.

The sight he’s greeted with just about takes his breath away.

Carlos smiles at him, and he’s covered in bandages and scrapes and he’s clearly exhausted, but he’s smiling, and TK swears he’s never looked more beautiful. He stands in the doorway for a long time, just staring at Carlos for the first time in nine days, so captivated by him that he doesn’t notice the knowing look that passes between Andrea and Gabriel.

“We’ll give you boys some time to catch up,” Gabriel says. He pats TK’s shoulder when they walk past him, and it’s enough to spur him back into action.

TK crosses the room in three quick strides, reaching for Carlos’s hand the second he’s settled in the chair. He almost sobs when he feels Carlos squeeze his hand back; it’s weak, more just a twitch of the fingers, but it feels like everything.

“Hi,” Carlos says, his voice quiet and raspy.

TK sniffs, opens his mouth to say hi back, but maybe the explosion knocked him about more than he realised, because what comes out instead is, “I love you.”

Their eyes widen at the same time, a flush rising on TK’s face as he processes what he just did. “I—I’m so sorry, Carlos, I—” He shakes his head and tries to pull his hand back, but Carlos’s grip tightens, keeping him firmly in place.

“Say it again,” he demands.

TK blinks. “What?”

“Say it again.”

He hesitates another second, but the slight uptick to Carlos’s lips gives him the confidence he needs to look Carlos in the eyes.

“I love you. I’ve loved you for the longest time and I’m so sorry that I couldn’t see it before. I was scared, and I thought I wouldn’t be able to handle a relationship, and I figured it would be easier to let you down than risk hurting us both when we inevitably realised it couldn’t work out.

“But I was so wrong, Carlos. Back at the restaurant, after the explosion, all I cared about was finding you and making sure that you were okay. I couldn’t stand the thought that anything might have happened to you, and I’ve been going out of my mind since it happened because I didn’t know how you were. I—I can’t lose you, Carlos.”

He takes a deep breath and blinks away the tears beginning to gather in his eyes, attempting a trembling smile to match Carlos’s own. “I love you,” he whispers. “If it’s too late, then I understand. I just. I need you in my life. I need you, Carlos. However you’ll have me.”

Carlos holds his gaze for a long time after TK has finished speaking, and it feels like he’s seeing right through him. Eventually, after so long that TK’s lost all sense of time, he slowly raises his hand, brushing his knuckles across TK’s cheek, then coming to rest on the back of his neck.

“I love you, too.”

And the light pressure from Carlos’s hand is all the invitation TK needs to close the distance between them, his heart pounding as he kisses Carlos for what feels like the first time.

Hopefully, it’s the first of many, and the first of the rest of their lives.

[buoyantsaturn]

So Come On, Talk it Out (your voice brought me back from the dead) (1/1)

summary: A relaxing date between Nico and Will the spring before Tower of Nero.

word count: 2616

read on ao3

The air was finally warming up late that spring. The snow had all melted a few weeks back, but it had still been too cold to stay outside for more than an hour or two. It definitely hadn’t been warm enough for a pseudo-picnic under the shade of a tree, but now it finally was. And it would probably be their only chance to do so before summer rolled in and brought a hundred kids back to camp. 

Nico had kicked off his shoes and socks before laying his head down in Will’s lap as the son of Apollo sat upright against the trunk of the tree. Nico planted his feet firmly in the grass, and Will cringed at the sight. 

“You’re just going to stick your feet in the grass like that?” he asked.

Nico shrugged as best he could in his current position. “Yeah, so what? It makes me feel more...grounded, more connected to everything.” 

Will snorted. “Yeah, connected to feeling like you’ve got bugs crawling over your feet.” 

“That doesn’t even make sense.” 

Will poked him in the forehead. “You don’t make sense.” Nico snatched Will’s hand away and brought it toward his mouth, biting down gently on the side of Will’s hand before Will could rip it away. “Hey! I thought we agreed on a nice, relaxing date! Relaxing does not include biting.”

Nico reached up and squished the tip of Will’s nose down with a single finger. “No, you agreed on a relaxing date. I already took you on one last week.” 

Will scoffed, and swatted at Nico’s hand. “Almost dropping me in a vat of Cheez Whiz in Venezuela is not relaxing! And I ran out of KitKats, so you couldn’t even get your energy up enough to bring us back here!” 

A smile started to creep its way onto Nico’s face, and he started to brush his fingers across Will’s cheek. “I still can’t believe you committed a crime for me.” 

“Well, what was I supposed to do?” Will demanded, waving his arms frantically. “They wouldn’t accept my drachmas and didn’t speak English, and you--! You couldn’t even open your eyes long enough to see where we were! What was I supposed to do, not steal a few KitKats?”

Nico’s smile was full blown as he gazed up at Will with hearts in his eyes. “So you agree: best date ever, and I win.” 

Will started to laugh - a little bit in shock that Nico would even think that, but also finding it hard not to crack up at the absurdity of their conversation. What other fifteen year old had ever stolen KitKats from some shop in Venezuela to restore his significant other’s magic powers so that they could teleport back home? He almost sounded crazy!

“No,” Will told him, still laughing. “Not the best date ever! And definitely not relaxing! I wanted to, like, sit together like this, and maybe share some snacks and play twenty questions. Not run from cops in Venezuela.”

Nico’s nose scrunched up - something Will had recently learned his did when he was confused - and Will wanted to kiss the wrinkles away. “Why would we play twenty questions?”

“To get to know each other. Duh.” 

Nico tipped his head back and met Will’s eyes, frowning slightly. “Do we...not already know each other?” 

“Well, we do,” Will replied, his head tipping to the side, “but not everything. I don’t even know your middle name.” 

“Yeah, so? I don’t know yours either.” 

Will grinned. “And that’s why we play! Tell me your middle name.” 

Nico rolled his eyes, but answered, “Vincenzo.” 

Will hummed. “Nico Vincenzo di Angelo… I know you’re Italian, Death Boy, but that’s a lot of o’s.”

Nico pursed his lips and turned his head away, gazing out toward the lake. After a moment, he said, “Actually it’s… Niccolo Vincenzo di Angelo.” 

“Your name is Niccolo? That’s so cute!” Will repeated the name to himself a few times in his head, and then gasped. “Like piccolo! Oh my gods, Nico, can I call you piccolo?” 

Nico leveled him with a glare so strong that it could’ve made flowers wilt on the spot, but Will didn’t so much as flinch. “Absolutely not.” 

Will lifted a hand and started to brush his fingers through Nico’s hair. He leaned into the touch, despite how angry he was pretending to be. “Okay, so only in private, then.” 

“No! Never!” 

Will simply continued to smile down at him, carding his fingers through Nico’s hair and gently releasing tangles in the curls. He wondered if Nico’s hair would curl up even more if it was shorter, but they’d both gotten fond of the length. “It’s your turn to ask,” Will reminded him softly after a few short moments of silence. 

Nico crossed his arms with a huff, and looked away again - though only with his eyes this time, as though not to dislodge Will’s hand from his head. “Same question.” 

Will hesitated. “Can you call me piccolo?”

At least Will’s brief moment of stupidity brought a smile back to Nico’s face. “No, your middle name.” 

“Oh! It’s Andrew. William Andrew Solace.” 

Nico repeated the name, whispering it to himself, and Will felt his heart skip a beat at the sound. Then, Nico’s hand searched out Will’s - the one that wasn’t twirling curls around his fingers - and laced their fingers together. He met Will’s eyes as he said, “William Andrew Solace, I want you to know that if you ever betray me, I will use your full name to embarrass you as payback.” 

Will’s smile only brightened. “Why would I ever betray you?” 

Nico shrugged again. “You might not even realize it when it happens. I’m not talking about any big stakes. I mean, like… Like if Sherman’s on the lava course, and you don’t tell me so I can avenge my loss against him. That’s a betrayal.” 

“You really are kind of a sore loser, huh.” 

“I am not!”

Will nodded. “Uh huh. Okay, Piccolo.” 

Nico ripped his hand out of Will’s and used it to smack at his arm. “Shut up!”

With his hand now free, Will was able to reach into the backpack he’d brought with him, and pulled out a clementine. He took away his other hand, causing Nico to sigh in disappointment, though Will didn’t tease him for it. If the sudden blush on his face was anything to go by, then Nico hadn’t intended to make a sound at all. Will laid one arm across Nico’s chest, the other held over Nico’s head as he reached around him to peel the clementine. 

“Where was the first place you shadow traveled to?” Will asked. 

Nico paused to think, one of his hands coming up almost subconsciously to curl his fingers around Will’s arm. “Uh, China, I think? I don’t really remember. I kinda...jumped, and then immediately passed out. I think Minos said I was out for, like, three days, and then I just jumped back.” 

“You went all the way to China? And you didn’t bring any KitKats?” 

Nico pinched his arm. “We just learned about the KitKat thing a month ago, Will. Whatever. Um, did you have any pets before you came to camp?” 

Will grinned at the change of subject. “I did! I had a golden retriever, and her name was Sandy.” He dropped the clementine peel into the grass and broke the fruit into pieces. He took one small piece and held it out for Nico.

“No thanks,” Nico told him.

“You haven’t eaten since yesterday,” Will reminded him.

“I went without eating for a week when I was in that jar.” 

“Yeah, and I wish you would stop reminding me of that, because it just makes me want to feed you even more. So, open up!” 

Nico rolled his eyes, but allowed his mouth to drop open so that Will could feed him the slice of clementine. Nico’s face scrunched up as he chewed. “It’s kinda sour.” 

Will ate his own slice, and shrugged. “Not really. You just haven’t eaten a fruit in over a year and forgot what it’s supposed to taste like.”

“Uh, pomegranates are fruit, and I--”

“Ate those in the jar, I know,” Will cut in, “but you were in a trance and probably didn’t even taste them, so that doesn’t count.” 

Nico huffed. “Whatever.” Still, he opened his mouth when Will placed another slice of clementine at his lips. 

“Have you ever thought about getting a tattoo?” Will asked.

Nico shook his head, gently rolling it back and forth over Will’s thigh. “Nah, I’ve been stabbed with a knife before and that wasn’t great, so I don’t think I need to get stabbed with a thousand tiny needles. Why, have you?” 

Will frowned. “Okay, we’re going to circle back to that later, but yes, I have.”

“What were you thinking of getting?” 

Will moved the few remaining clementine pieces into one hand, and placed the other on Nico’s chest. He drew a circle with his finger directly over Nico’s heart and said, “Right here, I want to get a sun.” 

“Why’s that? Are you afraid people won’t think you’re sunshiney enough because of the...everything about you?” 

Will flicked him in the chest, right in the center of the circle he’d drawn. He smiled as he lifted his gaze out toward the lake - he was worried about something, Nico could tell that much just by looking at him.

“I’ve been thinking about my dad a lot recently,” Will started, his voice hushed as though he was sharing a secret. “I haven’t heard from him in so long and I’m...worried about what’s going to happen if he doesn’t make it. I’m worried about the state of the world, first and foremost, don’t get me wrong, but… What about me? Do I lose everything? Will I still be able to heal? Or use any of my other powers?” 

He dropped his gaze again, eyes focused on the spot on Nico’s chest where his fingers had started to circle again. “So I want that tattoo as, like, a way to remember him, and a way to remember that part of myself, just in case things don’t go as planned.” 

Nico covered Will’s hand with his own, and brought it up to his lips so that he could press a kiss to his knuckles. “Whatever happens, you’ll always be my sunshine.” 

Will smiled at him sweetly and said, “Who are you, and what have you done with my significant annoyance?”

Nico huffed and threw Will’s hand away. “Way to ruin the moment.” 

“Just ask me another question, would you?” Will asked, and popped another piece of clementine into his mouth. There was just one left - he’d give it to Nico.

“It’s not my turn,” Nico told him.

“Oh, yeah.” Will fed him the clementine and tipped his head back against the tree as he thought. “What’s your favorite movie?” 

“I dunno, I don’t watch a lot of movies,” Nico replied. “I don’t really have the attention span for that, so I haven’t seen...any?” 

Will’s jaw dropped. “You haven’t seen Star Wars?”

Nico hesitated. “Uh, no? I think Percy said I didn’t need to see it anyway, because there’s apparently some other Star-something movies that are better.” 

“Star Trek?” Will shrieked. “Absolutely not! The Apollo cabin is a Star Wars family, and I will not stand for this kind of slander. For our next date, we’re watching the original trilogy.” 

“Woah, hang on a second!” Nico held up his thumb between them. “First of all, I get to pick our next date.” He raised his index finger. “Second, I just said I can’t even sit through one movie, and you want me to watch three? I don’t think so.” He added his middle finger. “And third-- Uh, no actually, I don’t think I have a third point.” 

“Okay, then two dates from now, we’ll watch Episode Four, and then another two dates later, we’ll watch Episode Five--”

“Why wouldn’t we start with the first episode?” Nico asked. “Wait, and I thought these were movies. Actually, no, never mind. Whatever, as long as it makes you happy.” 

Will smiled. “It will.” 

“So, I assume that’s your favorite movie.” 

Will hummed an affirmative. He started to stroke Nico’s hair once again, and Nico’s eyes slipped shut at the feeling. “You gotta ask me another question,” Will whispered. 

Nico cracked one eye open. “I just did.” 

“That wasn’t a question, it was an assumption. And besides, I can’t think of another one, so you go.” 

Nico rolled his eyes. “Oh, like I can? This game was your idea, Solace.” He let his eyes fall shut again, though there was a tiny wrinkle between his brows that let Will know he was trying to think. “What other powers do you have?”

Will tapped his fingers against Nico’s skull a few times, and then resumed playing with his hair. “Well, you know about the healing, and my sonic whistle. And, uh, I don’t know if this is a power, really, but I’m good at calming people down. And I can, um.” He cleared his throat, and Nico opened his eyes to see that Will was looking everywhere and anywhere that wasn’t at Nico. “Glow. So what other powers do you have?” 

Nico sat up instantly. “Hang on, did you just say you can glow?” He turned to face Will, clutching his hands in his own and demanding, “Show me!” 

Will’s cheeks were turning pink, and he still wouldn’t meet Nico’s eyes. “It’s-- I can’t, it’s too bright out here, so you wouldn’t be able to see it anyway, and… I dunno, it’s embarrassing.” 

“No way, it’s not embarrassing, it’s cool. Just show me!” 

Will sighed, and his eyes flickered up to meet Nico’s for just a second before he looked away again. “Fine, but only for a second. Can you try to make it a bit darker? It’ll show up better that way.” 

Nico released Will’s hands and dropped his own to the ground. The shadow of the tree they sat under stretched and darkened, and the air around them grew cold enough that Nico wished he had a jacket. Will started to take off his flannel shirt, and Nico was half-tempted to reach out for it and put it on himself when he saw Will hold out his arms and close his eyes. A moment later, his skin turned from bronze to gold, each of his freckles acting as little flashlights to let the light escape from beneath Will’s skin.

Nico grinned. “That’s so cool!” 

Will let the glow fade, and he pulled his flannel back on as Nico released his hold on the shadow. “It’s really nothing special,” Will muttered.

“Yes it is!” Nico insisted, waving his arms around for emphasis. “I have my own personal glow-in-the-dark boyfriend!” 

Will’s head snapped up, his eyes locking on Nico’s as his jaw dropped open again. “Did you… Did you just say boyfriend?”

Nico’s cheeks had developed a bit of their own blush, but he refused to look away. “I… Yeah, I did. Is that okay?” 

Will beamed, reaching out for one of Nico’s hands to lace their fingers together. “That’s so okay. That’s more than okay! Does that mean I can start calling you my boyfriend now, too?”

Nico let a smile creep onto his lips. “Nah, you’re my boyfriend, but I’m still your significant annoyance.” 

Will rolled his eyes, but nothing would be able to take that smile off his face. He tugged on Nico’s hand to pull him close and press a kiss to his cheek. “You got that right.” 

thanks for reading!!

buy me a coffee | come talk to me if you need a distraction!

[ceilingfrogs]

Delicately Deadly

Sangchengmonth2020 (ao3)

Day 25: Steampunk AU

“This is a terrible idea,” Jiang Cheng repeated as they walked down the cobbled streets, the damp rocks glistening under the gas lamps lining the road.

“So you keep saying,” Nie Huaisang replied. They stopped at the kerb; a carriage passed by, drawn by two mechanical steel horses, steam escaping out of their nostrils and drifting up to be lost in the cloudy evening sky.

“And I’m going to keep saying it until you start listening to me.”

They crossed the road, Jiang Cheng taking care to avoid stepping into the gutter engorged with earlier’s rain.

“Remember what happened with the last invention you tested out for Wei Wuxian?” Jiang Cheng continued, “That toaster machine exploded after the sixth use and completely destroyed our new countertops.”

“But remember how lovely and golden those five first pieces of toast had been,” Nie Huaisang said.

“Remember how that sixth one was burnt to a crisp along with half of our kitchen?”

They turned into a narrow side street and stopped at a red door that desperately needed a new coat of paint.

Jiang Cheng grabbed the handle and opened the door, letting Nie Huaisang in first. The bell over their heads jingled as they walked in.

The shop was dark and cramped, filled to bursting with all manner of curios and contraptions, though, surprisingly, the shelves lacked the usual layer dust.

“The shop’s actually looking cleaner now that Wen Ning’s started working here,” Nie Huaisang commented, looking out at the windows that could now let in some of the street light, having been rid of years’ worth of grime.

The faded black curtain separating them from the backroom was pushed aside and Wen Ning, the new shop assistant, stepped through. Wen Ning looked especially pale under the shop’s poor lighting, the black artificial veins under his skin that could be followed all the way down to his heart made his complexion as white as chalk.

“Good evening Masters Jiang and Nie,” he said in that stuttering manner he always used, bowing slightly.

“Hello, how’s the new heart?” Nie Huaisang asked because he never could keep his nose out of other people’s business.

“It’s doing wonderfully,” Wen Ning said, clutching at his chest where the metal heart was quietly ticking away, “Master Wei replaced some of the valves, and it’s working much better now.”

“That’s good to hear,” Nie Huaisang replied.

“We’re here to pick up the new fire hazard Wei Wuxian made for Nie Huaisang,” Jiang Cheng said, having no patience for small talk.

“Of course,” Wen Ning replied, “Master Wei stayed up all night finalizing it. Please wait a moment.” He bowed again before walking back behind the curtain.

“This is still a terrible idea,” Jiang Cheng asserted once again in a whisper.

Nie Huaisang absent-mindedly shushed him.

Before Jiang Cheng could add more, Wei Wuxian came bouncing in, wearing a big smile on his face and even bigger bags under his eyes. Wen Ning followed close behind.

“Here you go, Nie Huaisang. This one shouldn’t explode,” Wei Wuxian said without bothering to greet them like a normal person.

Much to Nie Huaisang’s delight, Wei Wuxian handed him a fan made of thin sheets of dark green metal. Nie Huaisang’s fingers brushed over the intricate weaving of silver knots climbing up the fan’s guards. It had a simple elegance to it, and even Jiang Cheng had to admit it was beautiful.

“It’s capable of releasing small knives hidden in the folds and is strong enough to deflect pretty much any bullet all the while remaining chic and decorative,” Wei Wuxian said, finishing his sales pitch.

The fan was deceptively delicate just like Nie Huaisang.

With Nie Huaisang sufficiently distracted by his new toy, Jiang Cheng turned to Wei Wuxian.

“You look like shit,” he said.

“It’s good to see you too, Didi,” Wei Wuxian laughed, throwing an arm around Jiang Cheng’s shoulders. Jiang Cheng made sure to look appropriately annoyed, but didn’t try to dislodge him.

“You should take better care of yourself,” Jiang Cheng reprimanded. “If you don’t, I’m going to tell Ajie on you.”

“Jiang Cheng,” Wie Wuxian pouted, “that’s just mean, and after I made your husband a lovely gift and everything”.

“Keep pushing your luck, and I’ll tell Hanguang-Jun as well.”

Wei Wuxian shrieked in indignation, calling him a big bully, but Jiang Cheng knew he’d get a long night’s sleep after this, the prospect of Lan Wangji’s silent disappointment and discrete mothering too much for even Wei Wuxian to bear.

In the hopes of diverting Jiang Cheng’s attention, Wei Wuxian grabbed a little device he’d been working on.

“Look at this,” he said, shoving it into Jiang Cheng’s face.

It wasn’t much to look at, a jumble of wires and pipes that only made sense to Wei Wuxian.

“It’s going to be a music box,” Wei Wuxian explained, “I was thinking of giving it to Lan Zhan. It’s not done yet, but I’m close.” He pressed a button on the contraption.

Something in the machine cracked, smoke billowed out, and instead of music, shrill distorted sounds filled the shop. One of the small pipes snapped off and flew straight for Jiang Cheng’s face.

Before anyone else could think to react, Nie Huaisang, in one swift movement, opened the fan and extended his arm to block the upcoming projectile. The pipe smashed into the green metal, rebounded off of it and whizzed past right into one of the shop windows, shattering it on impact.

Jiang Cheng, Wei Wuxian and Wen Ning were left staring wide-eyed at Nie Huaisang as the glass crashed down onto the ground. Nie Huaisang didn’t notice the looks, too busy inspecting the fan, searching for blemishes on the metal and finding none.

“Cool, it works,” Nie Huaisang smiled, finally looking up. “Can you make me another one in grey, please?” He asked Wei Wuxian, already planning how to accessorize the fan with all his outfits.

Wei Wuxian could only nod, unable to speak.

[cant-blink]

Half-Life, Ch. 5

Summary: The consequences of Gigan’s actions makes itself clear.

-

He can’t move.

He can’t see.

He can’t hear.

But he was aware.

He was aware of the terrible pain that plagued his body, so intense that he couldn’t even scream. He was aware of every second the half-life used him for, every second his flesh was gouged and violated. He was aware, that every time he attempted to move even the slightest bit, it brought painful seizures through his entire body, especially of his legs and tails. His feet would kick the air uselessly, his tails have already run dry of their poison gasses but still kept contracting nonetheless.

He was aware, that for the very first time, he was at the complete mercy of everything around him.

His fifth brain has been severely damaged, shredded by the half-life’s tail and made worse through the mating. The same brain that allowed him to control his massive body was now destroyed, and it left that body feeling alien to the dragon.

Never before has he sustained such a terrible injury. It’s not often he received any injury at all, as his hardened scales usually proved enough to protect him from damage. Even in those few fights that proved more serious, it never got this bad. The extent of his injuries were usually torn wing membranes, maybe even a broken neck. Wounds that were always relatively easy to mend. Until that half-life showed up and now...

He felt so weak, and it was hard to stay conscious, much less stay focused on what he needed to do. He still had stored energy left in his stomach; he just needed to tighten the right muscles to free it into his system. But in the process of doing this, he sent another agonizing spasm through his whole body. He couldn’t even cry out, enduring this as it at least released his emergency reserves.

Some of that energy escaped his body, forming a faint barrier around him, red flame-like wisps coming from it. Keeping him safe from the outside world. He honestly didn’t want that energy to be wasted on a barrier, but he had no say in how his reserves were used. His body spent it on a pre-determined list of priorities that his old creators deemed fit.

The first of those priorities was to stopping the flow of blood from escaping his wounds. Blood being drawn is not something he was used to, but here he was losing too much too quickly. His body was in a state of panic, urgent in trying to get itself back together. But his energy stores were limited in how much he can carry; he didn’t even know if he would have enough to fully stop his bleeding, much less repair his damaged brain.

But he had to repair it; he can’t move without it and he needed to get out of here. Fly beyond the cloud of space dust and its atmosphere, to unfiltered cosmic rays. If he can’t, he won’t be able to complete the healing process. And... and...

It struck him.

He could very well die from this.

Bleeding. Humiliated. Disgraced. Defiled. Pathetic. At the claws of a half-life. Surrounded by lesser lifeforms. He’s never imagined what his death would be like, as it seemed like an impossibility. But this? This was not how he wanted his Death to be. He will NOT give this half-life the satisfaction of knowing he did this to him!

Without thinking, he attempted to get up, but his muscles tightened painfully before his legs kicked once more. More horrific pain swamped his nerves from his injuries. Why was his body not paying his damaged brain any attention?! He deemed that more important than his blood!

In his panicked mind-set, he failed to realize that he needed that blood to transfer the healing energy throughout his body. He was already losing too much, and the more he bled, the slower the process. But the thought never occurs to him as he kept struggling against his own body.

It was the burden of agony and exhaustion that finally stopped his attempts to move, his body once more settling into twitches. That violent fit has just undone what healing has occurred, dislodging clots and causing blood to flow freely once more.

He can feel it, trickling down his scales.

He can’t...

He just can’t...

He laid there for another moment, twitching. Enduring. Trying to calm. It’s all he can do; just try to stay alive long enough to see this through to the end. Hopefully soon, he’ll be able to take matters into his own teeth...

Blood still escaped his wounds by the time his reserves ran dry. No, no, this can’t happen to him. He already is going through enough pain as is, was he really going to have to resort to... to...

He didn’t have any real choice in the matter and he didn’t even have time to brace himself mentally before an acute piercing pain came into his chest. It was as if the half-life had stabbed right through him, and he instinctively tried to struggle, only to provoke another seizure that only worsened his situation. He felt no sign of the half-life, no resistance of his blade in his flesh. 

No, what he was experiencing was his own body sacrificing his Gravity Beam sacs, deteriorating the organs and reducing them into the same energy he would become when cocooning into his asteroid. Except this time, it was piece by piece, with his pain receptors fully intact. There was no pleasant numbing to ease the process.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had to go through something like this. At least back then, he was certain he would’ve been able to watch the process and see the results to make himself feel better. Here, he couldn’t observe the progress being made, nor estimate how much longer he’d have to endure this torture. Was this even worth it?

Wave after wave of added torment pierced through his chest, and each one made his focus waver that much more. His heart was racing so fast, from fear and from working hard to transport this new source of energy with what little blood was left. But even that was starting to weaken. It was harder to think, before thought disappeared completely. The pain was becoming dull, including the constant throb of the active chip. Wait, no... The sensation of the chip, the thing that plagued his dreams and life, was gone now.

An irrational sense of happiness flowed through him; the pain was gone, the chip was gone. Have he succeeded in healing? Was this happiness his reward? Was it time to rest from the ordeal? He didn’t know. All he knew now was a sense of bliss as his crests gave him the biggest dose of euphoria that he’s ever felt. 

Before that too faded into nothingness.

-

"Scoli, I need another glass. Right fuckin' now."

"Hello to you too." The centipede grumbled before glancing up. His mandibles opened in clear disgust. "You couldn't have cleaned up better?"

"Not in the mood, Legs," Gigan hissed, taking the glass just as the other kaiju finished pouring his drink. He takes a swig, savoring the taste and letting it work its magic. "Y'know, I put so much work into that guy and this is how I'm rewarded?"

“A bad lay, huh?” Scolopendra muttered in feigned interest.

“You have no idea,” He took another gulp. “Y’know, I had my suspicions that it would be his first time and yeah it was, and wanna know why?”

“Not really.”

“He had NOTHING between those legs. His damn Masters didn’t even give him junk, how fucked up do they have to be to not think of that?!” He continued to vent between drinks. “As fucked as MY Masters were, at least they left the rest of me intact. Even the bastards who did THIS-” He gestured at his own body. “-left well enough alone. But damn, that dragon can’t do shit. No wonder all he does is kill things, he literally has nothing else better to do with his time. Can’t eat, can’t drink, can’t fuck.” He shook his head. "I'd almost feel bad for him if he wasn't such an asshole. But I'd probably be an asshole too if I couldn't enjoy anything. How he managed to live like that for so long, I have no idea."

"Maybe it doesn't occur to you that if he doesn't have those abilities, then he probably never cared. Can't miss what you never had."

"Well, I've been trying to change that. Show him that yeah, killing is fun, but there's more to life than THAT." 

Another gulp and a moment of silence, as Gigan finished his drink and pushed the empty glass towards Scolopendra for a refill.

“Credit though, it was fun at first. Those throats of his, damn.”

“I don’t need to know the details.”

Gigan continued anyway. “He shoots lightning out of his mouth, and I tell you, that kind of energy made him feel real nice.”

“Gigan!”

“But it would be nice to fuck him properly. Maybe I can find a race that has the knowledge to do some surgery on him. Get a proper hole on him so I don’t have to keep making one myself. Heh.” A smirk came to his face. “Imagine that, get him custom-made just for me. Maybe throw in a stomach too.” He chuckled a bit but that died when he saw the look the centipede gave him. It wasn’t one he was expecting, scolding and with great disapproval. He maintained eye contact as he took a sip of his refilled drink. “What?”

“... What the fuck, Gigan?” Scolopendra started.

“What?” he responded with a defensive hiss.

“I asked not to hear about it, but... But what the fuck do you mean ‘keep making one myself’? What did you do?” Well, at last, the damn bug had interest in what he was saying, even if it was with obvious disgust.

“I told you. I made a hole. Between those legs.” The stinger of his tail clicked with emphasis and the look the centipede gave him was growing even more judgmental. It was enough to make him laugh. “Oh, stop acting like you care. If he were any other bitch, I would’ve done much worse. And had a free meal after.”

Scolopendra shook his head. “Would’ve actually preferred if you ate him like the rest of your ‘bitches’. Always made me feel better pretending it’s a legit hunting method of yours.”

“Eh, this job is making you soft, you’ll get over it,” the cyborg continued dismissively. “Anyway, the whole thing would’ve been fun, but apparently, the dragon couldn’t handle it. Damn thing passed out on me.”

“Passed out? Or died from fuckin’ being impaled?”

“Noooo,” Gigan drawled, taking another gulp. “He was still bleeding when I left.”

“Oh, okay, so he’s dying. Good to know, considering he’s the reason I’ve been giving you drinks in the first place. But now that he’s bleeding out...” 

Gigan gave him an unamused look, which Scolopendra met with his own. The moment of silence was thick before the cyborg gave one last gulp to finish his drink before slamming it back on the bar with force. “Fiiiine. I’ll go check on him.”

“You do that,” the centipede grumbled, just wanting any excuse for the cyborg to leave his establishment. “We’re also closing soon, so don’t bother coming back.” He watched the blue kaiju raise a blade in acknowledgement as he left before the centipede pulled out the communicator from beneath the bar. He pressed in a few buttons before speaking in a soft whisper.

“Hey, boss. Gigan, y’know, that idiot cyborg we banned? Yeah, he just left... Mhm... No, I told him to leave but he brought GHIDORAH in here... Yeah, THAT Ghidorah, how many Ghidorahs do you know? Now that monster knows our location, what now?” He nodded a couple of times before- “The Strawberry cloud?” He lets out an audible sigh. “I’ll get things packed up here.”

..............

“Huh? ..... Nothing’s wrong, I was just hoping we’d move to the Pineapple cloud instead... Wait, we can?”

For the first time since Gigan showed up, the centipede smiled.

-

What the actual hell was this?

Gigan glared at the sphere in front of him, and beyond, Ghidorah lying on the ground. He almost walked right into it and would’ve if it wasn’t for the red firey tendrils that pulsed through it alerting him to its presence. He lifted a claw and gave the sphere an experimental tap.

A spark courses up his blade and into the flesh of his arm and he flinched away. It actually wasn’t bad, although probably enough to kill off small species, like their old Masters. But it does nothing to discourage him, as his visor locks on the motionless form of the dragon. The fact that the dragon thought this would be enough to protect him; maybe from those tiny aliens, but definitely not from him. It was enough to push his irritation out of his mind to be replaced with smug amusement.

He’ll show him how useless this was.

Lifting his claw high, he struck the sphere with strength, sparks erupting from the impact. His other claw followed, slashing into the same spot to weaken it. He continues, increasing the amount of force with each blow until he can make out a crack.

A smirk grew on his beak, and his visor began to glow before a blast of his laser shoots at the weakened spot. On impact, the beam scattered into smaller extensions of itself, increasing the area of damage. It proved enough and the shield shattered. The red wisps of energy flung outwards, dissipating into the pink haze around them.

With a chuckle, his eye settled back onto the dragon lying in a puddle of his own blood. At least it looked as though all that twitching from earlier has stopped. Coming closer, he took notice that Ghidorah looked... thinner somehow. Yeah, he was definitely thinner, he can even make out the shape of the bones in his tails. Something was wrong, very wrong.

“Ghidorah, you awake?” Probably not, given the lack of a reaction to his precious forcefield being destroyed. Those six eyes were still open, still glassy and unfocused. Even those crests have lost their glow. He gave one of those faces a light kick with his foot. Nothing.

The damn thing doesn’t even breathe, so he couldn’t use that as a means to check for life. Does Ghidorah have a heart? A pulse to check? If he bleeds, he probably has some equivalent to such, right? He pulled up the files in his memory bank of what his Masters knew about the wyvern, but beyond the origin of his existence and the mind-control chip, they had nothing else. No anatomy, nothing.

It took a moment before Gigan abandoned his efforts to dig deeper, and he decided to test for life the only way he knew how. He kneeled down beside the dragon and with a blade, he sliced a cut through a patch of scales that was still free of blood-stains.

He scanned the wound for a few seconds before realizing, the dragon wasn’t bleeding.

....

Shit.

[moiraineswife]

The Mask - A Jasnah Fic

I’m re-reading TWOK at the moment so y’all get to suffer with me since I was compelled to produce this Angsty Jasnah Meta Fic. AKA: Jasnah’s deep paranoia and isolation are not healthy or good for her mental health and I WILL explore that until y’all cry over it with me.

Title: The Mask

Summary:  Set during TWOK. A Re-Write of the poisoning scene, Chapter 48: Strawberry from Jasnah's POV, plus her reaction right afterwards and some Jasnah/Ivory interactions. Basically a deep-dive into Jasnah's character and her paranoia around betrayal. It's painful. I made myself sad. Now I make you all sad with me. Also an exploration of Jasnah and Ivory's relationship, which I think is really underrated and would love to see more of on-screen. 

Teaser: ‘A sudden wave of revulsion rose in her. She felt used. She felt violated.

Shallan had been close enough to her to do this. She had let her close enough to do this, had dropped her guard, had let her in.

She had been carrying around something other, something planted on her, something she had not recognised as not her own. What else could the girl have put on her that she would never have noticed? How easy it would have been for her to slip poison into her wine, or a blade between her ribs.’

Link: ao3

Commission Link: Have me write other cosmere characters

Jasnah stood as Shallan jump from her hospital bed and rushed to the side of the ardent as he collapsed, convulsing. 

Then she too trembled and fell to the floor. 

“Poison, as we suspected,” Ivory murmured to her, perched on her collar, close to her ear, his words too soft to be heard by any but her. 

Even she barely heard him. She was not listening, already moving as he spoke, sinking to her knees above Shallan and cursing. 

She had thought- In the jam. She had been sure. The piece of bread she’d eaten herself had been an added precaution but storms. She’d been wrong. Storms. 

“She’s been poisoned,” she announced to the yammering, scrambling, panicking cacophony of nurses and doctors clustering around her. “I need a garnet. Bring me a garnet!” she added, voice rising, the authority in it finally snapping through the confusion, asserting some order to the chaos. 

Shallan was still stirring beneath her. That was good. There was still time.

 The girl was fumbling with something, but Jasnah wasn’t paying attention. 

Beside them, someone was crying out over the ardent. Apparently he had stopped breathing. She did not care about him. But Shallan. Storms, Shallan. If she died in a plot to kill Jasnah, if her lack of vigilance led to this, if this was also her fault, she-

“Control, Jasnah,” Ivory said, quiet but firm.

Right. She took a breath, forcing herself to project a composure she still did not feel, but had to pretend at. 

“Shallan,” she murmured, trying to sound soothing, seeing the girl’s eyes rolling, searching blindly in her terror, “I’m going to have to Soulcast your blood to purify it,” she explained gently. 

She had problems, still, administering help without explaining what she was doing, after what had been done to her. Even if, logically, she knew Shallan likely had no idea what she was saying, and couldn’t consent one way or the other. It helped focus her mind. 

“It will be dangerous. Extremely dangerous,” she said, already dreading it. 

Storms. How had it come to this? It should never have gotten to the point that the child was caught in the crossfire from her enemies. She should have stopped it before it did. She should have- No. Those thoughts would not help. She had to deal with what was happening now, not waste time worrying about what she should have done. 

“I’m not good with flesh or blood. It’s not where my talent lies,” she continued quietly, stroking Shallan’s hair, aware that a part of her was still panicking, and it was rambling, seeking some kind of purpose while she waited for the correct gemstone.

“You...can’t…” Shallan whispered hoarsely, barely conscious. 

“Hush, child,” Jasnah said, trying to calm her even through her own mounting panic. 

“Where is that garnet!” she snapped at the room around her. 

So many people rushing and talking and hovering around her like buzzing insects, and none of them could bring her what she needed, they- 

“You can’t Soulcast,” Shallan’s voice said, so weak that Jasnah almost missed it. 

But she heard the jangling thump as something hit the floor. A Soulcaster. Identical to the one she wore. Along with a single garnet sphere. Both dislodged from Shallan’s safepouch.

She gasped, eyes going wide.  

A Soulcaster. 

Shallan’s insistence that she couldn’t Soulcast right now. 

Her mind connected dots and screamed terrible conclusions too fast for her already rattled emotions to process.

“Jasnah, she dies,” Ivory said sharply, as Shallan lost consciousness in front of her.

Analysis later. Action now.

She pushed the spiralling thoughts from her brain and seized the garnet sphere, drawing in its light, covering the action by removing her glove and exposing the fabrial on her hand, letting it draw the attention of any who cared to watch her. 

What happened next passed in a haze. Soulcasting flesh or blood was difficult. Doing it while it was still within another person’s body? It took all of her concentration, all of her skill, and all of her self-control to accomplish it. 

And she had to do it over, and over, and over again. 

Each time she thought she had at last succeeded, the girl’s body absorbed more of the poison from her stomach and she strayed towards the Beyond once more. 

Ivory remained with her, encouraging her quietly, assisting in Shadesmar when she began to grow exhausted, not allowing her to become sloppy.

All the while she tried not to think that she might be saving the life of someone who had betrayed her. Someone who might have been in league with the ardent, who might have just tried to kill her. 

At last, Shallan seemed to stabilise, and Taravangian’s healers decided that the poison had been successfully removed from her body. They scooped her up and carried her back to her bed, tucking her up and measuring vitals, praising Jasnah for her swift action, telling her that she’d saved the girl’s life. 

Jasnah followed in something of a trance, not fully conscious of what she was doing, barely hearing their words. 

Now that she didn’t have something to do, a task to focus on, she found her thoughts returning to what Shallan had just said. What it implied. What it meant for her. 

Ivory stayed silent as she stood over her ward, staring down on her face. Storms, she was still so young. She looked more so unconscious, occasionally stirring feebly as the healers attended to her. She looked too small for the large white robe she had on, too young to be caught up in all of this.

 Grimacing, she forced herself to examine the two Soulcasters side-by-side. The one from Shallan’s pouch was an exact copy of the one she’d been wearing on her hand. 

The girl’s words confirmed what she had initially suspected. A swap had been made. A fake Soulcaster switched with her own, which Shallan had assumed was real, and had tried to rob her of. 

It was a fake itself. An excellent illusion to allow her to use her powers, carefully, in front of others. Who would assume that the heretic Alethi would be able to Soulcast herself? Using powers almost lost from history to the muddy waters of myth and legend.

But Shallan could not have known that. The fabrial she wore was a perfect copy. As the one she’d given her had been a perfect copy. They were not hard to replicate - not as a mere piece of jewellery, at any rate. 

A sudden wave of revulsion rose in her. 

She felt used. She felt violated.

Shallan had been close enough to her to do this. She had let her close enough to do this, had dropped her guard, had let her in.

She had been carrying around something other, something planted on her, something she had not recognised as not her own. What else could the girl have put on her that she would never have noticed? How easy it would have been for her to slip poison into her wine, or a blade between her ribs.

It made her feel contaminated, unclean. 

She felt a strong desire to fling the fabrial from her and shatter it against a wall. But no. She must compose herself. It would not do to cause a scene like that in such a public space. She could not have them doubt her composure, her rational mind.

So she waited, standing still, hands at her sides, staring down at Shallan’s limp form while the surgeons bustled around, as though Soulcast from stone.

“Well, Jasnah,” Ivory said quietly, as a muscle feathered in her jaw after several long, drawn out minutes of just standing there. Waiting. When she wanted to move. She wanted to run. She wanted to get out. “You are doing well.” 

He was all that kept her grounded in the agonising, drawn out wait. She was not an impatient person, by nature. She could wait. She could allow things to come in their own time. But Storms this was difficult.

Mercifully, someone approached her to inform her that the ardent, her would-be assassin, had succumbed to his own poison. 

Good, she thought, rather savagely. 

The sudden intensity of the anger and contempt that surged within her a worrying sign. She had to control that. Always in control. Even when nothing else was. Even when the world slipped closer and closer to Desolation, she would always be in control of herself.

“I would see the body,” she said coldly, tearing her eyes away from Shallan at last.

The healer seemed uncomfortable with that, but she was a storming princess, and this man had just tried to kill her. She would not be denied. And she had not asked. She had commanded. That command was heeded.

They led her to a smaller room, separate from the more public wards Shallan had been in, where they had laid the body of the young man out on a table. 

His death would hurt Shallan, she- No. She would not feel sympathy for her. Not now. Not after what she’d done.

A quick examination was all she needed to locate the tattoo on his forearm that marked Kabsal as a Ghostblood. Another failed attempt on her life by them to add to the growing list, then. 

She did not linger with him. 

She ordered a search of his quarters, though assumed he would be too careful to have any documents or notes of use lying around. His kind typically were. 

Then she forced herself to return to the main room to hear news of Shallan. It hurt. But she had done many things that hurt her over the years. It needed done, and so she would attend to it.

Once the doctors, gently, told her that the girl was now stable, and would survive the ordeal, she left without another word. Merely stopping at the door to request that the girl be guarded, and that she be sent word once she woke. 

Then she gathered her things from the hospital room, and walked, composed, and poised, from the place. 

She maintained that composure, perfect posture, as she’d been taught, straight backed, head high, utterly in control despite everything that had happened. Her racing thoughts. Her still pounding heart. 

She did not waver. She did not break. She did not allow a single crack to slip through the mask she had cultivated so carefully for so many years. 

A mask that was, more and more, becoming difficult to take off or separate herself from. But she couldn’t think of that now. She needed it. She needed the illusion of reason and control it brought to her in this moment of madness.

At last she reached her chambers in the Palaneum. 

She stepped inside. Set her things down, neatly, each in its proper place, then moved to her desk. She drew out the chair, and sat down delicately. She tucked it in, precise, neatly aligned with the edges of the desk. 

Then, alone, sure she would not be seen, she buried her face in her hands, the mask seeming to crumble into them. 

Her shoulders slumped as the weight of everything that had happened crashed down upon her at once. 

She exhaled shakily, squeezing her eyes shut, pressing her fingers against them, trying to process, to regain control to, to- 

“I am sorry, Jasnah,” Ivory’s quiet voice said. 

She felt the ghost of a touch, his hand on her shoulder. In some things, Ivory remained distinctly alien, a spren to the bone, so to speak. But in others he had picked up small human gestures from his time with her. 

She looked up, jaw tight, and found him standing beside her at his full height. He had so rarely assumed that form, lately. He had not felt safe enough to do so. The possibility of an interruption by Shallan had always been present. 

No more. No more...

Jasnah put her safehand to her head, breathing slowly, trying to compose herself, to force control over emotions that were rising and rioting out of control. 

She had barely slept for days. She had camped outside the girl’s hospital room, awaiting any chance to be admitted to see her. She had thought Shallan had attempted to take her own life. She’d thought that had been her fault. She had cursed herself endlessly in that sterile white corridor. 

Too much. Too intense. Too harsh. Too demanding. Too caught up in herself to recognise the emotions, and needs, and struggles of others. And it had led to the child’s near death! 

The image of finding her, slumped over, blood pooling around her from the gash on her arm, had haunted her. 

She had lost so much time. Unable to concentrate. The work had been a distraction - but how could she distract herself from the fact she might have killed her young ward? Such a bright, vibrant, promising young woman, driven into darkness by Jasnah. 

It was all a lie. 

Jasnah had panicked in vain. She had grieved in vain. She had blamed herself, and hated herself for what she had done in vain. 

It had never been her. 

Shallan’s guilt over the theft had been what had driven her to despair. Not Jasnah. Not Jasnah. 

Now this. 

Another assassination attempt by the Ghostbloods. That was not surprising. They were growing bolder, more desperate, as she drew closer and closer to the secrets that could unravel Roshar. 

She had suspected the youthful ardent. He had been too attentive of Shallan, too present, always forcing himself into their lives. Every time he’d visited had likely been an attempt to claim her life. Her prudence had saved her. Again. 

She could deal with that. It was worrying, but she’d long since had guards in place to protect herself from his sort. It was not truly that which caused her such pain in this moment.

What hurt more than any poison could ever have done was the betrayal.

 Again. Stormfather. Again. 

Shallan. So eager, so intent, so apparently hungry for knowledge and learning. So like Jasnah had been herself, when she’d been younger, caught up in the thrill and joy of scholarship for the first time. 

Jasnah had been stupid. She had let her guard down. She had let Shallan in, when she’d sworn to herself never again. But she’d been fooled. She’d been taken in. 

She shivered to think that she had considered sharing the secrets she had uncovered with her. Ivory had agreed. If the Ghostbloods ever succeeded in their mission of killing her, unlikely, but not uncertain, Roshar would not be left in the dark. Lost without the information she’d uncovered. 

She’d been building Shallan up as a lifeline, as a backup, an added safety net for this world she wanted so desperately to protect. What a fool. What a storm’s cursed fool she had been.

 She’d actually allowed herself to care for the child. She had let her get close. Close enough to hurt. And of course she had. Of course she had.

Jasnah clenched her hand into a fist and had to stop herself slamming it down on the table with great difficulty. What would that accomplish? 

Yet she longed for it. To give in, for once, to those harsh, near feral instincts, on the off-chance they might actually make her feel better.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to rage. She wanted to tear the heart from her chest, Soulcast it to crystal, and shatter against the wall so she would not have to feel anymore. 

But no. She had slipped in letting Shallan in too close. She could not let her control slip, too. She must be composed. Always composed. Always in control. She could never let that slip again. Never. 

So she forced herself to breathe, to slowly unclench her fist and set it down, gently, palm first, on the table. 

Would that she could wrestle her traitorous emotions as easily as her outward responses. 

Shallan. Shallan had betrayed her. Stolen from her. One of her most intimate and precious items, supposedly. Ripped from her person. Replaced with a fake. And she had not noticed. 

That caused her to shiver. 

The fake fabrial had been a cover, a way to hide what she was, lest she find herself the target of more unwanted, irksome assassination attempts.

Or, worse, find herself locked up again as an object of study and- 

No. No that was irrational. But still. This had exposed a weakness, a flaw in the armour she had built around herself. If she had Soulcast while wearing the fake she would have exposed herself. 

Shallan would have known that something was wrong. The girl had enough wit to ask questions, to draw conclusions, as she’d taught her. It could have destroyed everything.

“We haven’t Soulcast around her recently, have we?” she asked Ivory quietly. 

“No,” he said, firm, confirming what she’d suspected and putting her at ease, “Not since we dealt with the killers in the alley.” 

Yes. That was right.

Even so, she felt exposed. Horribly so. She felt vulnerable, and used. A means to an end. A vessel for wealth, or prestige, or power. Not a person. She had tried to train Shallan, to educate her, to help her understand the world and she, she- 

Jasnah should have known. 

No-one wanted to get close to her for any reason other than to use what they could of her. Then leave. Regardless of the husk they left in their wake. What did that matter, when they had what they wanted?

 No-one had behaved any differently towards her in years. Shallan was not an exception, she was simply the latest example of this rule of her life. 

Hadn’t she accused her of being precisely what she was? Hadn’t she seen the truth of her on that first day? Spoken it to her, even. A rural opportunist, only seeking to use her for her own gain? She had assumed she’d wanted a political alliance, to help balance her failing house. 

She had been wrong about the details, but she had been right about her.

As she’d been right about the ardent. She’d assumed he’d wanted to get close to her, to hurt her, or take the Soulcaster from her. She’d been right about that. She’d trusted her instincts and kept him at bay. 

She’d let her own nature and experiences cloud her judgement when it came to Shallan. She would not make that mistake again. Another lesson for her, then.

“Jasnah?” Ivory said, sounding concerned, as he put a hand on her shoulder again. 

“I knew,” she found herself saying, shaking her head, furious at herself, as much as the child, “I knew that she would betray me, Ivory. And still I allowed her, I allowed it, I-” 

“No,” Ivory’s interruption was so stark, so surprising, that she looked up at him, frowning. 

“No,” he repeated, shaking his head firmly, “You did not know that she would betray you, Jasnah. This is not something that can be known. It is not a rational truth. It cannot be known until it is. You did not know. Not until it was known.” 

She looked up at him, wilting. Sometimes Ivory’s blunt, literal way of processing the world could be a bit exhausting. Especially at times like this. 

“I had more than enough evidence from previous experience to have known better,” she said, tired.

Ivory appeared to consider this, then he said quietly, “If I had used the evidence of humans’ betrayal of spren, then this would not be,” he said, gesturing between her and himself.

She sat up a little straighter, watching him. His expression had grown distant. His sharp features had been hard to read, but she knew him well enough to read the emotion in him now.

“We had evidence that humans could not be trusted,” he went on, voice unusually soft, “That they would kill us if we bonded. But I wanted you. I wanted our bond. I went against the experience of the ancient fathers, the disapproval of the other inkspren, for you.” 

“I remember their displeasure,” she said, with a grim smile. 

The other inkspren had tried to kill her, rather than allowing Ivory to risk a bond. She sobered, realising what he was implying. 

“These bonds, we need them,” Ivory said firmly, “Spren and humans. I must have our bond to have sentience, to have sanity, in this realm. You must have bonds with other humans for the same reason. I did not understand. But now I do. You cannot exist alone. You must have these bonds. Even if they, too, come with the risk for destruction. This is good. This is, Jasnah.” 

She sighed, “It does not feel good, Ivory,” she said quietly. 

“It is right to be upset, Jasnah,” he replied. 

“I am not upset,” she said, pointedly. 

He glowered down at her in abject disbelief. Which was appropriate, as it was a blatant lie, and she knew it.  

She sighed, deflating again, “I do not want to be upset,” she amended, more honestly. 

Her eyes drifted to the stacks of notebooks around her and she felt suddenly cold, as another emotion swept over her. Anger. 

“We’ve lost so much time to this,” she whispered, the enormity of what they faced threatening to crush her.  

But she couldn’t let it. She couldn’t fail again. 

“We will be,” Ivory said firmly, jerking his chin. 

“But will we be enough?” Jasnah sighed, closing her eyes. 

“Jasnah?” Ivory said, sounding concerned again, even unsure, “This is not you. This uncertainty. This doubt. It is not.” 

She smiled weakly and looked up at him, shaking her head, “I am tired, Ivory. I am so tired.” 

“Yes. You need more sleep. I have said this,” he agreed jerkily. 

She smiled thinly at that. Dear Ivory. Blunt and literal to the end. She loved him for that, she truly did. 

“Perhaps I do,” she agreed. 

She had been feeding on Stormlight to push herself without sleep for too long. Logically she knew that. Ivory had persisted in reminding her each night, to reinforce the point. It was just so hard to waste time lying down doing nothing while the world teetered on the brink of desolation. 

“But I was not speaking of physical fatigue, Ivory,” she explained. 

He had grown proficient at understanding human behaviours, particularly hers, over their years. But sometimes she still had to break things down for him. 

“Ah,” Ivory said, nodding, “A human expression. A non-literal truth?” 

“It feels very literal to me now, I assure you” she said, the humour draining from her, like light sucked from a sphere. 

She rested her head on her hands again, massaging her temples, shoulders slumped. She hadn’t been this vulnerable in some time, either. For the similar reasons as Ivory. 

She had not wanted Shallan to see. She hadn’t let her know of her weariness, her fear or strain. She had tried to protect the girl from it all. Even as she planned to rob her, and possibly assist her ardent friend in her assassination, she-

Jasnah sighed heavily, feeling a deep and heavy tiredness within her very bones. 

She was glad she did not have to put up a front for Ivory. They were bonded, their souls entwined. Concealing things from him would be like concealing things from herself. She trusted him. He would never abandon her. He would never betray her. He would never hurt her. 

Probably. 

“I am tired, Ivory,” she confessed, the words coming out in a groan, heavy, and hopeless. “I am so tired of being betrayed. I am tired of trusting, only to have it used as a weapon against me and rammed into my back months later. Just when I’d finally begun to relax, to let someone in again, I’m made to feel a fool for doing so.”

Stormfather. This was so much. Pressing upon her, heavier and heavier with each passing day, demanding more and more force of will to hold it all back. 

She covered her face with her hands, voice falling away to barely more than a whisper as she found herself confessing, as if from her deathbed, “I am tired of being reminded over and over and over again that loving someone is not enough to stop them hurting you.” 

“I love you,” Ivory said simply. 

Jasnah started, hand slipping in her shock and she turned to look up at him, lips slightly parted in surprise. 

He was gazing down at her, and somehow, his expression softened his harsh, sharp edged features. 

Absurdly, she felt her throat tighten at the words, at the sincerity, the intent. 

Ivory did not say something unless he considered it true. And his definition of truth was one of spren, not people. 

For Ivory, truths were things that could not be otherwise. It was not enough for him to believe it was true, or for it to be a truth that could exist until proven incorrect, or replaced by something better. 

Ivory understood truth as a rational, mathematical thing. His truth was absolute. Unconditional. 

It was impossible for the sum of two and three to give any answer other than five. It was not possible, in this world, set as it was, for a square to have any less, or any more, than four sides. 

So, in Ivory’s mind, it was impossible for his love for her to be anything other than absolutely true.

“I do, Jasnah,” he added firmly, looking at her with gentleness, “Have I ever hurt you? Have you felt yourself worse for our bond? Our friendship?” 

“Of course not, Ivory,” she murmured, reaching out and taking his hand. It was a largely pointless gesture, as he barely had any substance, but she felt he would understand all the same. “But you’re different.” 

“Yes,” he agreed, “I am spren. We are stable, unchanging, eternal. Such is our bond. Humans, they are not. They are unstable,” he said bluntly, apparently not realising that most people would consider this rather insulting. He did not mean it as such, she knew. “But you need them. You need their change. They will help you grow.” 

She smiled hollowly and said, without much humour, “It would be nice if my growth could be spurred by something pleasant, for a change, rather than the usual onslaught of deaths, assassination attempts, and betrayals from my closest allies.” 

“Pleasant does not help you excel,” Ivory insisted, stubbornly, “It only is, so it shall only let you be. It push you to change, or to become what you can be.” 

“This changes so much, Ivory,” she murmured, too weary to continue debating the potential benefits of her pain, “There are so many things we must consider now. So many potentials.” 

None of them were at all ‘pleasant’. 

Ivory sniffed. He did not like potentials, loose ends, or uncertainty. On that count, she agreed with him. They needed to know precisely what they were dealing with. The full extent of Shallan’s betrayal. 

She was going to have to tear open this wound, while it was still fresh and dripping, to examine precisely how deep it went, and what damage had been done. 

They were going to have to see Shallan again. To ask her some painful and difficult questions. 

Perhaps she had merely been bribed or enticed by one of the devotaries, who considered it a sore subject that she possessed a Souclaster, something they considered a holy relic. 

The girl was strongly religious, and found great comfort and strength in her faith. Jasnah had never begrudged her that. There had been times, she was sure, that the child had feared she would attempt to convert her, or take it from her. 

No-one ever understood. She had stepped away from religion because it had not brought her any support or hope. But she knew that for many, it did. They saw their Almighty, and his teachings, as a guiding light, something that illuminated and heightened their lives. Why would she ever seek to take that light away? 

That was how she would begin her line of questioning, for that was the answer she most wished to be given. It would not be the first time it had happened, and she had been close friends with Kabsal, the ardent. 

Jasnah tapped her fingers on the table, considering the altogether more distressing alternative. 

For Kabsal, her would-be murderer, had not only been an ardent. He had also been a Ghostblood. 

Could it be that the girl had been working with them? Someone to get close to Jasnah, to allow access for Kabsal, an excuse to continue visiting her, being around her, letting him spy and make attempts on her life? In return, she would be given Jasnah’s fabrial, and the good will of her enemies. 

Storms, what a mess. 

She rose and moved to her trunks, opening the one in which she kept her notebooks. She would review the one with information on the Ghostbloods, cross reference it with the research she had done on House Davar, determine whether she could find any links or additional motives for their partnership, she- 

As she moved aside her neatly stacked notebooks, seeking the correct one, she dislodged a paper, which drifted to the floor behind her like snowfall, skidding beneath the desk. 

Ivory, who had enough physical form to interact with very light objects like sheets of parchment, retrieved it for her and held it out. 

She froze as she looked down at it. It was not a loose sheet of notes - a practice she avoided at all costs, in any case - but a drawing. One that Shallan had gifted to her, when she had accepted her as ward, wrought with such obvious skill and care. 

Jasnah closed her eyes, and felt something deep inside her tremble. This was too much. Too much for one person to bear alone. Too much.

“I don’t think I can do this again, Ivory,” she found herself whispering.

 Weak. Unacceptably so. But sometimes she was weak. For all this world tried to tell her otherwise, she was still human.

“You will,” he said, pushing the sketch into her hand. 

She took it from him, and knew that he was right. She would do it. Because it needed to be done. And storm it all, whatever else, she did what had to be done. 

A part of her wanted to Soulcast the sketch to flame in her anger. But no. That would serve no purpose beyond spite. 

This is a lie, a lie she used to manipulate you, a part of herself whispered. 

But perhaps it could also be a truth. Perhaps some part of the girl had come to enjoy her time with her. Perhaps the theft had been difficult for her, painful, even. It had driven her to attempt suicide, after all. There must have been guilt, must have been regret, or doubt. 

She wasn’t sure if that made this better or worse. 

If she was simply a cold monster, removed from her, without connection, as Kabsal had been, it would be easier to hate her, easier to do what needed to be done now. 

But she had not been. She had been Shallan. She had come to matter to her. Truly. 

“Come,” she told Ivory, getting to her feet, placing the sketch carefully back inside her trunk for now, “We have work to do.” 

Hard work. Painful work. But that was the only kind she’d known for so long. There was nothing for it but to simply do it. Push through the darkness and hope that, some day, she would finally emerge into the light. 

***

[kbstories]

Diachronic

dia·chron·ic (adj.)

Occurring over time; historical.

Kidd is torn apart and Killer is (almost) too late.

(Or: Remember that nebulous Kidd vs. Shanks fight? Yeah, that.)

Tags: Angst, Blood and Violence, Mild Gore, Kidd Is Straight Up Not Having A Good Time, Shanks Is A Bit Of A Bastard

Post-Summit War setting, during the Timeskip. Content warning for lots of blood and some gore. Read Chapter 2 here.

***

“Fight me!”

A shout like a gun going off, sparks flying, black powder catching fire. Two words, bang bang, and the world stops spinning in the silence that follows.

Kidd is grinning, teeth sharp and eyes alight, near-feral with bloodlust. “Did ya hear me, Red-Haired Shanks?”, he calls across the beach, the Victoria Punk behind and an Emperor’s lair ahead. They’re outnumbered, surrounded already, blood seeping into the sand that shifts beneath their boots.

“I want a duel. Just you and me.”

At Kidd’s back, Killer stares at Benn Beckman, watches him raise an eyebrow and continue to smoke. They haven't moved, him and Shanks’ other officers, content to stand by at the very edge of the jungle where the sun struggles to breach its gloom. Something about how casual it is makes Killer lock his jaw, raise his scythes like fangs.

A glance is all he’s worth, an amused uptilt to thin lips. Beckman exhales, breath hazy with smoke, and nods at his captain. Watch and learn.

Next to him, Shanks takes a swig of whatever swill is in that dusty old bottle of his. Eyes, black as obsidian glass and just as sharp, fall on Kidd, track lazily over the fur draped across his shoulders and how his fingers curl around the thrum of magnetism they command.

Shanks sighs.

“My, my, a duel… Listen, kiddo, it’s not even noon. It’s too early for this stuff, don’t ya think?”

Around Killer, the crew bristles. Underestimated, disrespected, dismissed at every turn: It’s more of the same, a mistake the mighty make before they inevitably fall at their hands. Kidd sneers.

“You Emperors are so fucking pathetic. Letting those Government dogs do whatever they want while you hoard the scraps left behind. The world doesn’t need your kind anymore, Shanks! It’s our turn now.”

Shanks’ mouth shapes itself around a low ohhh. “So harsh! I can’t let a speech like that go to waste now, can I, Benn?”

Beckman replies, “Guess not, Captain”, flicking his cigarette to places unknown. Just as bored, he reaches for the bottle in the same instant Shanks pushes it into his waiting hand.

This is it.

“Kidd”, says Killer, little more than a breath between them. Kidd looks over his shoulder, meets Killer’s eyes despite the mask, the grin softening to a smile, no less deadly. This is the moment they carve their names into the sky, the very fabric of the world; the moment they become infamous enough to reach even the junkyard that gave them a beginning and nothing else.

Broad-shouldered, head held high, Kidd is every bit the man Killer knew he would become as he walks into the space their enemies open up for him. A flame chasing away wolves, ready to blaze a path through whatever obstacles remain.

One step, two – Kidd is out of reach and Killer lets him go. This is the moment they’ve been waiting for. 

*

Killer watches it all unfold in snapshots, blink-and-you-miss-it glimpses he will remember to the end of his days:

A ring of surprised looks as weapons of all kind tug free, drawn to Kidd’s outstretched hands;

Red-Haired Shanks, drawing his sword, cloak fluttering where an arm should be but isn’t;

The audible crackling of Haki clashing against Haki, Kidd’s cackling laughter in the air–

There Killer stands, arms crossed and all his senses trained on every move his captain makes. Strike, counterstrike, an engine roaring to life in streaks of red and gunmetal grey, firing from all cylinders. Action, reaction, the indulgent curl of a smile on Shanks’ lips that is the antithesis to that razor-edge gaze.

Shanks lets Kidd come and Kidd does so hard. Over and over, snarling, “Fight me!”, metal claws hooked and closer to drawing blood with every swipe.

Then fabric tears, one long gash from shoulder to wrist if Shanks were whole. “Ah, hell”, the Emperor mutters. Taking the time to pout at his ripped cloak as if Kidd isn’t right there, lunging for his throat without hesitation–

Shanks side-steps it without a single look in Kidd’s direction. “Y’know what? Fine. Make it worth my time, welp.”

And Shanks’ presence, already heavy, already suffocating, drops like a mountain on them all.

Killer grunts out a breath his lungs struggle to take back in, even at a distance. Vertigo paints his vision in smeared black and fading colors within seconds. Shanks moves, and that pressure moves with him – the Kid Pirates breathe as one, a hitched inhale as Kidd staggers mid-step and pulls up his arm just in time.

Metal clangs against metal, and blood splatters the ground.

Yet the grin on Kidd’s face goes nowhere; when Shanks pulls, his sword is slow to follow. The call of Kidd’s powers is strongest at close proximity, even for the blade of an Emperor, and for an instant their eyes lock, at a standstill.

(C’mon, Killer thinks. Kidd strains, and Killer’s arms tighten across his chest to stop his hands from shaking. Hold on, c’mon–)

Shanks smirks. “Huh. Not bad.”

The tension breaks, and Shanks– He lets go. Kidd blinks, draws back, sure on his feet again if cautious. From afar, Killer can see the gears turn in Kidd’s head, sweat trailing down his temples and breath labored while Shanks looks virtually unchanged. The glare of a sun at its zenith is reflected by Shanks’ sword; it shifts, is fully encased in the fist that rises against its master once more.

It cannot last, this tentative lull. They’re in the eye of a hurricane, a realization that finally registers in Killer’s mind, waiting for the storm to hit. They’re mice scuttling straight into the maw of a beast and Killer gasps, jolts forward.

“Captain–!”

A fraction of a second, and Shanks is upon Kidd. Haki sizzles where they meet, metal against bare skin: It’s brutal, it’s vicious, it doesn’t fucking matter that Shanks is missing an arm and a sword, not when his hand bursts Kidd’s fists into their individual pieces and keeps reaching.

Kidd’s eyes go wide; he grabs for Shanks, the red of his nails leaving bloody lines on the Emperor’s arm. Nothing moves in Shanks’ face, nothing as he digs fingers gone black with Haki into Kidd’s skin and watches it split apart.

Killer’s world narrows down to that, a sight that freezes the blood in his veins while Kidd’s spills from his neck and chest and soaks into the sand. “Kidd”, Killer whispers, “No, no”, and he’s tearing away from his crew and towards his captain. Not like this, not like this, until his arm catches on something and he can’t– He’s stuck–

“Kidd!!”

Shanks looks up at that, eyes dark, and it’s all it takes for Kidd to dislodge that grasp. To lurch away and back on his feet, throat working around a groan, a hand on his face. His fingers are drenched in blood.

“Stand back!”

And Killer stops, heart beating up his throat so hard it’s choking him. Kidd doesn’t look away from Shanks, the one eye left uncovered in full focus despite it all. “Knew you’d get serious eventually”, he spits, voice raw from the pain. He wipes his cheek against his shoulder, spreading the mess around.

Shanks merely raises an eyebrow. “Come on, then. Let’s finish this.”

“That kid is done for”, mumbles someone next to Killer, and only then does he realize he’s being held back by someone. Straight blond hair, a bandana, sunglasses – it doesn’t really matter who it is, just that they’re in the way.

Killer growls, scythes snapping out and starting to spin. The guy sighs, “Man, you have bigger problems than me right now”, mildly annoyed at most. “Look.”

Only his captain is allowed to give him orders but– Killer looks, the split-second he wasn’t lingering as Kidd recovers from a hit Killer didn’t see, and Shanks’ torn cloak billows behind him as he approaches in measured steps.

“This is why fighting you rookies is no fun. Got lucky with a fruit and then what? It’s so boring.”

Kidd’s hand goes for the dagger strapped to his chest; goes for it and doesn’t make it, Shanks’ fingers already there around his wrist, crushing. “Fuck you”, Kidd hisses, teeth painted crimson by the blood dripping into his mouth.

Even before the second word is out he’s knocked to the ground, sinking inches into the sand with the force of the boot pinning him there. “It’s not your turn just yet”, Shanks tells Kidd, mournful, almost.

Then he pulls. Kidd’s shoulder snaps out of its socket with a sickening noise, and Shanks keeps pulling, and Killer can only watch as muscle and skin and sinews go taut, are stretched to their limits and beyond. As, fiber by fiber, they give way to the white of bone underneath–

Kidd screams.

No!

Pain radiates up Killer’s side and his arm burns but he doesn’t care. Killer doesn’t care about the yell of “Hey, what the hell!” and the desperate calls of his name – his crew, his friends, so far away now –, doesn’t care it’s his captain who called for a duel and told him to stay away.

He sees Kidd on the ground, and he sees Shanks picking up his sword again, and Killer breaks through all lines drawn in the sand.

The killing blow is struck and Killer is there. Scythes crossed, sparks spraying where blade meets blade: Killer’s arms shake and his knees threaten to buckle yet he preservers through that infinite moment, feels the pressure double down before it lifts and time ticks on, heartbeat for frantic heartbeat.

“Enough!”

His voice rings out despite how rough it is, how every inhale aches all the way to his core. “Enough”, Killer repeats, standing between his captain and certain death. “You made your point.”

(Behind him, Kidd wheezes his name, “Kil”, garbled, weak. It sounds like No, like Get the fuck out of here, and Killer never imagined himself breaking the loyalty he swore to his dying breath and yet there is one imperative that stands above even that.)

Shanks’ head is tilted to the side, a twist to his mouth Killer would call petulant if it weren’t a fucking Emperor he’s talking to. There’s blood on his face, dotted in an abstract pattern up to the scars across his eye. Arterial spray, still wet.

“I don’t think your captain is very happy with you right now.”

“That’s for my captain to decide”, says Killer, coldly. Barely turns his head to call, “Heat! Wire!”, and with familiar steps shuffling closer and Kidd’s agonized gasps of “No, n-no, Killer” growing fainter, Killer takes a stance, scythes ready and lithe body poised to strike.

“You’re fighting me now, Red-Haired Shanks.”

Shanks just sighs, rubs at his brow with stained fingers. “So you know you don’t stand a chance and yet, here we are. What a mess.”

Surrounded by enemies on all sides, Killer doesn’t cower. “Eustass Kidd will be the man to become Pirate King”, he tells Shanks, tells the world, boots firmly planted on the ground thoroughly steeped in Kidd’s blood. It’s the fundamental truth they sail by, the dream they came up with, together.

“He will be King, and I’m the man who will get him there. My life’s as good a price as any to pay for that.”

It’s then that Shanks looks at him, fixes him with that stare like he’s only now bothering to take note of Killer’s existence. “One Piece, huh? Haven’t heard that dream in a while”, he muses, a certain softness there that seems– out of place, somehow.

“Listen. Just ‘cause Whitebeard’s gone now doesn’t mean you kids can waltz in here and start shit you’re not ready to finish. Got it? Playtime’s over. If it's a new era you want, stay alive long enough to carry it.”

There’s an out there, Killer can see it. A line of flight he doesn’t deserve, not after breaking every code of honor their kind adheres to. Shanks sheathes his sword, gestures over his shoulder for the bottle that lands in his palm an instant later. A messy gulp, and Shanks chuckles, all smiles now.

“Your captain’s got some potential, I’ll give him that. The arm’s a goner but it’s not the end of the world. Builds character, and all that.”

Killer should say something about that, about the chatty tone the Emperor strikes as if he wasn’t ripping Kidd apart bare-handed just minutes ago. Beyond the beach Benn Beckman lights another cigarette and he nods at Killer, a pointed gesture. Get out of here.

Nothing. There’s nothing left to say, and so Killer turns his back. Leaves his pride right there in the sand where his captain almost lost his life, and follows the trail of blood through the parting crowd of Shanks’ crew and into the sea’s uncaring arms.

>>Chapter 2.

[insfiringyou]

BTS - Flower Arrangements (J-Hope x Nana)

Contains: Fluff. Humour. Nana’s birthday. Mentions of Suga x Jeong-sun

This fic is set around 6 months following Hoseok’s discharge from the military. 

We wanted to show some moments between the members and their girlfriends that may not seem grand or important in the long run, but that highlight some of the conversations they might have in private. We also don’t want to shy away from some of the arguments, disagreements or bickering that might take place. More couples to follow soon.

You can find out more about our headcanon universe and ongoing storyline here and more about our headcanon girlfriends here.

To read each member & their girlfriend’s headcanon universe fics in order, follow the links here: RM   /   Jin /   Suga /   J-Hope   /   Jimin   /   V   /   Jungkook & our full masterlist of fics and original art can be found here

Content below the cut

Hoseok carefully unplucked a stem from the vase, shaking it slightly to dislodge the droplets of water on the end before moving it to his other hand where it joined the bundle he was creating. 

“What about freesias?” He turned to Nana, who was busy trimming the tips of a vibrant bunch of stocks; bloody shades of magenta and royal purple filled the wooden table in front of her before she obscured them with a blooming bunch of pastel-hued dahlias. 

“Freesias?” She turned to look, eyes roaming over the pink petals which protruded above his hand. “What do they mean?” She asked with curiosity, watching as he leaned forward to open a little booklet the florist had provided to help with their work. 

He squinted at the text, holding his half-finished bouquet away from the table to prevent it from dampening the paper. “Freesias…” Mumbling to himself, he found the explanation and recited it with a grin. “Innocence and thoughtfulness.”

“I’m not so innocent…” Nana teased, making him laugh. 

“But you’re very thoughtful…” 

Her smirk turned to a soft smile and she fingered the petals lightly. “I like them. They go with the camellias…”

“Okay.” He exclaimed eagerly, taking a few more stems from the row of clear vases at the back of the table and arranging them loosely among the others he held tightly in his bunched fist. 

The tinkling sound of a beaded curtain being drawn back caught their attention, and they spun around to meet the gaze of the young female florist in the doorway. 

“Is everything okay in here for you?” She asked politely. “Can I get you any more varieties?”

The couple exchanged a look and shook their heads. 

“I think we have everything we need thanks.” Hoseok replied. 

“Okay. Do shout me over if you need any help.” Turning to Nana, the woman smiled. “And happy birthday.”

“Thank you.” Nana called gratefully, watching as she disappeared back the way she came. 

“Are you enjoying your present?” Hoseok asked hopefully, reaching for a green ribbon to wrap the stems in his hand. 

“You know I am…” Her hand found his. “It’s much better than last year…”

“Didn’t you like the care package I sent?” He asked with a small laugh, making her shake her head. 

“I loved it…” She reassured. “I just mean, I get to spend time with you…”

“Oh...that is a good present!” He joked and she nudged him in return. Calming down, he pointed towards the remaining vases of flowers, separated by type. “Maybe I should make some for Jeong-sun? For next week.”

Nana smiled kindly. “I’m sure she’ll have her own…”

“Oh. I guess.” Hoseok pondered this for a moment, coming up with a new idea. “I could make a corsage...for my lapel!” 

“Perfect.” She grinned. There was a pause between them, as she cut off a strip of purple ribbon to match her bouquet and wrapped it delicately around the bunched stems. “Did it surprise you?” She eventually asked.

He raised his eyebrows. “Yoongi and Jeong-sun?” 

“Mmm.”

He grew quiet for a moment. “No.” He admitted truthfully. “Not really…”

Finishing the knotted bow, she dropped her flowers in the empty vessel in front of her. “Do you like mine?” She held out her hands, framing the finished piece.

He looked over the dizzying blossoms with approval and nodded. “Are they for me?”

“If you want them.”

His lips widened in a brilliant grin. “Of course.” He picked up the booklet once more and flipped through the pages, trying to match the images to the bundle in her vase. “Dahlias…” He recited. “Demonstrates the lasting bond between two people…”

Looking up, he observed her warm blush and continued, turning over a couple of pages until he found the next picture. “Lavender rose...this is interesting…” He paused, clearing his throat a little dramatically. “Enchantment...love at first sight…”

“Is that so?” She laughed softly. 

With a nod, he pointed to the book. “That’s what it says…” His gaze once more fell over the arrangement, picking out the final two flowers. “Stocks, meaning lasting beauty, bonds of affection and a happy life…”

Matching his smile, she leaned in and pressed her lips lightly to his cheek. “They seem pretty perfect for you. And the pink carnations?” 

“Carnations…” He murmured under his breath, seeking them out. 

“They’ll be with the other mediterranean flowers.” She suggested, reaching forward to wrap her arms around his waist and peering at the booklet from over his shoulder. 

“Ah!” He exclaimed, finding what he was looking for. “Pink...A mother’s love…” His voice trailed off as they both burst into laughter, her grasp on him tightening as she hugged him close, rocking the back of his body softly against hers. 

“I guess they couldn’t all be right…” She shrugged. 

“Three out of four isn’t bad.” He agreed with a grin. “At least you’ll get another vase to add to your collection, as well as the flowers.”

He felt her nod against his shoulder before she pulled away to face him. “I might learn how to cast bronzes, so I can keep them forever.”

“Oh!” He exclaimed, teasing a little. “Another string to your bow.”

“Shut up.” She grinned, meeting his lips in a kiss.

***

Thank you for reading. To read each member & their girlfriend’s headcanon universe fics in order, follow the links here: RM   /   Jin /   Suga  /   J-Hope   /   Jimin   /   V   /   Jungkook

& Our full masterlist of fics and original art can be found here

& Our masterlist of preferences/most likely to/quizzes and fun stuff is here

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[glassworkspiderlilies]

like wildfire, windblown

Kimetsu no Yaiba | Kochou Shinobu, Tomioka Giyu | AO3 Summary: They can pretend that this moment is tender, that they are not drawn to each other’s pain, that they aren’t going to use each other for comfort, that this isn’t going to spiral out of control until they cannot get out of it even if they want to. —Giyu, Shinobu, and when times are bad for thinking. Notes: woops, almost forgot to post this here! some longer notes on ao3, but ultimately i wanted this to be like...more morally awful than it is LOL.  Edit: belatedly adding on that I rated this M on ao3 for what I can only describe as like...overtly implied sex. it’s there, but distinctly non-explicit, haha.

.

.

.

Some things are damned to erupt like wildfire,

windblown, like wild lupine, like wings, one after

another leaving the stone-hole in the greenhouse glass.

Peak bloom, a brood of blue before firebrand.

And though it is late in the season, the bathers, also,

obey. One after another, they breathe in and butterfly

the surface: mimic white, harvester, spot-celled sister,

fed by the spring, the water beneath is cold.

— Temper, by Beth Bachmann.

 .

.

.

 I.

Her head jerks up at the snap of a twig, and her shoulders are no less tense when he walks out of the foliage. She knows who he is, of course, and knows that the snap had been a warning, since he would never do such a thing by accident.

“The others are looking for you,” he says, and she glares at him. Tear tracks are drying on her cheeks, and she must look a wreck with red, puffy eyes. She didn’t want to be seen like this, and she’s also furious that he found her. She’d thought she’d been careful.

“If you were smart enough, you’d know that I didn’t want to be found,” she snaps, and he has the audacity to look surprised, though it is just a slight widening of his blue, blue eyes.

“I waited until you were done,” he says after a pause, not meeting her gaze now.

She laughs, harsh and grating, her throat raw from crying. Her irritation grows, because that means he’d found her while she was sobbing and stood there for who knows how long.

“Am I supposed to be appreciative?” she says, an edge of hysteria creeping into her voice. No, she has to keep it together. Kanae may be newly dead, but Shinobu is newly a Pillar now, and her sister—well, she’d tell her to smile.

He doesn’t say anything, and she stalks over to him, pushing him with both hands. He doesn’t move; he’s taller and bigger and this only infuriates her more. She keeps trying to shove him until she’s just hitting him, and he lets her have at it for a while. Eventually he seems to have enough when he catches her wrists, and she lets out another sob, caught between sorrow and fury.

“Time cannot be unwound,” he says finally. “Be furious. Say it’s unforgivable. A pure, strong anger…let it become an unshakeable driving force such that your limbs can’t be moved. Frail resolutions will not save you, nor will it defeat your enemy—your sister’s enemy.”

She snarls at him then. How dare he, how dare he presume to know her feelings, how dare he invoke Kanae like that?

“You talk big, Tomioka-san,” she spits, pulling at her wrists, but he doesn’t let go. “You talk so high and mighty for someone who keeps setting himself apart! Is it so great, to be capable of so much? Does it feel good to think yourself better than everyone else?!”

He flinches, then, and the force of it is enough to give her pause. But she’s still angry, she wants to hurt, and so she keeps pushing.

“It must be nice, to be so good at the Breath you wield,” she taunts, “How easy must be, to save people! A hero, you are, swooping in, protecting the innocents, leaving no one behind—”

“That isn’t me,” he cuts in, his eyes flashing. He’s caught between pain and anger himself, and Shinobu is glad for it. But it’s not enough.

“Quit pretending to be modest now,” she snarls, “Isn’t it what you wanted? Surviving the Final Selection must have been a piece of cake—!”

“It wasn’t me!” he yells, and Shinobu jerks back at the uncharacteristic outburst, but he still holds her wrists fast. He seems to have forgotten he’s holding them, and his grip is starting to hurt, but she doesn’t notice, right now. Giyu’s eyes go wide, then flat, and his lips twist into something bitter. “That person—wasn’t me. I’m not the same as you guys. I only survived the Final Selection because Sabito saved me. I hid the entire time. I didn’t kill a single demon. I’m not, I’m not a real Pillar. Sabito was better at the sword, better at the Breath of Water, better at being a Demon Slayer. But he’s not the one who survived. Because he saved a worthless life like mine.”

Shinobu stares at him, tears beginning to trickle down her cheeks again.

“Kanae died in my arms,” she says after a long pause, her voice shaking. Now that she’s dragged this out of him, she feels like she has to offer something in return. “And do you know what her last words were? She told me she wanted me to live the life of a normal girl, and then—when I made her describe the demon that killed her, she told me, but…even though she didn’t finish what she was saying…she didn’t believe I could do it. She wanted me to abandon everything we did and promised to do, to grow older and get married like a normal girl because she didn’t think I could kill that demon and avenge her or our parents. Not on my own. “    

Her breathing is erratic as she tries to calm down, but his breathing is erratic too, having some of his worst memories torn out of him.

“So we’re the same,” Giyu says, tone heavy, and she sob-laughs again. He catches on quick, despite their tales being different.

“So we’re the same,” she agrees, and looks up at him to meet his gaze. “…I’m sorry, I...went too far.”

He shrugs, but she can see both sorrow and relief in his eyes. She knows the feeling. After a moment, he seems to realize that he is still gripping her wrists, and lets go of them with a light gasp. She’s bruising, and she curses her frailty in this regard.

“I’m…sorry,” he says, a little frantic, and the corners of her lip quirk up—it’s the second time they’ve repeated each other’s words in succession.

He goes to move back, but she’s the one who grabs his wrist this time.

“No. Stay,” she says, and leans her forehead against his chest. “Just…stay.”

He does. She closes her stinging eyes and rests for a while. Giyu stands stiffly, but she draws out the moment, exhausted, and eventually, with nothing else to do, he rests his chin on her head.

It is a quiet moment, and they can pretend that it is tender, that they are not drawn to each other’s pain, that they aren’t going to use each other for comfort, that this isn’t going to spiral out of control until they cannot get out of it even if they want to.

.

.

.

 II.

One sweltering summer night, when Shinobu cannot sleep, she goes out for a walk. It is more a patrol, because she doesn’t go anywhere without her sword, anymore, but she is at least not dressed in her uniform. Even Kanae’s haori is at home, and truth be told, Shinobu feels odd, in regular clothing that isn’t Demon Slayer issue. It feels like she is playing at being a common, normal girl.

She laughs to herself. Aside from her sword, she’s got the knives in her shoes and hairpins dipped in poison—there are other monsters out there aside from demons, and she must defend against them, as well, with more common weaponry. This is about as normal as she’ll get.

But it’s difficult, when such a thing was Kanae’s dying wish. There’s no going back and she hardly thinks Kanae will fault her for not following it, but sometimes, in the deep dark hours of the night, she can’t help but wonder if she could—should—try. What was life like, before her parents were killed? What would it be like if they hadn’t been? Girls from families like hers had marriage talks when they came of age; Kanae was nearly ready to enter that world until tragedy struck.

In truth, Shinobu cannot fathom what a normal life would consist of—what on earth would she fill her days with? And above all, how could she live under a man’s thumb?

Why would Kanae want such a thing for her?

Shinobu clicks her tongue and shakes her head, as if she can dislodge her tumultuous thoughts that way. She looks up for a moment, the moon bright and stars littering the sky, before jumping onto the roofs of the houses. Aimlessly, she begins to run, flipping and fluttering through the air as if she were on a training course.

The movement distracts her, but so much so that she realizes too late that there is someone sitting on one of the roofs. Startled, she jumps to avoid a collision, but she misjudges the distance and is in danger of plummeting into the space between houses. As she falls, though, she sees hands reach for hers and she stretches to grab them, knowing help when she sees it—they swing her around, and she lands almost gracefully, skirts swirling around her legs.

Her eyes widen as she looks up to see who saved her.

“Tomioka-san,” she says, surprise evident in her tone.

“Kochou,” he says, just as surprised.

“What are you doing here?” she blurts, baffled by his presence. It’s quite late, and she doesn’t exactly know where she is, so why on earth would he be here?

He blinks at her.

“I live here,” he says slowly.  

“Oh! Do you?” she says out of embarrassment.

They both notice they’re still holding hands, and they both drop them at the same time.

“Yes,” he says. “What are you doing here?”

“I was…taking a walk. Just…trying to clear my head,” she says, unsure of how to explain herself.

The side of his lips quirk up ever so slightly.

“A walk?” He asks, and something about his tone and the way he’s questioning lets her know that it’s not actually a question.

She looks back up again, and with some mortification she realizes that he’d been watching her, for who knows how long, as she was doing acrobatics in the air.

“I—you—” She stutters, and now his eyes crinkle at the edges too. She’s never seen him smile, and he isn’t, not really, but it’s close, and at her expense, and she doesn’t know how to feel about that.

“I was curious as to who it might be. The movements looked familiar, but I didn’t know what to expect,” he says by way of explanation, with a slight shrug. “You look different.”

She might be blushing, but she’s trying very hard not to. Either way, she’ll never know the results.

“A walk,” she confirms adamantly. The amusement remains on his face. “What were you doing on the roof, anyway?”

“Thinking,” he responds, and the almost-smile fades away, his expression darkening.

Ah. She knows, with sudden clarity, what he might be thinking of, or about. It’s those hours of the night, and she knows how unkind they can be.

“It’s a bad time for that,” she murmurs, and he looks sharply at her. She does not shy away, and stares back.

He holds her gaze for a while until some tension drops from his shoulders and he looks up at the moon. She does too, and they stand in silence for a while.

“…Would you like some tea?” Giyu asks eventually, and she looks at him in mild surprise.

He’s seeking her company. But then again, she really shouldn’t be surprised. They’ve dragged each other’s wounds out into the open once already, there’s no going back after that.

It’s late, they’re awake, and neither of them wants to be alone with their thoughts.

So Shinobu says “yes, please,” and drops from the roof with him, following him inside.

It’s a small place, and sparse, containing only the necessities. He goes to the refrigerator, pouring two cups of cold barley tea. Shinobu accepts hers graciously and sips at it, unsure of what to do now that she’s here. They lean against opposite sides of the wall near the window, still close enough to talk, but they stand in silence, looking out at the sky again. But it seems like Giyu is in a talkative mood tonight, and so it’s he who initiates the conversation.  

“May I speak?” he asks, and Shinobu turns to him. He’s not looking at her, his eyes downcast, and so she matches his seriousness.

“Yes, of course,” she says.

But he hesitates, drinking from his cup to extend the silence for a bit longer. His body is tense, his expression stressed, but she waits patiently for him to continue. She tore something out of him he hadn’t wanted to say last time—this time, she’ll give him the choice.

“Have you ever thought about quitting the Demon Slaying Corps?”

It rushes it out him in a breath, his voice defeated, and she almost drops her drink. He’s not looking at her, but her silence seems to unnerve him, and so he glances back. She must look incredulous, because he turns away, the vulnerability in his eyes shuttering closed—

“Wait,” she says, the word coming out of her like she’s gasping for air. “I just—I didn’t think….that you would have too.”

He turns back to her again, and he doesn’t look—hopeful, but it’s a wary, sad sort of relief, that someone else has thought the same unfortunate thing.

The question and answer sits heavy between them.

“It would be irresponsible. There are still things that have to be done. But I was never supposed to be here. I was never supposed to be the one to survive. But I’m still here.”

Giyu’s eyes are blank and faraway, and Shinobu pushes off the wall and steps closer to him to draw his attention to her.

“I told you that my sister’s dying wish was for me to be a normal girl,” she says. “I think, sometimes, about giving it all up and trying. I don’t think it would have worked. But maybe I should be trying harder. But I’m still here.”

He stares at her.

“I’m sure you could do it, if you wanted to,” he says. It’s not the right thing to say, and bitter laughter bubbles up in her chest. But she knows why he says it, because he still believes himself lesser, somehow.

She waves a hand dismissively, but he doesn’t seem to want to let the matter go.

“If you became a Pillar, I’m sure you could do just as well otherwise,” he says absently. “But it would be a shame. You developed your own Breath. You made your own place. You’re even in charge of the healing for the Corps. If you left, you would certainly be missed.”

Shinobu stares at him with wide eyes—it sounds like praise, and she didn’t know he paid this kind of attention to her.

“You’re worthy of being a Pillar,” he continues. “So you should stay. Maybe it is I that should be trying to live a normal life. There are others who can be the Water Pillar, and do it better. Ah.”

Her head snaps to him—that tone, that realization, she doesn’t like where it’s going. He continues before she has a chance to speak, and she grips her own arms and begins to tremble, letting him get the words out though she feels an awful sense of foreboding.

“I held onto the place because I thought I had to hold it. If I don’t—then someone is free to step into it.”

“Don’t!”

She drops the cup, the remainder of its contents splashing over his floor, tackling him. He stumbles, dropping his own cup, and she cups his face, squeezing his cheeks together.

“Don’t,” she repeats, and his eyes widen at her expression.

“I’ve just—been thinking—”

“Stop thinking,” she hisses, “It’s a bad time for thinking.”

He looks at curiously.

“You said that earlier,” he murmurs, and his gaze darts away from her, then back, seeing as she’s occupying his field of vision. “But you can’t just—”

She kisses him. It’s harsh and desperate and she doesn’t know what she’s doing, but she’s afraid for him. They’re friends, or something like it, and she hadn’t realized how possessive she’d become since Kanae’s death. She doesn’t want to lose him, she doesn’t want to lose anything anymore. The demons still take, and she becomes angrier for each thing she continues to lose. But here, where he is in her grasp and solid underneath her, she wants to keep him—no, she’s going to keep him.

He goes still from shock, but she digs her fingers into his hair and he leans in, his returning kiss gentle. It’s too gentle, and the tears prick at the corners of her eyes. He slides his hands around her and his touch is gentle too, but he presses her into him like he’s rediscovering what touch means. He might be, she realizes. He’s been alone for a long time. A traitor tear slides down her cheeks and he pulls back with concern when he notices, but she wipes it away with the back of her hand.

“No,” she whispers, “It’s not that. Keep going.”

He brushes her hair behind her ear, searching for something in her eyes.

“Stay?” he asks, after a moment, and she laughs. She’s seen him kill demons—it’s elegant, and beautiful, but merciless. One would not think him a kind man at first glance, but now—his touch, his words, his expression, they’re all gentle. She’s the unkind one, here.

“Yes,” she responds, and leans into another kiss.

They don’t really know what they’re doing—when Giyu’s hands work their way beneath her kimono, she pauses to consider the sensation. When she splays her own hands on the bare planes of his chest, she can feel him trembling under her touch. None of it is fear—fear, they are used to. But this is unfamiliar ground; bodies that they aren’t cleaving or stabbing are unfamiliar ground.

It’s doesn’t matter. They learn together; she arches her back when he presses a kiss to the base of her throat, he rumbles low when she drags her nails across his collarbones. Shinobu is fascinated—she has the potential advantage of anatomical study, and so as she explores his body half-academically, the expressions and sounds that Giyu makes a wonder. This stoic man, opening underneath her like a butterfly’s wings—and the look he gives her as she traces a line down his chest…  

She smiles, and something about it kindles something in Giyu; his kiss is hungrier, and so are his hands. It’s the hunger she wants, destruction imminent in a very different way. But despite it all, they are quiet in the act—such a thing is their modus operandi, after all—the disruption in the night air only soft pants that quicken until they are short gasps, the sound of skin against skin, then the exhale of breath in a sigh that sounds like surrender.

.

She’s still there when he wakes. Somehow, he hadn’t expected this. She is curled towards him, and he reaches out a hand to touch her face before he retracts it, afraid that he will wake her. Her face is soft in sleep, her hair unbound and splayed over the pillow. It’s nearly dawn, the skies still dark, but lightening.

Giyu feels…fine. Content, unburdened. A part of him recognizes that normally, he’d be worried—fraught, even, with self-loathing thinking that last night was a mistake, that Shinobu deserved better, that he’d taken advantage of what she started out of selfishness. But he feels content, unburdened. Shinobu had made it very clear what her intentions were, and had it been merely impulse, she would have stopped before it had gone as far as it did.

It’s trust, really, that he isn’t beating himself up over this—in Shinobu, if not himself.

Still. He wonders how she feels about this. She is young, and unmarried, and though the Demon Slayer Corps creates its own sense of morality, it is undeniable that certain standards are prevalent outside of it, and even sometimes in. And she’d talked last night about being a normal girl. Has he ruined her chances, if it’s something she ever truly wants to pursue?

He has to ask. He will ask.

He’s scared to ask.

Delicately, he brushes a lock of hair from her face, traces the curve of her cheek. When she doesn’t stir, he grows a little bolder and cups her cheek with his palm. He studies her, memorizes what she looks like in this moment, then pulls away.

Giyu turns, half-rising in order to get out of the bed. But before he has a chance to do so, he feels an arm drape over his side, and then a soft body press against his.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Shinobu says into his ear, her voice throaty from sleep.

“Were you awake the whole time?” he says, a slight flush rising in his cheeks. He feels her smile against his neck.

“Not the whole time,” she says. “You were thinking.”

He turns to her, though he can’t quite see her face. But he feels her chest against him, her breath tickling his neck.

“It’s not quite a bad time for thinking,” he says, looking at the window, at the sun beginning to rise.

“No,” she murmurs, “But I’m not sure I like what you were.”

She pulls him back beneath the blankets, and he relents without protest.

“Are you running away?” She asks, and the question holds no accusation.

“No,” he says. Pauses. “Yes. I…I don’t know.” He pauses again. “Was it a mistake?”

“It wasn’t to me. If it wasn’t to you, then it wasn’t.”

He nods once, and she smiles, lifting a hand to trace the curve of his cheek, this time. But she doesn’t stop there, moving down to his jaw, his throat, down his chest. He pulls her close, then rolls her over so that she is on her back as he leans over her. He kisses the corner of her mouth, her neck, the dip of her collarbones, the space between her breasts.

Their movements are less frantic, now—slower, more languid. As the sun crawls higher in the sky and their breathing becomes more labored, the sounds of their joining are an echo of triumph.

.

.

.

III.

They spend Sabito’s death anniversary in bed, where she puts her mouth on him and doesn’t let him think beyond her touch, her body, her scent, and the only word that she lets pass his lips is her name.

They spent Kanae’s death anniversary in bed, where he traces patterns on her body with the lightest of touches so that she’s already shivering when he dips his head between her thighs.

More often they are at Giyu’s small house, since he lives alone and in an area of people who know him simply as a neighbor as opposed to the owner of an estate. Sometimes they are at Shinobu’s when it is late at night and the rest of her household is asleep.

It has been many years since Sabito’s death, but Giyu spends the anniversary either alone and struggling with dark thoughts, or throwing himself into the most grueling mission he can take as a distraction. Kanae’s death is more recent, and Shinobu cannot stop replaying the moment in her head when she finds her sister, thinking she is okay from her back profile, only to have her turn to show the blood all over her front before she collapses. Giyu has become more numb to the pain over the years, but the thought that he shouldn’t be the one alive, that he’s more or less a dead man walking, is persistent. Shinobu’s pain is still fresh, and sometimes the loss of her kind, talented sister is so overwhelming that she cannot bring herself to move.

Neither of them know if losing themselves in each other instead of honoring the dead is better. But surely it must be better than wanting to die.

They don't talk about what's between them. It's a partnership; they know they're using each other and that they're both okay with it. It doesn't affect anything else; they go about their daily lives, unencumbered by the other. There are no stolen glances, no coincidental brushes of the hand, no meaningful words. It's fine like this. 

But.

They do, inevitably, become attuned. Giyu may be famously inscrutable, but Shinobu knows when he's fed up or tired by the hold of his shoulders, the degree of stiffness to his posture. Shinobu never seems like she's in a bad mood, but Giyu knows when she is by the way her eyes crease, and the angle to her smile. They become very familiar with each other's bodies, both in and out of the bedroom. 

The rest of the Pillars don't notice anything different—for the most part.

Mitsuri is keen about this kind of thing, and she watches furtively to confirm her suspicions with her fist pressed to her chest, her emotions about to burst. But she can't ask, surely she can't—shouldn't—ask. It's not her place to just bring up of her own accord. But she's glad that Shinobu's smile is less shadowed, and that Giyu's countenance is just a touch softer. 

Kyojuro can sense that there is a slight difference in his two fellow Demon Slayers, but he questions it no further, only taking note of things when he's faced with them. He thinks that compared to how they were before, this is better. Tengen is similar; he recognizes a slight difference, though that's all the attention he chooses to pay to it. 

Regardless—it doesn't affect anything, nor should it. It's simple give and take. If anything, they're fighting a little better, their movements less reckless and desperate.  

But it isn't without its own problems.

The problem is when they wake up in the morning and Giyu smiles faintly at her in greeting when he opens his eyes and realizes she's been watching him. Her breath catches in her throat and a flutter of panic rises in her—this is not a smile he shows anyone else, it is not a smile he's ever had cause to show anyone else, but here she is, and here he is, and she wants to trap the warmth of that smile in between her hands. 

The problem is when Shinobu turns to laugh at him, hair trailing over her bare shoulder, and Giyu savors the sound of it like a refreshing summer drink. It makes him want to kiss the corner of her mouth, the hollow of her throat, the inside of her wrist; it makes him want to catch ahold of her, as if she is a mirage, because she's not here to stay. Lately, when she leaves, or when he has to, he finds himself wishing for another moment, hoping for another murmur, another hum. 

It's betrayal—to themselves, if not the other. There are boundaries that have been set. There are parameters that need to be followed. 

In the space of the bedroom, they can pretend that this is only ever going to be what they want it to be, and nothing else. 

.

Two conversations happen in the spring, when the cherry blossoms are in full bloom. 

The first: Shinobu is over at Mitsuri's for tea, something they haven't been able to do lately because they've been so busy. They're having one of Mitsuri's favorites: pancakes with butter and lots of honey, and black tea. Shinobu cuts up her food neatly, and Mitsuri is steadily eating her way through her second stack, all the while staring at Shinobu with huge, round puppy eyes.

Shinobu knows she's watching, but gives her friend a chance to initiate. When it drags on too long, Shinobu pops a piece of pancake into her mouth and finally meets Mitsuri's pale green eyes.

“You may ask, you know,” she says, amused.

“May I really?!” Mitsuri exclaims, her voice pitched high with excitement, then coughs, adjusting her tone to a more polite one. “I mean, may I really?”

Shinobu nods. Mitsuri drinks some tea, then stares at Shinobu with a more sober gaze, though her eyes are still twinkling.

“Are you happy, Shinobu-chan?”

Shinobu flinches at the question, then goes absolutely still. Mitsuri looks at her with concern but doesn't apologize, and eats another pancake to give the Insect Pillar time to respond. 

“I...don't know. I might...be afraid that I am,” Shinobu says, her voice wavering ever so slightly. “Isn't that stupid?” 

The Love Pillar shakes her head vehemently. 

“It's scary sometimes, to know that you are,” Mitsuri says, stirring her tea. “I mean, I know this is different, but—I'm really happy right now, you know? Pretending to be who I wasn't before made me so miserable, but now I have Oyakata-sama and the Pillars and the whole rest of the Corps. I can use my strength to help people, and I can spend time like this having fun with you, with all the pancakes and tea I want! I wasn't able to do this before, you know? And I absolutely, absolutely don't want to lose it. But there's always a chance that I will, because...that's how things are, aren't they? And I don't like to think about it. So that's why I think that if you're happy now, you should absolutely focus on it as much as you can. Because you deserve it. And because...nothing is certain.”

Mitsuri's expression is downcast at the last bit, and he drains the remainder of her tea. She also seems a bit embarrassed to have spoken so much, but her lip protrudes stubbornly, as if daring Shinobu to contradict her.

Shinobu blinks and chuckles a little, reaching over to refill Mitsuri’s teacup. She gazes at the other Pillar fondly, and Mitsuri puffs out her cheeks.

“What?” she says, and Shinobu smiles wider.

“Nothing,” she replies innocently. “I was just thinking how much I like you.”

She can practically see the steam rising from Mitsuri’s head, and she smothers another laugh.

“Well, I like you too Shinobu-chan. And that’s why I think you should be happy, whatever it takes.”

Do you have time for happiness?

The dark and ugly thoughts reach up from behind, and Shinobu stares at Mitsuri as she tries to organize her mind.

You swore to get your revenge. Are you abandoning it? Did Kanae only mean that much to you, that you can go off and live your life without her? Kanae, who protected you when you were so weak? Do you have time for happiness when even now you only amount to so much? Do you deserve happiness?

“Shinobu-chan. Being happy isn’t wrong. In fact, it’s more important now than ever.”

Mitsuri’s voice is as serious as she’s ever heard it, and Shinobu’s eyes flicker to hers again.

“Mitsuri-san. Are you happy?”

“I am! Because after all, aren’t there still things worth living for?”

Shinobu stares, and takes a deep breath. The cherry blossom petals flutter over the table. The pancakes are sweet, the tea is wonderfully brewed, and she is in the company of a very good friend. And these are not the only moments she appreciates.

“Yes. You’re right,” she says, and Mitsuri smiles.

“Shinobu-chan. Are you happy?”

She gives the Love Pillar an uncertain smile.

“I might be,” she says slowly. “And—I think I’d like to be.”

Mitsuri nods and looks satisfied with the answer. She puts another pancake onto Shinobu’s plate, and there is a momentary silence as both girls work on their food. Once Shinobu has eaten half a second pancake and Mitsuri has eaten another stack, she props up her elbows and puts her chin in her hands and stares at Shinobu again.

“Okay,” she says, “Now tell me everything about you and Tomioka-san.”

Shinobu has to laugh at this normalcy, and complies. Mostly, anyway. Some secrets are still hers to keep.

 The second: The truth is, there are a few times when Giyu has left Shinobu’s household that he has been seen. That person has never made a fuss nor initiated any conversation, merely bowed in greeting and walked away. Though he’s thought about telling Shinobu, it slips his mind because the interaction has been so…negligible. The manner in which it’s happened is so normal, so insignificant, that it hardly even registers as something “bad.” It feels like any other time, greeting an acquaintance from afar, not having time or not wanting to initiate conversation, walking away. 

That changes in spring, on a cloudy night. 

Giyu is leaving the Butterfly Mansion as he has done many times before. He doesn't startle when he is spoken to, suddenly, though the voice does surprise him.

“Do you love her?” 

He turns his head to see Shinobu's tsuguko leaning against the wall, melting into the shadows. He wracks his brain for her name—ah, Tsuyuri Kanao, he remembers.

“Excuse me?” He asks, stalling for time, as he inclines his head in greeting.

Kanao smiles faintly and inclines her head as well, but she does not repeat her question. She waits expectantly, and Giyu looks up at the sky for a moment before he sighs.

“I don't know,” he says honestly, and Kanao nods at this answer. He raises an eyebrow at this easy acceptance. 

Before he can say anything else, however, Kanao holds out her hand, and Giyu sees the small coin on her palm before she takes it and flips it high into the air. She catches it deftly on the back of her hand, even with the lack of light, and lifts her other hand just enough for her to see the outcome. Giyu waits for an explanation, but none comes, and starts to walk away before he speaks to stop her.

“Will you not show me?” he asks, and Kanao gives him another faint smile as she turns back to him.

There's a pause as she considers her words, tilting her head a little.

“This result is merely for my own satisfaction,” she says, “Your answer...you will have to find yourself.”

He raises an eyebrow; there's familiarity in the way she speaks. She's Shinobu's student, indeed. 

“How inscrutable,” he says.

“The words are derived from my master,” Kanao says. “She said they were derived from yours.”

Giyu can imagine Shinobu's smirk and laugh here—if they had come from his own words, hadn't he just called himself inscrutable? He sighs, then looks at Kanao. She stares back, her face expressionless. He sees no distaste or hatred, no judgement. Somehow, he had expected some. 

“You do not...disapprove?” he asks before he can stop himself. He wants to groan at the childishness of the question, that he poses it at all, especially since the girl is younger than him and Shinobu, for goodness’ sake.

Kanao tilts her head, blinking at him.

“It is not my place to approve or disapprove,” she says solemnly. “I love my sister, and I trust her.”

“As you do not trust me,” Giyu says, picking up the implication. But Kanao's eyes widen marginally, and she blinks again. 

“I don't think that's the case,” she says, furrowing her brows. “I don't distrust you.”

“That does not mean you trust me.”

She considers this, looking conflicted.

“Perhaps not. But I don't distrust you.” 

Giyu doesn't know what he's looking for from her—he's stressing her out, he can tell, though he doesn't mean to—but she's Shinobu's sister. He'd had his opinion of Tsutako's husband-to-be when they were alive (that opinion had improved with time), and he's not desperate, per se, for an opinion from Kanao, but he does want one, strangely enough. 

This half-opinion is—excruciating. He thinks he'd rather have Kanao dislike him—it would make more sense. Her disapproval would shame him, and the shame would keep him within bounds. 

“The coin is for me,” Kanao says slowly, “What's between you and Shinobu-nee-san is for you, and her.” She speaks the words as if she is trying very hard to convey her meaning after failing the first time. “It is not my place to interfere, but nor do I have a desire to. It's—” She frowns here, struggling with what she wants to say. “The answer is yours,” she says finally, wilting a little at the inadequacy. 

Giyu blinks at her, then, after a moment, reaches up a hand and places it on her head.

“Okay,” he says, slowly, as if considering it. “Okay. Thank you.”

Kanao blinks up at him, then nods her head. He removes his hand, and she bows before walking back into the estate proper. 

He comes away from the conversation—not ashamed, unfortunately. If anything, quite the opposite. He doesn't fully understand what Kanao was trying to say, but what she did say, he is turning over in his head. The answer is his, and Shinobu's, and that—that is how things are.

He opens and closes his hand, flexing out his fingers. There are choices he has to make, decisions he has to come to for himself. Shinobu's will be hers, his will be his, and together will be theirs, if there will be a together. But Giyu must set his own terms; there needs to be an answer.

Okay. Okay.

.

It's raining, the next time they are together. She comes to his house drenched, her thoughts clouded; her skin is ice cold as they peel each sodden layer off of her, but her kisses are hot and demanding and idly he thinks he likes it when she takes control, though he is eager enough to provide warmth of his own as she slips her hands beneath his clothes and they press their bodies together.      

It's still raining when they wake, the window still open; Shinobu moves first, halfway out from underneath the blanket and ready to dress and leave. Giyu catches her wrist before she can fully untangle herself, his touch light, but sure.

“Stay,” he says, voice still rough from sleep. 

She looks back at him, her heartbeat quickening at his expression. Half-lidded from sleep, but soft, and open, and vulnerable. He does not mean just for this moment, for this day. He's made his decision. Shinobu must make hers. 

Are you happy, Shinobu-chan? Mitsuri's voice rings in her head. I think you should be happy, whatever it takes. 

She bends down to kiss him.

“Okay.” Shinobu murmurs. 

She slides back underneath the blankets, goosebumps raised on her skin from the chill of the air. Giyu puts an arm around her waist, and she presses her body flush against his, soaking in his warmth. She touches him, languid, slow; he brings the heat in her body alive again underneath the blankets.

The rainfall drowns out their breathing. In here, in this small house, small room, there is no one but the two of them. Moving together, their minds are blank save for thoughts of the other, almost as though there are no barriers, as if they cannot tell where one ends and the other begins. 

Outside, no one is the wiser; the world continues to turn, with or without them. 

[shadowatching]

it’s awesome to see you back! i’ve still got post notifs on for you, so i was happy to see that you posted! :) if i may, can i request some yandere genji and/or mccree using aphrodisiacs with an afab reader? thank you (and welcome back!) 💕✨

I was going to write a little of both, but then Genji burst in and demanded four pages of un-proofread filth. Enjoy.

WARNINGS: Explicit non-c/on (r/ape), vaginal sex, fingering, non-cons/ensual drug use

(This is also kinda sloppy writing, mostly because I cranked it out one sitting and couldn’t be assed to look it over again for mistakes or flow or mood consistency or really anything at all, so uh. Let’s just call it a warm-up.)

Sweat clings to your chest, heaving in desperate gasps of air. One fist shoves at his shoulder as he straddles you, dipping you back on the mattress as you claw at it with your other hand.

Rebellion still flickers in your eyes, and Genji wets his lips, eyes heavy with satisfaction. He hasn’t tried this with you before. If the fight you put up before was delicious, he had no idea what a little creativity could bring from you.

His knees plant on either side of your waist as bears down on you, forcing you down until you’re flat on your back. You snarl wordlessly, but it comes across like a needy gasp. He smiles, amusement painting his face. The familiar, unrestrained hatred is still in your eyes, but you have yet to claw his eyes out, or throw a knee up into his groin.

“That kicked in fast,” He quirks his lips, and runs a hand down your side, exploring your ribs, down your waist, past your hip. You twist away, but the friction from the bed has you panting. He dips his nose into the exposed crook of your neck, and murmurs into your damp skin. “Think you’re ready for some fun?”

The angry shrug you pull away with is as good an indicator as any. He hauls you up and settles your back against his chest, long legs splayed with yours.

“Get… off,” You hiss, feebly shoving at the arm he bars over your middle.

“Is that really what you want?” Genji asks, lips brushing the shell of your ear. It earns him a full-body shudder, and he slips a hand under you shirt to knead your breast, the grope restraining you flush against his chest. His free hand slides your belly, sly and assured. “Because… I bet if I keep going,” he wiggles his fingers under you waistband, “your pussy will tell me a different story.”

Incensed, you thrash against him. He hooks a leg over your knee to hold you still, chuckling as his fingers press down into your jeans. The moan you make when he slips his fingers into your slick, hot entrance is so uncharacteristically dirty that it almost gives him pause. Almost. “Fuck,” he swears. “You’re dripping, babe.”

You kick out uselessly with your free leg, scrabbling for purchase on the bed and sobbing through your clenched teeth as he thrusts experimentally. His thumb finds your clit and you jolt, hips edging away as he begins working the nub in circles. He scissors his fingers in tandem, then crooks them hard into your sweet spot. The orgasm it throws you into is sudden and wordless, breathy whines falling from your lips as he wrings the final throes from your muscles.

“This could be every night,” He says casually as your muscles finish spasming against him. “I could keep you like this, writhing in my lap and begging me for more.” He doesn’t slow or gentle his ministrations, and soon you’re bucking and screaming, fruitlessly angling to escape his hand.

“F-fuck you!” You grit out, raking nails down his bare arm. He laughs, because yeah, that’s the point.

Your head tosses against his shoulder, high strung and overstimulated and growing ever-more taught as he fucks his hand into you. Eyes wide, he watches rapt as you come undone once more, this time in a drawn-out shudder that squeezes your lungs. Your eyes screw shut and you grapple his wrist, searching desperately for reprieve. It looks like you’re in pain, and he groans, pushing his hips into your rear.

Genji keeps working you until you’re frantic, back arching and contorting away from his fingers while your undone jeans keep them trapped snugly in place.

“Genji!” You wail and he groans, thrusting his cock into your ass and grinding the heel of his palm into you until there are tears running down your cheeks and he can’t tell apart your orgasms from the racking sobs and shudders.

Finally, he pulls away while you shiver against him, teeth chattering. His fingers glisten and drip into your lap, so he wipes them on your jeans and rolls the two of you over. Face to face, the look you give him is so broken and wounded that it warms his heart. You’re already shaking your head, pushing at his hands before they’ve even found your pants.

“No, Genji, no–” But even as your fight renews beneath him, fresh, hot slick paints his wrist as your bottoms are pulled off and tossed to the floor. “Genji I can’t, don’t you fucking dare! Get off of me! Genji!” You shriek, hearing his zipper open, and the shuffle of clothes that tells you without looking that his jeans have joined yours on the floor below.

“You’re talkative all of a sudden,” Genji notes, a foreboding smile twitching at his lips. “Guess you’re not too tired to have a little more fun, then.” He slots his mouth into yours, swallowing your protests and curses as he thrusts shallowly against you, coating himself in your mess. He feels your breath die in your throat as he lines up, and your nails cut into his shoulders when he thrusts home.

You writhe while he works into you in steady strokes, and he’s only half certain you’re trying to dislodge him as you squirm. You’re a brat, for sure, and make it as hard as possible for him to fuck you on a good day. But even as you make it a similarly arduous task to fuck you tonight, Genji suspects you’re just too highly strung and frenzied to be dodging him on purpose.

“Hold still,” He scolds, pinning your hips as he pushes into you, ignoring the yelps and whimpers as he focuses on spearing you inch by inch. His brow is pinched with concentration; this should be easy with how wet you are, but your cunt is swollen and overstimulated, throbbing tightly around his cock. With one last sharp thrust that punches your tightly held breath out of your chest, his hips meet yours. That tightly guarded breath puffs across his collarbone, and he grins wickedly, feeling as if that itself is just as much a victory as forcing his dick into you.

Still wearing his grin, he presses his forehead to yours and cups your jaw with his hands. Your hips are free, but you’re not going anywhere, not with his shaft so deep you feel it in your throat. “Can’t believe how tight you are,” he pants, staring into your flushed face, hungry for that trapped, defeated pit in your eyes.

But you turn your head away, still trembling and feverish with need.

So Genji gives you what you need, what you’ll never ask for, never beg for. Knows how to fuck you even if he never pries the words from your mouth, because it’s him. You need him, always have, and that’s why he took you- chained you to his bed even when you hissed and spit and clawed angry lines into his skin.

Leaning his hips, he thrusts, letting his pelvis drag over your swollen, sensitive bud with each hard, punctuated stroke. He revels in the sudden clench of your teeth, the tightening of your fists, the flutter of your lashes. The rhythm he starts with is punishing and fast, but as you begin to lose the battle to keep your noises at bay, he slows. Each roll of his hips is long, sharp, but achingly slow, searching for that precious thing deep inside that you just won’t give him.

The drugs are starting to lose their grip on you, and he savors each breath that hitches on a whine, committing your red, sweaty, tear-stained face to memory as he wrings an orgasm from you, only for another to follow right on its tails.

Weeping pitifully as your body jerks beneath him, you throw up a hand to push his face away, sick of him hovering close enough to trade breath with you. Easily, he catches the hand and pins it above your head, then reaches for your leg and hoists it over his shoulder. His strokes reach deeper, even as you brace yourself against him, a hand on his shoulder to keep him at arm’s length even as you shudder through another climax, weaker this time.

Finally, the orgasms stop coming even as he fights to draw one final, cruel peak from your body while you scream and beat his shoulder with your unrestricted fist. You’re left fucked out and raw, wincing with every thrust until he gives in, burying his face into you and sinks his teeth into your collarbone, just shy of piercing skin. A handful of long, hard final thrusts and he’s cumming deep inside of you, still reaching for that hidden piece.

You lay fractured beneath him, and he smiles, small and soft on his lips in uncharacteristic tenderness. He pulls you onto your side with him, still fit snugly inside even as you moan unhappily and wince and feebly kick. Instead, he presses deeper, closing his eyes as he fits himself in deeper still despite your discomfort.

If he can’t draw that final piece of you out, to finally shatter you once and for all, then maybe Genji will have to push his way in, ruthless and unyielding until he finds it.

For now, he rests with you, finally drained of your fight.

…And thinks of when he’ll next dose you, because he has a new favorite toy and he’s going to use it to dismantle you, brick by brick.

/fin

[calamity-callie]

The Wrath of Thunder Descends: Part 2 (Wiztober - Trusted Ally)

If you haven’t read the first part yet its not strictly necessary, but it’s right here! Also this entry is a monster hunter crossover bc I adore both games and have wanted to do something like this for ages~

Edited by @spiralcompendium

CW: Strong language, violence. These two wizards have insane potty mouths.

Lamentia sullenly sat on her bed, alone in her dorm room. “I lost?! How is that possible? How could I lose?” She ran the results of her duel with Calamity over and over in her head, replaying every turn and rethinking every possible move. The channeled insane bolt, the medusa, the basilisk: “Maybe if I’d blocked that goddamn stun… Nah, I just needed to hit harder, that’s all.” She got up and went over to her desk, her mind set on one thing - rewriting her off-the-cuff spell to be even stronger. She wrote it down then began examining it line by line. 

O wrath of thunder, I implore, descend

‘This line’s perfect, nothing to fix here,’ she thought as she moved on. Scanning the rest of the lines though, she found multiple places where words could be switched around, rearranged, and made to evoke a wilder, more powerful, almost monstrous energy. “This. Now this is perfect. This’ll blow their fuckin minds.” With her modified spell written down on a scrap, she set out to the forests beyond Unicorn Way to test it out.

Once beyond the boundaries of the Unicorn Park, she began preparing her spell. She found a small clearing where, while still shaded by the thick canopy, there were at least no large trunks to cause a disruption. She pulled out her paper and began to read in a commanding voice.

O wrath of thunder, I implore, descend From portal formed of cold, unearthly spark With speed of wolf and strength of glowbug squall Release thy wild self unto this world

Lamentia held her breath as a breeze began to pick up. Static filled the air as, sure enough, a portal to another forest began to open up. This forest was far more alien though, looking almost as if it were a massive above-ground coral reef. “Alright, come on big lightning bolt! Any second now… come on, come onnn…” Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the loudest roar she had ever heard. Just as her poem had suggested, a beast unlike anything she had ever seen lunged out of the portal and directly at her, knocking her onto her back. 

It was an incredibly large four-legged creature with silver and gold scales on its body  and white fur on its back. Two large yellow horns sat atop its electric blue, dragon-like head, with two yellow ridges running down the entire length of its back and tail. The entire beast seemed to glow with a strange, otherworldly energy. Standing over her, it began to howl. As the sound escaped its large maw, she could see glowbugs from all corners of the forest being drawn to its fur, integrating themselves into it. Once they had stopped coming, the beast howled a second time, while its whole body was momentarily enveloped in a blinding flash of electrical energy.

Lamentia scrambled to get up before the beast tried anything and ran off into the underbrush to hide and gather her thoughts. “Well, fuck, that wasn’t supposed to happen. What the fuck do I do now…” She reached for her bowgun - gone. She must have left it in the tower or in her room. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!” she cursed her forgetfulness silently. She hesitantly peered out through the leaves to see the creature pouncing around the area, sniffing the air as it moved. It was only a matter of time before it sniffed her out. She needed a plan, fast. Remembering her old spells, she began to recite a couplet in hopes of getting a surprise attack in.

O king of deep, o lord of ocean’s maw Arise and with thy trident smite this foe

Upon finishing the second stanza, a small portion of the clearing flooded entirely, allowing a triton to emerge. With a fishious roar, it raised its spear to the sky to call the lightning, directed it to rain down on the beast, then departed, taking the water with it. The impact was so bright and loud that for a few moments Lamentia couldn’t even see what sort of damage her spell had caused. “Fuck yeah, there’s no way anything survived that. I’m totally still the strongest wiza-” Her victory speech was stopped in its tracks as the lightning faded and the beast came barrelling out of the residual smoke. It had absorbed the full strength of the strike and seemed absolutely no worse for wear. Even worse, thanks to Lamentia’s ineffective spell and subsequent boast it now knew exactly where she was.

She quickly rolled out of the way, narrowly avoiding the lunge, but the beast wasted no time re-orienting itself. Spinning on a single paw, it attempted to slam its long, wide tail on the ground. While she was able to dodge these attempts, each tail slam dislodged a few now-agitated glowbugs that proceeded to release immense amounts of energy. Though she managed to avoid the initial impacts, one of the insects discharged a bit too close for comfort, sending her flying. Lamentia hit the ground a few meters away and lied there, motionless for a moment. She opened her eyes just in time to see the creature circling her with a menacing glare on its face. She again scrambled to get up, but this time, upon seeing the movement, the beast pounced.

Using the last of her strength, Lamentia pushed against the ground with all her might and just barely escaped being crushed by the full weight of the monster’s back. It laid there for a second before righting itself, and she took the chance to try out the quickest spell she knew.

O fire of the cloud, of fortune’s hand One hundred, ten, or thousand; your command

At this, a single thick bolt of lightning appeared from the sky and struck the beast square in the head. It didn’t even flinch, and Lamentia watched in horror as it simply absorbed all of the energy from the bolt into its already supercharged fur. She could see the beast readying itself for another lunge, and she uttered what she thought would be her last word,

“FUUUUCK!!!”

Suddenly, the ground began to shake violently. Both Lamentia and the beast looked around the clearing to find the source of the shaking. There, across the small field, was a blonde punk girl who looked all too familiar. Her large gauntlets rebounded off the ground, which split apart at the impact point, and swallowed up anything that was small enough to fit. And the fissure was headed directly for the beast. It tried to get out of the way but didn’t have enough time--its back leg got caught in the crack. As it began to flail and whimper, the girl got up and walked over to Lamentia.

“Ugh, Calamity. Why’d it have to be you of all people.”

“I could have just let that thing kill you, but why would I do that? If you die here, I won’t be able to beat your ass in a duel again, will I!?” Calamity reached into her bag. “Here, I think you forgot this,” she said as she pulled out Lamentia’s bowgun and tossed it to her. “I can’t believe you’d just storm out like that and forget your things. By Spider, what an irresponsible rival.”

Lamentia scowled. “Fuck you, I don’t need this shit. Just… Help me get rid of this goddamn thing, okay?”

“Oooooooh, the high and mighty ‘best wizard here’ with the powers of a god needs MY help? Well, I’d be honored.” 

Lamentia scowled even more intensely. “Just shut the fuck up,” she retorted.

“Well, the first thing you should know is that the fissure won’t hold much longer. We’ve already wasted quite a bit of time…” No sooner did her thought end than the beast finally tore itself free. “Looks like it’s go time! Hell yeah, this’ll be good!” Calamity jumped up and down, shaking her arms out as the creature turned its gaze to her. “I’ll keep it busy. Go, like, load your gun or something--whatever it is you do!”

Without saying a word, Lamentia ran back into the underbrush to prepare.

As the monster lunged, Calamity held her hands up and shouted a single phrase.

“BASILISK! LEND ME YOUR STRENGTH!”

Green and yellow energy began to swirl around her gauntlets. She lowered her hands, then squared up and braced herself. She timed her first punch just right to counter the lunge and hit the beast square in the nose. The two danced around each other: the beast lunged and flipped, slamming its tail and swiping its massive claws, while Calamity dodged, rolled, and weaved seamlessly around its every attempt to catch her, throwing punches whenever she had the chance. A hit to the leg, a hit to the face, a hit to the stomach - the location didn’t matter. Every hit not only slowed the beast down, but also infused more and more of the basilisk’s essence into the monster, until finally it fell over on the ground whimpering and writhing, having lost control of its muscles.

She looked over her shoulder and yelled, “You got that thing ready yet?”

“You know it,” came the reply. “Better move out of the way.”

Calamity stepped aside as Lamentia walked back into the clearing. She knelt down, rested the stock on her shoulder, and sent a low, steady pulse of storm magic to the firing chamber. The sound of machine gun fire filled the air as rocks, nuts, berries, seeds, pieces of bark, and whatever other vaguely round materials she could find shot out of the steel barrel at high speed, pelting the beast in multiple locations all over its body. Though the unconventional projectiles seemed ineffective at first, the incessant firing wore away spots of fur, eroded scales, and even broke off one of the majestic golden horns.

Soon, the creature began to regain control of its movements and stumbled to its feet. Calamity shouted, “It’s back, watch out!” as, sure enough, it lunged at Lamentia. Calamity ran after it and landed hit after hit on its legs and tail. Lamentia leapt out of the way and continued firing, reloading with various woodland objects as needed. The beast unleashed its full arsenal on the two, but between the small, repeated blows to its legs and the rain of projectiles on its head and back, it realized it no longer had the upper hand. It fled towards Ravenwood.

“Shit shit shit fuck shit no! We can’t let this thing get to the school!” Calamity yelled. “Lamentia, whatever dumb thing you did to summon this monstrosity, can you send it back?”

“Fucking of course I can, who the fuck do you think I am?” she replied. She indeed did know the way to dispel a summon gone wrong, but the technique was quite difficult - she would have to recite a very complex Counter-Verse, which involved correctly pronouncing many words that didn’t exist in any language. Failing could make the situation even worse, but she knew she had no choice. 

She pulled her written spell out as Calamity shouted, “Hurry the fuck up then! We don’t have any time!”

“Goddamn! Be patient--I’m doing it!”

She slowly began to read.

Dlorw siht otnu fles dliw yht esaeler Llauqs gubwolg fo htgnerts dna flow fo deeps htiw Kraps ylhtraenu, dloc fo demrof latrop morf Dnecsed, erolpmi I, rednuht fo htarw O!

Upon completion of the Counter-Verse, another portal opened up, but this time she was unable to see through it to the other side. The beast stopped in its tracks and turned towards the new opening, drawn to it by the power of the spell. It jumped through, and a voice echoed from the other side as the portal closed. “Wha- a Zinogre? Here?? Where did it even come from? Alright, people, let’s drive this thing out!”

Calamity and Lamentia collapsed in the clearing, exhausted. “We fuckin did it,” Calamity gasped, out of breath. 

“Damn right we did,” came Lamentia’s reply. She paused. “Hey, Calamity.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re alright. I guess.”

“You’re alright, too.”

“Now, now, don’t go thinking I like you or anything like that. I still wanna smash your fuckin ugly face in!”

“Hah, I’d like to see you try!”

The two laid in the field for a few moments before Calamity broke the silence. “Wanna go by Triton on the way home? There’s this cool bar there…”

“Calamity we’re underage, are you fuckin stupid?”

“Nah, I know the owner, It’ll be great!”

“You know what? You’re crazy. Let’s fuckin do it.”

‘Hell yeah.”

They fist bumped each other, then slowly got up and limped their aching bodies to the bar.

[mamichigo]

currents (that take you home) [gen]

Fandom: Breath of the Wild

Relationship: Kass & Link

Summary: Song that cut the quiet of the wilderness, but fit in with all the natural noises perfectly. That was how Link remembered Kass.

Word count: 1,7k

As faint as the music was, carried over by the sea breeze, Link heard it before he could see a lone figure atop a stone pillar. He recognized it as well, and though he couldn't see the familiar blue plumage in the dark of the night, he knew it was Kass just from the melody. Even if it took some climbing, he followed the sound to the Rito, who didn't notice his approach lost as he was in the notes of his accordion.

Careful not to scare him, Link tapped his wing twice. Though he startled, Kass turned with the same calm with which he always held himself. As his gaze fell upon Link, his eyes widened, but his expression softened, a smile tugging at the edge of his beak. Link smiled back and waved.

"I certainly didn't expect to see anyone else up here," Kass said, but there was no surprise in his voice. After encountering each other in so many unexpected places, the sentence was more an inside joke than an expression of his true feelings. "I hope you are doing well, my friend."

Link started on a sign for "dead tired", but paused and shook his head to himself. He shrugged. 'Nothing some food and rest can't cure,' he signed finally.

Kass had a knowing air to him as he said, "Strange that I found you here, instead of at a stable, then," Kass commented. Link hesitated a moment, shuffling on his feet, so Kass laid an encouraging wing on his shoulder. "Is something on your mind?"

He sighed and sat down at the pillar's edge so his legs dangled; Kass' wing was dislodged to his back, and it remained there.

He groped for words for a whole minute, but nothing came to him. Even when he raised his hands, it resulted in nothing, and they hovered there uncertain of what to do. Link didn't look at Kass, but he could feel the sympathy with which he was regarded. Filled with embarrassment, Link scratched the back of his neck.

"Well, then," Kass spoke up, taking pity on him, "would you be amenable to hearing a song?" Link peered up at him, and Kass returned the look. "It would be our last."

Confused, Link frowned. He turned to the side so Kass had a better view of his hands. 'What do you mean?'

"We have both been to so many places, and met along the way," he said with a note of nostalgia. "The last song my teacher passed down to me is of this very place. After that, I have nothing else to sing to you."

A pregnant pause. Kass watched him from the corner of his eyes, his fingers distractedly pressing on buttons.

'What will you do?' Link asked, and Kass tilted his head. 'After the last song is done.'

Kass hummed and looked out at the horizon, though the eagles cawing almost made the sound unheard. "Home should be my next destination. It's been awfully long since I've seen my family."

Home, to Rito Village. Link had just been there himself, and could still feel its chilly air on his cheeks. It was nothing like the breeze here, by the oceanside, where the very air tasted of salt. Whenever he thought of the place, he saw hammocks and welcoming smiles, if a little on the more reserved side. It suited him just fine, Link thought. It was no wonder Kass wished to go back, especially with a family waiting for him. Link thought of his own "home", or the closest thing to it he had; removed from the rest of Hateno, a place where only the weapons hung on the walls spoke of a person's inhabitance of it. Link shrunk into himself.

At his lack of response, Kass nudged his shoulder. "Would you like to hear the song?"

He shook his head fast enough to give himself whiplash. Realizing how quickly he had refused, Link flushed. 'Not yet,' he explained. 'Just a little longer.'

"Just a little longer," Kass echoed. "Time never runs as we want it to, does it?"

Link chuckled, and was not surprised to find the sound was wobbly. 'It really doesn't.'

Maybe accepting that they would be there awhile, Kass sat down as well, careful not to drop his accordion. Their shoulders knocked together and jostled Link, to which Kass apologized, but Link smiled and waved a hand.

Kass inspected his profile. "You have been to Rito Village, then?" He asked, eyes on the braids that Link hadn't bothered to undo quite yet. 

Link ran a finger over the ruby that dangled from his hair, felt the strands that fell off the braid. 'I have.' As an afterthought, he added, 'It's a beautiful place.'

"I must admit I didn't think a Hylian would appreciate it much." Link made an affronted sound, and Kass laughed. "Your kind seems drawn to places of more opulent making, like Zora's Domain, or even Gerudo Town, from what I've heard."

'Those places are nice too,' Link signed, and hoped Kass didn't point out the fact that he had included Gerudo Town in his affirmation. 'But…'

"But?"

Link leaned back on the palm of his hands and kicked his feet in the air. Feeling at ease, he whispered, "Rito Village is simpler. Peaceful." Link closed his eyes and imagined the wooden houses, the smell of food that always seemed to permeate the place. If he tried hard enough, he could even feel the warmth of the fire where he could usually find Amali and at least one of her daughters.

"It's rare to find someone who takes a liking to that kind of thing. To many, it's almost monotonous." Kass chuckled. "Wherever I go, I find adventurers in search of great treasure, or maybe just the thrill of the journey."

Link scrunched up his nose. "I have enough of that." 

His voice was scratchy from disuse, as it usually was, but it didn't seem to bother Kass. Instead, he shared an amused and knowing smile with him.

"Then I can see why you'd like Rito Village."

Link nodded in agreement. While the place made it hard to forget the Calamity, what with the clear view of the Castle in the distance, it also made it easy to believe there was something beyond that fight. It was a comfort he found nowhere else.

He glanced at Kass with some guilt.

"Your family," he started, and saw the way Kass' entire attention shifted to focus on his next words. "They'll be alright."

Kass' softened with fondness. "I never doubted they would. But what makes you say that?"

"The Beast, I… It's been taken care of."

For a long moment, silence reigned once again, and Kass appraised him with too sharp eyes. Link wondered if Kass could read past his words, if he could catch hidden meanings from the air with ease. It felt like it, and yet Link was too afraid to ask how much he knew.

"I'm thankful my home is safe," was all Kass said, but Link was warmed by it all the same. It was all he needed.

Somehow, he was reminded of Teba's acknowledging nod every time they happened to pass by each other the times Link spent in the Village.

"I'm guessing you've had your own share of trouble there?" Kass gestured to his headdress. It took a moment for Link to remember that the fray of the fight had taken the feathers that should be behind his ear, by the golden piece. "What a shame."

Link traced the empty space with mournful regret. "I never got the time to have it repaired…"

Kass scanned the damage, including the loose braids. "It's nothing we can't take care of, I'm sure."

The meaning of his words evaded Link, who stared at Kass waiting for a clarification. Instead of words, Kass simply reached for one of his own feathers by the curve of his wing, and Link gasped when he plucked it. He frantically looked from Kass to the feather.

"Don't look so alarmed, I won't feel the absence of a single feather." That did little to calm Link. Kass touched his wing to Link's head. "Besides, if you are to be wearing armor of Rito making, might as well have it looking its best, don't you agree?"

That was enough to stop Link's protests before he could voice them, aware that Rito, like all the other races, were quite proud of their own designs and craftsmanship. He clamped his mouth shut and let Kass fuss over his headdress, working his own feather into Link's hair in a way that wouldn't easily fall off at a mere gust of wind.

Suddenly, he was struck with the image of Revali's disdainful stare. Though he couldn't remember him all that well, Link was sure Revali would be outraged to find that any Rito would willingly give him one of their feathers. The thought made him laugh.

"This should do," Kass announced, once he deemed the feather secure enough. "It's only one feather, but I assure you it looks better than none at all."

Link mourned the fact that it was so late and he couldn't see his reflection on the water below, and his shield only showed an opaque, lineless version of himself. He made a mental note to check how it looked as soon as he could. That wasn't to say that he doubted Kass' opinion, especially as the gesture counted much more than any looks ever would. Link smiled so wide it made his cheeks hurt.

"Thank you," he said, and hoped his appreciation was as loud and clear in his voice as it was in his heart.

"No need to thank me, my friend."

He touched the feather and felt its edges, the softness of it. Link looked up at Kass. "When you return home, can I visit you?"

Kass lay a protective wing on his shoulder. "I'd be saddened if you didn't." 

More confident than he'd been before, Link nodded, and asked, "Could you sing me the last song?"

Kass patted him one last time before raising himself, fingers already started on the music. "It would be my pleasure."

As the first notes played, Link closed his eyes and made a promise to himself, a single word.

Soon.

[gamechangeroo]

Part 2/3

Click for Part 1/3

Or read ahead for Part 2, which is Chapter 1, because Part 1 was the Prologue. I acknowledge the pointless confusion.

Chapter 1: Should You Buy a New Moral Compass When the Magnetic Poles Switch?

It had been two weeks since Gintoki had been ‘knighted,’ and in that time span he had gained five kilograms, Shinpachi had gained two, and Kagura had only gained one, because, despite the fact that she was eating as much of the food as all the other moochers combined, she was a monster alien girl that would never have to worry about love handles. Ignoring the limits of physics, her body morphed food into energy with a ferocity similar to what one would find in the center of stars.

That is to say, excluding that one weight loss episode, Kagura consistently had a very high metabolism.

It is perhaps a strange way to start a Gintama story where food can no longer be a concern or motivating plot point, because the Yorozuya team now had any and all of it that they could ever need. One might venture to say it is stranger still that the dawn of a Gintama story breaks over a horizon where rent was also not a concern. Yet, by this time in the plot Gintoki had already convinced Otose to take their rent as an anytime, all-you-can-eat ticket to the Foryunthustoriphyxnarfyndalvnuduraqiualinoytfusian Embassy. With these two very large issues removed from the playing field, was there any motivation for Gintoki, Kagura, or Shinpachi to do anything? Would there be any growth or motion besides the outward growth of our heroes’ stomachs?!

Gintoki supplied his answer in a large, drawn-out belch, and lazily rubbed his newly accumulated belly fat. From his spot draped over one of the embassy settees he motioned vaguely to the other side of the room.

“Oi, Patsuan. Go buy me this week’s Jump!,” Gintoki managed to mumble through his food coma. As he moved his lips, a piece of beef that had been stuck to them slipped into his mouth. He chewed on it contentedly.

Kagura burped in response. “Shinpachi left hours ago, and I don’t think it was to buy Jump!.”

Cracking open his eyes for the first time since this chapter began, Gintoki peered around the banquet hall languidly. Shinpachi was indeed gone, and Kagura was still munching away at her place at the table as the Foryunthustoriphyxnarfyndalvnuduraqiualinoytfusian kitchen staff shimmered, glistened, and replaced plates here and there.

“He said if he stayed around here any longer,” Kagura continued, “he’d turn into a good-for-nothing deadbeat.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with Hasegawa,” Gintoki defended his friend absentmindedly.

“Nobody was talking about me, Gin-san!” Hasegawa spoke up, mildly indignant. He sat across the table from Kagura, doing his best to keep on mooching on this food train, and, incidentally, had gained about 10 kilograms himself.

Ignoring the interjection, Gintoki suggested, “Why don’t you follow Shinpachi’s lead, Kagura-chan? Go out and see how the world has grown over the last two weeks. I’ve heard they changed the color palette, and the sky is turning from blue to brown.”

“Who cares about factory smog when I have factory-processed sausage right here?” Kagura asked, leisurely waving a link at Gintoki. “Go find your Jump! lackey somewhere else.”

Running his fingers through his perm in aggravation, Gintoki grumbled and debated the merits of standing up and walking to the convenience store, versus lying around and doing more nothing. Nothing really was very appealing.

However, after two weeks of nothing, its time had finally run out. It was at this moment that a Presence slid firmly into Gintoki’s brain. He blinked twice and shook his head wildly in an attempt to dislodge whatever it was from his mind and thoughts. He then whacked one ear, hoping it would pop out the other. Undeterred, the Presence poked around his mind with a sharp, callous intensity that was, frankly, incredibly annoying. It was bit like when customers come into clothing stores, throw the neatly hung up clothes carelessly off the racks, and expect the shopkeep to clean up after them without thought or concern.

To make matters worse, the Presence paused and encircled his thoughts about how walking to the convenience store to buy this week’s Jump! was too much effort. It hung there in silence, totally judging him.

“You don’t know my life!” He roared.  “Get out, you asshole!”

At this, a huge darkness fell over the hall. Actually, it wasn’t the whole hall, there was just someone looming over Gintoki. Yup, it sort of looked like Kagura when she was about to go in for the kill. He paled considerably as he realized what was about to happen.

“Uh, wait, K-k-kagura-ch-chan,” he flailed. “That wasn’t… I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to the thing in my head. Something’s in my head and judging me, so I told it to get out. I would never tell you to get out!”

Kagura halted her fist a mere hairsbreadth from Gintoki’s nose. She tilted her head to the side menacingly. Gintoki took that as an excuse to keep going.

“You… you see. All of a sudden, it just popped in there, and was looking down on me for not buying my own Jump!, which isn’t right at all! A man should have peace of mind in his own mind!”

“Not quite,” Hasegawa said through a mouthful of rice, with a small, jaded laugh. “When boys become men, even their minds have no peace.”

Kagura drew back her fist and stared quizzically at Gintoki. “Gin-chan is growing up?”

“He just grew a conscience, Kagura-san,” Hasegawa amended. “It means he can’t do anything fun anymore without feeling terrible about it.”

At this, Kagura’s face scrunched in concern, and she shook Gintoki wildly by the shoulders. “Is it true, Gin-chan?! Are you not going to come home drunk in the middle of the night anymore smelling of the scummiest parts of town?! Who will play midnight games of Five Finger Fillet with me now?”

In light of this new information, Gintoki blanched. What in the hell had Kagura been doing to him after he had blacked out on those nights?! Maybe a conscience could come in handy in having a heart to heart with Kagura about not playing evil night games with inebriated victims, but this new intruder stomping around in his head wasn’t a conscience.

“Stop putting stupid ideas in her head, Hasegawa,” Gintoki retorted. “The plot of my series is all about how I have a great conscience that orphaned children and crying women exploit to get me to save the day occasionally. It’s heartwarming, and people love it! I can’t grow what I’ve already got!”

“You’ve got it all wrong, Gin-san,” Hasegawa opined. “There are two types of consciences. The first type is the one you’ve always had: a hero’s conscience. That’s what gets Mario to save Princess Peach from Bowser all the time.

“The second type is a geezer’s conscience. That’s what makes Mario collect enough coins to pay for multiple life insurance policies, so his family knows they will be taken care of after he’s run into one too many Goombas. It’s an adult sense of responsibility, as the demands of society slowly crush his idealism and spirit.”

“Mario is such a caring hero!” Kagura enthused, spraying tofu in Hasegawa’s direction, as she settled herself back into her chair at the banquet table.

“Well, that depends on the player,” Hasegawa said with a knowing smile, and Kagura’s mouth shaped an ‘o’ of acknowledgment. A conversation about geezer consciences is where a Madao shines, after all.

“As for our Gin-san,” he continued, “his Player 1 has skipped all the coins on each level for so long that he doesn’t know what to do now that Player 1 is aiming for the life insurance policies.”

“Stop making profound statements using Mario!” Gintoki snapped. “And I am still skipping all my coins! I just head straight to Bowser, oi!”

Hasegawa just hmmed knowingly. The bastard. Look at him acting all high and mighty, while eating someone else’s food. What a terrible houseguest, who was stupid and wrong. Gintoki was the last person who would develop a geezer conscience. If there was another invasion of Earth where geezer consciences were aiming to occupy the heads of every human around, Gintoki would be once again on the front lines, but, instead of fighting Amanto, he would be fighting against the importance of mortgages and steady jobs.

“If you’re so sure, why don’t you ask your geezer conscience what it thinks of life insurance policies?” Hasegawa asked in challenge.

Gintoki narrowed his eyes, and dug into the side of the settee cushion to find a fork he had left there. He pointed it menacingly at Hasegawa. “It’s not a geezer conscience.”

“I bet it is,” Kagura chimed in again. “Or, if it isn’t, maybe it’s a brain parasite.”

Gintoki froze, a cold sweat sticking to his neck. He had not thought of that possibility. Could something have crawled into his head, and was now sucking away?! He did yank out a particularly big, green booger yesterday. Was that parasite poop?!

Though, come to think of it, he had not felt the Presence snooping around for a while. Maybe! Maybe it was gone! Maybe it leaked out somewhere! He focused his mind inward, poking around his own thoughts, and anxiously checking for any mental hitchhikers, while he dug around in his nose for any physical ones.

Just as he was about to breathe a sigh of relief, he found it. That thing. The parasite. It was there right in the back of his mind, at the bottom of his thoughts. It was just curled up in a deep mental corner, not really interacting with his head, but also definitely not out of it.

That’s it. Poor Gin-san was going to end up a drooling, brain-dead vegetable.

“Um. Hello. Excuse me,” he thought at it.

At his word-thoughts, the thing that was probably just about ready to suck his mind out through a straw stirred and came to life in his head. Gintoki could just tell somehow. It was more ‘there’ than it had been, even though it was not swirling all around his thoughts like it first had done. It was… to put it to words… paying attention.

“I was just, um, passing by in my head,” he thought as casually as he possibly could. “And I noticed you there doing your thing, and I was-I was wondering if you thought I should get a life insurance policy?”

His brain-parasite-death-machine appeared to consider the question, and he could tell the moment it seemed to scoff. It then pushed at Gintoki’s mind with a small pressure, which popped into his brain as a mental image. There stood Kagura and Shinpachi inheriting gambling debts and bar tabs from a dead Gintoki.

At this, Gintoki mentally laughed in borderline hysteria. “You’re right!” He thought shrilly. “The best I could do for those two brats is leave them as little as possible to clean up! How perceptive of you!!”

Catching his unstable tone, the cerebral terror seemed ready to push another image-thought at him, but Gintoki had had enough. He ran quickly from the depths of his own mind, resurfacing at the embassy with a heavy gasp.

Kagura and Hasegawa stared at him from the table.

“Gin-chan,” Kagura’s voice was uncertain, “are you-”

“I think I’m going to go out and get my Jump! after all!” Gintoki interrupted. “I just remembered the cliffhanger that happened last week. I need to know if Karbo was able to escape from Tommy’s Trial!”

He sped out of the room and zoomed out of the embassy before anyone could question him further. It was time to go to the hospital. They removed brain parasites right?

Gintoki asked this question at the front desk of the nearest emergency room. The nurses backed away and whispered to each other, as they stared at the bedraggled, permy man with a parasite in his brain. Patients in the waiting room made a dash for the exit, which was certainly the right move, as far as Gintoki was concerned. Who would want to stay in a room with a brain-sucking bug?! What if it multiplied and infected everyone?! What if the devil-bug made poor, innocent Gin-san go on a murdering spree?!

Gintoki asked these questions to the tired looking, old doctor who scanned his brain with this and that machine, and occasionally rubbed her chin hairs. After an hour of poking and prodding, the woman proclaimed him parasite-free, and threw him a bottle of pills to ‘make the voices go away.’

The fretful samurai wandered down the streets of Kabukicho in a near-delirious haze of nerves and fear. If the doctors could not find anything in his brain then what was this Thing?! Was it a parasite so crafty that even old doctors with notable amounts of chin hair could not spot it, or was it something else entirely? Should he actually be taking these pills? Was it too late to get a life insurance policy?

Gintoki asked these questions to the barkeep, as he downed his third and fourth beers. He just knew the solution to all of this was waiting at the bottom of one of these glasses, or he could just get drunk enough so that none of it really mattered, waking up the next morning missing a couple digits from an inebriated attempt at Five Finger Fillet a la Kagura.

By his eighth beer, he had enough liquid courage to sink back into his own head and once again confront the beast within.

“Oi,” he thought-yelled. “Bastard!”

The parasite-horror, which had been keeping to itself without any direct interaction from Gintoki, rose up. It pushed back defensively against his anger, as if to say ‘What’s your problem, asshole?’

“You can’t just set up camp in someone’s head when you feel like it! Get the hell out!”

The eldritch monster seemed confused at the accusation. It wobbled about, and poked at the surface of Gintoki’s thoughts. Finally, it pushed an image of its own toward him. The scene popped into his head as him leaving the bar and going home to bed.

“There are enough bouncers in real life, without you acting as one in my head you… you! Whatever you are. What gives you the right to tell me to go to bed when you’re probably just going to suck out my brain when I sleep, huuuh?”

Gintoki’s parasite seemed even more flummoxed by these words. It swirled to and fro, attaching to thought after thought running through Gintoki’s mind until it finally settled around Gintoki’s suspicions about itself. As it realized that the mind it was squatting in thought it to be a parasite, the parasite had the nerve to get extremely exasperated. It roughly pushed an image toward Gintoki, which he mentally squinted at crankily.

There was a yellow book with a weird pair of brown, long somethings on the cover playing with a beach ball.  There were too many limbs for just two creatures, and was that a lightsaber?

A moment of heavy silence descended in Gintoki’s mind.

Seconds passed, until another image was furiously flung into his noggin. This time, it showed himself reading that yellow book, a look of dawning comprehension spreading across his features, as his scanned the words.

“So you’re telling me if I read this book about Jar Jar Bink’s summer vacation, you shitting on my brain will make sense?” Gintoki asked, starting to wonder if he had actually had a little too much to drink.

In response, his head-creature slapped another snapshot of the book at his mind’s eye with an aura of supreme pissed-offedness.

“Fine!” he shouted, fiercely ignoring the bartender pleading with him to stop making a scene all by himself. “I get it. Everything will be fine if I flip through this book! I’ll go do that immediately, Grand Supreme Parasite-sama! Post haste!”

…

“So you see,” Gintoki explained to the cashier at the 24 hour convenience store, as the night neared the 24th hour, “I need a yellow book with things playing with a beach ball on the front cover.”

The parasite was writhing in anger and exasperation. It punched an image of a convenience store with a red X through it toward Gintoki.

“Now, now, parasite-kun,” Gintoki mentally chided. “Have a little faith in the host you are munching on. A convenience store doesn’t always have the book you come in looking for, but it will, without fail, be carrying the one you need.”

As he thought this, the convenience store worker slid a yellow, cellophane-wrapped magazine toward him across the counter. On the cover was a beach ball being tossed back and forth between two fit bikini girls.

The parasite was reduced to a black mass of vibrating fury.

“I’m giving you a chance here and following your advice, so you should give me one too,” Gintoki addressed his mental guest with relative cheer, as he paid for the magazine. “Let’s see if I can achieve enlightenment through these pages, just like you wanted.”

Gintoki was humming to himself, happily swinging the bag that held his magazine to and fro, as he stepped toward the exit. This whole parasite thing did not seem like such a terrible ordeal with some alcohol in his gut and a dirty mag in his hand. The weird creature seemed like a bit of a prude anyway, considering the way it reacted to Gintoki’s new beach friends. Maybe he could scare it off with a little good old fashioned debauchery. Let it be known to the brain hijackers of the world that Gin-san’s noggin was not a hospitable place! He never cleaned it, and there were mysterious stains and smells everywhere!

As if at that very moment smelling something it should not have, the enraged presence in the back of his mind rumbled ominously. Gintoki simply sneered, thinking to himself the phrase ‘Just desserts.’

Lost in thought, he bumped into two masked men at the entrance to the store. One of them growled and pointed a sword at his face. The other one growled and pointed a sword in the face of the poor cashier, who immediately crumpled to the ground in the fetal position.

“Get up and give us all your money!” Robber #1 demanded of the trembling employee.

Gintoki sighed and shook his head. “You know, I’m really not in the mood for this.”

“We could not care less,” Robber #2 grunted. “Your wallet. Now.”

“Well, I just spent the last of my money on this great magazine. It gets the best reviews from alien brainsuckers. I was looking forward to reading it, but you can have it if it means that much to you.”

Gintoki threw the bag with his magazine in the face of the robber holding him at swordpoint. In this moment of confusion, he swept a leg underneath the man to send him careening forward, and slammed an elbow into the side of his head as he fell to knock him out cold.

Moving quickly, he drew his wooden sword, preparing to smash the sword out of the other robber’s hand, leaving him with no way to attack the cashier in retaliation. However, his hand’s connection with his weapon caused the parasite’s connection with his mind to flare brightly in response. The angered creature flew to the front of his mind, energized and alive, just as Gintoki swung Lake Touya down. All of a sudden, Gintoki lost track of where he ended, and the Other in his mind began – or, rather, there was no Other.

With a savage intensity that was his own, yet More, he cleaved through the robber’s sword, as his wooden blade erupted in a blast of white light that filled the store. The automatic door at the front of the building opened with a ding, providing an exit for nothing particularly corporeal.

Slowly, gradually, the large mass of light faded, and thick, sizzling tendrils of smoke took its place. Apparently, Gintoki had not only chopped the robber’s sword in half, but he had also burned a deep line through the wall of the store in the direction his wooden sword had been pointing for the cut. He could see cleaved electrical wires and singed ventilation. Following the line of his cut further down, there was a severe, charred groove in the linoleum floor, looking to be about half of a yard deep. The cut traveled along the ground, ending near Gintoki’s feet, where his wooden, infomercial-cheap sword pointed after its swing.

Um. What?

As he continued to gape at the wall, the conscious robber and shivering cashier screamed and scrambled out the door. As he continued to continue to gape at the wall, the sprinkler and alarm system both went off.

Rain dripping down his curls and squelching beneath his boots, he slowly walked toward the remaining robber passed out face-down near the front of the store. He stared at the man in the black ski mask for a few moments, before kicking him on his side and gingerly placing his smoking sword down in the slack grip of the man’s right hand. Rising, he looked ever-so-casually around, scanning the aisles of the store, and, seeing no one, began to walk toward the exit.

He was almost at the automatic doors before he turned around and quickly made his way back to the man. Gintoki crouched down and grabbed the bag with his magazine inside that he had thrown only moments before, and, with it in hand, he upped his pace, exiting the store with as much innocence as a soaked man fleeing a smoking convenience store at midnight could muster. Out on the street, he sprinted down the first alleyway he could find, disappearing into the night.

[themockingcrows]

Companionship Through Circuitry Ch 7: Data

Bro/Hal THIS CHAPTER IS NOT SFW cw: voyeurism, masturbation

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20942408/chapters/65171512

With a letter received, Bro's long standing questions about Dave finally get an answer, though it may not be the one he hoped for. And when the wasteland is quiet, and an AI is murmuring sweet nothings in your ear, what's a guy to do but respond...?

     It was a solid week before Bro left that ramshackle town in the dust, debt repaid as he could get it, and blood spattered boots pointed North. On the off chance that he had mail, he checked in with the next town not far away, and poked his head into the courier station.

     “Anything for Strider?”

     “Strider?” said a short, gruff looking man as he sized up the long, lean figure ahead of him in the strange sunglasses. ...Eh. He’d seen odder things out here, surely. “Let me check.” A perfunctory glance at the post boxes, and he was heading around the corner to the mail bag, rummaging for bundles.

     Bro tapped his fingers on the countertop idly. He didn’t expect anything, really, but it made it easier to pass the uncertainty by at least checking. Anyway, on the off chance he had something, he wasn’t sure what he’d do with it anyway.

     “Ah, yes, we’ve got something for a Strider. Ambrose?”

     Bro felt his stomach tighten into a steel knot as he saw the thick envelope in the man’s hands, stamped URGENT in bright red letters, and addressed in Dave’s familiar handwriting. He felt light headed, and it took Hal’s eyes flickering in front of his own to make him focus again.

     “Er, yes, that’s me. Sorry, was miles away there for a second. I didn’t… I didn’t think anything’d actually be here,” he said, not reaching for the envelope.

     “Well, whatever it is, it’s here,” the man said, setting it down on the countertop for him to take. Ambrose stared at it as if it were a bomb before reaching for it, and tucking it into his shirt. 

     “Thank you kindly,” he said. For once, he didn’t have a letter to send at this station, having written his peace while healing before. He walked across the small town as if in a daze, taking in the sights and smells both pleasant and unpleasant till he found a run down building with a shop out front selling different locally grown items as well as procured items. Bro could smell the tobacco before he could see the cigarettes, and was already feeling around for caps to secure a few.

     Why are you shopping instead of reading your letter?

     “I’ll get to it,” Bro said, tucking most of the cigarettes away after bumming a light off the shopkeeper. It tasted musty, unpleasant, but it was better than nothing. Not enough, but better than nothing.

     You’ve waited this long for a reply and you’re going to put it off? Hal asked, astounded. Aren’t you the least bit curious?

     “I’m sober, I’m sore, I’m tired, I’m kinda hungry and my balls itch. Curiosity can wait its turn,” he muttered around his cigarette, more agitated than he could write off with simple annoyance at being pestered.

     Truth was, he was terrified of the envelope that was burning a brand against his abdomen, stiff edged and fat with pages. Scared of every inch of paper that lay within. Scared of the still slightly uncertain way Dave wrote his name down compared to his own, as if it were foreign. He smoked till the heat of the smoldering end got too close to his lips, then flicked the entire thing down to the ground and rubbed it out beneath his heel. The last thing anyone needed out here was a fucking fire.

     If you’re putting off reading your letter because you’re needing a drink, I’d recommend having the drink so we can read.

     “Excuse me, did you just say ‘we’?”

     Are you going to remove me when you read your letter? I’m aware already of what your situation is, more or less. I would like to know what he has to say, this Dave of yours.

     Ambrose hesitated slightly, and sighed an exhale out through his nose. 

     “When I read it, I’ll leave you on. But keep your goddamn comments to yourself, you hear me? I don’t want an audio chorus goin’ on while I’m tryin’ to do everything.”

     Consider my lips sealed. Hal was quiet for a moment before he probed once more, Are you excited about being closer to the goal?

     Ambrose blinked. “How close are we?”

     Another few days if we do a quick clip. A week if we go slow. Longer if we keep making stops.

     “What about my current pace,” Ambrose asked, knowing he wasn’t as quick as he was pre-injury yet. That would take time. Healing always took time, the bastard. 

     Your current pace is just fine.

     “Besides, should I be askin’ you that question?”

     What question.

     “If you’re excited. I mean, it’s your body we’re headin’ to right?”

     If it is still in one piece, still in place, then yes. I’m quite excited.

     “What’s the first thing you wanna do once you’re in a body?” Ambrose asked, glad to have the conversation change direction from the letter that still pressed against his stomach like a threat. 

     Slap you as hard as I fucking can, for various sundry reasons.

     “Okay, dumb question. What’s the second thing you wanna do once you’re in a body.”

     It would ruin the fun if I told you everything ahead of time, Hal said coyly. Wouldn’t you just like to know?

     “What’s your body gonna look like, anyway? Gonna be all jacked, bigger than me? Big as a mutant? Lift cars over your fuckin’ head?”

     Most likely my body will look like a normal humanoid. The specifics are uncertain to me, I’ve never been inside of it to my knowledge.

     “...If it sucks, there’s always the Furb-”

     I hate that thing, and I hate you.

     Bro smirked. “C’mon. It’s useful and you know it.”

     I’m aware of what you’re doing now. There’s no fooling me. Open your letter, Ambrose. 

     The smirk died on his lips, and he ran a hand through his hand, fingers scritching at his scalp, dislodging little bits of dust that clung to the tips from walking the road. He patted his shirt, felt the outline of the envelope… and instead of pulling it out, turned and walked out of town, due North.

     What are you doing?

     “Travelin’, what does it look like?” he asked. “Wanna make good time, so you can go ahead and slap me.”

     Do you mean to put off reading your letter till I can physically force you to open it?

     “Nah, I ain’t gonna wait that long. I just don’t think I could sit still any longer. I’ll read it tonight, once I’m settled down.”

     ...It’s not a bomb, you know. It’s just a letter. 

     Ambrose rolled his eyes as he walked. “I know. Like I said, I’ll read it tonight.”

     Yet, that night came, and he didn’t read it. Nor did he read it in the morning as he ate a cold can of beans, nor as night fell the second night. Instead it remained in his shirt, beneath his folded hands as Ambrose rested by the fire, preparing to go to sleep with Hal perched on his face. It took four days before he finally took it out of his shirt by the firelight and carefully opened it with his pinky finger, ripping the paper as cleanly as possible.

     He unfolded the paper and clenched his eyes shut instinctively, unprepared to read what it said.

     ...It’s okay, Hal said. Open your eyes and read, Bro.

     “I am, gimme a second. Eyes were dry,” he muttered, blinking exaggeratedly a few more times before glancing over the paper, rubbing the side of his head as he did so. ...Hal was right. It was okay.

     While not filled to the brim with excitement at hearing from him, and not dripping with praise or familial love, there was a pleasant rapport contained within. As well as an apology for not writing sooner. Apparently he’d secured a second job where he lived and was saving caps. It was rough work, but he wasn’t just another body there. He had responsibilities, long shifts, and then long periods of having fun and exploring the new neck of the woods he lived in.

     Bro was swept into Dave’s world with not just words, but pictures. Within the envelope had been shoved several carefully done drawings, some highly detailed and some cartoony and shittily drawn with his other hand to get the point across and throw a gag or three in. They earned a chuckle, and a smirk. Kid was improving. The last page of the letter said he would be checking for mail like usual, and would be trying to write ahead of the curve as Bro predicted, judging by his path.

     ...And that was that. No condemnation, but no forgiveness either. No comments on his near death. No questions in return. Bro scanned the pages twice more before setting them down and patting the ground with his fingertips.

     Was it not what you were hoping for? It seemed pleasant to me, Hal said. Your spawn is talented.

     “Mm. Yeah, he is.”

     You didn’t answer the question.

     “I guess I just.. Expected more,” Bro admitted. “I didn’t think I’d get a reply, now I’ve got one. And he didn’t address any of the shit I brought up. Does that mean he’s still pissed at me?”

     People don’t tend to spend money and time and effort mailing people they hate, pointed out Hal. I believe your assumptions are incorrect. An option is that he is still processing everything you said, but didn’t want to remain silent.

     The iron knot in Bro’s stomach finally, blessedly, began to unwind its barbs from within him in relief. That was a theory that was believable. Maybe it was just him being overly hopeful, but he needed that hope right now.

     “Maybe.”

     If things were as bad as they seemed, as well, this could be a way of building a relationship with you.

     “Are you programmed to be part therapist? The fuck, a guy gets one letter and suddenly it’s time to play psychologist,” Bro murmured, grunting as he rolled towards his bag and rummaged for paper and pen.

     Writing back already?

     “Yeah. Gonna keep it up, if it’s not gettin’ on his nerves. Won’t write this one as urgent, though. Give it time to get there. After all, should be pickin’ up at the next station after gettin’ your body and heading back.”

     Back?

     “Yeah. Back home.”

     With you?

     “Who else? Got big plans once you get your body aside from knockin’ me into next Tuesday?” Bro asked, pen flicking across the paper as he began to write.

     Hal didn’t respond right away. Instead he watched Bro write for a few minutes before speaking again. Are you asking me to go home with you?

     “...Well. Yeah, I guess. If you wanna be formal about it.”

     Why.

     Of course he wanted reasons. Bro wet his lips briefly.

     “...Becauses I think travelin’ with you is alright, and I imagine it’d be more fun once you’re not sittin’ on my face,” Bro said, slowing his writing to a pause before doodling in the margin, aimless shapes as he thought. “Because I think I’d actually miss you, if you took off once we got that far, after all this shit we’ve already been through.”

     You like me, Hal stated rather than asked.

     “...Yeah. I like you.”

     You wish for me to remain with you.

     “Yeah.”

     ...Once I get my body, would you touch it?

     Ambrose blinked. “...Uh. Maybe.” So he knew about that kind of shit, did he? Made sense, to a point.

     Why not yes?

     “It’d depend on what you wanted,” he admitted awkwardly. Was he being propositioned by an AI? That was a new one. “Rule number one of havin’ bodies: you don’t go touchin’ ones that don’t belong to you without permission.”

     Would I have permission to touch you?

     He had to think for a moment. Would he be down for that? With a bot? It’d be weird, considering he didn’t know what kind of body they were going to be working with, but he supposed there was always a possibility for adjustments and customization as needed moving forward. Surely the body hadn’t been designed with that kind of functionality in mind, but…

     “Yeah,” he decided. “You’ve got permission to touch me.”

     Hal’s eyes flickered into his field of vision again, blinking slowly a few times before fading out. 

     I’m not certain how to touch you, when the time comes. I require data.

     “You propositionin’ me?” Bro asked with a slowly spreading smirk.

     I would prefer to know what to do when I’m able to do so properly, Hal explained. Then, again, I require data.

     “And if I give you data tonight?” Bro asked, pushing his letter away and rolling to his back. “What’s in it for me?”

     A better time when I have my body, since I’ll be able to touch you myself. 

     “You never said if I’d be able to touch you back,” Bro pointed out, reaching down to undo his belt buckle. “And mind keepin’ an eye out while we handle this?”

     You will be safe, promised Hal. ...And you have permission to touch me.

     “Two dudes touchin’ each other. Sounds gay,” hummed Bro as he flicked his pants open enough to slide a hand in, giving himself a feel and a gentle squeeze to start warming up. “So what kind of data you want, specifically?”

     I want to know how best to touch you, Hal explained. The data I require would be how you enjoy being touched.

     “Wanna be the best at touchin’ be, huh?”

     You could say that.

     Bro moved his hand steadily a few times till he was settled at half mast, then shimmied his pants a little lower, freeing himself to the cool night air. He glanced down, and was amused to see Hal’s eyes flicker into view again, this time not fading away.

     “Gimme a second, it’s not quite there.”

     It’s already pleasant to look at.

     “Remind me to teach you some dirty talk, dicks aren’t pleasant to look at,” snorted Bro, continuing to work his fist till he shivered and finally rested at full size against his own palm. “There we go..,”

     I take it you’re giving me the data already?

     “Yep. Take notes. Slow to warm up, but once the motor purrs it’ll go all night,” Bro hummed, closing his eyes. He’d done this thousands of times in his life, but rarely with an audience, and certainly not one in recent memory. Fuck it’d been a while.  He remembered to keep his chin down so he’d be in view of the shades properly, letting Hal look to his heart’s content as Bro’s fingers played over his length familiarly.

     Tell me what you would do to me, once you’re able to touch me, Hal said softly, voice a purr from the shades. Bro smirked a bit, enjoying the sound as he closed his fingers into a fist and began to slowly pump himself. Though he was still a little uncertain of the specifics, it was easy to think of how he’d behave with a human partner. Might as well just proceed that way mentally, and figure out what was different when the real thing was on display.

     “Well. Let’s see… Prolly warm you up with a bit of kissin’ first, some hands on explorin’ to see what you had to work with. Then I’d run my hands along your body, make sure you felt every inch of me on your skin,” Bro said with a relaxed sigh. Fuck, this was something he’d needed for a while it seemed. A bit of tlc and privacy. ...Well. somewhat privacy.

     And if I were beneath you?

     “Want me to pin you down, huh?” he asked, fist moving a bit quicker as his mind played out the scenario. “Well. Prolly already warmed you up so you’d be ready for me, by then. Work you open nice and easy till you’re beggin’ for it, bite your neck while I slide on in. Get those thighs nice and far apart for me. Keep on goin’ till I’m good’n deep.”

     There was no clarification on Hal’s part about how that might not work, about how he might not be compatible. Instead, there was a soft beeping coming from the shades, like a pulse monitor going off, faster than his own heartbeat.

     And if I were begging for it, by then?

     “I’d let you have it. Mostly,” Bro said, working his fist a bit faster, but not going all the way down. Instead he fisted the top of his length and went about halfway down, squeezing more towards the middle before working back towards the tip. “Probably work you over with about half of what you got a taste of, before goin’ any further. Make you really lose it before hammering ya.”

     The pulse beeping sped up again, a constant pace in Bro’s ear, and he adjusted his own hand to go along with it, hissing softly under his breath as he started to work his whole length again.

     And if it were me touching you, like you’re touching yourself right now? If it were my hand instead of yours? Would you find that pleasant?

     “Long as it was warm,” Ambrose chuckled breathlessly, unable to help himself but go quicker. It’d been too long, it felt too nice, and with his imagination running wild there was too much fuel feeding the fire. “You’d need a firm grip, I like that most. More towards the middle than the tip. And nice even strokes…”

     I think I preferred to imagine you inside of me, to the touching, Hal said suddenly, the firm pulse beeping seeming to mimic Bro’s pulse now that he was letting himself have what he wanted. You said before the engine could last all night. Would it do the same with me if I wanted it?

     “Till you were walkin’ funny the next day,” Bro promised, gritting his teeth slightly. It felt too good, it was warm, the voice in his ear was still a purr and his imagination was filling in all kinds of gaps. He just hoped the real deal wasn’t a letdown compared to his lofty imagination.

     Come for me, Ambrose.

     That did it. Bro let out a soft sound and tensed, shielding the tip of his dick with his opposite hand to catch the mess for easier cleanup. The pulse sound slowly settled in his ear before disappearing entirely, leaving him with the sounds of the wasteland in his ear instead. He opened his eyes finally and saw Hal’s blinking at him before they flickered out of sight, leaving him with the night view from behind the shades as usual.

     He exhaled another sigh and sat up to clean up.

     “I think I needed that. Been feelin’ pent up for a while,” admitted Bro.

     Would you enjoy doing that with me more often?

     “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like doin’ that with you, it was nice.” Bro felt, briefly, like he was finishing a date up. There was no second cleanup, but it did make him wonder… “Is there anything I can do while you’re like this to make you feel nice?”

     Feeling doesn’t really occur in this state. The closest would be electricity, and that could be dangerous for my stability.

     “No electrostim then, got it,” he chuckled. Bro took a glance towards his letter once he was cleaned and tucked away, and shook his head, tucking it back into his bag. He’d work on it tomorrow, the mood was definitely not there right now. Not after that. “But there’s nothin’ you’d like, nothin’ I can do?”

     Just speaking with me is good. I’ve recorded data fo-

     “Recorded? You just mean data-wise, right? Not actual recording, right?”

     Ask me no questions and I will tell you no lies. 

     He guessed it was fine, if Hal recorded him jerking off. Not like there was anyone to share it with, and even if there was, he’d be able to write it off as being narcissistic to a point. Record himself to use for getting off later. ...Okay, now the idea was intriguing to him. He’d have to see if Hal would allow him to see video files sometime…

     I’ve recorded data for the future, when I have my body. I would like to use that data once I’m accustomed to the controls.

     “You propositionin’ me again? Want a hot date once you’ve got your own bod?”

     Yes! I want to experience what I’ve learned first hand, and see if all of your talk is as good as it sounds. 

     “I can promise I’m not just talk. I can’t promise I’ll be able to do all that to you right away,” Bro warned. “But we’ll see what we’re workin’ with soon enough, I suppose.”

     If I lack genitalia will you make me some?

     Bro was quiet for a minute, just sitting there, trying to think of what in the world he’d gotten himself into. “You want me to make you a dick if you don’t have one.”

     Yes. I want to use what I’ve learned, and that is what I’ve learned with.

     He reached up to rub his eyes beneath the shades, just holding his face for a moment before sighing. In for a penny, in for a pound.

     “Right. Uh.. sure. I’ll try to figure out how to do that, if you’re needin’ something. We’ll figure it out.”

     I can’t imagine my body is a tin can, Dirk was working with advanced technology. Surely this will work.

     “Where there’s a will, there’s a way. You’re lucky I ain’t got nothin’ against bots.”

     Robosexual.

     “...Sure.”

     They sat in an easy silence for a while, the fire flickering and Bro watching out over the wastes. He felt more relaxed than he had in ages, despite part of his mind now focusing on how to built a robotic dick that had some kind of feedback function. There had to be some kind of research with bots, with ‘droids, that had that kind of functionality. Hell, might even turn into a side business: sex modifications for droids and bots.

     That’d make for a hell of a letter to Dave. Actually, so was telling him in general about Hal coming home with him. He could hear the teasing already.

     “Hey. Hal.”

     Yes.

     “Do you want me to tell Dave about you comin’ home with me?”

     Of course.

     “Or would you rather write him yourself, once you have your body.”

     Hal was quiet for a moment. You would entrust me to write to your spawn?

     “Yeah. If you stop calling him my spawn. I think he’d like to get to know you, once you’re not just sittin’ on my face, and I don’t think I can easily mod to Furby to hold a pen.”

     If you even tried, I’d zap you immediately.

     “See, can’t even if I wanted to,” Bro said, lifting his hands upwards and shaking his head, giving a shrug. “My hands are tied by the system.”

     Bro.

     “Yeah?”

     ...I’m actually quite excited, to get my body. Not just for the reasons we discussed so far tonight. I’ll finally be able to see what Dirk left for me.

     “...If it’s not there, we’ll figure somethin’ out,” Bro promised. “And if it’s damaged, I’ll do my best to figure out how to fix it.”

     I’ll be able to run diagnostic scans once I’m able to connect, I should be able to tell you how to fix things, or even fix them myself. But Bro, I wanted to ask a favor.

     “Yeah? What, aside from beatin’ my meat, do you want me to do for you?”

     I would like to find other vaults, before we return to your home.

     “Vault huntin’, huh? What for?”

     I need to find other instances of Dirk’s work.

     “You got it. We’ll hunt down whatever scraps of him and his work you need.”

     It felt easier to promise than Bro assumed it would. It felt genuinely good.

[pagsys-writings]

Swing Life Away

Summary: Sometimes Mei just needed Raichi to remind him it was okay to be a kid again. (2049 words)

Read on AO3

Mei enjoyed the month of November. It was when the world began to cool into the winter months, but not so cold that he couldn’t enjoy a walk through the park. It just meant he had to wear an extra layer of clothing or two depending on the day.

As he walked through the park, the colorful leaves above rustled in the breeze. He watched as a couple dislodged from their branches to twist and turn until they landed in his path. The crunch beneath his feet eased any stress he had about his fast-approaching finals. Just a few more weeks until the break and he couldn’t wait for a little breather.

Beside him, humming and skipping to his own tune, Raichi swung their interlocked hands. The childlike atmosphere that surrounded his boyfriend was what had originally drawn Mei to him. Odd, he thought, but probably not surprising.

Mei had always been a bit of a brat growing up. He liked to blame his parents for that. Their constant working and inattentiveness made for tantrums and trouble. Mei’s sisters had done their best to care for him, but they eventually moved out and started their own lives. He couldn’t blame them, but it left Mei alone, making him realize he needed to grow up faster than those around him.

So Raichi’s wondrous gaze that lit up at every little thing he found fascinating in the world had caught Mei’s attention. He loved the way those brown eyes sparkled with excitement and the way he grinned and seemed to vibrate with energy. Mei envied how his boyfriend felt with his whole body. Each emotion played across his face and body language. It made understanding Raichi easy when the younger couldn’t quite get his words across.

He hadn’t realized just how lost in his thoughts he’d become until he was jerked out of it by Raichi’s sudden halt. Their linked hands pulled Mei back to Raichi’s side. “What’s wrong?” Mei asked when he noticed Raichi staring off to the side. His eyes were large with excitement and anticipation. Mei followed his gaze and huffed out a little laugh. Just beyond the trees to their right stood a small swing set with two swings. “Do you want to swing?”

Raichi’s bright eyes turned to Mei. They downright sparkled at the question and the grin on his face was enough of an answer, but still, Raichi squeaked out, “Can we?” His voice strained with barely contained energy.

Smiling, Mei took the lead. He walked them over to the empty swing set. It was older looking. The poles were spotted with rust and the plastic black seats were cracked and mostly faded to gray. It seemed like the area had been forgotten and left to decay in comparison to the more populated areas of the park with the fancy playground equipment.

When they were close enough, Raichi relinquished his hold of Mei’s hand and ran the rest of the way to the swing. He flung himself down onto the seat and the chains clinked together, groaning loudly with the sudden weight. Mei knew he shouldn’t have worried, but there was a moment when he wondered if the swing would collapse with the way Raichi landed on it.

Raichi grinned up at the pole above as his fingers gripped the chains tightly. His feet dangled, barely touching the mulch beneath. The years of use and children attempting to halt their movements had caused the ground to dip low. Mei just observed Raichi’s childish wonder until those eyes found him again.

He was waiting for Mei to join him. Mei knew exactly what the younger wanted, but he still shook his head and laughed. “Seriously?” Raichi nodded vigorously and Mei simply shook his head. “Fine,” he tried to sound put out by the silent request but he really couldn’t keep the fondness from his voice or the smile off his lips.

Situated behind Raichi, Mei pulled his boyfriend back and then pushed him forward. Raichi kicked his feet out and pulled them back in an attempt to help kickstart his momentum. Mei’s fingers met Raichi’s back and he gave another hard push. They continued this over and over with Raichi’s laugh ringing out into the air, making Mei smile with the occasional laugh of his own.

He liked the way Raichi’s hair whipped around his head with the wind he made while swinging. Mei stood off to the side, leaning against one of the poles as he watched his boyfriend. The look of ecstasy on Raichi’s face was beautiful. Mei especially loved the way Raichi laughed when he went too high and there was a moment where he was freefalling only for the chains to go taut and continue the arch of the swing.

He was just wondering how long Raichi was going to swing when Raichi made eye contact with him. Using his feet, Raichi kicked at the ground, the mulch and dirt flying into the air. Mei resisted the urge to grimace at what his boyfriend’s shoes would look like later. They’d been relatively new and clean before, but now...

“Done already?” Mei asked with a quirk of an eyebrow.

Raichi’s eyes still shined brightly and Mei knew that meant he’d thought of some idea. “Mei-san,” Raichi exclaimed. Mei kept his face mostly neutral. He really wished Raichi would stop calling him that. They’d been dating for three months now. Raichi needed to stop being so formal with him. “Come here.”

Pushing off the pole, Mei walked over. “Now what?” He asked, standing beside his grinning boyfriend.

“Get on,” he said, shaking the chains slightly.

Mei looked from the chains to the seat that Raichi was basically covering completely to his boyfriend’s stupidly gorgeous eyes. “Raichi,” he said carefully. He didn’t want to crush the other’s hopes. “I don’t think we can swing if I sit on your lap.”

Raichi’s face flushed. Even the tips of his ears were a bit pink. It was cute. After all their intimate moments over the months, one would think that Raichi would stop blushing at the most innocent comments. Then again, Mei kind of enjoyed watching him stutter through his responses.

“N-no!” He panicked and Mei decided to ease his boyfriend’s apparent gutter of a mind.

“Relax,” Mei whispered, brushing a hand through Raichi’s hair and being careful of any knots. The action always managed to ease the younger. “What did you mean?” He was grinning while attempting to contain the laughter that wanted to burst from his chest.

Tapping on the small spaces available on the seat, Raichi said, “Put your feet here.”

“Seriously?” Mei wasn’t convinced this was a good idea. He looked up at the chains, wondering if it would hold both of their weights combined. “Will it hold?”

Raichi nodded excitedly. “Sawamura and I used to do this all the time.”

Now that definitely did not ease Mei’s concerns whatsoever. He almost wanted to tell Raichi that anything Sawamura did was seldom a good idea. He knew how impulsive his boyfriend and friend could be when together. It was amazing that they came back in one piece after going out together.

With a sigh, Mei walked behind Raichi, who watched him with vibrating shoulders. “Are you sure about this?” He asked once more but sighed in resignation when Raichi gave a single determined nod. “If I die, I swear I’m coming back to haunt your ass.” To his disappointment, Raichi only grinned wider.

The cold chains bit into the skin of his palms as his fingers gripped them tightly. He put one foot up on the seat and prepared to lift himself onto the swing. One, two, he began in his head. On three, he pulled himself up so he stood behind Raichi. Mei wobbled slightly as Raichi held them as still as he could. Once he’d found his balance, he looked down at Raichi.

With a small smile, Raichi began kicking his legs. Mei leaned with his movements, trying to do his best to help them get moving. Mei wouldn’t admit it and never would admit that he’d been scared at first, but man... he’d been terrified. But thankfully, it wasn’t as difficult to balance as he had anticipated.

He couldn’t remember the last time he was on a swing set. The wind they created pulled and pushed at his clothes. His hair whipped into his face, stinging his eyes and skin, but he found he didn’t mind. He felt free with his heart pounding against his ribs. When the weightlessness hit, he laughed loudly.

So maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Maybe - just maybe - he would thank Sawamura for doing this with Raichi first. But probably not. Couldn’t let Sawamura think he’d one-upped Mei.

Mei looked down to find Raichi grinning up at him. He couldn’t tell if his boyfriend’s cheeks were pink from the cool air or happiness. Maybe both. There was so much fondness in the look that Mei’s breath caught in his throat. God, he loved Raichi so freaking much. So much that sometimes it caught him by surprise.

“Mei-san!” Raichi said over the wind and effectively pulled Mei from his staring. He raised an eyebrow at Raichi as they began falling backward again. “Gonna jump!” He yelled when they started forward.

“Wha-” They reached their highest point and Raichi let go of the chains. Mei’s heart lurched in his chest as Raichi went flying through the air, laughing as he went. The younger hit the ground and rolled on the mulch. He lay there laughing on the ground with mulch stuck to his clothes. “Raichi!” Mei snapped as he was left swinging and waiting for it to stop on its own. “I’m going to kill you!” For giving me a damn heart attack! He didn’t say.

Sitting up, Raichi continued to laugh with a hand clutching his stomach. Mei could see the tears glittering in his boyfriend’s eyes as he scrambled to his feet. “Jump!” He called out.

“No way!” Mei’s grip on the chains tightened. His fingers ached from the cold.

“Please!” Raichi gave him a small smile. “It’ll be okay, promise!”

Mei worried his lip. Raichi looked like he was in one piece, but Raichi was always better at things like this. He looked at his boyfriend, waiting there with open arms. Was he going to try to catch Mei? Now, that would end in a disaster.

“You can do it!” Raichi encouraged him again.

Oh, fuck it. Mei used his body to gain some more height on the swing. Then, as he went forward one last time, he let go. For the brief moment that he was in the air, Mei felt like he was flying. He let out a startled laugh. His heart thundered in his chest when his feet hit the ground and his momentum sent him rolling over twice.

Sitting up, he yelled, “Holy shit!” The exclamation sent Raichi into a fit of giggles as the younger knelt beside him. He couldn’t believe how much adrenaline he was feeling from something so small. Mei fell back onto the ground, hoping his heart would calm down.

Raichi leaned over to look down at him. Mei could only see happiness in the other’s eyes as he said, “It was fun, right?”

Mei tugged Raichi down by his sweatshirt to give him a quick kiss. “God, you’re lucky I love you,” he whispered against Raichi’s lips. Raichi’s eyes crinkled with unleashed mirth as he held Mei’s gaze.

Raichi gave him another kiss before pulling Mei to his feet. They helped each other brush off the stubborn pieces of mulch clinging to their clothes. As they turned to continue on their way - Mei couldn’t even remember what they had originally planned - Raichi laced their fingers together. God, that smile, Mei thought as they continued their walk. He would never get over Raichi’s impromptu mini-adventures.

But what Mei had omitted to say earlier was that he was actually the lucky one. It was days like this that made him wonder what he did to be able to call someone like Raichi his - to have someone so pure-hearted remind him that he’s never too old to act like a kid and just enjoy life.