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crazy-ache · 1 year ago

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in eternal bloom - elucien one shot

Summary: On the quest to find the sixth mortal queen, Lucien Vanserra meets a human with brown eyes and that same stubborn Archeron nose. Together, on their search for Vassa, Lucien befriends Elain’s father, and learns a bit more about his mate.

Rating: G

Word count: 5.4k

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in eternal bloom

Looking back, Lucien could only attribute fate’s nimble hands to piecing together his journey to the Continent. A deliberate thread that tied his story closer to the fabric of whatever it was meant to be with his Cauldron-blessed mate.

It is how he found himself somewhere in the borders of the mortal lands, an eastern port on the outskirts of Scythia. The land of the sixth queen. He sucked in a breath as he pulled a hood over his head, glamour and shadows hiding his fae ears, golden eye, and molten hair from the onlookers in the human territory. He was both quick and quiet, as if his boots glided over the wet stones, his heightened hearing picking up fragments throughout the crowd and rumble of merchants, sailors, and drunkards. It was a pulsing town of trade and Lucien was a merchant of whispers and secrets without even opening his mouth.

He had to duck slightly to fit through the human doorway of the White Horse Tavern. Lucien moved slowly, careful not to attract any unnecessary attention, but the moon was high and the ale was flowing as pints passed through hands. His eyes landed on the stare of dark brown eyes, sitting in the corner, as if waiting for his arrival.

Lucien slid into the chair across from him. “The word in town is you are in need of a mercenary to find the supposed Queen Vassa.”

He eyed the human scrupulously now before him. This was his best lead so far in the vast Continent, the closest he could determine to help him find the sixth queen. This small, helpless human apparently had the answers--and Lucien would retrieve them. “I have also heard you have denied every offer so far. What can I do to convince you otherwise?”

The human man’s hands absently traced the rim of his glass, those fawn coat colored eyes unnerving, nearly familiar, as they sized Lucien up in return.

“I do not need to find her. I know where she is, in fact.”

The deep rumble from his throat surprised Lucien. He watched as the man shifted to pull what was undoubtedly a heavy bag of gold and slid it across the wooden table.

“I need you to take me into the faerie realm to retrieve her.” Lucien’s eyes flickered to the payment before him, then back at the bearded man. He had taken a risk allowing the human to see his face, but now he realized, every mercenary had been turned away because he had been waiting for someone preciscely like Lucien--a faerie who could venture into the northern lands beyond the wall.

“What are your intentions with the queen?” Lucien asked.

The man nodded, leaning forward to drop his voice to a whisper. “To build an army that will save my daughters.” It was as he spoke that Lucien’s golden eye whirred hurriedly, as if finally placing those brown eyes into the puzzle pieces of his memory, that proud nose he could recognize from anywhere--

“What is your name?” Lucien gripped the table, raising an eyebrow.

The human sat back, raised the ale to his lips to throw back what remained. He carefully wiped the edges of his mouth with the back of his hand. He gave a small smile, reaching across the table with an open hand.

“Arthur Archeron. And yourself?”

His mouth went dry, the noise of the pub suddenly flooding into his senses. But a small tug at his ribs, like the threading of a needle, moved his hand to reach across and clasp his hand. “Lucien,” he finally breathed. “Lucien Vanserra.”

He stood, their hands still locked together. “And I know your daughters, Arthur Archeron. I will do anything to protect them, so consider this a trade--allow me to help you find and retrieve this queen and her army, in return I will protect you with my life at no cost.”

The Prince of Merchants raised an eyebrow. “That is a rather terrible trade for yourself--”

But as they shook hands, whether Arthur Archeron realized it or not, a magic bargain bound them most permanently.

It was either cruel or a gift that Arthur’s face so closely resembled Elain’s. Lucien hadn’t made up his mind about fate’s hand yet as they began their journey on horseback.

They were fortunate as Scythia had the finest horses across the lands, strong, beautiful, and sturdy in their breed. The Archeron’s father had assembled a large fleet of ships, but their trek to an ominous lake, surrounded by dangerous mountains and forest in the fae lands, could only be accomplished by land. The worn map sat tightly between Arthur’s hands as they trotted on their horses. It would take at least a week of non-stop travel by Lucien’s estimations.

“What is your plan? For when you meet this powerful sorcerer keeping her?” Lucien’s voice did not hold malice or taunting, but genuine concern.

Arthur looked up from his map, folding the parchment carefully before tucking it into the inner layer of his coat. “I’m going to do what I always do--I’m going to make him a deal he can’t deny. My friend, do not worry yourself over that part, leave it to me. I simply need you to get me there alive.”

Lucien knew this man had never fought a battle or even a brawl a day in his life. His hands did not bear the markings of labor or training, his frame thin, and Lucien wasn’t sure he was even carrying a single dagger on this journey except his damn wood carving knife. Meanwhile he was still wearing the Illyrian leathers, several daggers hidden in various locations, a broad sword against his back, and more dangled from his pack. Had Elain seen this far? Had she known her father was weaved into this future?

“You have seen my daughters then? How are they?”

“They…” Lucien considered his words carefully, those brown eyes peering into him expectedly. “They have been through some great and terrible things. But they have survived. They are together now, fortunately. Feyre is my friend--she saved our kind. She saved me. I owe her very much, considering there were also many ways I failed her in return.”

“That makes two of us.” They mirrored a small, sad smile to each other. “Feyre is married to her mate now, in a great position of power. She is happy with him.”

“And Nesta?”

“She seems to be keeping it together for her sister’s sake, considering all things. I did not get the chance to know her,” Lucien admitted.

Arthur laughed, giving him a knowing look that they both understood as, actually she did not care to know you.

“And Elain--” Even the mention of her name from his lips sent a shudder up his spine. “She is getting better from what I have been told. She has lost so much and I can only imagine how difficult it has been. I did not get a chance to get to know her either, but--”

Lucien had to look away, towards the horizon, towards the faraway mountains they were after. “But I would like to, one day.” And even if the words she’s your mate, she’s your mate bore into his mind, he decided he would not tell her father, not on this journey, that it was not for him to share.

From where he sat on his horse, Lucien couldn’t see the way Arthur tilted his head, studying the fae’s profile, with only a whisper of a wind between them.

They continued on this way for days. Lucien had decided that the man was a pleasant companion after all; days on horseback entitled them to endless conversations and stories, from comparisons of the mortal and fae lands, his rather clever merchant negotiations, to embarrassing stories of his daughters that Lucien was indeed saving for the right opportunity. They spent nights by the fire, where Arthur either worked on various wood carvings, or they taught each other card games between sips of whiskey. The human was a rather terrible gambler, but always lost with a smile.

“I’d like to hear more about your daughters, in your own words.” Lucien found himself asking one night, poking a stick into the fire. Arthur looked up from whatever it was he was currently attempting to carve.

“Hmm,” the man scratched at his now rugged beard. “Let’s see. Nesta was our first born. She is the most like her mother, but softer around the edges if you can believe it. Nesta is calculating and cunning. She possesses a fierce type of love.” He set the wooden carving to the side, rubbing his hands together at the fire. “You seem to know Feyre rather well. She was always the bravest of us all. Brave, determined, and free spirited.”

Lucien nodded with a neutral face, hoping their father could not sniff out the anticipation on his face for the remaining daughter. The restraint to demand to know everything about her ached in his muscles. The longing he felt settled deep inside his bones.

“And…and Elain?” Lucien asked, when he caught the man staring at him from across the fire.

Arthur smiled. “Elain is filled with kindness and hope. She was my light in the darkest of times. A rarity in this world.”

When Lucien did not say anything in return, Arthur pressed on. “She was always the most social of her sisters. I had never met a servant or friend or suiter who did not come to love her--and certainly not one who could deny her anything.” There was a twinkle in his brown eyes, something soft and proud.

“She was to be married—” Lucien swallowed roughly, that primal anger pooling into his belly, that instinctual roar to claim, causing the fire to burn brighter and higher than before. If Arthur noticed, he did not show outwardly. With a wave of his hand, he cut Lucien’s thoughts off from further spiraling. “No, that Nolan boy won’t marry her once he knows the truth of what happened.”

If there had been time, Lucien would have turned the words over in his hands. He would have possibly let himself imagine a life where his mate could offer him something that had been hollowed out of him long ago--he would allow himself to consider how even the hint of kindness and hope made something in chest flutter with warmth like an awakening.

Before he could, three figures emerged from the darkness into his eye line.

Lucien snarled, fangs and all, as he reached for his broad sword. This was one of the many reasons Arthur Archeron was wise to bring him, he mulled. Three fae with swords growled back. Dangerous. These three were dangerous, hungry to kill a human, and eager to steal whatever they possessed on their backs.

These may have been foreign lands, but the rules were familiar. He could dance the dance of his kind. In a few steps, he stood before the human in question, who had sat frozen on the ground behind him.

“Hate to disappoint, but you’re not getting this one.”

Three swords pointed back at him. Without sparing a glance, he tossed one of his spare blades at Arthur’s feet. “You’re going to run now.”

Thank the Mother he had the good sense to grab the weapon and scramble further into the woods without further command.

It did not take long for Lucien to find him--he only had to follow the scent of fear.

With a grunt, he stepped to the top of a boulder, to peer down where Arthur was crouching behind a tangle of roots and rocks, the blade shaking in his hand. “Lucien!” He exclaimed, relief flooding his features. Lucien jumped down to meet him below, placing a bloodied blade into its sheath.

“You did not leave me?” Arthur asked.

“I am a male of my word,” Lucien smirked. “I made a deal with the Prince of Merchants. I intend to keep it.”

They laughed, the human patting him on the shoulder in gratitude. “Come, Lucien, let us make camp again. I will even let you beat me in cards in return for saving my life.” Lucien’s laugh barked through the trees. Bargain or not, he would have saved this human. Mate’s father or not. He would have for his friend, just as he had done for another Archeron long ago.

They were growing weary. Even if their horses were strong and Arthur had more than enough money for provisions. Perhaps it was this exhaustion that made him more amenable to the human’s idea.

“I have a proposition,” Arthur said in an even tone over his cards. Lucien raised one eyebrow over his own hand fanned out in front of him. “If I win this hand, we make a detour of my choice.”

“What kind of detour?” Lucien chewed on his words. “It would add days to the journey and I am not sure if we have time to afford the delay.”

Arthur placed his cards carefully on the ground, then pulled out the map from his chest to hand to Lucien. From there, he pointed to a spot on the map a bit more western from the forest perimeter of their intended lake, marked with a small star in his own writing. “There.”

Lucien’s brows furrowed. “What is there? What is so important?”

Arthur ripped the map back, folding it quickly to place back into his chest. “A tulip field,” he muttered, waving his hand as if everything he had just said could be disregarded, hiding behind his cards instead.

Something pressed tightly in his chest--like spark rocks for a fire.

Go it urged. Against all better judgment, Lucien glanced at his cards once, then spoke before he could regret it later, the words drawing out. “Alright, but only if you win this hand.”

He could not explain why, but Lucien lost for the first time on purpose.

It would add two additional days to their trip. But the fields were, after all, worth it.

As they dismounted from their horses, even Lucien in all his centuries of living could admit he had not seen a vision so beautiful. It rivaled the mightiness of the Spring Court. Endless green rolling hills cradled the rows of wild tulips. Their vibrant colors of red, purple, yellow, orange, pink, white seemed to reflect against the blue sky. Their stems poked past their knees, the breeze making them dance, as if they were waves of a colorful ocean.

The pair walked through the field, a melody of beauty in the air. It was only Arthur’s voice that cut through the spectacle.

“It was Elain’s dream to see the tulip fields on the Continent.” Lucien turned his head finally, catching the ghost of a tear in the man’s eyes. The sadness at odds with the scenery before them. “I should have taken her, before all this. Before it was too late.”

“It doesn’t have to be too late, Arthur.” Lucien stepped closer, gesturing at the field. “After all of this is over. I will gladly accompany you both.”

Arthur’s hands rested on his waist, as he smiled at the flowers, his human eyes unable to even see the end of their buds in the distance. “Yes. Promise me, Lucien. Promise you’ll ensure she sees them one day.”

He meant to ask why he spoke as if he would not be here in the future, as if there would never be a day Arthur himself would be able to stand here with Elain. Instead, he simply whispered, “I promise.”

They did not speak again as they ventured further into the field, their fingertips brushing against hundreds of petals. When he closed his eyes, Lucien could nearly imagine Elain there with him. He could only hope.

The stars were hung high, only a sliver of moonlight breaking the darkness of the night. Lucien heard his voice clear through the crackling of a dying fire.

“Tell me, Lucien, what heartbreak drove you to this quest on the Continent?” He could not see Arthur’s face from where he laid on his mat, but he understood the implication. “What pain? What regret?”

Every scar singed with the reminder of its ghostly pain at the thought. Jesminda’s name still ached in his teeth, his mother’s bruises in the back of his head, all of the places he once called home that he could never return to, Amarantha’s wrath and nails buried in his skull, Hybern and his mate who would always be out of reach, Tamlin and Feyre and Spring—

“I wouldn’t know which one to pick.” He tucked his hands behind his head, the sky draped like a blanket over his skin.

He didn’t have to ask to know Arthur’s reason—the immense regret he felt for failing his daughters during their darkest time of need. With every conversation, he painted another layer of how everything had unraveled beneath his roof in poverty, how he had lost himself to his misery, allowing his daughters to pick up the pieces instead. It was the kind of pain that drives a man across an ocean. How terribly human, he thought, to wear your shortcomings on your sleeves, to proclaim them loudly with every intention, every turn.

“All of this…everything you’re doing, is it going to help you?” Lucien asked and he knew the human would understand. Will their forgiveness save you? From the miserable pit inside your soul?

“No.” It cut the air like a knife. “For that, we will need to forgive ourselves.”

When they finally reached that lake, the panic began to surge through his blood. Every step closer to the water, Lucien began to understand it for what it was—a prison. Some magic old and dark and haunted bound whatever it was that remained inside. His body begged to escape, a visceral dread that had his mechanical eye whirring with desperation.

But they walked on. Because he had to ensure Elain’s vision was not in vain. The magic of the bargain pushing and pushing him forward.

And Arthur did not waver. Wherever that trembling human with a blade in hand had gone, he was not sure. His face was devoid of all emotion, only set in determination.

“Are you sure you wish to go alone?” He turned to the human next to him. “Arthur, this is madness. He is an all powerful, ancient sorcerer. Take me with you. I may be able to help, there are things I understand, things I can see that you cannot—”

“No, Lucien. This is something I have to do alone. I cannot fail my daughters again. I cannot give up again.”

It was the most resolute he had seen the Archeron patriarch throughout their entire journey. And he could almost understand then. For it was the same face he had worn when leaving Velaris, the ghost of his mate at the staircase. The face of someone whose past felt like heavy chains, whose regret could consume them whole if they dared to look back.

“Remember,” he called out after him, “Every word in your deal matters! Think of every possible outcome, he will only accept what is advantageous to himself—”

The words were lost like mist over the water, as Arthur Archeron walked down the narrow passageway into the depths of the lake to meet Vassa’s keeper.

As he waited and waited, he could not help but recall every detail of that fateful day that had spun its thread to this moment. Back in Velaris, when the knowledge of Elain’s newfound powers had still been raw in both of their minds. They were at last alone, a simple kindness from the rest of the Night Court.

He had not known what to say to her when everyone else had gone upstairs. He was rendered speechless and she did not look away from the stitching of the pillowcase.

“What if I am wrong?” Her voice was small and frayed. There was doubt laced through her words. Lucien yearned to comfort her with tenderness. To wrap his fingers around those delicate, pale wrists and learn the rhythm of her pulsing blood. To throw her over his shoulder and bring her with him so she could simply see how wrong she was to doubt herself.

He did not know her. But he was bound to her soul. That alone meant something. Even if it meant nothing to her.

“I do not believe you are wrong. I will find her, lady. I assure you.”

Elain’s faraway eyes looked down at her hands, staring at the lines of her palms. And Lucien could not help himself, call him a romantic, but he had to offer at least once. He had to put his heart out on a sacrificial platter for her even if this may be the last time.

“I will stay, if you’d like. I will go find the queen from your vision. But if you ask, I will stay.”

She was slow to speak, but sincere, earnest almost. “I think it is best for you to go.”

He had mistaken it for dismissal. He is bound to her. He wondered if now that he had spoken to her, seen her, breathed the air next to her, if the distance he was about to embark would puncture him where that thread tied to his rib. He wondered if she would forget him. “As you wish,” he nodded, and he lingered for just a moment where their hands almost touched.

But for all those thoughts, there was one that had been afraid she’d ask him to stay. There was a small piece of him terrified by what she would find if she finally looked him in the eye. He was not ready for it.

Lucien’s memory was interrupted as he looked upon the lake.

That clever human. Lucien had broken into a run as soon as he had seen the silhouettes form in the mist. One that was undeniably Arthur Archeron, an arm wrapped around a smaller frame—Vassa. Oh that clever and cunning Prince of Merchants had done it. As his face came into his vision, brown eyes and proud nose, it was as if seeing Feyre triumphing against Amarantha all over again. It all but confirmed what he should have suspected; there was more to him than simple pleasantries. That cleverness ran strong through Archeron blood.

They found the queen.

“I imagine you’re going to sail on this one.” Lucien turned around from where he had been staring at the elegant, white lettering of ship in the harbor, the Elain. The thundering of armies loading onto the fleet of ships echoed around them as they prepared for an unknown war against Hybern. When he saw his mate’s father smiling at him, he felt his face redden, a hand shooting to rub the back of his neck. Had he been that obvious this entire time? “I—well—uh—” he stuttered but Arthur mercifully stepped next to him, gazing upon the ship himself.

“It was Elain who once told me about the significance of tulips,” he had his hands behind his back and Lucien couldn’t shake his stare. “Did you know they are slow to bloom? And once they do, they only bloom for a week or two for the entire year? What are the chances of that? That you and I would happen to see something so rare, so beautiful on our journey.”

Arthur turned to Lucien, offering an outstretched hand. There was a pause, where his mismatched eyes took in the human. The grays strewn through his hair and beard, those dark brown eyes that seemed to know much more than he had ever let on. This human who had negotiated with a Death God was the same crippled, hobbled man that had haunted Feyre for years. His mate’s father. And here they were.

“They are certainly worth the wait.” Lucien replied, clasping his hand in a firm grip.

“Yes, she is.” Arthur nodded, a second hand enveloping Lucien’s, patting his knuckles. And it was her face that flashed in his memory and glowed within his rib cage like embers. Lucien’s eyes flickered with confusion, his grip tightening as he searched Arthur’s face for more answers. But the smile on the man’s lips only confirmed he had not misheard what was really being said. Elain. “For however long it takes.”

He felt something between their palms.

“You’re a good man, Lucien.” Male, he wanted to instinctively correct, but instead he was at a loss of words, as Arthur had already let go to begin walking towards the Nesta further down the harbor. It rang in his ears like a goodbye.

When he looked down in his hand, a carved, wooden tulip laid in his palm.

When he ran across the battlefield on that fateful day against Hybern, it was as if the bond, raw and aching at the proximity, was an invisible pull against all currents, all power. He ran harder than ever before, sword heavy in his head, slicing through enemies and barriers. Nothing called to him louder. He still could not hear her heart, but that didn’t mean his own couldn’t find her within the bloodshed.

When they speak again, in the tattered edges of the war, there is a moment they find themselves alone once again. A blood soaked bucket strained against her hands.

“You found her,” she broke the silence. The lost, flaming queen from her vision.

Lucien turned to her nodding, a throat bobbing.

“You found her, Elain. As did your father. I simply followed.”

She looked at him with words unsaid, and Lucien longed to read her mind, to drop to his knees and beg for just another few more syllables to quell his pounding heart. To touch her. “Thank you.” Elain swallowed, adjusting her grip on the bucket carefully. Those big, fawn-colored eyes blinked at him before turning away without another word, and for an odd reason he couldn’t possibly place a finger as to what she was thanking him for at all.

He could not know that she had seen his evenings with her father in the smallest glimpse of a vision, the fire lit upon their faces, a warm laugh shared. He watched her walk away, specks of red in her hair, just as his hand found the carving in his pocket for the first time since the harbor.

When months became years, Lucien had developed a habit of thumbing over the tulip carving in his pocket. With every disappointment, every cold, stifled conversation, the sorrow and longing for his mate had long found a permanent home in his chest. It was difficult at times when the person Arthur had described was so at odds with the Elain in his presence. The petals had long worn and weathered from his frustration. But it was enough. Enough to remember the final words he had shared on that harbor with her father. Enough to clear the fog from his lungs and straighten his shoulders with nothing but unwavering patience. She is worth the wait, even if it means centuries.

It was dawn when he arrived at the gravestone in Velaris.

How long had it been since his last visit? He could not recall, as time had been blending together lately. Lucien’s gaze traced the outline of Archeron on the white stone, his fingers absently running over the wooden carving in his memory.

“Lucien?”

With a quick step, Lucien turned to find Elain behind him, a bundle of purple lilies in hand. She radiated with the morning light in a soft pink dress, curls cascading down her back. He swallowed, his cheeks likely matching the color of her gown.

“Elain,” he bowed his head, moving to give her space. “Please,” he gestured to where he had been standing. “I can give you some space and privacy.”

Instead of stepping forward, he watched as Elain’s gaze landed on the wooden tulip in his hand, as if she had not heard a word he had said. As she bent down to place her lilies on the grass, she took a sharp breath before finding her voice. “What is that?”

Lucien held his hand up, palm open to the sky above. He inspected the wooden carving, looking closer than he had in ages. “Your father…he had carved it for me on our journey through the continent. It’s a tulip.” Ripping his eyes from the small figurine, he looked at Elain, who had now stepped closer to take a look.

He almost stopped breathing when her soft hands grazed his skin, to turn the tulip over, poking a finger at the delicate stem and adjoining leaf. “Oh, this one is rather good,” Elain smiled, peering up at him with mirth in her eyes. “He had truly gotten better over the years.”

“Would you like it?” He couldn’t stop himself. One look and he was ready to give everything up. And he would, he knew. Without hesitation. “Say the word and it’s yours.”

For a heartbeat, he could see as she sincerely contemplated the offer, staring down at the wooden flower, perhaps one of the last relics of her father’s life. She made her decision as she used her two hands to curl Lucien’s fingers over the carving. “No…you should keep it. He must have given it to you for good reason.”

The bond tethered between them flickered with melancholy. Lucien bowed his head, tucking his hands into his pockets, shoving the carving deep inside. Her small, polite smile plastered on her face was sad, this Lucien knew, as it throbbed inside his chest. But there was something else, faraway, a glow. He couldn’t stop now.

“You never asked about him, about our time together. I do not wish for you to think I am withholding anything from you. I just didn’t want to intrude—”

“—I know.” Elain shook her head, tucking a curl behind her ear. “I suppose I wasn’t ready to hear what you had to say, at least not from you.” Emotions flashed across the bond. Confusion. Anguish. Anger. Disdain. Sorrow. It was every familiar feeling Lucien had felt from her over the years, as if she was remembering each and every one. Just as quickly as they appeared, they vanished, melting away like snow. In its place, something brave was awakening.

“What about now?” Lucien held on to that bravery with a bated breath.

She looked away, but a smile was spreading across her pretty lips, eyes settling on the horizon, the sun now settled between clouds. “I think I am ready after all.”

That smile was a thousand petals unfurling, an everlasting bloom unfolding before his very eyes. It put that tulip field to shame. It was spring incarnate. Lucien stilled, his hand letting go of the wooden tulip in his pocket he had been gripping with white knuckles.

His smile blossomed, as if cracking him wide open. His heart stretched and strengthened anew. “Then I must confess, my lady. Your father and I saw the tulip field in the continent.”

“Really? Is it as lovely as they say?” Elain asked.

“It was breathtaking.” Lucien could not look away from her, not at the joy radiating from her cheeks, as if her smile had the power to shine daylight. “He made me promise I would ensure you see it one day. I had hoped to accompany you and him…but—” They both looked down at the marble gravestone. A quiet settled and Lucien could feel his own heartbeat thundering beneath his skin.

“I would like to, one day.” He had almost forgotten his confession, content to stand next to her in silence forever if that was what she had desired, if that’s all she would allow for the rest of their days. His head turned towards her, their eyes meeting again. There it was. Hope.

“Would you like to walk back with me to the house? And perhaps share some of those stories now?” Elain gestured to the general direction of the townhouse.

Lucien nodded, taking a moment to look at the gravestone of Arthur Archeron once more. Thank you, my friend he whispered in the back of his mind, before taking the first step into this new journey alongside his mate.

“Yes, under one condition. Please tell me you’re a better hand at cards than your father was—I simply could never wrap my head around how such a clever man could be so terrible.” Elain’s head tipped back in an echoing laugh. As she uncovered her own story of her father, Lucien could feel something take root deep inside his chest, something brave and beautiful.

Perhaps they were both ready now.

#elucien #elucien fanfiction #elucien fic #elain x lucien #pro elucien #Lucien friendship with papa Archeron #since SJM wont tell me what happened to lucien I WROTE IT MYSELF #Lots of longing but still warm and fuzzy

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inland--empire · 2 years ago

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All the kids live in a small town in the Unspecified Countryside and the year is 197X.

Gordon (14) and Alyx (13) first meet G’ after Gordon’s radio picks up a strange signal containing fragments of an otherworldly melody nobody’s ever heard before and Gordon becomes determined to find out where it’s coming from and hear the whole melody so he calls up his neighbor Alyx (who he’s normally a bit shy around because of her energy but knows she’s also a nerd (affectionate) and even better at fiddling with devices than he is) to help him investigate. They follow the signal to find where it’s clearest, and end up in a wide open field under a sky full of stars. When they finally hear the whole melody, a glowing doorway appears in the sky and G’ comes out of it, taking the duo on their first journey!

Adrian (13) is a neighborhood kid who is a bit mean to Gordon and Alyx at first (but that’s mostly because they just feel really alone one moment and are overwhelmed in a social situation the next), they meet G’ too later (and are initially terrified of him) but eventually they join the group as well!

Barney (14) is Gordon’s classmate and friend from school, he doesn’t know about the whole G’ thing but is really nice and supportive in the main gang’s daytime lives!

Chell (12) is an exchange student to the school, she’s very reserved and stoic at first but eventually opens up to Gordon and Alyx. She finds out about G’ after she notices Gordon and Alyx are keeping a secret and becomes determined to find out what secret of this town the local kids are hiding. Gordon and Alyx try to deter her, but Chell’s defining trait is her stubbornness so she eventually catches them in the act and sees G’ for herself! Luckily, G’ doesn’t mind, and she joins the gang as well!

Gordon’s parents are away working a lot so he’s usually in the house alone, but Alyx lives with Eli and Azian and has to hide G’ from them because she worries that her dad especially will be concerned if he finds out his daughter is following a strange cosmic being through a door that leads outside this reality every night.

I don’t have much more yet, but do you have name suggestions for this AU? Idk what to call it.

Ooo, I love it all!! Hmm...maybe The Man from the Sky?

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lexosaurus · 2 years ago

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Everything Was White: Part 19

[see all chapters]

read on: [ao3] [ffn] (please read tags)

Summary: After being accidentally revealed to the public and taken away by the government, Danny deals with the aftermath of his time with the GiW.

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Danny was choking.

He grasped the tube, trying to stop it in its tracks. But the movement scraped his throat, and his vision blurred with tears.

Operative O’s grip on his hair tightened. He yanked Danny up, hoisting him higher off the ground. Pain shocked his body, and he spasmed, his instinct to scream only stopped by the tube. His arm went slack, bouncing on the floor and sending a spray of ectoplasm to his face.

His throat burned, his jaw ached, and he tasted burnt lime on his tongue. Ectoplasm-smeared tears streaked freely down his cheeks.

Operative O ripped the tube out of his throat. “You don’t want the tube today?”

Danny gasped as air returned to his lungs. He ducked his head, spitting green globs from his mouth. A strand of drool hung from his lips, but he didn’t have the strength to wipe it away.

“Then fine. We won’t use the tube.”

Relief didn’t fill him like it should have. Danny could feel O’s anger pulsing from his body. Normally during their sessions, Operative O towered over him with a smirk on his lips. But it didn’t feel like a twisted game today.

Danny thought back through the day—the fragments he could recall—but he didn’t remember anything abnormal. He’d done everything correctly, hadn’t he?

He must have been forgetting something. Again. And that was terrifying because it meant that his brain was finally giving up.

Danny closed his eyes and zeroed in on O’s grip on his scalp. It was sick, in a sense, how he almost welcomed that pain, if only to distract himself from whatever horrifying damage was being done to his spine. Even if his world was collapsing around him and his body was shutting down, at least this pain he could understand.

But Operative O wasn’t done. Danny heard the telltale plastic rustling as Operative O brought out another red bag from his jacket. He opened it, and the fresh, putrid scent of its contents wafted into the room.

“If you’re going to throw a tantrum, then you can eat this yourself.”

He pulled Danny to the wall and dropped him. The tile hit his back, and for a moment all life left his body.

Danny’s mouth hung open, and white blinded his eyes. Fire exploded from his back, burning up his spine, down his arms, through his stomach, up his throat.

He felt something grip his skull again, and his face was yanked back up. Through the clouded light, he could see dark sunglasses leering above him.

“G–give…” Danny mumbled, unable to breathe. “...bar.”

Operative O sneered. “What makes you think you deserve it after today?”

“I didn’t…”

Words were so heavy now. He couldn’t remember the last time he managed to get a full sentence out. Was it a week ago? Two?

“If you wanted the granola bar, you would have done what Operative Z asked. You would have answered those questions. But due to your stubbornness, Operative Z had to spend two hours on what should have been a quick follow-up psychological report. Do you understand what that meant for our time in the research center, ghost?”

Operative O’s grip on Danny’s head loosened, and he felt his head bob. The pain was beginning to recede, and little by little his eyesight was returning.

And with it, a solid view of Operative O’s face. His thick eyebrows were pulled together, enlarging his already strong, square face. His bald head reflected the glow from the ectoplasm around him, giving him an almost ghostly appearance. Danny could have laughed at the irony if not for the deadly threat suffocating the air.

“I…” I’m sorry, he tried to say. He didn’t know why he was apologizing, just that he should.

Operative O’s jaw twitched. “It meant our time was cut short, and with your pitiful energy source already depleting faster than your useless body can replenish it, it meant that we didn’t hit our quota today. So now you and I are going to fix that.”

Danny didn’t understand why they were doing this. Why wouldn’t they give him human food? Like they used to? If they were mad at him for not having enough ectoplasm, then why were they doing this?

Were they trying to kill him?

“I put some extra goodies in your bag today just for you. Now either you eat it or the tube comes back out. Your decision.”

His eyes rolled shut. He tried to take a breath, but every movement sent a firecracker of pain through his body.

The bag was set down in front of him.

“Choose, dog. Or I will.”

Danny’s eyes shot open, a scream frozen in his throat.

He was choking. His chest was burning. Adrenaline seized his body, and the urge to escape hit him all at once.

He pushed himself away—escape—and then he felt the sensation of falling.

Followed by pain.

His vision flickered, and a vague part of his brain registered a thunk to his forehead. He coughed, trying to force his lungs to work again.

Shit, shit, no. He pushed himself from the floor. If not for his hands gripping the carpet, he wasn’t sure he would know which way was up or down.

And then he heard it, Operative O’s chuckle in his ear. Taunting him. Ridiculing him. Forcing him to choose: the tube or his own hand?

He shoved his fingers in his mouth, trying to stifle his cries.

You’re not a dog, he told himself like a mantra. You’re not. You’re not.

On instinct, his hand shot up to his nightstand where he knew the bottle would be. He needed to—just this once—just one more—he didn’t want this—didn’t want to think—just one more—

There was a gentle knock on his door, followed by the sounds of his creaking door hinges being pushed open. “Danny?”

Danny’s hand dropped from the handle of his nightstand drawer as if it were scalding.

“Danny!” Jazz’s quiet feet pattered on the floor. “Are you okay? I heard a bang.”

Hands touched his arm, trying to pull it away from his mouth, and he jerked back. His head snapped, hitting his bed frame, and a new set of spots sprung before his eyes.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry. Danny, let me—”

Danny ripped his hand out of his mouth and growled, “Go away.”

There was a stillness.

He hunched forward as nausea threatened to crawl out of his throat. He was dizzy, he needed to breathe, he needed Jazz gone.

“Danny?”

“Get out.”

“Danny, I—”

Hot anger flashed through him, and once again he was reminded of what a backstabbing sister Jazz was.

“Get out!” Danny jerked up, facing her. He hissed, “Stop trying to help. I don’t need you!”

She pulled her outstretched hand into her chest. “I’m sorry.”

When she didn’t move, he repeated, “Get out, get out.” His voice was edging on desperate, but he didn’t care, he needed her out.

“I’ll get Mom.”

“No!” he rasped. “Please, Jazz. Go back to bed.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m fine. Please, Jazz, please.”

“Okay.” Her voice trembled, and she slowly backed away. When she reached the door, she paused, hesitantly adding, “If you need me...”

But then her voice trailed off, and the unsaid words dangled in the air. After a moment, the door finally clicked shut, and Danny was alone.

He clutched his hair in some attempt to ground himself, distract himself from the horrible taste on his tongue.

He couldn’t do this.

O was like this disease in his life. He had infected every inch of his being, spreading into his thoughts, now branching into his school. This was insanity, and he couldn’t do it.

His teeth chattered. He reached his panicked fingers back to the drawer.

He needed to bury his thoughts. Get O out of his head.

Stop thinking, stop thinking.

He fumbled open the bottle and barely managed to tip a capsule into his hand.

This wasn’t part of the plan. He’d already taken one before he fell asleep. He shouldn’t need this.

But he squashed that thought immediately because it didn’t matter, not anymore. Not with O following him around. Not like this.

He popped the pill in his mouth, swallowed, and buried his head in his knees.

Breathe. Just breathe.

Eventually, the shaking would slow, his throat would loosen, he would be able to get more air. Eventually, the world would slow. He would be able to drag himself back onto his bed and close his eyes.

Eventually, Operative O’s laugh would dull to a whisper, and then it would disappear.

And when that happened, Danny was finally able to fall into a dreamless sleep.

---

“I don’t wanna hear about the backlash,” Danny said, plopping into his seat the next morning.

“Huh?” Jack asked through a mouthful of toast.

Maddie and Jazz exchanged a look. They had apparently forgotten about his enhanced hearing earlier when they had the news on. The story that morning had showcased a cell phone recording—because of course someone snuck a video—of Danny confronting an innocent government agent with his “scary eyes.” He could hear the debates about his mental stability, whether he was human enough to attend school with other teens, whether he should even be allowed to exist in public at all.

Jazz floundered. “Danny, we weren’t going to—”

“Nope. Don’t bother.” Danny plucked a piece of toast from the plate his mother had set out on the table and shoved it in his mouth, not bothering with the butter or jam to the side because toast was toast and tasted equally disgusting either way.“I don’t wanna hear about what the public thinks.”

Maddie sighed. “Honey, I know it’s difficult, but these things are going to happen. What’s important is that now we are aware of the government’s intimidation tactics and we can work with your counselors in having a better reaction for next time.”

Danny suppressed the low growl in his throat and continued stuffing the dry, crusty bread into his mouth.

It wasn’t just the government, it was Operative O. Not that anyone understood this aside from Danny and O himself—and perhaps others in the compound those three weeks.

But that made it even worse because it meant that O could be the absolutely atrocious piece of shit he was and Danny would always look like the bad guy, the feral creature with crazy eyes and unstable reactions. He would always lose.

And O would always win.

Danny swallowed. “I don’t care.”

“You need to care,” Maddie said, placing his usual medicine in front of him. “You don’t want to get in trouble with law enforcement.”

Danny downed the pills dutifully. “Yeah, well, too bad. I—I don’t care.”

“Danny—”

“Mom.” Jazz’s water glass hit the table with a resounding thud. “Let it go.”

Beside him, Jack picked up another piece of toast and began buttering it.

Maddie sighed.

“Jazz, can you drive me to school?” asked Danny. If it was between his parents and Jazz, he would rather walk to school. But that wasn’t exactly feasible at the moment, so Jazz it was.

Jazz looked at him in surprise. “Of course.”

“Fine, but we need to have this conversation later,” Maddie said.

“Whatever.” Danny stuffed the last of his toast into his mouth and washed it down with water. “Jazz, let’s go.”

His parents didn’t say anything as Jazz walked him out of the house. Her car was in the driveway in full view of the cameras and voices that yelled at him through their recently installed gate, but Danny ignored them. He kept his head down, focused on transferring to the car—a far faster process now that he could walk more fluidly—and slamming the door shut.

Jazz was quick to store his wheelchair in the back of the car and slide into her own seat. She kept her eyes steeled out in front of her as she opened the gate and slowly drove through the crowd that swarmed the car.

Danny shoved his hood over his head and ducked down. “Fucking bullshit.”

She didn’t say anything in response, but she didn’t need to. The tension was rolling off her in waves.

A bold paparazzo ran up and tapped on his window, shouting a muffled, “Phantom! Phantom!”

Danny made the mistake of glancing over, and a camera light flashed in his face.

“Shit,” he hissed, ducking his head back down. Trying to retrain his instincts to not react to every little sound around him seemed impossible at times.

He glued his eyes to his jeans and tried to tune out the shouting. Finally, the voices lulled, and Jazz sped up.

“All clear,” she confirmed.

This was probably the worst the cameras had ever been. Well, maybe they were worse during his initial release, but his memories from those first few weeks after the government compound were little more than blank slabs with small splashes of ink splattered throughout.

He didn’t want to imagine how far the video with Operative O had spread, the people who were commenting on it, the opinions floating around.

“Danny…how are you feeling?”

Well, his head hurt from last night and a headache had been prickling his skull since he woke up. His nerves and anxiety were waiting for his prescribed medication to kick in from breakfast, and the stress of that video was electrifying every muscle.

“Fine.”

He saw her tighten her grip on the wheel. “Did you—”

“If this is about last night, you can—you can stop. Stop talking.”

“Danny, I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t need your help, Jazz. So shut up.”

Her voice shook as she said, “What happened to all that talk about us being a team yesterday? About us being a united front?”

“That would have been nice, wouldn’t it?” His blood simmered under his skin, and his voice rose with it. “It would have been real fucking nice.”

“Danny, I—”

“No. Stop talking. You fucking sold my—my core out to Mom and Dad!”

“Danny, I helped you. I did what you asked!”

He whipped around to face her, eyes blazing. “No, I asked you to help me get the chip out. Now you—you’ve convinced them to build a whole new one!”

“Yeah, one that will slowly give you back your powers! Without me, you would have gotten nothing!”

It stung to hear this truth spoken out loud, that his parents trusted the words of a halfa so little that they were willing to listen to Jazz over him. The anger in him boiled over, and he uncrossed his arms, slamming his hand down on the center console.

“Fuck, Jazz! You wan–wanna know something? Wanna know—know why I never told you about Phantom? It’s because of shit like this!” He threw his hands up. “You do things and you think you’re helping. But guess what? You’re not. You’re not—not fucking helping! In fact, you’re only making things worse! I mean, Mom and Dad—the fucking ghost hunters—having remote access to my core? Are you…are you serious?”

“I—I’m sorry.”

“It’s because you don’t fucking listen. You think you know better than me about my fucking core, my powers, and you don’t! And now you’ve got—got Mom and Dad convinced that getting control over my body is a fantastic idea, and I’ve got O hovering over my shoulder with no powers to defend—to defend myself, and I can’t—can’t breathe and you think you did a great fucking job!”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think about that.”

Jazz looked stricken, but Danny didn’t care about her bruised ego. She could be as sorry as she wanted, but it wouldn’t change what happened. “No, no, you fucking didn’t think! I asked you to help me, and you went behind my back with—with your own plan! That was bullshit, Jazz. Fucking bullshit.”

Jazz didn’t respond, and Danny leaned back in his seat, shoving his hands in his hoodie pockets. He glared out the window at the cars that drove by.

And then she broke the silence. “Danny…who’s O?”

Danny’s breath hitched.

Shit. He hadn’t meant to say that.

“He’s nobody.”

“Was he the guy at school yesterday? The one that you confronted in the hallway?”

Danny stayed silent.

“Um…did you know him? Like…from before?”

“No.” He shut his eyes, tugging his hood farther over his head. “No, I didn’t. He told me his—his operative code yesterday.”

He refused to look at Jazz’s face to see if he had convinced her or not.

“I know I messed up yesterday. I’ll talk to Mom and Dad about it—”

“Don’t bother, you’ll never convince them.”

“I’ll try. I will, I promise.”

“Whatever.”

“But Danny.” He heard her take a deep breath. “I know you’re hiding stuff from the…from before. Whenever you want to talk about it, I’ll be here.”

She shouldn’t bother waiting. Danny was done thinking about it, much less bringing it up over the dinner table.

“Okay?” she pressed.

“I’m not hiding anything. But sure.”

They pulled into the parking lot, and Jazz drove up to the front curb to drop him off. They unbuckled in silence, and Danny got out of the car and stood as Jazz brought his wheelchair over to him.

He couldn’t wait for the crutches. He hated this helpless feeling, he hated relying on other people to bring him his wheelchair from the trunk of the car.

He just wanted his independence back.

Jazz set it down in front of him and stepped back, letting him slide into the seat and sling his backpack over the back seat like he did every morning.

“Bye, Jazz,” he said dutifully. Because she had driven him to school, even though she didn’t have to, and she’d helped him out of the car, even though she didn’t have to, and she was willing to at least listen to him about his core, even though she didn’t have to. And Danny hated how he had to rely on his family for things like this when all he wanted was to walk to school carefree with Sam and Tucker like old times.

“Bye, Danny.” Her happy, doting mask was back on her face. “Have a good day at school.”

Danny nodded once and then left, pushing himself up to the entrance, hitting the automatic door button, and letting the doors close behind him.

He noticed how the eyes followed him down the hallway. He was sure everyone had seen the shaky cell video, had heard the twisted rumors about the aftermath. He was sure there were some tall tales about different events. Maybe in one story, he broke down sobbing in the hallway. Maybe in another, he pushed the innocent government employee into the locker.

But Danny shut his ears off. He didn’t care, he didn’t need to hear about it.

That didn’t stop the whispers from trailing behind him.

He didn’t bother to check the lockers for Sam and Tucker. He didn’t want their pity. Instead, he went straight to homeroom. No one had arrived yet—it was too early—not even Mr. Lancer.

He put his head down on his desk and tried to let his mind drift off. Unfortunately, all he could think about was his phone in his backpack. And the bottle of medication that he had hastily shoved in the front pocket just in case.

But no, there was no danger right now. He didn’t need it.

But what if there was? A voice in his head whispered. What if O appeared again?

Then he would…

Danny didn’t know what he would do. He couldn’t really do anything except cower and cry, apparently.

Pathetic.

Not for the first time recently, the impulse to finally watch the court case itched his brain.

He didn’t really understand why he’d been avoiding the trial, why it scared him so much. The mere thought of watching those YouTube streams and video highlights made his mouth dry up, and when one would somehow pop up on his feed, it was instinct that made him swipe past it.

But he just didn’t know why.

What was he so scared of?

His therapist had broached the topic before, but he shut her down quickly. He just wasn’t ready. And she told him that once he was ready to let her know. They could watch it together if he wanted.

Maybe he should take her up on that. Maybe.

Muffled laughter approached the door. Danny braced himself—stupid, it’s just a classroom—but when the door opened, the rambunctious chatter instantly quelled.

Danny kept his head down on his arms, trying to be as still as possible.

“I think he’s asleep,” a feminine voice murmured.

“Well, good to know some things never change.”

The shoes squeaked into the room, setting up camp on the opposite corner to him. And then the chatter picked back up, something about the school play?

Danny tuned them out.

The door opened again and again, and more footsteps entered the room, more voices joined the fray, more whispers and low comments floated through the air.

“You saw it, right?” a girl said to her friends. “You were in the hallway?”

A lower voice responded, “Yeah. It was freaky. His eyes were all glowy. I didn’t even know his human side could do that.”

Danny wondered if he should let them know that he had enhanced hearing in his human form too. For some reason, everyone today was forgetting that little fact.

“Well? Did you hear anything?” the first girl whispered.

There was a sharp sigh. “No.”

“None of the videos made out what else the agent said either. Just that first bit.”

Small blessings, he guessed.

“Yeah, and Fenton looked pissed. I wonder if they knew each other.”

“It sounded like it.”

A new voice entered the conversation. “But did you see the way Fenton looked after the agent responded? He totally changed.”

“I was looking to see if any lipreading experts could make anything out. But so far, nothing.”

“Ah, I’m so curious!”

“Me too!”

Just then, the door opened again, and the obnoxious laughter of Dash and Kwan drowned out the chatter in the room.

Danny couldn’t help but tense. He knew Dash had seen the video and likely heard about the aftermath. And now Dash would see Phantom for who he really was: just an unstable weakling.

Danny waited. Waited for the bullying. The taunting.

And then he heard it. “Hey, Fenton!”

Danny jerked up to see half the class filled and those two standing by the door.

Dash regarded him for a moment. “Hey, you good?”

“Uh—I—” Danny spluttered.

What the fuck?

Dash nodded. “Fuck the government.”

“Yeah, fuck those guys,” Kwan said.

The class murmured in agreement, shouting a chorus of “fuck the Guys in White” between themselves.

Danny sat there bewildered.

What the FUCK?

Was everyone high?

Danny had heard a lot of interesting things since his release. But his classmates—most of whom hated Fenton’s guts pre-reveal—on his side?

Was today April Fools or something?

“Um…thanks,” Danny responded, only because he would feel weird if he said nothing at all.

The door opened again, and Mr. Lancer entered the room. He took stock of the whispers, sipped his coffee, and then merely went over to his desk.

That seemed to break the spell over the students, and the groups all went back to their own conversations.

Danny stared down at his desk.

This was so strange. He hadn’t so much as looked Dash’s way all school year. And Kwan? Sure, Kwan was in his Learning Center class, but it wasn’t like they’d talked. Hell, they didn’t even sit at the same table. And Danny was perfectly content to keep it that way. He already had so much to deal with as Phantom; there was no need to add Fenton’s unresolved trauma to his mental headspace.

“Fuck the government,” he heard Dash’s words echo in his head.

Giddy laughter bubbled up in his throat, but he held it back. It was just so strange and so fucked up in so many ways.

Fenton was a loser. Fenton was a nerd. Fenton was a freak.

Fenton didn’t get the support of his classmates, he didn’t get a nod from Dash, he didn’t get an agreement from Kwan.

Who was he kidding? He wasn’t Fenton to his classmates. Not anymore. He wasn’t Phantom either maybe—not quite. He was…something else. Some weird monster that existed between those two. He was just cool enough to be left alone, but not quite normal enough to be invited into their gossip circles. Just okay enough to not have classmates insulting his face, and not enough to avoid being the topic of conversation behind his back.

So he didn’t have his normal bullies anymore. He had support—in some superficial sense. But it wasn’t the same as acceptance.

And Operative O, the one who got so much pleasure from comparing him to an animal, who made him eat—

Danny grabbed his hair. He pulled, trying to distract himself just like he did when Operative O was in his cell.

A gloved hand, hoisting him up by his hair. A tube in the other, snaking its way down his throat. The red bag sat open next to him, taunting him.

Stop it, stop thinking.

Danny eyed his backpack.

He couldn’t afford to think about this right now. Not when he’d spent these past months trying to forget.

Why did that memory have to resurface? Why did seeing Operative O have to unlock that box that he’d worked so hard to padlock into the deepest recess of his mind? He had forgotten so much since his release, and he was still forgetting things every day. But that one memory had to come back?

He wondered if anyone was watching close enough or if he could just slip a little pill out…just one…just to make Operative O go away.

Just so he wasn’t forced to make that decision.

“Choose, dog. Or I will.”

Shame and humiliation crawled in his gut.

No, stop. Go away.

“Can I use the restroom?” he heard himself asking.

He didn’t wait for Mr. Lancer’s response before he was pushing his wheelchair out the door.

The hallways were filtering out, the final bell nearly ready to chime, which was great because Danny’s vision was flashing in frames. One frame in the school, one in his cell.

One with O.

He looked across the hall, and for a moment he could have sworn he saw Operative O standing there, waving at Danny, just like he was yesterday.

But then he blinked, and it was just another student, who was smiling at Danny in a way that did not seem friendly in the slightest.

It seemed predatory. Just like O’s smile.

Danny put his hands on his wheels, fully intent on moving past this person—whoever they were—when the upperclassman jock and his friends crossed the hall.

“Hey! Hey, Phantom!” they called.

Danny ducked his head and tried to swerve around these guys, and then they stood in front of him and to his side, blocking his path.

Danny never did well with being surrounded. His core immediately snarled, pinging his brain to switch, switch, switch.

He shoved that part of him down. He was Fenton, these were humans.

“Hey, what’s wrong? No green eyes for me?” The jock laughed.

His friend bent down, putting his hands on Danny’s wheelchair.

Danny nearly stopped breathing.

He couldn’t move like this. He was trapped. All over again.

“Let’s see how long the school keeps you as their pet ghost here. Sooner or later, you’re gonna snap just like the rest of your kind do.”

“I’m not a dog,” he said reflexively.

He wasn’t, he wasn’t.

“What was that?” There was more laughter.

“Danny?” a voice piped up from behind. “Hey, get off of him!”

A yellow and orange blur shot in front of him, and Danny felt the boy’s grip break from his wheelchair.

The jocks stepped back, arms raised.

“We weren’t doing anything!”

“Just introducing ourselves!”

Danny let out a shuddering breath.

“Piss off, assholes!” Valerie snapped.

“Whatever, Gray. Go kiss your fucking ghost boyfriend,” the main jock said.

“So gross!”

“Fuck you guys, get lost!”

Danny instinctively pushed his wheelchair back, watching as the three jocks strutted down the hall, high-fiving each other in a show of comradery.

Meanwhile, he was fighting to stay in the present. Fighting to stay in the halls of Casper High—no, not the ones with O. Operative O wasn’t here.

“Hey, Danny?” Valerie appeared right in front of him.

Danny flinched, his fingers slipping through the wheel of his wheelchair. He saw Valerie’s eyes catch the slip-up, the way she tried to mask her surprise.

“I—I have to go,” he stammered.

“Wait, come on—”

“I need to go.” Danny sped down the hall.

“Danny, wait.”

No, he couldn’t. If he waited, he was going to lose it in the middle of the fucking hallway, and he couldn’t afford to do that.

Not with what was at stake. Not with his freedom on the line.

He pushed open the bathroom door and quickly sped through, watching as it shut on Valerie who—for all her stubbornness—thankfully didn’t follow.

The bathroom was empty.

The first good thing that happened to Danny all day.

He pulled his bag off the back of his wheelchair and set it on his lap. His vision was blurry, but he had just enough sanity to rip through the front of his bag and hold up a shaking pill bottle.

This isn’t part of the plan, he reminded himself. Only at night. Just one extra, only at night.

But fuck that plan. If anyone was worried, then maybe they shouldn’t have let Operative O inside Casper High yesterday. Maybe they could all fuck off and leave him alone.

Because he wasn’t a human. He wasn’t a ghost either. He was something else, something in the middle, and he was also falling apart.

---

“Mr. Fenton, you can’t just skip homeroom,” Mr. Lancer said, his hands steepled on his desk.

“I know.”

Danny didn’t think he’d take that long to get back to class. But he had to wait until the pills kicked in because he couldn’t go back to class the way he was. He couldn’t.

“Can you tell me why you were in the bathroom for twenty minutes?” Mr. Lancer asked.

Eventually, Tucker had been the one to pop his head into the bathroom to find Danny occupying one of the stalls. And Tucker had to be the one to tell him that he’d been gone for nearly the entire homeroom period and that Lancer needed him back in class.

Danny crossed his arms, glaring at the stack of manila folders on Mr. Lancer’s desk. “I don’t know. What do you use the bathroom for?”

Mr. Lancer took a deep breath, and then his voice softened. “Ms. Gray informed me of an incident in the hallway.”

Danny’s scowl deepened.

“I was wondering if you would like to talk about it.”

No. No, he would very much not like to talk about it.

And really, there was no need. His body had finally relaxed, and the trembling had stopped. There was no need to dredge that incident back up.

But Mr. Lancer waited patiently, his face still half hidden behind his clasped hands, his expression unreadable.

Just what was up with this guy? Why was he trying to pry? Last year, he wouldn’t have given half a shit. He would have just handed Danny the detention slip and accepted Danny’s empty promise that this “wouldn’t happen again.”

“You’ve had me before,” Danny said. “You know what I’m like. You know, Freshmen year.”

Mr. Lancer wasn’t impressed. “My understanding of previous years was that you left classes to go fight ghosts. Am I not correct?”

“I—yeah.”

“So you’re telling me that there was a ghost in Casper High an hour ago?”

Danny’s face heated up. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.”

“Can—can I have the detention already? I have…class to get back to.”

Mr. Lancer sighed. “Mr. Fenton, I understand that you are under a lot of stress. And between yesterday and the incident that Ms. Gray described today, there will be times where you need to, ah, take a break for a moment.”

Danny stilled. Just what was this guy saying?

“So when you have these moments, I want you to go to a teacher or the nurse instead of running off. Ms. Perez and I both understand the circumstances you are currently under. We are here to help you.”

Now that pissed Danny off because oh hell no, Mr. Lancer wasn’t going there. He wasn’t going to sit here and pretend he was here to help Danny. Not after all their history together.

“Because I’m Phantom,” he slipped out.

“Pardon?”

Danny locked eyes with Mr. Lancer and finally said the thing that had been eating away at his mind for weeks. “It’s because I’m Phantom. That’s why…you guys are on my side. I used to skip—skip all the time. I used to run off every week. And nobody cared, nobody did—did anything. I didn’t get help, or an IEP, or whatever you guys—you guys have me on. You all—you just…just thought I was lazy.”

Mr. Lancer knit his brows together.

“So just—there’s no need for all this. Just give me the detention already. Whatever.” He hunched in his seat, glaring off to the side.

“Daniel…”

There came that tone again.

“I don’t care. I’ll take the pink slip, thanks.”

Another sigh.

Danny was really starting to hate sighing.

“I’m not going to give you a detention for this.” There was a beat of silence. “Do you understand why I gave you detentions so often before?”

Because he was a fuck-up, that’s why.

Instead, he shrugged.

“It was the only time I could ensure that you would complete the assigned homework. That was why. Every student has different needs, and I needed you under my eye for the hour after school ended so you could do your homework. Do you understand?”

Danny hunched his shoulders. “So why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well, the name may seem harsh but it was the truth. They were still detentions given out for missing classes and assignments.”

“But why? I just—now I have all these people and these things. Therapies, IEP, extra help. I just don’t get why now? Why—why not when I was an underclassmen too?” Danny looked up, swallowing the lump in his throat. “It’s because I’m Phantom. I know it is.”

Mr. Lancer pursed his lips. “I won’t deny that this revelation has brought certain things to light. Or, it’s more that things make sense now. After your accident, I presumed you were going through a hard time. I didn’t fully understand the situation, and I am sorry for that. But now we have answers that we didn’t have before, and we know how to help you.”

Danny broke eye contact again. So it was because of Phantom. Mr. Lancer even said it himself, even if he had phrased it more nicely.

Danny was in the spotlight now. Everything about him made sense.

He pondered on that line for a moment. It made sense. It was because he was a ghost, wasn’t it? And ghosts are dumber than humans. They don’t focus well on tasks they’re not interested in, they’re “simple” and “incomplete imitations of humans.”

They’re not real, their thoughts aren’t real.

At least, that was what everyone else thought, right?

“I was smart. Before everything,” he said quietly. “Nobody really knows what happened in the compound. You know? What they…what I did. People—people have these ideas of what happened, they can piece some things together. But…”

The urge to ask Mr. Lancer what he thought the truth was overtook him. And he couldn’t help but blurt out, “What do—what do you think?”

“About what?”

Danny licked his lips, nerves making them dry. “About all this? Everything?”

Mr. Lancer studied him for a moment with unblinking eyes. The silence was unbearable, and for a moment embarrassment flooded over Danny.

He was just being paranoid. Mr. Lancer talked a big game, but he never really liked Danny. He never trusted him. So why did Danny care so much about what his teacher thought?

“I think you’re a teenager caught in an extremely difficult situation,” Mr. Lancer finally said. “But more importantly, what do you think?”

Danny froze.

What did he think?

Huh?

Danny thought about his situation every day. Involuntarily. Even in his dreams, he thought about it. Hell, he had taken extra medication this morning so that he could stop thinking about it.

And maybe, maybe, that’s why his shoulders finally slumped. Why the fidgeting stopped. Where the fatigue finally came from.

“I don’t really want to think about it anymore.”

“Would you mind telling me why?”

Danny shrugged.

Operative O, the labs, the cell, they all consumed so much of his thoughts already. Really, was it so bad that he just wanted a few hours each day where he wasn’t plagued by what happened? Where he didn’t have to replay his constant humiliation in his head?

He was tired. Tired of feeling like a used toy, tired of seeing his ectoplasm around his cell every time he closed his eyes, tired of hearing his own ragged breaths, tired of smelling the stale air. He just wanted it all to stop.

“Daniel?”

Danny shook his head.

He couldn’t do this. Not right now.

“I’m sorry for ditching homeroom. I just…” He looked up at the ceiling. “I just got overwhelmed. With what those guys were saying in the hallway. And…I didn’t want—want anyone to see me.”

“What were they saying?”

“You know. The usual anti-ghost stuff. Probably just—just repeating their parents.”

Mr. Lancer studied him. “That’s still not okay.”

Funny. He had never cared about bullying before this.

It’s because of Phantom.

---

Thanks so much to @imekitty for betaing!

---

previous / next

#danny phantom #phicc #my writing #everything was white #mind the ao3 warnings #dissecc #angst

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penumbramewtwos · 2 years ago

Text

Welcome to my blog, about a kitty I'm obsessed with :3

Asks are open and welcome!

Link to Deviantart Link to Ko-fi (tips and commissions) Link to commissions post (prices/rules)

Ref sheets of my Mewtwos are under the 'Keep Reading' on this pinned post. Or found by clicking, here.

Ref Sheets of Secondary characters including Mew can be found by clicking, here.

Artworks can be found by clicking here

Comics can be found by clicking here (3 so far)

Side comics (lore focused) can be found by clicking here

Art progression in chronological order can be found by clicking here

Asexual reproduction head cannon for my AU Asexual reproduction [Comic explanation]

Information about the upcoming comic will be posted here. It will be based on Okita's life after her trainer has passed away.

Below are the links to my Fanfic published on AO3. It currently has 3 chapters out of '?', and will be updated intermittently. ^^ Link to AO3 Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

This fanfic will be updated irregularly from here on. The 4th chapter is currently in the writing stage. Updates via tumblr.

-----Notice board Below!----

Chilli arc comic updates: Comic 3, possible release date 10/02/25 (DD/MM/YY)

Image info on the Mewtwos are be written below for convenience.

Okita Spes - [THR-M2E-ID# 141/150]

Height/Weight: 1.8m / 114kg DOB: 30/04/2034 (April 30th, 2034) Birthplace: Aunura Region / Unova Region Sex, & Gender ID: Intersex, Female Sexuality: Demiaro, Asexual, Lesbian Nature: Gentle Food Likes: Bitter Food Dislikes: Sour Characteristics: Highly curious

Other info: [point list]

Compulsive Engineer

Okita is Newtwo's unborn-Daughter, fused with a stolen human embryo. created by a division of Team Rocket, for both experimentation and control.

Uses highly defined telekinesis to manipulate matter.

Newtwo/Unova - [Grannewt]

Height/Weight: 2.1M / 121KG DOB:11/07/2013 (July 11th, 2013) Birthplace: Kanto Region / Unova Region Sex, & gender ID: Intersex, Female Sexuality: Aroace (Aromantic, Asexual) Nature: Serious Food Likes: N/A Food Dislikes: N/A Characteristics: Strong Willed

Other Info [point list]:

Newtwo & Mewtwo are both Twins. Despite the creation age-gap they were both originally unborn mews from Mew. Newtwo was held in a cryo storage in the Unova region until the time was 'right' by team plasma.

Her long horns and red mega eyes are a side effect of prolonged & frequent mega evolution, changing her body composition slowly. She has since slowed down the process.

Despite mewtwos being immortal in this A.U. the fragments of human-DNA in their system cause them to physically age. They can revert this by using recover for long periods of time.

Newtwo doesn't really care about how she looks and chooses to look like this. -Her 'Serious' nature doesn't get in the way of her being an incredibly caring pokemon.

Newtwo keeps her C-Section scar from when Okita was taken from her, as a reminder of her stolen baby.

Newtwo and Mewtwo have no toe-beans, but their offspring do.

Chilli Spes [Okita's son]

[ADULT STATS = '*'] Height/Weight: 2.1m / 122kg * DOB: 01/10/2099 (October 1st, 2099) Birthplace: Unova Region Sex & Gender ID: Intersex, Male Sexuality: Demiaro, Asexual, Pansexual* Nature: Naughty Food Likes: Spicy Food Dislikes: Bitter Characteristics: Likes to run

Other info [point list]:

The more chilli matures with age the more stamina he'll have, almost unlimited.

Being a ball of energy he unfortunately Tires out quickly as a baby and child, sleeping often.

Heterochromia & tail colour caused by morsanima DNA altering [canon Asexual reproduction].

He'll be able to keep up with his grandmothers mega Y speed as an adult.

Mewtwo/Kanto [Granmewt]

Height/Weight: 2.2M / 128KG DOB:06/02/1998 (February 6th, 1998) Birthplace: Kanto Region Sex, & gender ID: Intersex, Male Sexuality: Aroace (Aromantic, Asexual) Nature: Adamant Food Likes: Spicy Food Dislikes: Dry Characteristics: Somewhat Stubborn

Other Info [point list]:

Mewtwo & Newtwo are both Twins. Despite the creation age-gap they were both originally mews born from Mew. Mewtwo was created first in 1998.

He developed cataracts in both his eyes in the 2050's. Instead of repairing them with recover, he used it as a way to hone his skills and inhance his other senses. Newtwo, as well as his own kids are mixed on the matter.

Despite mewtwos being immortal in my AU, the fragments of human-DNA in their system cause them to age over time. They can revert this by using recover for long periods of time.

Mewtwo doesn't care about how he looks and chooses to look like this.

Mewtwo is a very caring 'Mon, despite the fact he has a very vague way of going about it.

Newtwo and Mewtwo have no toe-beans, but their offspring do.

Mewtwo has over a dozen children.

#Mewtwo #pinned post #penumbramewtwos #species 150

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angry-geese · 4 years ago

Note

hello, how are you? so i don't remember very well how it went, but yesterday i found your tumblr and i was amazed and you write so well 🥺💗

but then i'm a bucciarati simp (i will never get over your end) and i would like to know if you can write a scenario where the reader is just an ordinary citizen who admires bucciarati (because he helped her a while ago) and wants to join the passione and he's just against it because he doesn't want to expose her to danger, he just wants to know her real reason, so he uses his ability to find out if she's lying, which is very helpful as there's a sexual tension there and well, everything ends up in sex.

ok that was very specific lmao maybe if you want to change or are not willing to write, that's fine with me.

anyway thanks, you are amazing 💗💗

aww thank you <3

don't ever worry about being too specific, I always love seeing what other people come up with :)

Tomorrow - Bruno Bucciarati x Reader

warnings: nsfw/minors do not interact. mutual pining, fluff. minor mention of violence. unprotected sex, quickie, fingering, hickeys, hair pulling, body worship (??? if you squint???). afab reader.

word count: 1.7k

It's hard to believe it's almost been a year.

Your shop had been open for barely a month. When you first moved to your neighborhood, it was made known to you it was a dangerous place. But rent was low, and the building was just too perfect to pass up on. Not many places had room for a bakery, and a space to live upstairs.

You were in over your head. But you were too stubborn to admit it.

It had caught his eye the moment he saw it. Maybe it was its cozy nature; a small shop tucked away, full of plants, a cat dozing off in the window. Or it could have been your inviting smile, the way you lit up as the door opened.

Every day he got the same order. By the end of the first week, you made sure to have it ready for him.

From the very beginning you faced issues. A business like yours attracted a lot of attention; good and bad. The local gangs knew you were bringing in money. They wanted a cut, and you weren't willing to give it to them.

You should have given it to them.

You were warned. They told you they'd come back. You were warned but didn't listen.

They trashed your shop. You swept broken glass from your floors for weeks before it finally came out. They were persistent; more than you ever thought. When you stood up to them, they threatened to kill you. They probably would have, had Bruno not stepped in. While you were willing to lay down your life for your business, he wasn't going to let you.

You're not quite sure what Bruno did, but you never saw those men again.

You never charged him for food again. If it meant he would keep coming back to your shop, you would do a lot of things. You said you owed him. At first, he was willing to accept. Weeks went on as you still refused his money. It got to the point where he felt bad. He hid money around your apartment hoping that you'd take the hint. But you never did.

You could never pay him back. Bruno claims you already have—with all the free food—but truly it's a debt that can't be repaid. Putting it lightly, you owe him your life.

The mess was cleaned up, but you'd never feel safe in your home again.

Over the past few months, Bruno had become one of your closest—if not your closest—friend. His little free time was spent at your shop. The two of you could talk for hours about nothing in particular. Business would come and go, but he was always there. If you called, he'd come running. You really didn't have to call. At the first sign of problems he was by your side.

Bruno's influence only works so much. He could only pay off those thugs for so long.

He was worried when you missed his call this morning.

His stomach sinks as he sees the broken glass.

You're not crying. You really don't look too upset. To you, this is the final nail in your coffin. You only notice him as he stops. You motion for him to sit next to you on the steps.

The people in this town are like vultures. They can sense any bit of fortune. Any money you have can't be kept for long. Stashing it away is never a good idea.

"What happened?" He asks.

"I didn't get my protection fees paid in time."

He takes a seat next to you. For the first time in his life, he feels speechless. As far as he knew, he'd taken care of this. Those thugs would have hell to pay.

"I want to join." You say.

"What?"

"I'm taking Polpo's test." You say. "I want to join Passione."

"Why?"

It's finally occurred to you how close your faces are.

You ball up your apron and toss it aside. You don't have a better answer for him. As much as you wish you did; you don't. You want to tell him anything but the truth. Really, he feels betrayed. Has he not done enough? Has this all gone to waste? He's tried all he can to keep you away from the gangs.

It seems it wasn't enough.

His grip on your arm tightens. You don’t dare look him in the eyes. As if you couldn't be more obvious. You nearly jump out of your skin as he licks a long stripe up your cheek. Instantly your face goes red. Your cheeks burn at the heat that sends right to your core. You're stammering out a few nonsensical sentence fragments.

"That's the taste of a liar, y/n."

You whip around to face him. "I want to be able to defend myself!"

The look in his eyes isn't what you expect. It's more a look of betrayal than anything. To be honest, you didn't expect him to have any reaction at all. He's rather adamant about keeping you away from Passione.

"I can protect you." His voice has gone oddly soft. "I'll take care of you."

Bruno's grip on your arms loosens.

He leans in for a kiss. It's soft, but his warmth lingers on your lips long after he's pulled away. He smells like fancy cologne, and almost like a restaurant, strangely enough. It's a weird, comforting mix of cooked food and expensive men's cologne.

He's wanted to do this since he first met you.

His hands move to cup your cheeks. They're so warm. It's hard to resist his touch. He looks at you with such longing that it makes your chest swell with affection. The heat in your face returns, but it's in less of a lewd manner. He admires every dip and curve of your clothed body; how your waist is cinched in whenever you wear your apron, how your strong hands work pastry dough into shape.

He leans in for another kiss. It's deeper this time, and leaves a longing ache in your chest. The rough muscle of his tongue presses past your lips. He tastes faintly of alcohol.

You're too impatient to get to your room. He'll settle on bending you over your apartment's kitchen counter. He wants to take his time with you, but for now, he's content with this. Maybe there'll be a second time.

His long fingers work to undo the buttons of your pants. You don't take a lot of prep work. You're already soaked. Two of his fingers press into you. They’re long, but fairly thin, and slide right into you. His fingers stroke against your g-spot as his thumb works circles around your clit. It doesn’t take him long to figure out just what makes you weak. Bruno has you a shaking, moaning mess in no time.

You lean against the counter, propping yourself up on your elbows. He wastes no time in freeing himself from his pants. His cock is built like the rest of him; long and dark. It’s girthy, but not intimidatingly big. The hairs towards the base are neatly trimmed, and the same color as the hair on his head. A vein runs up the bottom, only getting more prominent as he gets harder. He shoves your pants down to your knees.

Bruno groans as he sheathes himself in you. The feeling of your warm, wet cunt is intoxicating. Maybe he’s a bit more pent up than he thought. His hand buries in your hair. He leans forward to nip at your earlobe. Bruno coos words of praise into your ear, telling you how good you take him, how good you feel around him.

He rolls his hips against yours in desperate, quick motions. Bruno can't decide what to do with his hands. They're gripping your breasts, then your hips, then settling in your hair. He’ll have you like this again, he’s certain of it.

Heat pools in your stomach. His touch leaves you with an aching need for more.

"Fuck- I've wanted this for so long," he says, "you’re so beautiful.”

His fingers dig into your thighs hard enough to leave bruises. He sucks a dark mark into your shoulder—one where you won’t be able to see it. It sends a whole new heat to your core. While his cock isn't the biggest, it curves in just a way that makes your toes curl.

He makes it known just what he thinks about you; babbling about how good you feel around him, about how long he’s wanted to do this.

The sound of skin slapping on skin fills the room. If you had any neighbors, you'd certainly be getting noise complaints. Your moans are like music to his ears. You don't worry about being quiet. Let others hear you, what do you care?

"Harder Bruno!" You cry out.

He can't resist something as beautiful as you.

His free hand moves to your clit, tracing circles around the bundle of nerves. He works you up in a way you never knew possible. Your skin feels feverish, and sensitive to the touch. The heat in your stomach only gets more unbearable. You want to beg him to cum inside. You need him to cum inside. Your mind is too hazy to think of much else but him and the way he fucks into you. He leaves none of your sweet spots unstroked.

Something in you snaps. There’s not one specific thing that sends you over the edge; it's everything. You clench around him as you cum, crying out. The way you suck him back in is almost enough to send him over the edge.

His thrusts get sloppier as he nears his own orgasm. He scrambles against the counter for purchase, gripping the edge of it so tight his knuckles turn white. He doesn't want to risk cumming inside. He pulls out, giving himself a few pumps before cumming into his hand.

Bruno presses a kiss to the exposed flesh of your shoulder. Your skin is sticky with sweat. A tired, but pleased look spreads across your face. His hair tickles your neck. The sight of your shaky, sleepy form is almost enough to make him hard again.

You lean back into him, giggling. “We made a mess…”

“Want to make another?”

"Are you suggesting a round two?” It’s a joke, but you carry some seriousness behind it.

"Anything for you,"

#jjba x reader #bruno buccellati x reader #bruno bucciarati x reader #bruno bucciarati #bruno buccellati #jjba #jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo part 5 #golden wind #vento aureo #not sfw #i forgot theres like three different ways to spell this guys name

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mercyisms · 3 years ago

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A Mercymorn/Cristabel fragment. Or: Two sentient exclamation marks in communication. (850 words, G.)

Mercymorn's tantrums, for they could be called little else — and anyway Cytherea did not use the word pejoratively, as some of the other Canaanites did; on the contrary, Cytherea was an enthusiastic patron of the art; whenever Mercymorn’s right eye started twitching, she took notes — were legendary. Not only for their volume but also for their duration. No one, with perhaps the exception of Anastasia, could seethe for longer, and certainly even Anastasia could not seethe as loudly. (Cytherea, herself, knew she could only really muster up a good forty-eight hours.) When stung, the Eighth necromancer’s aura practically kettle-whistled her embitterment through the courtyards and out, out, over into that torrid, black sea.

And there was nothing to be done about it. One simply had to camp out and wait, with averted eyes and hastened paces (as was the strategy of the Sixth), or else by deciding it was the most amusing thing in the world and echoing each aggrieved stomp of the Eighth’s altogether delicate foot with an even daintier if more comically exaggerated crunch, or else some terribly cruel but witty remark, anything for a touch of levity (as The Boys Club, as Cytherea came to think of them — the Boys in question being Ulysses, Cyrus, Augustine, and, at times, though largely by proximity, Pyrrha Dve — did, safely sheltered in some smoky alcove that Loveday was always trying to forbid her from joining).

No, the only thing that could be done when Mercymorn in her most famous mood was to pray for intervention. Intervention that never came from the Necrolord, His Holiness, The Beloved King Undying, but from a higher power (regarding the matters of the heart, anyway; those fallible pinkish organs). This, of course, being Cristabel Oct.

It was marvelous to watch her do it. You would reach Day Three (if Cristabel was especially impatient) or, at the longest, Day Ten (a week-plus when Cris had been indulgent, even by her own standards) and then Cristabel would appear in the doorway of whatever room Mercy was, presently, filling with storm clouds. Mercy would pretend (poorly, but failing with great stubbornness) that she didn’t even notice her cavalier’s arrival. Then Cristabel would sit near her and Mercymorn would swivel her shoulders sharply to one side, pretending that the book or meal or whatever was between her hands (Mercy was never without props) was the most fascinating thing in the world. This was all table-setting.

The real show was a set of three moves that rivaled Miss Oct’s best duels. It was so simple and clean, so elegant it could make a Duchess swoon. It proceeded, and always succeeded, as follows:

Cristabel, with the Eighth’s characteristic facial elasticity, would make a silly face. An exceptionally silly one, mind you. Any combination of crossed-eyes, pink tongue, cheeks sudden or inflated, eyebrows pinched or daringly raised that made Cristabel’s already endearing face even more darling. Mercy would look and scowl, deeply, in the manner of one who has practiced such looks in the mirror and polished the ones of greatest impact. The adept’s lovely oval face would begin to pink. Several beats. When Mercy next broke — she always did, with Cris — to sneak another glance, she would find an even sillier face. Cris’ eyes now rolled about, her tongue was in some impossible shape (a clover, a tube, or else straining to touch the tip of Cristabel’s soft little nose); and she would loll her head casually to one side, a physical punctuation mark. Some sort of “Eugh!!!” from Mercy, then. Her face would be scrunched up into the perfect replica of a raisin. Her ears were now red, steaming. Every last drop of Mercymorn’s esteemed anger was rallied for the final, impossible trial. Upon her third look, Cristabel — The Eighth most righteous cavalier, Canaan’s most cheerful swordswoman, the Empire’s most malleable contortionist — parried with some new and stunning work of facial gymnastics. They always defied explanation. Hands were usually involved for added emphasis. And she’d hold her hilariously gargoyled face for minutes — minutes! — while Mercy boiled but — and here, her most artful lunge — before Mercy looked away (though, at this stage, Mercy never truly looked away), Cristabel would drop it all at once. Her face would go back to its usual adorable self and she would grin that incomparably wide, luminous grin — and you would watch and see, exactly, the moment at which all of Mercy’s carefully cultivated anger evaporated. The founder of the Eighth’s pinched mouth would now seem to hold far more in common with a pout and she’d give a shrill, little, “Oh! You are un-bear-a-ble!” but by the time she reached the second “unbearable” syllable, her voice had softened, and when she reached out and punched Cristabel near the heart, it was a limp attempt, one that her cavalier loved to catch, playfully, and, after particularly long flare-ups, kiss — and Mercymorn, Terror of Canaan House, the Emperor’s most fearsome mime, would be angry no more.

#m: tlt fic #this one May make its way into something else if i get my act together but #have it in its current form #i have decided i like it enough as is

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dolliedarlin · 5 years ago

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s a f e i n h i s a r m s ⏤katsuki b.

s u m m a r y : after rescuing you during a rescue exercise gone wrong, now Bakugou can't shake you off from clinging onto his arm.

l e n g t h : 2.9k

g e n r e : fluff

w a r n i n g s : cursing from our beloved explosion boy

p a i r i n g : bakugou katsuki x f.reader

a / n : this idea came out of nowhere so instantly got to writing it. i'm sorry for any grammatical or spelling mistakes. this honestly gives me Juvia and Gray vibes from Fairy Tail...they were my favorite couple after all so, yeah...even reader has a water quirk -oopsie! whelp! we can see where my inspiration comes from at least. enjoy they read my lovelies!

It all started when Bakugou saved you during a rescue exercise that went horribly wrong for you.

The ceiling had collapsed from above you and, no matter how fast you were at trying to avoid the falling debris, it was still able to trap your leg. With it's crushing weight, several bones in your leg were snapped, leaving you vulnerable and immobile. Your horrifying cry of pain could be heard throughout the building as it bounced off the walls, alerting your classmates, who were sent into an instant panic.

Most of them had traversed through the fragile maze left by the torn-down structure as you had stubbornly stayed behind to ensure that everything transpired smoothly behind your teammates. With the frail state of the infrastructure, it was difficult for your team to travel back to your location without possibly triggering further collateral damage that could potentially cause further harm to you.

Things weren't looking their brightest.

The pain in your leg had crawled up the rest of your body and paralysed you with its stinging bite. It almost brought tears to your eyes but you had to be strong, you couldn't just sit around and wait for help. That isn't what a future hero should do. With the dry air around you, you wouldn't be able to use your quirk so you got started on trying to push away the sizable chunk of ceiling that had trapped your leg beneath it yourself.

It didn't take long before you realised that your attempts were futile. Judging from the way your arms shock under the weight as you awkwardly gripped at the ceiling fragment, you wouldn't be able to get out on your own. Losing hope, you let your tears accumulate to the surface of your eyes and were just about to let them flood over your lashes when an explosion broke a hole in the wall to the right of you. The instant you turned to its direction, your (e/c) orbs met with the piercing red eyes of Bakugou. The explosive blonde didn't say anything and just hurried to your side with a scowl, easily lifting the weight off of your leg before delivering a blast that pushed the hard stone ceiling over onto it's back. You were about to say your thanks when the blonde saw the state of your leg and grumbled as he picked you up in his arms and made a run for the exit he had made.

Everything happened in the blink of an eye, primarily because the jumbled emotions you were going through was hard to process individually as well as conjointly. However, one thing that you were sure of as you stared up at the frowning blonde carrying you in his arms, was that you had never felt safer than in that moment.

After that day, the way you acted around Bakugou was never the same.

You never really had a fixed friendship group. Sometimes you would sit with Midoriya and his friends, sometimes with the Bakusquad, sometimes with the rest of your classmates (but not Mineta) and even with those from class 2B. However, you were beginning to hang around the Bakusquad more and more after the incident of your rescue.

None of them really complained about it, not even Bakugou, in fact, they loved that you were spending time with them, especially Mina as she finally had another girl to help her through the other boys' antics. It was a surprising thing coming from her, seeing as she partook in mischievous antics of her own from time to time, sometimes, even joining in with Kaminari and Sero's playful pranks.

Truthfully, you seemed to be the only other level-headed person aside from Kirishima in Baukgou's eyes so, although he was grumbling under his breath at first, he wasn't too opposed at your newly established presence amongst the group of 'annoying weirdos that followed him around'.

This was a good sign for you and helped you to quickly get comfortable around the blonde.

Nobody knew this about you at the time but you're actually a very affectionate person, you just haven't been able to find someone to direct that affection towards so you've been a bit touch-staved. That was getting fixed really soon, however, because, now, you know exactly who to shower your affection on.

It started with little things such as simply standing closer to Bakugou than usual. He would throw you a narrowed glare but after you flashed him a smile, he would relent with a huff as he turned his attention away from you. It didn't take long for him to get used to you being so close but the instant he had grown familiar with your close proximity, you gave him a reason to send another harsh stare and growl your way.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing to my hand you stupid extra?!" he snapped at you, almost showering you in saliva from the way he was shouting in your face.

"Holding your hand," you replied bluntly, flashing a wide grin up at him with your eyes closed. In protest, the explosive blonde tried to tug your hand away, shouting demands for you to let go. This is when he realised that you had suddenly grown a monstrous amount of strength as he wasn't able to successfully pull his hand away from you. In fact, his tugging had the opposite effect and encouraged you, to not only, interlace your fingers with his but also to hug his arm to your chest using your other hand.

"GET OFF ME!"

"Don't you like holding my hand, Bakugou?" you asked with an endearing pout and subtle whine in your voice as you looked up at him with big teary eyes.

"NO! I DON'T!" his hopes of getting you to let go proved futile as you just continued to smile and hold him tightly. Eventually, he gave up and let you cuddle his arm throughout the school day, glaring at the people that dared to look and point. Kirishima, Kaminari, Sero, and Mina all commented on his laughable position, chuckling under their breath at how it didn't suit him to be so close and affectionate with a girl.

"WHAT DID YOU SAY?! SAY THAT AGAIN YOU BASTARDS AND I'LL BLAST YOUR FACES OFF!" he was about to chase them down as they shouted and ran away from him, their laughter hanging in the air. If only you weren't still hugging his arm.

"Don't do that Bakugou," you pouted and pressed your cheek into his shoulder.

"Hah?" he gave you a look of offended confusion. No one dared to keep him from beating up those idiots, who called themselves his friends, before.

"I'll have to let go of your arm if you do that,"

Bakugou doesn't know why but he didn't put up much of a fight after seeing how dejected you looked at the idea of having to let go of his arm.

As time progressed, many people grew bolder in teasing Bakugou as your holds on the male grew even more restricted, which gave them ample time to run away if need be.

One day, when you had been cuddling into Bakugou's side whilst hanging out in the common room with the rest of his group, Kaminari couldn't hold back his jealousy at the fact that someone as ill-tempered as Bakugou was getting more attention from a girl than he was.

"I can't believe you get cuddles from (Y/N) every day, Bakugou," Kaminari began as you giggled in return, "It's Not Fair!" the electric emitter cried with tears in his eyes.

"Then you have her!" Bakugou barked, attempting to pry you off him just to throw you at Kaminari as you flashed the explosive boy an extremely upset expression.

"No!" you cried, clinging onto him as tightly as possible, "I only wanna cuddle Bakugou!"

At this, the explosion quirk user sighed in exasperation and slumped back into his seat on the sofa, letting you sit on his lap and nuzzling into his chest as his arms stayed immobile at his sides. In the background, Kirishima set about comforting Kaminari as Mina and Sero laughed at the comical scene before them.

Your need to cuddle and be close to Bakugou didn't stop there, however, you even had the guts to embrace him at inconvenient times.

There were instances where Bakugou would be cooking dinner in the dorm kitchen and you'd come up to hug him from behind. His only response to your embrace, after you had done this to him time and time again, was to continue cooking and to cook enough for the two of you.

The first few times you were valiant enough to bring the red-eyed temper teen into your arms, he had put up his usual fight before ultimately giving up. The case would be that you'd skip up to him with your usual close-eyed smile, pull him into a hug that he wouldn't return as he'd do his best to continue whatever it was that he was doing, treating you like dead-weight hanging off his torso. Sometimes, he needed to throw you over his shoulder or carry you in his arms to be able to do whatever he had to do properly.

Take for example, walking up a set of stairs, he would throw you over his shoulder and make his way up the steps as quickly as possible to ensure that fewer people saw. Times when you had been particularly eager to stand beside him, even when he's training, he'd use you for practice.

It started off as your idea, actually.

"Why don't you pretend that I'm an injured person and carry me in your arms as you run to safety?" you suggested as you held your arms out, smiling happily up at him. He was stubborn at first but eventually, he was carrying you in his arms as he ran laps on the UA track lines. It felt so good to be in his arms again that you would always end up nuzzling your face into his neck no matter how sweaty he got.

"Don't do that, idiot. I'm fucking sweaty!" he'd reprimand you often.

"But I like your sweat Bakugou,"

"HAH?!"

"It saved me that one time and I'm sure it'll save me and others many more times in the future too," you'll never forget the tomato-red blush his face flourished into that day.

Nobody knows why you came across as so persuasive to the blonde that he let you do whatever you wanted. However, from their observations and the speculation that stayed between the rest of class 1A ended up reasoning that Bakugou was too touch-starved to willingly fight you off him. It was cute. The two of you were secretly dubbed the cutest couple in class 1A despite not officially dating.

Your admirable persistence at staying beside Bakugou at all hours of the day has continued for several months, and now, Bakugou as well as the rest of your classmates, wouldn't be able to see you without seeing the explosive blonde close by. Often times, you would cuddle up to him on the common room sofas as he read a book or played the games he was forced into doing by his 'idiot' friends. Your interactions were amusing to watch and helped the rest of your classmates see a different side to Bakugou.

The desire you had to stay by Bakugou's side flourished and blossomed over the months as your initiation on being close to him made you learn more endearing things about him. He's very misunderstood so you're glad you took the time to get to know him.

"You don't mean to be mean, do you, Katsuki?" you whispered his name with the most affection and ever so gently as you reached up a hand to tenderly caress his sleeping face. He had managed to fall asleep with everyone else at a weekend night together. The previous week had been exhausting and so the Bakusquad suggested an evening of fun to lift the weight of stress off everyone's shoulders before another week of stress is piled on top of them again. "I sometimes wish more people can see the good in you," you continued, suppressing a yawn, "but I'm greedy,"

Bakugou will never admit that he heard your little confession that night as you slipped into the world of sleep cuddled into his chest atop him.

As of recently, you had been pestering Bakugou to hug you back whenever you went up to embrace him but he wasn't going to willingly comply until he found out why exactly you were being so clingy. He knows he isn't the best person to be affectionate with and that you somehow were able to see through that, not that he would ever admit to there being something deeper going on behind his constant untamable temper.

The blonde can see you with so many other guys who were more deserving of you than he was, like Kirishima and even that stupid Deku. No matter how irritated it made him feel to see you with other guys, he knows that it was ultimately better for you to be affectionate towards them than him. It didn't make sense to that someone like you was always so desperate to be beside someone like him.

The day he saved you during the rescue exercise was a one-time thing. That couldn't be your only reason. Bakugou needed to know your way of thinking and decide for himself if it was equitable enough to let you continue what you were doing or to push you towards someone else, whether you do it willingly or not, he didn't care. He needed to focus on becoming the number one hero, not you.

It wasn't until the class had another hero rescue exercise that Bakugou finally got an answer to the reasoning behind your behavior towards him.

Somehow, the two of you ended up trapped together. Bakugou could easily cause an explosion to get out but not without causing the rest of the building collapse atop both of you at a rate and amount that would overwhelm the explosion emitter. Your water emitting quirk was limited at the moisture in the dry air surrounding you so you wouldn't be able to help much if you wanted to.

Despite the dire situation, you were still smiling and moving about without a care in the world.

"What are you smiling about idiot?!" Bakugou snapped at you, his frustration at his helpless situation making him act out, what made it all the more infuriating, however, was knowing that you knew from the gentle and understanding smile you directed towards him.

"Because you're with me Bakugou," he was speechless, "whenever I'm with you, I know I'm safe so I can be calm and think of things rationally," your smile only grew at his stunned and blinking expression, it took a moment but a boost of Bakugou's ego was soon rushing in as he felt his heart do something weird in his chest. It made him blush but you didn't need to see that so he quickly turned away so that the only evidence of the blush on his face you witnessed was at the tips of his ears, "in fact, I think I have an idea on how to get out,"

Using your water quirk, you drew as much moisture from the air as you could before you took a limited amount from your lungs. You fashioned the water in your hands into a gentle drill that you then used to dig your way out from the building. You needed to take multiple breaks, however, as utilising water from your lungs required you to hold your breath but in no time at all, you and Bakugou were out and safe.

After that day, Bakugou finally hugged you back every time you embraced him.

He became less grumbly at the fact that you were always reaching out to touch and cuddle up to him, actually, he made it a point that you would only want to be close to him and no one else. Everyone practically saw the hidden smirk on his lips every time he pressed your happily smiling face into his chest as his arms wrapped around your waist tightly, with his smirk all the boys around him he would glower at as if to stake his claim over you and the affection you were showering him with.

Bakugou could get used to this. He should've given you a chance earlier because he surprisingly liked having you wrapped up in his arms, your face tucked into the crook of his neck, your chest pressed up against his as your arms wrapped around his torso.

"Katsuki," you looked up at him as he grunted in return, maneuvering your face back into the junction between his shoulder and neck. It was a place that your face fit perfectly into and he needed you to always have your face pressed up against that area or else his neck would feel too exposed and naked, "since you're okay with hugging me back now..."

"What is it?" you didn't answer so he pulled away to look you in the eyes, "Spit it out,"

"Can I have a kiss?"

“Uh-“

n a v i . | bnha mlist

#bakugou x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugou katuski x reader #bakugou headcanons #bakugou imagine #bakugou fluff

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maxdemianfangirl · 4 years ago

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Themis: Titan of Divine Law

Themis is a titaness, one of the first wives of Zeus. Her stretch is most seen in the region of Thessaly, in which she replaces Hera as in the dodekatheon (in the same region Enodia replaces Artemis). While often overlooked, her importance cannot be ignored. She’s a child of Ouranous and Gaia, a mother of the Moirai (fates), the Horai (seasons), the Themeides, and in some versions Prometheus.

Epithets:

Themis Soteria: Means saviour

Themis Euboulous and Orthoboulous: Means well-counselled

Themis Hiera: Means holy

Themis Aidios: Means venerable

Themis Eugenes: Means high-born

Themis Titanis: Means female titan

Marriage to Zeus:

We see the marriage between Zeus and Themis before the marriage of Zeus and Hera. We see no written complications between the husband and wife duing this time, the most important factors being the birth of the fates and the seasons.

Pseudo-Apollodorus, Bibliotheca 1. 13 (trans. Aldrich) (Greek mythographer C2nd A.D.) : "With Themis, the daughter of Ouranos (Uranus, Sky), he [Zeus] fathered his daughters the Horai (Horae, Seasons), by name Eirene (Irene, Peace), Eunomia (Good Order), and Dike (Justice); also the Moirai (Moirae, Fates), called Klotho (Clotho), Lakhesis (Lachesis), and Atropos (Atropus)."

One source, the Aeschyules, claims Themis to also be the mother of Prometheus, but that is not backed up by any other work.

We see Themis besides Zeus, helping him carry out divine law and order. THe Homeric hymn to Cronion says: "I will sing of Zeus, chiefest among the gods and greatest, all-seeing, the lord of all, the fulfiller who whispers words of wisdom to Themis (Divine Law) as she sits leaning towards him."

Plato’s Republic also speaks of Themis, in which he refers to Eris, the titaness being the one who using her divine powers prompted the Trojan War.

Stasinus of Cyprus or Hegesias of Aegina, Cypria Fragment 1 (from Proclus, Chretomathy 1) (trans. Evelyn-White) (Greek epic C7th or C6th B.C.) : "The epic called Cypria is current is eleven books. Its contents are as follows. Zeus plans with Themis (Divine Law) to bring about the Trojan war. Eris (Strife) arrives while the gods are feasting at the marriage of Peleus and starts a dispute between Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite as to which of them is fairest." [N.B. In Athenian vase painting Themis is depicted alongside Eris as she casts the Golden Apple of Discord amongst the goddesses at the wedding of Peleus and Thetis, and also beside Eris watching the subsequent Judgment of Paris.]

Goddess of Assemblies: Themis is said to rule over gatherings, most seen in the Illiad and Odyssey. To quote the Illiad: "She [Hera] came to sheer Olympos (Olympus) and entered among the assembled immortal gods in the house of Zeus [after she had fled Troy following the threats which followed her defiance of Zeus' edicts], and they seeing her rose all to swarm about her and lifted their cups in greeting. But Hera passed by the others and accepted a cup from Themis (Divine Law) of the fair cheeks, since she had first come running to greet her and had spoken to her and addressed her in winged words: ‘Hera, why have you come? You seem like one who has been terrified. I know, it was the son of Kronos, your husband, frightened you.’ In turn the goddess Hera of the white arms answered her : ‘Ask me nothing of this, divine (thea) Themis. You yourself know what his spirit is, how it is stubborn and arrogant. Preside still over the gods in their house, the feast's fair division. Yet so much may you hear, and with you all the immortals, how Zeus discloses evil actions, and I do not think the heart of all will be pleasured alike.’"

Here we see Themis was the one to call upon meetings on Olympus and its feasts, of course often dictated and ordered by Zeus.

In the Odyssey, the quote "[Telamakhos (Telemachus), son of Odysseus, addresses the suitors at an assembly of the people :] ‘I appeal to you by Zeus Olympios (Olympian) himself, I appeal by Themis, who convenes men's councils and dissolves them, cease from these ways, you men of Ithaka, and leave me unmolested.’” comments that Themis also reigned over gatherings of mortals. We can see by example she was called upon to keep peace and calm during these or while the assembly dispersed, so as not to let chaos or riot break out.

Goddess of oracles:

We also have writings saying Themis ruled the oracles in Delphi and elsewhere before Apollo took over, as noticed below from the Diodorus Sicilus: "Of the female Titanes (Titans) . . . Themis, the myths tell us, was the first to introduce divinations and sacrifices and ordinances which concern the gods, and to instruct men in the ways of obedience to laws and of peace. Consequently men who preserve what is holy with respect to the gods and the laws of men are called ‘law-guardians’ (thesmophulakes) and ‘law-givers’ (thesmothetai), and we say that Apollon at the moment when he is to return the oracular responses, is ‘issuing laws and ordinances' (themisteuein), in view of the fact that Themis was the discoveress of oracular responses."

Not only was Themis the ruler of oracles, but also the credited discoverer of divine communication methods, including divination forms and sacrifice in addition to divine laws. The Orphic Hymn to Themis also reiterates this, with "Illustrious Themis . . . first from thee alone prophetic oracles to men were known, given from the deep recesses of the fane in sacred Pythian Delphoi (Delphi), where renowned you reign. From thee Phoibos' (Phoebus') [Apollon's] oracles arose, and from thy power his inspiration flows."

The prophecies this titaness gave out were plentiful and important. Just about every major early event in the hellenic religion was prophecized by Themis. I’d encourage any reader to look more into these, as listing all my quotes would take far too long, but a short list of these include: the fall of the titans, Achilles’s birth, the liberation of Prometheus, the struggles involving the golden apple, and the death of the giants.

Cults of Themis:

Themis had a few cults all throughout Greece, including the capital of Athens and Thebes and a sanctuary in Olympia.

Sources:

Altar of the Six Goddesses in Thessalian Pherai by Stephen G. Miller

Quotes on theoi.com (from the Pseudo-Apollodorus, Illiad, Odyssey, and others)

#themis deity #hellenism #hellenic deities #hellenic polytheism #Hellenic religion

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lazysunjade · 4 years ago

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8 // G E N T L E

a picture that describes how your couple perceives their love.

It takes such a long time for them to reach this point, and I think it’s a little poetic how they start out as much harsher people. They both have a selfish streak and a penchant for stubbornness, just in different ways. Their relationships with other people have almost always been fragmented, but with each other they feel a sense of peace and security. Naturally, they’re extraordinarily protective over each other, and while they still banter at length, they make conscious strides to treat each other with the utmost care.

#ts4 #ts4 screenshots #oc: yehl leandelle #oc: taryn na'drazuli #15 day sim couple challenge

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tsaritsa · 4 years ago

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check my time

firstly; ever write something and be like. oh damn. i wrote that bitch? that's me rn

secondly, this title is taken from rebecca black's friday. shenanigans were had in the royai support group discord in which we were determined to title some fics with that immortal song. come hang with us! it's pretty fun and we only occasionally have so-bad-it's-good ideas like this.

you can also read this over on ao3

It is perhaps, unsurprising, that Major Mustang initially believes that it was because of him that she signed up for service. His idyllicism is perhaps the most enduring trait she has to remember him by: a young man, proudly wearing his blues and speaking of the way he would coax the country in a better, grander, position than where it started. His inherent paternalism – and it is that, he wants to make the country into his image and nothing less – is inherited from her own father. He too, believed, understood, proved that he knew the way forward.

It is a bit of a joke now how personally he seems to take this new knowledge – this was not part of his plan. Perhaps he thought he would return after the war, a decorated hero with new depths to those dark eyes and sweep her off her feet like so many of her dorm sisters have been in recent years. What few letters that do make their way to the estate – and subsequently, months later to the front – are notices of marriage, and once, an invitation to attend herself. Laura had been one of the kinder girls, and a small part of Riza that’s been tucked away between the notches on her rifle would’ve liked to see her in white, watched the celebration with a distance that Laura wouldn’t have questioned or assumed was rude.

But Riza is unable to entertain such fantasies. This country would rather look the other way than acknowledge the cost of this war, the amount of people being flung into the sand just to keep the effort justifiable. There are rumours that another train line has been taken out, and necessary supplies that were already months late will now never arrive. It’s a wonder any letters managed to find their way to her at all.

Major Mustang has a peculiar habit of finding her no matter where she is in the encampment. At first, she pegs it down to coincidence, but later it becomes clearer that he is seeking her out in some fashion, even if most times he refuses to engage with her at all. Perhaps he thinks he can protect her in this way, a careful eye watching from a distance. It is laughable. The distance Riza is able to set between herself and any unwanted target easily outstrips his distance for accuracy. She can and will limit her damage. He razes through it all as if the end result is the only thing that matters. Perhaps that’s true. The reality of bending a land, a people, to your will is never as simple as her superiors make it out to be.

Part of her resents this treatment, resents the hovering that the others in her unit have picked up on. They’re snipers, after all. They’re meant to look at the wider picture, notice small, subtle shifts in the landscape. It takes them a little longer to deduce who he’s trying to shadow, but after another few days of watching him not-wander with not-purpose, her spotter nudges her, faintly tilting his head towards 11 o’clock.

“Perhaps he’s never seen a woman with short hair before. I hear he came from Central – fuckwits, the lot of them.”

Her spotter, Dylan, is a stout young man, with a face that had not lost the fat of his youth until very recently. He, like her, was pushed through quickly, at the pleading of higher-ups who were wholly unprepared for their theatres of war. The two of them are well aware of the incompetence that has resulted in their posting. This knowledge is what protects them more than the briefings they receive.

A tense smile pulls at the edges of her lips. “I have the unfortunate pleasure of being acquainted with him. I would hesitate to paint him with the same brush as the soldiers from the last tour though.”

Dylan scoffs, picking at the cervidae meat the cooks managed to scrounge up. It’s probably a sacred animal in these parts. “Does he think you don’t belong here?”

Riza hums. “I think he envisioned a different future for me. I think I’ve ruined the fantasy.”

The man introduced to her briefly as Maes Hughes seeks her out some weeks later. He is an interesting man. Riza thinks he is like the prisms that fracted light in her Father’s study: she spies different fragments of him, personalities and idiosyncrasies that layer over one another if you view him just so. He is canny and shrewd, and Riza is not surprised that Major Mustang has made his acquaintance. His ability to seek out power and bend it to suit his whims is perhaps the most crucial thing to understand about him. It does not necessarily matter what the substance of the power is, it only matters in how he can exploit it for his personal use.

“Hawkeye,” Maes Hughes says shortly, deliberately stepping into pace with her as she moves through the camp. She had been seeking some rest. She knows now that that will be difficult to do unless she plays his game.

“Captain Hughes,” she responds, dipping her head in acknowledgment. It is perhaps a little ruder for a greeting than other superiors would allow, but Riza surmises that Maes Hughes doesn’t care much for inane rules and pageantry out here. He is not thriving in this environment, merely surviving like her.

“This isn’t about Roy,” he begins, and Riza appreciates the bluntness. “Well, not from him. But I thought we could talk.”

Riza inclines her head to the outer encampment, the side that overlooks into the valley. It’s never as busy here, particularly in the afternoon as the sun sinks down over the mountains and the desert chill begins to set in. “What about?” She will make him work for this conversation. She is well aware of who could – would – be privy to it.

Hughes is quiet for a moment as he leans against one of the tent poles. “I confess I’m curious about the two of you. Roy is fiercely protective of you. Others are beginning to notice.”

“He’s stubborn like that.”

“Is there a reasonable explanation for his behaviour?”

Part of Riza thinks it would be rather funny to divulge her secrets again. Make his power and devastation inert by granting everyone the same ability that he wields so selfishly, covets even more so. But it’s a passing fancy, a fantasy she’ll never get to fully realise, much like the goals she imagines he had in place for her. Hughes has already played some of his cards by investigating what he’s already identified to be Mustang’s weakest link, and Riza feels it’s only fair to work within the estimation he has already formed of her. She will never let her back be used against her again. Major Mustang put paid to that lesson for her.

“His alchemy apprenticeship was a few houses down from where I lived. There weren’t many young people in the village. We were… acquaintances, I suppose,” she begins, testing the words on her tongue. Dylan hadn’t needed a story to assess Major Mustang. He didn’t need to be convinced of anything he couldn’t already surmise from looking at him.

“Perhaps he was sweet on me; I confess I never paid much attention, as my father was a sick man and required almost all of my attention. It was strange to realise that one of the soldiers I saved was someone I knew –” the parapraxis isn’t lost on her but Hughes’ face is impassive, waiting. Either he was a good listener or what he was suspicious of had not been confirmed so far. “ – Maybe it is strange for him too,” she concludes, rubbing the muscle that connects her thumb to the fleshy part of her palm.

Hughes appears to mull over her words. “He must be very sweet on you, then.” There’s a warning nestled in that sentence, an acknowledgment that he caught her use of tense just as he corrects her on which is the truth – what he knows is the truth.

Riza rolls her shoulders slowly. “I wouldn’t assume to know his feelings on the matter. He hasn’t talked to me since our last meeting. In all honesty, Captain, I don’t think there is much to talk about either. We’re just ghosts in each other’s pasts.”

“He doesn’t treat you like a ghost.”

“My spotter has come to calling him that. He always seems to lingering like some forgotten shade.”

Hughes pushes himself off the tent pole he was leaning against, shoving his hands into his pockets. Riza was right, he is a clever man – knows better than to needle someone continually for information they’re not willing to part with yet. His patience would undoubtedly be tempering some of Major Mustang’s worst impulses. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t approached her again.

“I just felt warning you would be the right thing to do,” he says. “Considering I’m now not alone in my understandings.”

Riza blinks slowly. “Thank you for the warning, Captain Hughes,” she replies. He probably thinks he’s being kind, extending a hand to the young ingénue who’s out of her depth in a horror that’s only halfway done. Maybe Major Mustang had crafted that story for Hughes as well; of his role in this story he still seems to be writing. He is the hero. They are the supporting cast as much as the sand they stand on.

I thought you’d wait for me; he had hissed over the campfire at their first meeting.

I thought you’d help people; she had taunted as the embers sunk into the ash.

#fullmetal alchemist #royai #riza hawkeye #maes hughes #fma #my fanfic #been a while so why not just sink my teeth into my fav hobby #aka riza murking the fuck outta roy's character

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