#im posting it to ao3 later

[paintedcrows]

Some Fords! (and Martin K Blackwood is also there)

[umblrspectrum]

"smaller mass" you say

[s0fter-sin]

thinking about the way ghost doesn't hesitate to start killing shadows when graves betrays them but soap only takes one hostage

you can almost hear the voice in his head telling him it doesn't have to be this way; they can still talk it out

"i'm calling shepherd"

his first instinct when confronted with betrayal is to play it by the books: to go up the chain. that goes against everything we've seen him do. he bucks authority at every chance except for the one time he's confronted with the barrels of his allies' guns

he wants a peaceful resolution; for the first time we've ever seen, he doesn't want violence to be the answer. there has to be another fix, a solution that doesn't end with him killing the same men he's been working with; his friends

nothing's happened yet

it doesn't have to go this way

but ghost has been betrayed before. he knows the way this ends; either with him six feet under or his enemy

he doesn't hesitate

it's only when they knock alejandro out that soap shoots; when they spill the first blood and cross a line they can never come back from

only when ghost orders him to run and he has to cover his retreat

and somewhere along the line, between civilians’ screams and taunting voices, between his shaking breath and ghost steady in his ear, that naivety is stripped away; his trust turned to teeth that he uses to sink into throats of men he'd have given his life for

"be careful who you trust, sergeant; people you know can hurt you the most"

he's learned the price of trust

just like ghost did

but unlike ghost, he has someone to guide him through the aftermath

"good advice, It"

[caramelmochacrow]

please. please dont tell me the third fic i will be posting to the d4dj fandom will be a fuckign chatfic i made in a few weeks.

[thesunisatangerine]

against all odds (to wait for you is all i can do) – part one

alexia putellas x photojournalist!reader

status: completed

(a/n in the tags) [parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve]

word count: 1.1k

The thing was, you didn’t plan on getting laid tonight. 

After a couple of days trying to settle in at Barcelona and looking for your lost luggage, all you wanted to do was to finally start your vacation. You just wanted to relax and experiencing the night life in Barcelona was definitely a good way to officially kick it off. 

So there you were at the bar of an (apparently) exclusive night club in the city–the location was emailed to you by Derek with a VIP pass and a note that said, ‘have fun ;)’–nursing your second, half-empty glass of mojito, the speakers blasting rhythmic reggaeton music, when a woman slid into the space next to you, cool and confident with the way she leaned on her elbows against the counter as she gave the bartender her order in smooth spanish, “A gin rickey, please.”

The woman looked to be several years older than you–and taller, too, even with your heels on–and maybe it was the alcohol or the proximity but there was no stopping yourself from openly admiring her. Her black, cropped top and her tight, high-rise pants revealed perfectly broad shoulders and toned arms, as well as the taught lines of her stomach. When your eyes travelled back to her face, you found her looking at you with a raised brow and immediately, your cheeks warmed. The fact that you were gawking shamelessly and got caught doing so… just wow.

Words of apology were already on your tongue but the curves of her lips were mesmerising, the elegant slope of her brows distracting, and those eyes… the depth in them threatened to drown you that all coherent thought deserted you. 

“Wow,” you breathed out.

“Excuse me?” Came the bemused question, an instant slap to the face that sobered you up immediately. 

“I’m so–I’m sorry, that’s what I meant to say. I’m–” You palmed a hand over your face as you began but a small chuckle stopped you halfway. You risked a peek through your fingers and saw the woman with her lips to the glass, something akin to a teasing smirk on her face while she remained leaning on the counter by her hip. 

“You’re not from around here, are you?” The woman asked as she took a sip from her drink.

Not really the question you were expecting but you’d rather take a reprieve over a disaster. And at that, you smiled sheepishly at her. “Is it that obvious?”

“Hmm, no, not really. Your slight accent gave you away but your Spanish is impressive.”

“I’m still working on losing it but I’ll take that as a win. I’m assuming you’re from around here?”

“My home town is about an hour away outside of the city but I stay here most of the time for work.”

“That must be nice, being close to home.” Feeling more at ease now, you sipped at your drink. The woman did the same. Then you continued. “So, what do you do?”

For a moment there was nothing but music and chatter as the woman regarded you with an unreadable expression. Her eyes glinted–with what exactly? curiosity?–her head cocked slightly to the side. Then she sipped at her drink again. Did you say something offensive? you wondered.

“I work between the sport stadiums. And you? Where is home and what brings you to Barcelona?” 

It was clear from the vagueness of her answer that the stranger didn’t want to talk about her job and it didn’t help your growing interest for her. You wanted to ask her about further details but the dismissive tone with which she answered made you hold your tongue and her question, anyway, made you pause as you pondered to answer.

As an orphan who lived a few years in the system, the subject of where home was had always been a sore spot for you even if the stranger didn’t mean anything deeper by it. In some sense, your adoptive mom was home but there was always a part of you that longed for… something.  But, of course, you couldn’t bring that up right now especially to someone you just met. So you just told her where you were from, that you were on vacation, and that you work as a photojournalist for a press agency you helped establish. Something in your answer must had piqued the woman’s interest because her brows shot up.

“Which branch do you work in?”

“Spot news. But I’ve been meaning to expand my portfolio and get into another branch. Maybe try sports or portrait?”

The woman hummed in appreciation. “Any sports in particular? Wait, do you even like sports?”

“I honestly know close to nothing so I haven’t made a decision yet, but it will definitely be women’s sports,” you replied. She nodded and sipped at her drink again, never breaking her gaze from yours and you felt your cheeks warm again. Those eyes… they were dangerous; they lit up every nerve in your body and it felt good. You continued. “What about you? Are you much of a sports person?”

And to your total bafflement, the woman beamed at you, radiant and glowing, dimples in her cheeks as mirth shone in her eyes.

“What?” you asked, a bit nervous and at somewhat of a loss. 

The stranger let out a small chuckle, shook her head slightly as she rubbed the bridge of her nose, an attempt to hide her smile. “Nothing, nothing. And yeah, I’m a big sports fan. Then a beat passed before she continued, “you ever thought of covering women’s football? There are plenty of matches happening in the domestic leagues right now.”

“Maybe I will,” you hummed, mulling it over. It sounded good actually. And then you asked, “what else do you suggest for someone to do in Barcelona?”

The woman downed her remaining drink and placed the empty glass on the counter. Before you knew it, you could feel the warmth of her breath against your ear and you shivered when she purred. “Dance, of course.”And then she was holding your hand, pulling you off of the stool you were on, and began dragging you to the direction of the dance floor. 

All at once, warmth encompassed you: the crowd immediately swallowed you both, bodies pressed on you but the heat that emanated from the woman before you was the sole beacon for your attention. She had a loose arm around your waist and as the both of you danced to the music, you took that opportunity to wrap your arms around her neck and pulled her closer. She slowed down and she still had enough height on you that she had to lower her head.

“I never caught your name,” you spoke into her ear. 

“I’m Ale,” she replied. She pulled back to smile down at you. And then, she kissed you. 

[lighthouseshepard]

writing idea - john gets considerably injured and doesn't tell arthur cause he thinks arthur would judge him cause "arthurs had so much worse happen and he just got back up" and arthurs like "dude you've had a human body for like two weeks i would expect you to not be used to pain" and its like a stereotypical hiding injury thing you know

HI HI thanks for this!! again i tried to keep it under 1k but. it ended up... 4.3k.....

heres a mostly unedited first draft i might play around with more later!! (: not so much a considerable injury but this is where my brain went anyways!

As John takes the stairs up to their small apartment building, Arthur in tow with one arm wrapped loosely around his just behind him, he stumbles.

It’s a quick, clean slip of his left ankle, rolling outward at an unnatural angle just as he reaches the last step. The movement itself would have been almost unnoticeable if not for the sharp stab of pain which accompanied it, a searing pressure radiating outwards in undulating bursts. He hisses under his breath, hurriedly letting Arthur go so as not to accidentally drag him down too, and tries to casually play off the lurch.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, righting himself. Immediately he bangs it against the cement edge, eliciting another silent wince he’s immensely grateful Arthur isn’t privy to. “Lost my footing, I guess.”

Arthur hums, instinctively reaching out for John’s guidance and huffing when none was received. Cautiously he takes the remaining steps, coming to stand just beside John at the top before the door.

“It’s alright, John,” he replies, head tilted in his direction. “Thanks for not pulling me down with you.”

His smile begins to fade after a moment of silence in which John stares dizzily at his own feet, struggling to control his breathing. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” comes the hasty retort. “I just… hit it on the stone, I think.”

His brow furrows. “Hit what?”

“My ankle,” John growls, blinking away spots of light dancing across his vision. In the dying sunlight they blended in amongst the cloudless sky, shimmering specks deceptively working to trip him up again as they wavered in front of him. As soon as the words leave his lips he regrets them. 

“I mean,” he clarifies, “I barely knocked it. Nothing to worry over.”

“Oh.” Arthur frowns, searching for John’s hand in the middle distance between them. “Do you want me to take a - well, not a look, but perhaps we could patch it up? Is it bleeding?”

“No.” John pushes slightly past him, fidgeting for keys in his pocket. Arthur’s arm is left hanging at his side, fingers lightly clenched. “I said it’s fine, Arthur. Can we drop it?”

“Okay,” Arthur mutters exasperatedly under his breath, following him hesitantly inside once the door is unlocked. “Whatever you say.”

John all but limps his way into the front hall. If the shuffle makes a noticeable sound against the faded rug he attempts to ignore it, desperately gritting his teeth. With each shift of his leg the throbbing increased, sending burning jolts of agony up through his foot. Beads of cool sweat were breaking out on his temples. Irritably he wipes them away, squinting into the living room through the haze of pain clouding the forefront of his mind.

“Stupid fucking ankle,” he mumbles.

 “What was that?” Arthur calls from behind him. John struggles to turn, one flattened palm braced against the wall. He watches as Arthur unwinds the scarf from around his neck, smoothly kicking off his shoes into the corner. Shoes that he, too, needed to probably remove if bending down didn’t seem like a far impossibility.

But he doesn’t answer. Instead he slowly twists back around, hobbling towards the promise of relief found in the couch awaiting him.

“John? Did you hear me?”

His eyes shut tightly as soon as he sinks into the cushions. The pain refuses to dull despite the lack of pressure once he sits, if anything only growing stronger when he attempts to prop it up on the coffee table, as though gravity were relentlessly trying to tug it down again for his own good. He groans, the noise pulled unbidden from his throat, and hastily covers it up with an aimless cough he feels as a weak imitation of one in his chest.

“John,” he hears a second time. Arthur’s voice is closer now, somewhere directly to his left. Although he turns his head in acknowledgement, his eyelids remain closed, brow furrowed. 

“What? I heard you.”

He could practically sense the crossed arms. 

“What’s going on?” Arthur asks, his tone firm. “Why are you sitting like someone threw you there and you don’t know how to get up?”

“How do you know that?"

"Lucky guess."

"Nothing’s going on. I’m… comfortable.”

“Really? You don’t sound like it.”

“I said it’s nothing,” John snaps. The wince which pulls his lips taut lessens any blow he’d intended within his retort. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“I thought you hit your ankle on the steps?” Arthur says thinly, stepping closer. “So which is it?”

It never ceased to irritate and amaze, Arthur’s ability to weasel the truth out of him. Back when he’d just been a voice behind those deep amber eyes it was magnificently easier to conceal the truth, hiding himself in falsehoods he had ample time to conjure up while Arthur slept or moved about the world amongst others, unable to talk to him. He hadn’t been bound to a body which would betray him at the slightest inconvenience: all his emotions, he felt, were visible on his face and in the lines of his silhouette all the time. Being given away by the twitch of his mouth or the hesitancy in one look of his eyes was maddening. He couldn’t control it, hadn’t yet mastered the subtle art of physical deception. He had no reason to, he knew, but it continued to bother him regardless, being so visibly and openly seen by everyone around him. Every thought was laid bare, ripe for someone else to pluck.

These visual cues didn’t apply to Arthur, of course, but it didn’t need to. It didn’t matter when it came to him. He could sense each ripple of truths withheld in John’s voice as though they were tangible vibrations running beneath his fingers, plucking incorrect notes from a string of music. Whether this was a skill gained through time or familiarity, he didn’t want to ask. Perhaps he’d just had plenty of practice, before John came along.

“It’s… both,” he says lamely, eyes flicking open to watch as Arthur shifts from one foot to the other impatiently. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” he exclaims, a frustrated scoff behind his words. “I’m not even looking at you. I can’t.”

“Like you know exactly what I’m thinking,” John presses, willing himself not to wither beneath that sightless gaze. Like a parent, he thinks to himself, who’s just caught someone doing something they shouldn’t.

“Maybe I do.” Arthur comes to stand beside him, bumping up against the edge of the couch. “Maybe I’m just trying to help, you donkey. What is going on with you?”

“It’s-” he begins to say, but he’s quickly cut off.

“Don’t tell me it’s nothing. You’ve been like this all day: grumpy, antagonistic, walking… very oddly. Did you not sleep very well?”

“I slept fine,” John mutters. “How could you possibly know I was walking strangely?”

“Ah, so he admits something!” Arthur says with a scoff. “I can feel it along your arm when I’m holding onto you. The movement of your gait is different from anyone else - Noel, Oscar, even Marie. Your footsteps all sound unique, too. If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were trying not to limp.”

The silence stretches. John breathes in shallowly, as if the quieter he became, the more likely he was to become invisible.

“John?” Arthur asks uncertainly. “Have you been limping all day?”

“I… not all day, Arthur.”

He sighs, a ragged exhale. “Jesus fucking Christ, John, I knew it!” he says, throwing his arms up. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

John tries to prop himself farther up on the couch cushions, sliding the dead weight of his leg along the coffee table. “Because it’s not important, Arthur,” he protests angrily. “It’s just a - a sprained ankle or something! Noel says it happens to people all the time.”

“You told Noel?” Arthur’s demeanor shifts, and John can’t quite place where it was going. “Is that who you hung up on over the telephone yesterday, when I walked in?”

“I - yes, I told Noel,” John says, glancing away. “I didn’t want to… I mean, I wouldn’t-”

“But you didn’t tell me,” Arthur states, frowning. “I don’t understand, John.”

“Because I didn’t want to bother you with it, alright? Jesus fuck, Arthur! It’s just a little bit of pain!”

His shout rebounds around the living room, echoing along corners and twisting through the dark. Once it dissipates, all that nervous, fearful energy fading into thin air, John realizes the sun had already set. In the shadow of the singular lamp they’d kept on after they left earlier that day, Arthur looked smaller than John had ever seen him previously - socked feet, soft button down shirt untucked, shoulders slumped while his head was turned away from John’s direction.

Hurt, he understood after a solid minute of nothing spoken. There was hurt on his face.

“Arthur,” he says hastily, backtracking. “I didn’t…”

But Arthur was already interrupting.

“Is it bleeding?” he asks flatly. “From where you knocked it as we were coming in.”

John’s eyes widen. “What? No, no, like I said it’s probably just a sprain.”

“Don’t get up.”

“I wasn’t. Where are you going?”

He watches helplessly as Arthur begins to trod across the living room to the hallway just behind them. His left hand searches for the wall, brushing against it occasionally as he vanishes around the corner, the thin lines of his silhouette blending into the darkness. John waits with gritted teeth, listening to the faint but unmistakable sound of a drawer opening in the bathroom, before he’s rejoined in the living room.

“Give me your foot,” Arthur instructs. He comes around on the opposite side, taking a careful seat on the table in front of the couch. “Which one is it?”

“It’s… it’s this one,” John stutters, glancing at the little white box he’d placed between them. “What is that?”

“First aid kit. Came with the apartment, I think. Never thought I’d have to use it.”

There’s a bite to his tone which causes something in John to cower. Panicking at the unfamiliarity of the uneasy feeling, he thinks immediately to fight back against it. Yet no manipulation tactic in his mental catalog nor no insult he’d ever learned from Arthur was readily able to be wielded. He stares, unsettlingly dispirited, at Arthur’s hands while he begins to search through random items in the kit.

“Arthur.”

“Put your leg on my knees, John,” he says. He’s facing away, still wholly focused on determining which items were what through sensation alone. The subtle surprise when John does as asked without further complaint doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Oh. Thank you. Now tell me where it hurts.”

Stretching over as much as he was able, halfway balanced on the edge of the cushions and held now partially up by Arthur’s own legs, John indicates with one pointed finger. 

“Here,” he says, lightly touching the far side of his ankle. “Move your hand just - just there.”

As slender fingers come into contact with the swollen skin, John hisses. Arthur moves as if to draw back, but after some hesitation makes a second attempt with a touch so gentle John hardly senses the wandering examination at all.

“It’s swollen, John,” Arthur says, staring into the middle distance as he feels along the reddened skin. “You’re going to have to take your shoes off.”

“I know it’s swollen,” he grinds out, “I can feel it.”

Immediately he regrets the display of aggravation. Eyes flick worriedly to Arthur’s face, searching for any kind of reaction there, but he may as well have been surveying a blank canvas.

“I think we should try ice,” is all he says. “Before attempting any kind of compression. Wait here.”

“It’s not like I could go anywhere,” he mumbles beneath his breath as Arthur leaves him for the second time. “I’m not running a fucking race on this thing.”

When he returns, grasping a cloth wrapped bundle, John studies him curiously. Nervous muscles stiffen in preparation for another round of sharp throbbing; but as Arthur sits again opposite him, the grip which guides his foot is somehow even kinder than before, cradling the injury into position across his knees.

“Let me take your shoe off,” he murmurs. “I’ll be quick.”

"I’d rather you didn’t,” John protests. “Can’t we just - God, Arthur!”

No apology is forthcoming. It’s palpable in the tension of Arthur’s fingers regardless, the unhappy twist of his mouth. He fumbles the laces undone with one hand and slips the shoe off, dropping it unceremoniously to the floor. One black sock follows. The hem of his trousers is rolled back up to his calf, delicately smoothed along by a soothing touch.

The introduction of cold is almost worse than the prodding he’d just undergone. John jolts as the cloth touches his skin. A pang similar to shattered glass ricochets across his foot and he has to bite his tongue to keep from shouting. Arthur holds him steady, other hand firm on his calf, bent over the injury.

“Easy,” he says quietly. “It’ll hurt for a minute or two, but this will help to numb some of the pain and swelling.”

“Numb?” John gasps, “or worsen? What even is that?”

Arthur readjusts the bundle. “Peas wrapped in a washcloth. You should know, you bought all the groceries last.”

“Why the hell would I buy peas? They’re repulsive.”

“Well I didn’t, and we don’t have ice in right now, so it’ll have to do.”

True to his word, after some uncomfortable minutes of silence, the throbbing begins to lessen. John sinks back in relief, a sweet dullness overtaking pain receptors which had not let up on their constant alarm for what seemed like eons now. Thoughts broken up by the unrelenting ache finally begin to clear. From behind the haze he sighs, tilting his chin up towards the ceiling. Long hair spills over the back of the cushions.

“That’s… much better,” he says weakly. “Thank you.”

“I imagine it is, yes… John?”

“Yes?” he answers, anticipation sitting nauseatingly in his gut. “What?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you hurt your ankle?”

In the low light he steals a glance over. His vision was better than most - better than Arthur’s, when he had been able to see out of his eyes. Things came across with astonishing clarity, even when there was little illumination to help refine the world around him. John narrows in on the long pink scar across Arthur’s throat, an indelicate reminder of the Dreamlands, the incomprehensible weight of that last stand reduced to one single, jagged divide. His torn ear hid neatly enough behind reddish gold curls, but the mark across his face where those dangerous sands had scraped away the skin there was not so easy to miss. 

In the break between their conversation he rolled up his shirtsleeves and there too John could spot scars, dots and lines of invisible constellations, healed but not forgotten. The wooden pinky finger taps his ankle as he shifts the peas. John’s pinky, he thought. Or, it had been.

Everything about Arthur was a testament to some horror he’d survived, that they had survived together. And John, in this new body, had nothing to show for it.

“John?” Arthur asks. “Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not okay,” he argues. “It hurts.”

“Is this helping at all? We can always wrap it afterward. Hopefully it won’t need to be seen by anyone.”

There’s concern in his voice, so genuine despite the way he’d just been treated that something snaps just around John’s lungs, a sharp, bitter pull. Whatever he had been about to say dies under his tongue. Nothing comes out, although his lips part for several seconds.

“John?”

His restraint falters.

“I’m sorry, Arthur.” 

“...What?”

“I’m sorry,” he says, yanking the words agonizingly out. “It wasn’t my intention to lie to you from the start, I - I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“Tell me what, John?” comes the baffled prompt. “That you injured yourself?”

“Yes,” he emphasizes. “I don’t even remember how I did it, I guess I just… stepped incorrectly? Tripped over something? I don’t fucking know, Arthur, and it’s so goddamned stupid. I can’t even control my own two legs! How am I going to keep existing in this body if I break under the slightest influence? It’s not like you get hung up over a fucking sprain, or don’t bounce back from a coma, or a car crash, or-”

“Hang on, John, wait,” Arthur interrupts. “Is that what this is about? Me?”

“Yes! No. I don’t know, Arthur. A bit of both?”

Frustration boils beneath his skin, hot and shimmering. The corners of his eyes prickle but he doesn’t move up to rub at the sting coiled there, waiting for release.

“You don’t let anything stop you,” he says, the living room blurring. “Gunshot wounds to the chest, electrocution, multiple stabbings, so many falls I’ve lost count-”

“Technically the gunshot would have killed me if not for the wraith, " Arthur offers feebly, but John doesn’t seem to hear him.

“Not even getting gutted through inside those mines in Addison! Not even my shitty job of sewing you back up.” He swallows, breathing heavily. “You’re practically fucking invincible, and meanwhile I take one wrong step and I’m incapacitated for days, can’t even take a stroll with you down the street, can’t carry you up to bed when you’ve fallen asleep on the sofa.”

Tears were flowing now, trickling in trails of shame down flushed cheeks. “It’s ridiculous. I witnessed you wade through literal nightmares, Arthur, and you did it without losing yourself. You still managed to laugh where you could, to have hope, and-”

The thought was running swiftly away from him. He twists sideways as far as he could, facing the other side of the room, held in place only by his ankle. Again wishing to disappear, again wanting to crawl back inside Arthur’s head where it was safe.

It takes Arthur far too long to respond. For some time nothing moves in their midst, save for the rapid rise and fall of John’s chest, the hitched cadence of his breathing. Eventually Arthur shifts. John listens to his clothes rustle and wonders when the floor would swallow him whole.

“John?” Arthur says softly. 

His jaw clenches. “What.”

“Look at me.”

Sniffing, he turns. The hand not keeping the frozen vegetables on his foot coaxes his chin up and over. Arthur’s touch doesn’t linger, giving him ample space. John wishes it would. Frustration continues to slip across his face, lines of damp salt.

“I didn’t react that way to all of those things because I wanted to, John,” he says gently. “I did so because I had to. I was surviving, trying to keep us both alive. What would have happened if I gave in and just laid down and let it all overtake me?”

John mulls it over. 

“Nothing,” he concludes, wiping angrily at one eye. “We wouldn’t have gotten very far.”

“Exactly. You think I didn’t struggle? You saw me, John, you saw through me!”

He laughs, the first bright sound to filter through the room since they’d come home, tinged by bittersweet memory. “You were there for every second of it. Remember me waking up from the coma? I could hardly drag myself out of the bed, much less walk. And everything else that’s happened to my body, well…”

Briefly he touches his stomach. “Sometimes I wonder how there’s any blood left in me. I feel patchy, like I’m just made up of gaps a person could see straight through. It all still aches, John. I’m aware of it all, every stupid mistake or scar or… whatever else Addison and the Dreamlands, all those monsters did to me; but if I refused to accept in some capacity, where would that get me? Fuck, I’d never leave the bed, and I’d have every right to do so. Why do you think I still sleep in some mornings?”

“You’re saying you’re hiding things too, then,” John says slowly. A flutter of remorse crosses Arthur’s smile, curving it downward. 

“Yes,” he nods. “A little bit. I didn’t want you to worry, John.”

“This is the same thing, then!” John exclaims. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry!”

“It’s not the same, but… it is similar, sure. I’m still figuring this all out, what to do now afterwards. I know we both are. I suppose we’re each guilty of something here, aren’t we?”

A mutter answers him, unintelligible. Arthur sighs, rubbing John’s leg placatingly. 

“I have experience with this kind of thing, John. You, frankly, do not. We don’t know how this body is going to react to the smallest of injuries, so when you’ve hurt yourself, or tripped, whatever, you need to tell me. I can’t help you if you’re so determined to be… stoically adamant that you can handle it.”

He winces. “No, poor choice of words. You’re more than capable of handling anything. The point here is that you don’t need to do it alone. I didn’t do it all by myself, either, even if it was our body at the time. I still had you there with me.”

“Okay,” John mumbles. The tears had stopped, drying in faintly gleaming tracks. Unable to help himself, he reaches over and directs Arthur’s free hand to his face. Arthur catches on quickly enough. One gentle thumb brushes the dampness away beneath both eyes.

“You said I didn’t lose myself in the midst of all that,” Arthur adds contemplatively, “but I did. You brought me back over and over. I won’t let you drown here, either. I guess we need to be more honest with each other in general.”

He flashes a small smile. “Works in progress, hmm?”

“Sure,” John says, wavering under that look. It was impossible not to. “Okay, Arthur. Thank you. I guess I…”

“Hmm?”

“I know it wasn’t easy, but you made it seem so effortless. I guess I wanted to be able to react the same way.”

“Nothing about being human is effortless, John. If it were easy, you’d be something else altogether.”

Neither are sure what else to say, so they choose to say nothing at all. Arthur removes the cloth, saturated with condensation. The swelling had gone down somewhat. Beneath the inflamed skin a dull ache persisted, but it was milder, simpler to deal with. Darkness shot through with distant city lights and a sliver of the rising moon sits just behind the glass window panes of the front room, enticing and comforting with its allure of endless promise. In the lamp’s glow, John watches Arthur start to slide off the table, cradling his foot until he’s able to place it down atop its surface.

“I think you should sit here for a while,” he advises, frowning. “I can help you down the hall later. If you want, that is. It’s doubtful you’ll be able to keep much weight on this over the next few days if you want it to heal properly.”

“Great,” John mutters. “Wait, where are you going?”

“To change out of these clothes? Why?”

“Can’t you,” he stutters, “stay here? I can’t reach the washcloth. What if I need it again?”

“I can place it next to you,” Arthur says wryly, catching on. “It’s only a foot away.”

“What if I have to get up?”

“You shouldn’t be moving at all.”

“Arthur, please.”

“Christ, alright,” he agrees, fondly. “Just for a while. I’m exhausted too, you know.”

He slips next to him. They fit together seamlessly after some adjusting, John avoiding old wounds, Arthur working around this new one. It’s a recently acquired habit, this circling of one another, quietly curling up until they were consoled enough in their own selves and each other. John’s head ends up across Arthur’s thighs, his foot propped up on the armrest of the other end. He was so tall his leg stretched past the edge of the sofa, halfway dangling in mid air.

“John, darling?” Arthur asks absently, untangling dark curls spread out across his lap.

“Yes?”

“You’ve… carried me up to bed before?”

John blinks. “Of course. I couldn’t leave you on the sofa like that, shivering.”

“I wasn’t shivering,” he retorts with mock affront. “Was I?”

“It was kind of pitiful. To give you credit, you had kicked off the blanket I put over you earlier.”

“I was wondering where that had come from,” Arthur mumbles. “Thanks, John.”

“You’re welcome. You sleep like you’re the prize boxer in a dream ring.”

“What does that even mean?”

“You kick,” John says meaningfully, eyes already beginning to close. “Hard.”

“Oh. Sorry. At least I don’t hog the blankets all the time,” Arthur retorts sheepishly.

“I do not hog anything. I’m much taller than you now! I need more of it.”

“Not all of it.”

“Buy a second blanket, then, if you’re so concerned.”

They bicker until John falls asleep. Sentences drop to single word responses, and soon enough he’s out, trying to get one last quip through the heavy pull of slumber. Arthur sighs as he feels his breathing even out, one palm flat on his chest. He hadn’t even gotten a chance to change clothes. 

“John?” he whispers. “John?”

He doesn’t answer. Arthur lets loose another weary exhale. There was no way he could move now.

“I think you did this on purpose,” he says softly, yawning. “You just want me to play with your hair, don’t you? Unfortunately for you, I’m probably going to fall asleep right here beneath you.”

He brushes stray strands off John’s forehead. It continued to puzzle him how someone who had once spent thousands of years inflicting agony on others now flinched beneath the prospect of bothering those closest to him with pain of his own.

Arthur drifts into unconsciousness soon after the thought dissipates like smoke, head dipping to rest sideways on one shoulder. John, clinging to the last dredges of wakefulness, peers up through heavy lidded eyes just in time to catch a glimpse of Arthur’s silent goodnight, John, on his lips. 

[lynnbutlertron]

fuccking scudlertro n/.......... . GOD. if its not real by the end of season 2 i will throw a hissy fit equivalent to the one mr b pulled in season 1 over e cybo-pooch. ALSO the first one is a redraw from this VVVV

[ohmytiredheart]

It's uncanny how much the FNAF lore actually makes sense if you look at it through the eyes of TMA

[aashiyancha]

Masterpost

[ded-lime]

some time ago god knows why i set on a journey of reading through gaster tag (with plenty of picking and choosing) and when a fic goes on about sans being depressed and trying to bring him back my mental image meanwhile goes something like this

[souglias]

cage of the unforgiving: chapter one [GINTOKI]

You have seen the Saviour of Yoshiwara before he earned that title. You have seen that wavy, silver-haired man before he stirred trouble with the Hyakka. You knew Gintoki even before he stepped foot into Yoshiwara. But you have forsaken too much to go back. Gintoki, on the other hand, holds onto too much to carry on.

Gintoki x f!reader. 16+ ONLY

c/w: Rated for the crude themes and also for my own comfort, no smut, childhood friends to strangers to lovers, reader is a courtesan, reader smokes, possibly toxic behaviours because the two won't communicate straightforwardly (content warnings will be added if needed as the chapters go and pointed out each time if any)

chapter word count: 3.1k

note: thanks for opening my fic! It's my first time attempting to write in this particular setting, writing themes and character development in a multi-chapter fic, so please forgive me for anything I lack in. I did my planning and research, but it's still something new to me :"). Any constructive feedback will be well appreciated!

cross-posted on AO3 (accessible from my profile)!

All likes and reblogs are appreciated!

-

There is a famed rumour of a room in Yoshiwara. A closed space that gives you the things you desire. Anywhere, anything and anyone. Most people believe it works because of some technology that the Amanto has installed. The more absurd reason going around is magic. 

Word goes that only a select few high-ranking courtesans have seen it, and no one knows who exactly because none of them talk about it. You are of a high rank, but you are not ranked high enough to have been in it. Any thoughts of even asking about it is wishful. It’s bullshit anyway and likely entertainment among the courtesans.

But it doesn’t stop you from thinking about it. Does the grasp of the artificial neon lights reach the inside? What would you see if you ever stepped foot inside? You have a few guesses, and you always dream of them. You dream of the dojo back in Shoka Sonjuku when you hold a shinai in both hands. You dream of the classroom with sliding doors facing the outside wide open, the breeze tickling your face during lessons. You dream of your old home, your brother beside you at the small floor table before he had become bedridden from illness.

One night, you dream of Gintoki, squabbling with Takasugi in the sunny yard. It escalates to them jumping atop each other. When Shoyo finally stops the fight in his peculiar manner, Gintoki catches you staring at him. He calls your name and your heart soars. You loved it when he said your name. It was much sweeter when it fell off his tongue. He wriggles his arms out of the ground and outstretches it towards you. You reach towards it with your own to pull him up.

Before you reach him, you wake up to the sound of your screeching alarm. As if something slipped out of it, your hand feels a little empty.

It’s an absurd dream. Everything that played out in it never happened in reality. And you’re not sure what you saw in that idiotic, crude boy when you were younger. You would never admit to anyone that you liked him.

Gintoki will remain as just a stupid boy in your past, adored by your old self who has died.

But you can’t help but feel your heart drop as you linger in your futon, alone in your dark room barely illuminated by the neon lights outside. A cloud hangs over you as the day progresses. You reach for your kiseru much earlier than usual as an attempt to lighten up, before you’re done with all the customers for the date. 

You prop your arms up on your window, letting your free hand hang freely outside of the window as you take a drag. 

Then you see him. 

A wavy, silver-haired samurai with several courtesans having their hands all over him. You almost drop your kiseru three floors down. You can barely hear what he’s saying, only catching the words “let go” and “clingy”. 

He should not be able to see you, but you shift to conceal yourself at the very edge of your window. Your gaze does not stray away from him, following him until he disappears from view. And it is only then you fully realise you are hiding. 

The sliding door of your room opens behind you, causing you to jump. Your attendant, a shy little girl who goes by Asami, notices your surprise as she addresses you by your professional name; your alias.

You put on a bright smile. “Is it time for the next appointment?”

Asami scrutinises you without her gaze being sharp, then nods. “I will guide them in when you are ready.”

Is Asami starting to see through you after all this while attending to you, or are you losing your cool over a mere samurai? You’re not sure which you would prefer. “Bring them in 10 minutes. Thank you.”

The next few hours pass quickly. You start by playing the koto for your customer. In between songs, you pour sake for him with a trained loving gaze. At some point, both of you are at your window, watching the smoke billowing from Hosen’s extravagant abode. The customer places a hand on your shoulder, which you assume is an attempt to assure you that everything will be okay. Perhaps it’ll do some good to pretend to be more alarmed, and you decide to slide your arms around his tightly as your show of anxiety. 

Everyone thinks that is the end of a minor accident, and they resume whatever they are doing for some time. 

Then it happened without warning. For you, it happens as you’re cleaning your room, a little after your customer leaves.

The ground quakes and a loud whirring noise surrounds the compound. Light enters the compound. First in a slow stream, then in a flood of rays. 

For the first time, there’s a square of blue at the corner of your window. It expands like a black canvas being added with more bright paint as you shift closer to it. A pastel yellow stretches itself out at the tatami floor near your window. When you move into the sun’s rays, their warmth begins to kiss your skin. A little unfamiliar, your arm feels a little prickly with the heat. But you do not shy away from it.

This must be the work of Gintoki. A wild guess, but it is one from deep in your gut. Even as uncertainty for the future grows in your chest, you continue to bask in the light and drink in the azure sky above you.

Asami comes by and tells you that there is no news on what has happened. Before she manages to leave, you pat the spot right next to you. “Come, sit with me by the window.” 

Her eyes widen and she asks, “What if a patron comes by?”

“That will be unlikely. Everyone’s too worried about what’s going on to come without an appointment.”

She remains kneeling at the entrance of your room, picking at her fingernails. 

You add, “Don’t worry, I will take responsibility if anyone comes looking for trouble. Or you can take this as your order from me. Accompany me.” 

You take a last puff of smoke for a while and keep your kiseru away in your kimono. You don’t like to smoke in the presence of children.

Asami is stiff when she sits next to you. You remain silent, letting her make herself comfortable at her own pace. Sometimes, you despise your rank, making you more intimidating than you want to be. The only ones who do not fear you are the ones who are above you or those who see you as their enemy. But you did not have the privilege to choose, and you let the recurring thought pass again.

The day passes with you unmoved from your window. You don’t realise how much you miss the sun until it sets at the end of the day. Even after Asami leaves, you continue to watch the hues of the sky shift. Only when the sun enters its deep slumber to make way for a hazy moon, do you reluctantly pull yourself away from your window.

Word goes around fast in Yoshiwara and you get up to date in less than a day. Tsukuyo is now the new leader of Yoshiwara. Hinowa has stepped down as the top favoured courtesan and she makes a living at a humble food shop behind the building that houses your room. A silver-haired samurai is one of those behind everything, and he is hailed as the “Saviour of Yoshiwara”. His popularity and reputation among the women have skyrocketed. His name has become a sweet candy on the tip of the tongues of many.

His name is everywhere now, mildly unsettling you with how it grates in your mind too.

Whenever you are not working, you wonder if he still comes to Yoshiwara to visit. Right before a scheduled appointment, you wonder if he is only a mere distance from you, eating dango at Hinowa’s shop. You wonder if he’s fucking other girls, letting them freely say his name as they please. 

Gintoki, Gintoki, Gintoki. You are sure you no longer harbour any sort of puppy love for him, but his name echoes so torturously in your mind. You want to know how he’s been. You want to hear about what he’s been up to, and where the others are. You want to see if he has grown into a fine guy, worth the embarrassment of knowing you had feelings for his snotty younger self.

Hinowa may be able to fill you in about him, or maybe you could see him at her shop. If he isn’t there, perhaps she could reach out to him for you. 

Yet along with this ever-growing desire, accompanies an increasingly bitter aftertaste in your mouth each time you serve a patron. Every lie you put out hammers a trembling nail into your heart.

You are now a far cry from who you were, especially with you having renounced your old name.

How would Gintoki see the version of you now?

Morning comes with rain. You head out to find Hinowa, an umbrella overhead. However, your steps become heavier and you stop in your tracks just as the shop comes into view. The rain beat incessantly at your umbrella. 

How would Gintoki see you now? What would Gintoki think about you?

You turn back. It would be better for him to think of you dead or missing, with the memory of you untarnished. Gintoki will never find you. He does not know you are here in Yoshiwara, and almost no one in Yoshiwara knows of your real name. There is not enough of your past lying around.

You smoke again the moment you get back. The smell of smoke in your closed room soon gets on your nerves despite only a few puffs. Shoving your window open, you let the rain splatter in and onto yourself.

–

“I apologise if this is prying, but has something happened?”

Asami’s question almost goes unheard with the distance between the door and window, and how soft-spoken she is. You just smile, asking her what led her to that question as she remains at your door. She dismisses the question.

“It’s okay, you can tell me.”

Her averted gaze comes back to you briefly as you move closer to her. “You’ve been sitting at your window a lot.” 

You fall silent, painfully aware that you’re seated right at the place she pointed out. Her statement unintentionally reminds you that you’ve been watching the streets of Yoshiwara a little too often, searching for someone you shouldn’t be. Too often for your liking.

Asami timidly looks back at you. “I’m sorry, I did not mean to be a busybody.”

You slide over to the entrance, reassuring her with a pat on her head. “No, it’s okay. Everything is okay. Regardless, tell me why you are here.”

“Lady Hinowa has requested for you to see her tomorrow at 2.30 pm at Hino-ya. You don’t have appointments during that time at the current moment.” 

Your chest knots. You tell Asami to relay that you will be there, and she heads off.

There are many reasons why Hinowa would see you. It could be about your clientele, a request for help, or intel on a fellow courtesan. There are so many reasons, such that the reason for having to do something with Gintoki should be small. 

Your night before is thankfully free of appointments, and you glance at the bright streets one last time before shutting the window. The window does not seem to filter the neon lights well tonight, and sleep eludes you with the myriad of colours on the other side of your eyelids.

After some tossing and turning, your mind idles with frivolous thoughts. Maybe if you could find that stupid room, it could give you some sleep. A room untouched by others, with temperatures unbounded by the weather outside.

You manage to drift to sleep at an ungodly hour. But whatever little sleep you got, it wasn’t good. You dreamt of a past that didn’t happen with Gintoki, again.

Gintoki was walking by your side to your home. His arms were crossed behind his head and he only looked straight ahead without a word. You walked silently too, feeling down for an unknown reason. 

“I’m sorry.”

You didn’t know why he was apologising, and you didn’t feel any better hearing it. There was sincerity in it and weight to it, but it didn’t ease the unexplained storm in your heart at all.

You don’t remember stepping through the front door of your house. But at some point, both of you ended up in your home. A steaming, big bowl of miso soup was placed in front of each of you. He had finished his portion first and he picked his nose as he waited for you to empty yours at your pace.

You flung a tissue box at him, warning him not to flick his booger onto your floor. Then, you asked him if it was good. Your brother always made miso soup for you on your birthday. It wasn’t anything out of this world, but you held it close to your heart. 

He hummed in agreement. 

This time, you wake up without any sort of call or alarm. But you feel violently awakened and sick to the stomach. You swear off thinking about the ever-so-desired room. It’s a personal recipe for a disastrous dream.

When you leave for Hino-ya, the idling courtesans eye you. One or two who you’ve known to have a distaste for you look towards you sharply. They speak softly, but loud enough for you to hear.

“Why would Lady Hinowa want to see her?” 

You don’t really know why they’re bothering to pry. Maybe Keeping Up with the Kardashians isn't enough to keep them entertained.

“Maybe she’s gotten into some trouble.”

With that follows some giggles that you ignore with practice.

Your feet get heavy once again as Hino-ya comes into view. However, you could not turn back even if you wanted to. Hinowa invites you to sit with a smile, as she wheels herself over to you with a plate of dango. She greets you with your alias, which slightly eases your worry. 

Hinowa gets straight to the point.

“Do you know Sakata Gintoki?”

Your breath catches in your throat. But you quickly collect yourself.

“He’s the one who saved all of us.”

“No, do you know him personally?” 

A moment of silence lapses between the two of you. Hinowa drops her practiced smile that she shows to customers and lets concern show on her face. 

“[name], if you don’t want to talk about it, you can tell me.” 

Hinowa is the only courtesan left who knows your name. It may have been a long while since you both talked, but her use of your real name makes you crack a little.

“Yes.”

“Did you know him from before you came to Yoshiwara?”

You nod, and she continues. “He has asked about you, looking for you with your real name,” she pauses a little as she searches your face for any emotion, “I didn’t tell him I knew you right off. He started to describe you to me… as if he knows you like the back of his hand. I only said I could do some searching on my part.”

Her next line chips off a little of your heart. “But he’s told me not to set him up with you, because he doesn’t have money.”

Your thoughts begin to run. You imagine his judgmental gaze on you. Does he think so lowly of you now that you’d want him to pay up to see you? If money isn’t an issue, does he want to see you at all? 

Gently, Hinowa puts a pause to your thoughts with an offer. “If you would like, I can arrange a meeting for the two of you.”

He’s just making excuses so he doesn't have to see you. 

(This is the bitter pill you choose to swallow. And that will put an end to whatever wishful thoughts you harbour.)

“I don’t want to see that piece of shit either, especially since he can’t pay.”

With that, you forcibly change the focus of the conversation to Hinowa. The two of you catch up till dusk, with a few pauses in the conversation for her to serve customers their food. At the end of the day, both of you ease back into the bosom friends that you were before Hosen had locked Hinowa up.

Despite the light-hearted end to your conversation with Hinowa, you drag your feet as the distance between you and her shop grows. You can still turn back. You can still take it all back. 

But you do not succumb to the temptation calling you out behind in, only caving in when you are standing at the entrance of your building, where you can no longer see her shop. With the closed door of this opportunity, a knife twists in your heart.

That night, a client asks if you love him. Clients and patrons love to do this, and you utter it effortlessly and convincingly every time. There’s longevity with a customer only if you tell them what they want to hear.

But this time, you feel like you can no longer say it with as much faux conviction as you used to.

In the days after, you make yourself practice again and again. Until you’ve convinced yourself that you could love a stranger for a night.

-

A last-minute patron has been scheduled for the initially empty night. You berate the patron as you smear the pale white foundation on your face, though you begin to calm yourself as soon as you move on to your rogue. If someone could obtain time with you at the eleventh hour, he must be someone of stature. 

As you await him in a seiza position, the shuffling of footsteps outside becomes louder. You mentally check your smile and rehearse your attitude.

When the door opens, you briefly see a half-worn white kimono with blue waves as you lower your head to the floor. Panic courses through your body and you feel your smile waver. He’s not supposed to be here. He’s supposed to be broke and unable to come. By sheer habit, you recite the greeting you give new customers like a recorder. The greeting contains your alias, sewn into a sentence with “sir” and “I will serve you tonight.”

When you raise your head to face him, your eyes meet a pair of widened crimson eyes. 

Shoka Sonjuku. Shinai. Home. Miso soup. You almost forget where you are. 

Shoyo. Takasugi. Katsura. You almost say his name, when you should not know it. You cannot, when you have chosen to start by introducing yourself as a stranger with a name unknown to him. 

[cowchickenbeefpork]

"“Just spit it out Edward, it can’t be weirder than anything you’ve said before.” He rolled his eyes at Edward, who quickly began to smile in glee again as he raised their intertwined hands next to both of their shoulders. The elbows of their suits brushed one another slightly from the action.

Oswald felt his expression…soften after Edward had done that. Any ounce of spite in his confusion toward Edward that came from this conversation was replaced with something else, something like hope. A hope that it could lead there, despite what Edward had said about it before."

hey uhm,mmmmm😇😇😇😇😇😇😇😇😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁 drew a scene I wrote in the fanfic I made….. you should totally click on the link to it below here….. please please please pleas( you don’t have to the desperation in this is a joke, I would really appreciate it tho)

[pitter-patt-art]

Ace Attorney AU August (halfway progress update!)

Okay technically it's the 16th (lol, 17th by the time this is done) so a little over halfway actually, but still I thought since I haven't had anything finished to post the past few days this would be a fun alternative!

I've been going a little nuts (affectionate) over @augustwritingchallenge's AU-gust prompts list this year so August has been a wild ride (about 40k words of one, in fact. so far.) but seeing as I will get attached to even the jokiest of AU ideas instantly, I've completed* a whopping 5 whole fics of 16, lol. Considering the shortest of those is over 3k and the longest is over 12k, I think the problem with not finishing these in a timely manner is entirely on my verbose foolish thick skull, haha, but I'm still having a blast with it.

Here is my ao3 series where I'm posting!

And a rundown / progress report / quick teaser of all the AUs including those I've yet to finish, if anyone's interested:

(*by "completed" I should note two of the already posted fics are basically assuredly going to be continued past the challenge, but let's say "completed enough to post and be on theme")

1. Canon Divergence - complete - 4.5k words ("For the Murder of Mr. Wrong" link)

Mia POV, gen. What if Dahlia succeeded in poisoning Phoenix and framed Doug Swallow instead (and then Mia defended him in court)? Basically a 3-1 rewrite. Fun Fact: I only came up with this AU because before I even remembered AU-gust existed at all, I'd come up with like 4 totally separate AUs in which I poison Phoenix in various ways With Real Consequences because it amuses me, lol, but he survives all those other ones and I eventually realized I hadn't even considered straight up killing him off yet so I figured I should try it at least once, haha.

2. Colorless - complete 1st chapter - 3.2k words ("Grey Matters" link)

Phoenix POV (for 1st ch --prob alternating after), wrightworth. "You can't see color until the first time you touch your soulmate"-soulmate AU. 1st chapter is their first meeting as kids (skipping the class trial itself). Fun Fact(s): I really love a color soulmate AU! Big fan of the "only see the color of their eyes" type of one too but uhhh on top of that working better for things that have wild anime eye colors, you could not pay me enough to try to figure out what the HELL is going on with Ace Attorney eye colors at any given time lmfao. (Also--spoilers for what i haven't written yet but hey if you're here you earned it--this IS one of my very many "teehee what if i poison Phoenix just a smidge as a treat for me" fics. NOT my fault the man ATE GLASS. That's on him.)

3. Dark Academia - complete "1st chapter" - 4.4k words ("The Spirit of the Laws of Magic" link)

Mia POV, lanamia. Magical boarding school setting featuring corruption and missing-student conspiracies and a most likely overthought system of magic with hierarchies and prejudices in societal views of academic/formulaic vs folk/innate magic. Fun Fact: I really thought for SURE i was going to skip this day entirely, lol. (foolish.) I don't think i've actually ever personally read anything "dark academia", technically--so if this doesn't read EXACTLY that way, there you go, but i did my best. I also then thought I could live with keeping this vague but I accidentally thought about it too long so... plus at least two people on top of myself at this point have expressed interest in more of this and so I have some semi-concrete Plans™ now.

4. Zombie Apocalypse - conceptualized (but not started)

Concept: probably gen and Phoenix POV, but also because I'm me and they're them, at least a little bit wrightworth even if it isn't necessarily explicit in any meaningful way bc they are Not Normal about each other lol. A little sketchy on how much of an "AU" this counts for, since it could probably be argued to be canon compliant somehow, but basically just: Universe where they make a Pride and Prejudice and Zombies-type Steel Samurai reboot movie thing (featuring, you guessed it, zombies), and Miles comes over and forces Phoenix to watch it with him just to have someone to bitch about it at, and then during that time Maya blows her way into Phoenix's apartment as well with the exact same intentions except her "day job" isn't quite as time-sensitive-strict so she's already finished watching it earlier and knows all the spoilers. Honestly a good chance Phoenix and Pearl (who came with Maya) end up hiding out in the kitchen together to let Maya and Miles rile each other up in front of the TV, but I'm never exactly sure where they'll take me once I wind them up and set them loose on the page, so who knows. I also hadn't necessarily determined the exact time frame yet but for it to make sense as a reboot-type movie/special episode/whatever it probably should be 7yg-or-later so Trucy may or may not be there as well. (That said, in my struggles to complete an actually short one-shot, I probably shouldn't even include Pearl let alone Trucy, lol.) Fun Fact: I also thought I'd skip this day bc I'm not the biggest zombie guy in the world, and to be fair, I managed to do Way Less with it than the dark academia prompt so, yippie?

5. Chess Players - incomplete (currently 3k word WIP)

Miles POV, wrightworth. Miles is a chess grandmaster and back in Japanifornia for the upcoming world cup tournament, but his greatest challenge is actually to FINALLY best Franziska in their annual who-can-get-the-best-Christmas-gift competition. Luckily, he just so happened to hear of an artist who makes bespoke chess sets, so the plan is to get a custom board made for Franziska without her finding out. The plan is not to get trapped in a weird art collective labyrinth with some model-photographer named Cindy who keeps hitting on him but also happens to be protective of the artist he's there to see because "she and her boyfriend kinda-sorta owe him big time", but this is what he gets for coming here without doing any extra research into the artist besides seeing his work and hearing only "his name is White, or, eh, something like that, you know how those artist types are" from Mr. Amano. (AU where we replace law with chess and no I don't think Phoenix could necessarily hack it in the top-world-grandmasters-level of chess tournaments HOWEVER have you considered he DID go to art school so what if he just tries selling custom chess sets until somehow that reconnects him with Miles. Is that somehow a more insane plan than studying law? Maybe. Did Manfred still shoot Gregory but now it was over fucking chess? Maybe. Idk. But I did let Greg live this time at least!) Fun Fact: we can all DEFINITIVELY blame my lovely, terrible, very wonderful friend Ben (shameless friend plug! she's an outstanding writer and has some AA fics of her own too!! @kindlystrawberry on tumblr!!) for making a total joke about "well what about au where they make chess pieces instead" while i lamented not knowing enough about chess to write an actual match and spawning this ENTIRE concept. It is her fault. 100%. She is the guilty party. (I want to finish this one VERY BADLY. Save me.)

EVIDENCE!!!!! Guilty.

6. Reality Show - incomplete (currently 700 word WIP)

Phoenix (& Franziska) POV(s), background wrightworth wedding planning going on as set up but it's also definitely just one of my many excuses to set Phoenix and Franziska up as bitchy worsties who can't admit they enjoy each other's company and will cut you down if you suggest it as such. So far I've only written the quote "set-up" section which is in Phoenix's POV, but that was SUPPOSED to be like 5 paragraphs and cut away and then lead into my actual plan for the main body, which was to be in Franz's instead, so. This is very similar to the zombie one in that it's them watching reality tv instead of being contestants on a show (I don't personally like or watch a lot of reality tv so my creative well was somewhat dry on how to make that work) and then I accidentally thought about Phoenix and Franziska watching something just to judge and tear apart the decisions of every person on it and that was too fun to not consider further, haha. Basically the plan is just they get left alone together and don't know what to do with that and end up wine-drunk and making fun of some reality dating show of some kind and Miles and Trucy come back to them losing it together over something stupid and are like "......uh. what's happening." Fun Facts: I really love the thought experiment of Franziska somehow discovering how often Phoenix's internal dialogue/reads on situations and especially people can be So Bitchy And Judgey despite his affable complexion, and her unfortunately finding his opinions to SOMETIMES be somehow slightly okay. Moderately correct, even--occasionally. I know the section she follows you-as-Phoenix around in T&T is really not long at ALL, but I adore it. There's something about it that so badly makes me want to force them into proximity more (to both their chagrin, I'm sure).

7. Farm/Ranch - complete - 12k words ("Two Little Dickey Byrdes" link)

Gumshoe POV, gumbyrde (tho i still think dickeybyrde is a funnier ship name). 5+1 things--except more like maybe 7-or-8+1 to be honest--so it's more: over 5 times Dick and Maggey sit on a wall together and 1 time they find someone else there instead. AKA: Dick runs his family's small farm (think fantasy farm like in a farming sim or maybe horse girl novel type of thing that has nothing to do with what a real farm is like lol don't worry about it) and Maggey starts working at the next farm over as the latest of her many odd jobs. Fun Fact: oh god this one got so far away from me. it was not supposed to be this long lmao. it's literally the elaborate set-up to a very silly Nursery-Rhyme-I-Didn't-Even-Know-About-Prior-To-This -based punchline!?! still, i was pleasantly surprised by how happy i was with this once it was done... two sittings and about 16 total hours later. haha).

8. Nomad - incomplete (planned/outlined)

Apollo (or possibly Klavier) POV, klapollo. Sort of Jove-Thalassa swap adjacent, but basically: AU where Jove survives the Khura'in fire but loses his memories for [contrived convince sake reasons]. (And also possibly loses some or all of his eyesight just to really go for the parallels?) Therefore: Jove and Apollo stay with Dhurke and Nahyuta and the Defiant Dragons for a time, while Jove recovers, but eventually they leave and head out on their own, just the two of them, and do the traveling musician thing, both because it's dangerous in Khura'in and Dhurke already canonically didn't want Apollo to get caught up in it and potentially get hurt to begin with and because with a functioning actual parent Apollo doesn't need to be taken in by him--and also Jove from what little we know seems like he prefers to be on the move and was already a world traveler anyhow, so even amnesiac maybe he gets a little antsy stuck in one place too long. And so like amnesiac Thalassa, Jove thusly becoming a renowned mysterious musician--and then Apollo, sweet tone deaf Apollo, becoming the sonager of all time (like a momager but...you get it) because he's not that into music but he IS into arguing for better conditions/making deals (contracts!! international legalese!! woohoo!!) with venues and promoters and stuff. And then--oops dang Lamioir still exists and now they have a meet-cute (2 electric bugaloo) (but by then it's later enough Trucy still exists because it will be a cold day in hell when I don't find a way to make her work) and they do music collabs or join up to form a group or whatever and OOPS this means now that Apollo and Jove are with Lamioir when The Gavinners / Klavier specifically meet her and get her to come to do the Guitar's Serenade concert eventually. And Apollo and Klavier ofc thusly also have a meet-cute and then talk and bond etc etc. AND THEN the au STOPS THERE and I DON'T think about how without Apollo Phoenix is totally getting convicted of Zak's murder because there's no way that trial works out as well for him with some other attorney and I also don't think about how reasonable it would then be that maybe Trucy ends up helping Valant with his work setting up the trick for the concert afterward on account of the one father in prison and the other being dead and having left behind a notarized confession clearing Valant's name of suspicion, etc. AND I DEFINITELY do not think about how i could then still so easily get everyone in one place at the concert for Turnabout Serenade and/or any possible funny Sibling (And Thalassa) Reveal that could happen i dont i dont i do not--

9. Accidental Baby Acquisition - conceptualized (not started)

Gen, possibly my weakest / least defined idea on this list, but basically: Phoenix kind of already lives this in canon, lol (insomuch as an 8yo counts as a baby) so I thought, well, how to take it a different direction, then? And I thought, I don't usually go for a Phoenix Fey kind of au because I personally really love the relationships he has with all the Feys as-is in canon and so it's not quite as funny to me as, say, a Miles Fey AU where like Misty and Gregory are married, or any of the ones in that bent, because I'm sorry but that's just SO funny (and sad, but mostly funny) any way you slice it--plus his NAME is RIGHT THERE mia-miles-maya he FITS--anyhow, that completely aside, there are just a lot of reasons I really love the platonic relationships the Feys already have with Phoenix and I don't think it NEEDS to be made specifically familial to still be so very important, y'know? BUT. That said. AU where Phoenix is idk abandoned as a baby or maybe his parents die young or something and it's like a Thing to leave babies at temples or churches or whatever, right? So like--Phoenix adopted by the Feys AU but only because the more i considered it the more i thought it would be WILD for him to literally know Maya her entire life, and it's fascinating to me to consider a Maya who ISN'T basically left all alone to her own devices (and Morgan's) and who has someone absolutely in her corner in the village the entire time even after Mia leaves (who isn't a baby when Mia leaves, love you tho Pearls), AND also and perhaps more importantly, the ships-passing-in-the-night-ness of a scene where, like: Morgan does something sketchy or whatever and Phoenix wants to keep Mia updated but for whatever reason decides to go down to the city and actually tell her in person and so he's waiting outside the courthouse or something (possibly part of or perhaps Most Of the reason he goes in person is because he knows her first courtroom trial is that day and he wants to see her + hear how it went) and when he gets there she's in a heated argument with some asshole in a fancy over-embellished jacket and once that guy leaves Phoenix is like "Sheesh, what's his problem?" You know???? And maybe he really would never even know!!!! Bc he grew up in Kurain!!!! And has no reason to care!!! About some random prosecutor who was mean to Mia!! Aaaah!!! So that, and on top of that, Diego would be there too ofc at that point, and I feel like he would ALSO be quite a funny interaction in this scenario. ("Wow, someone's popular, kitten, you have all sorts of guys waiting on a chance to talk to you, heh?" "Uh.--I'm sorry, WHAT did you just call her")

10. Enemies-to-Allies - incomplete (currently 370 word WIP)

Ema POV, faraskye. Cyberpunk AU where Lana is still under Gant's thumb and Ema, with no other way to stay close to her and getting rejected from any of the sorts of jobs she really wants to do, decides to just join the security force (or cyber police or w/e I decide to call it) and is tasked with hunting down the Yatagarasu, guerilla hacker supreme who is threatening the sanctity of the capitalist overlords. Except Ema's squad gets ambushed and she's captured and tied to a pole, and with her useless fop partner seemingly not coming to rescue her (if he even noticed her absence), she does some quick cost-benefit analysis and decides she didn't really like that job anyway and maybe there's another way she can get her sister back in her life. So she breaks free of her own handcuffs (which she definitely didn't modify into incidental ineffectiveness she's still testing for bugs) and helps fix the "Little Thief" device her captor seems to have broken despite how obviously valuable and impressive the tech is, and they eventually come to something of an agreement. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, and all that. Either Ema as the hardware-engineer one and Kay as the software-programming one as the two sides of the tech coin, or else Kay can just be like doing the physical sneaking kind of spy stuff only--or maybe she knows a little about software but not so much she's a pro the way she is with infiltration and such. Possibly toying with the idea Kay herself is just completely an android, but if not, I think she has some cybernetic cyborg things going on regardless. Possibly from or inspired by her father? I also like the idea that Gant did something maybe more drastic with regards to having dirt on Ema to get Lana to do his bidding--like maybe Ema has a whole cybernetic hand because instead of just her handprint on a leather jacket, Gant has some sicko jar with her entire hand in it in his office safe, or something. I don't know why this would be useful to him but it is certainly an image. I also find it funny if Miss Fingerprint Powder Enthusiast doesn't actually have any fingerprints of her own anymore somehow in this AU, lol.

11. Retail Worker - complete - 6.7k words ("The Bake Anything Boulangerie" link)

Apollo POV, gen. Phoenix gets a job at a bakery instead of the Borscht Bowl Club during the 7 year gap, and Apollo happens to stumble across it and ends up meeting the Wrights while he's still in high school. He becomes a regular at the bakery and is already close to them by the time "Shadi Smith's" murder comes around. And also, yes, sibling reveal right away--at least as soon as Phoenix realizes and can reveal it. As a treat. (Other reveals, though, I might put poor Apollo through on a delayed basis. Also as a treat, lmao, just not one for him.) Fun Fact: I'm being redundant bc this is also in my a/n, but, Baker Phoenix lives rent-free in my brain because Professor Layton vs Phoenix Wright was in fact the very first Ace Attorney game I ever played, technically, and Maya and Phoenix semi-brainwashed in that bakery was literally one of my first impressions of them. ........followed immediately by starting a let's play of Justice for All (which i watched through the first case, after which I was like oKAY fine maybe i DO need more context here, i should probably figure out what the actual first game is, and went back to start the series properly at the beginning hahaha). What do you MEAN i have a disproportionate fascination with amnesiac Phoenix, even if I have yet to finish and publish one of my myriad AUs that utilize stupid, unrealistic, plot convenient re-temporary amnesia?? Hm???? Idk what you're talking about. Also everyone who complains about 2-1 is wrong lmao it's objectively (okay subjectively is what i'm saying yes BUT objectively) such a funny place to start without knowing broad plot strokes, it's great. I both knew so much and absolutely shit-all nothing about Maya after PLvPW and 2-1, LMAO. god.

12. Animagus Wings (Joker) - incomplete (planned/outlined)

Miles POV, wrightworth. Angel/Demon AU, except I'm playing super fast and loose with the rules on that because all my knowledge of Christian-mythos comes from firstly and unknowingly the Chronicles of Narnia and more recently and cognizantly Lucifer (Netflix) and Good Omens. I know that's probably more or less what we're all doing with this kind of AU but still, I'm not even sure I want to refer to Heaven and Hell here, I'm kinda on the fence about maybe just keeping it all very vague? I also accidentally semi-worldbuilt more than i intended incidentally on account of "But Then How-Why Names If Angelic Creatures?" Format-wise it would semi-follow gomens s1 where it's hopping through some meetings between long stretches but also a kind of pre- and post- Fall type of thing? And potentially à la Lucifer becoming, like, these are My Mortal Humans and i will be Spending Time With Them, screw you celestial duties, I'm making my own Free Will, etc. And i mean i guess Lucifer is also a crime procedural lmao maybe they still solve crimes in the end too. Fun Fact: I didn't want to do the original prompt for several reasons, and sure fuck jkr is one of them but even before I knew about her I still wasn't really the biggest hp person in the first place? So i wouldn't know/don't remember at all the way it works without having to do the specific research and i...don't want to haha. Hence. And I know the prompt seems to be using it loosely / might just be borrowing the word and not actually referencing hp specifically but tbh either way human-animal shifter things just in general I can be somewhat picky about haha. (Okay okay plus full disclosure the ONLY idea I have for this sort of thing actually ties into my day-3-dark-academia-extended-au-verse and i COULD make my life simpler by just connecting the two days but Heh who would I be if I simplified things for myself... *sigh*) All that to say: I saw "wings" on the wild card list and I thought, ooh, well that's still sort of a related concept! Let's tag that one in! So it's still kind of day 12 prompt-adjacent, if you squint.

13. Found Footage - incomplete (planned/outlined)

Video Transcript POV? Is that a thing? Possibly capped by a little Phoenix POV (but i don't want that to get too long), wrightworth. Larry's new girlfriend of the month bakes weed brownies and Larry does not realize this and swings by the Wrights' apartment to beg some kind of help off Phoenix and forgets the whole tray there somehow (because it's Larry) and they leave to deal with Larry's thing and by the time they figure the brownies out, in some twist of fate Miles and Trucy have been hanging out (last minute babysitter/adult supervision? but she's at the very very least 14 or 15 here and most likely older, and Nick clearly isn't the most strict about like uhhh supervision in general lol sooo idk. he's helping her with a project or smth. it doesn't really actually matter; he's THERE, that's the important thing.) The point I'm very clearly getting at is they accidentally get incredibly high (not dangerously so because I'm not going that far haha but also, neither of them has actually been high before, so they are Affected) before Phoenix finds out what was in the brownies and tries to warn Trucy and hurry home to like, dispose of them or at least put a warning label on them or whatever, but he is too late lol. By a lot. Definitely an underage drugs tag on this bad boy because it's definitely sometime 18-or-earlier for Trucy, let alone 21. (idk about other places but as a Californian I can tell you Japanifornia "LA" could theoretically have it legalized at 21 for anyone (like alcohol) and 18 with Dr's permission--which Trucy definitely does not have in this AU lol.) Basically, Phoenix grabs Trucy's phone to get photo evidence so he can let them never live this down (after making sure they're okay lmao), but he ofc doesn't get technology so he doesn't realize he leaves the phone still recording when Trucy asks him for something / needs his help, so the recording just keeps going and captures a lot of tomfoolery and eventually some inebriated-to-Extremely-sober Feelings-Adjacent confessions (or maybe more like allusions). Idk, this was actually a fic I thought of before August and wanted to use as an excuse to try a Weird Format for fun, but then i saw this was a prompt on the list and...well. Fun Fact: Cannabis was legalized in California on November 8, 2016 (the first election I could vote in!!! ......uh, rip. lol. but yeah babey I helped legalize weed at least!! gotta remember the positives), which means it was legal right in time for Miles' case(s) / Turnabout Goodbyes!!! Yay!! I mean, I suppose that's genuinely seriously one way to try to mitigate nightmares and manage insomnia--not that I think Miles Edgeworth would ever deign stoop so low as to use an aid to manage his severe PTSD and trauma symptoms, psshaw, who do you take him for? (Get these people some help lol. They all need so much therapy.)

14. Princes & Princesses - conceptualized (not started)

So I've been reading a lot (a LOT) of isekai and/or revenge reincarnation romance fantasy manhwas lately (like, oh, too many, hahaha. they're quite good and they're VERY popular in webcomics at the moment.) Soooo. Soft pitch: Apollo already gets slapped into so many wild backstories he's constantly trying to dodge in an effort to be just a Normal Guy, he's honestly, like, the PERFECT protagonist for one of these lmao. And tell me Kristoph doesn't make a perfect "Upstanding Duke" kind of persona, and Klavier couldn't be the "wild rake" younger brother no one expects much from, and all I'm saying is it wouldn't be that hard to contrive a reason Apollo tries to get Klavier to agree to a contract marriage the way all these stories go, lol. And also, something something, Apollo from the "real world" is an orphan/has an absent family (also like so many of these manhwa protagonists, lol) but then he gets to actually have one in his second life!! I'm such a sucker for that shit. Slightly harder pitch, and the reason I did not let myself actually start writing anything (...yet): so what if the actual plot of the "original romance novel" Apollo is familiar with from the "real world (Earth)" is actually about the slightly older generation and something something instead of admiring Phoenix as a defense attorney, it's just that he instead was Apollo's favorite "love interest" character (not, like, for himself, just the one he most liked to read about) in every way except what a blithering idiot he became when the author had him fall for the female lead--but BEFORE that, he's a cool information guild leader guy who seems like he's trying to work toward some way to improve conditions for commoners in the kingdom (but abruptly there are no more mentions of this after he gets involved with the lead, which is annoying). Aaaand... I guess what I'm saying is, Dahlia is the original female lead because she REALLY fits the whole White Lotus trope, and I'm thinking Klavier is the original male lead because A) hilarious, B) fits in with the idea there's more going on in the ACTUAL world Apollo ends up in that is written in such a way as to make things seem different in the novel (like, that Dahlia and Klavier are actually as nice as they seem and that the terrible things that happen around them are just the trials and tribulations of being main characters and not anything they're directly involved in). And Apollo, the character in the novel Apollo, is an adopted prince of Khura'in, but he's the sickly younger prince and of course not actually of the royal bloodline (and also a man, considering Khura'in is matrilineal), so Rayfa and Nahyuta are the ones the public and other nobles actually know and care about and deal with. But wait! As it so turns out, The Wright Anything Information Guild (I feel like the actual guild name CAN'T have their freaking name on it front and center lol but you get the idea) happens to know some other things that aren't really expanded on in the original novel, and might be key to preventing Apollo's death so he doesn't follow the path of the original story, and also idk maybe Apollo and Trucy are half-fae or something like that and instead of like Aw Yay Bracelet in this AU it's more of a secret Iron Shackle Tool That Will Hurt I Mean Totally-Definitely-Help Us Later (still, in a way, passed down to him by Thalassa, but more as, like... she's kind of a secret hostage and does not manage to hide pregnancy number one so Apollo's now also a secret hostage, but she manages to escape so they don't know about Trucy, only she didn't tell Apollo basically anything to "keep him as safe as possible" or w/e, and......) Well, anyway. It got away from me before I even really wrote anything, that's all.

15. Secretly Alien - unfinished (currently 2.6k WIP)

Trucy POV, gen. Apollo gets sick of very consistently always losing the card games they play at the Wright Anything Agency (usually and in the specific instance the fic starts, Bullshit/BS) and in a stroke of inspiration somehow ropes everyone into playing Among Us instead. ("What! It's still a game of trying to lie/trick everyone else--like you like!--but I actually stand a freaking chance, so we're playing this or I'm going home.") Yes. This is my Among Us AU. Hi. They play Among Us. I'm justifying this one as prime AU territory however because A) Among Us has to exist in this universe, and even more pressingly, B) I found a way to force Phoenix to have--for at least a period of time if not moving forward in perpetuity--an actual smartphone instead of a Nokia-type brick cellphone. Which even under the wild but somehow plausible considering Ace Attorney circumstances I contrived, is just automatically a complete AU lmao. Fun Fact: I am so mad this one wasn't just totally finished day-of, lol. Why I ever thought I could give myself run of an entire WAA 4-person conversation and NOT get instantly derailed is beyond me. (And I want to get the prosecutors there, too?? Someone take the characters away from me.) Anyway. No, I have not written ANY of the actual Among Us part yet. Sigh. Also I haven't personally played amogus since like, 2021? maybe? And I know (now) that it's been pretty updated since then, but, ehhh, I'm just gonna run off like, lockdown-era amogus rules and vibes, lol. If I can get to the game part.

16 - Hobby Drama - conceptualized

I'm going to go out of order this time to say: Fun Fact: I have ALWAYS wanted to write a Reddit-style fic!!! I absolutely love them and I've read some REALLY, really good ones, so I've always wanted to try my hand at it. So theoretically this is the perfect time to make that a reality and write a r/HobbyDrama subreddit fic, buuut I got stuck before starting because I'm torn on two possible routes to take it (I can easily foresee myself caving and just doing both lol). - Option 1: Steel Samurai fandom discourse, always a fun/funny thing to think about, definitely would enjoy having Maya and Miles post some stuff for that. - Option 2: courtroom law fandom discourse, because come ON, how are those galleries ALWAYS SO FULL. The little wiggling rabba-rabba onlookers have GOT to have investment in this shit. And why WOULDN'T they, honestly. I've seen those trials and I have, in fact, spent a Lot of time thinking about them, not that any posts I've made lately would reflect that in any way or anything. Like I know it's hard to tell, but if I can be invested in the Lawyers Fandom, who's to say the people in the courtrooms aren't????? And I LOVE an outsider POV fic actually, I think they're so fun. So anyway. Reddit fic. You will be mine. Just as soon as I can hone my energy

And, what the hell, since it's so late now by the time I complete this "Heh This'll Be So Quick To Throw Together" post, I'll include today's, too:

17 - Flower Shop - conceptualized (at work earlier today. lol)

AU where Daddy Hawthorne is like, 97% less shitty. And the Hawthornes have a flower shop instead of like a gemstone industry or whatever. And he takes both Dahlia and Iris with him instead of dumping one of his daughters at a fucking secluded mountain temple and seemingly forgetting about her forever. On second thought, maybe what I actually mean is he's like 999% less shitty, lmfao. Anyway, Iris POV, but Dahlia (while not a "nice" person by any stretch) is not pushed to such extremes or nearly as desperate as canon, so Valerie lives, Terry Fawles lives, Doug Swallow lives, and Dahlia gets to live a good life overall--because as much fun as I love using her as a villain, she's really such a product of the absolute worst circumstances and I really do find her interesting so I've been kind of wanting to explore her in a less cartoonishly evil light, haha. (Don't get me wrong, I do love the cartoonishly evil light too, but I like spicing things up sometimes.) Like, she does (more) normal teen rebellion things ("Look at my inappropriately older boyfriend, Dad" "I'm going to talk my way out of speeding tickets and petty shoplifting as a bid for attention" etc.) and she still totally orders Iris around and Iris still totally does whatever she asks very much to her own detriment and has to learn to break away and be her own person. Fun Fact: I have a very passionate love for Iris/Adrian Andrews. Is that. Um. Is that a ship anyone else has ever considered before? Is that just me? I'm not sure but very possibly I'll just make this a rarepair fic as a treat, for me alone, teehee. (Like... it's about the becoming the master of your own destiny it's about breaking out of codependent cycles it's about how I genuinely honestly think they'd be each other's type and have chemistry even though they've obviously never interacted lmao... idk what to tell you.)

AND THATS MY AU-GUST UPDATE POST!!!

If you made it this far, take a sprinkle of my undying affection, and may you be blessed with AU inspiration if you so desire it!! (If you do not desire it, hopefully you are not cursed with it. I do not take refunds if you are. Sorry.)

Wish me luck with completing some more fics soon!!! Unfortunately weekends are actually my least free time because I work the most and the earliest hours so I have less time and am more tired, but also on Wednesday I'm leaving for a family vacation, which will either be the BEST thing to happen in regards to AU-gust or the WORST thing lmfao. If nothing else I have 2 flights, and I actually Love writing on an airplane, so fingers crossed for it being Good. <3

EDIT: Now with part 2 for the rest of the month here!

[megumismom]

last week I was swimming in the adriatic sea thinking about devil's minion and then telling myself how pathetic I am for thinking about devil's minion when literally this is my view

today i watched the first episode of hotel portofino and was like heyyyyy the setting looks really familiar, turns out it was filmed in croatia, so assad zaman may have also been swimming in the adriatic sea thinking about devil's minion and that makes me feel a little better 🖤

[shoezuki]

(this is a mini fic from a segment of my fic 'Doctor, the problem's in my chest' during chapter 6 where Gepard rushes into the Cold Plains to find Sampo and saves him from the fragmentum amalgamation. I had originally planned to have a segment between sampo being injured by the monster and gepard saving him that was from gepards perspective. i scrapped it but wrote it as an extra bit for fun)

Being confined in a closed, restricting space with Sampo Koski has forced Gepard to learn a lot about the conman. Nothing useful, nothing all that remarkable, really. Just… things. 

Things like how Sampo knows how to cook, even with limited, shitty ingredients like questionable beef jerky and frozen vegetables. How he eats as if he has been starved for days for every single meal, how he rations out food meticulously and keeps track of supplies in a studious way that would put the Silvermane’s resource management to shame. Or how he knows how to whittle wood with practiced ease, crafts his own bombs and how to repurpose things outside of what they were made for. Gepard learns that Sampo sleeps lightly, too, even if Sampo thinks he’s unaware. Gepard learns that quickly-- when he is shocked awake with nightmares or shifts just the slightest bit in his bed late at night, Sampo’s breathing always goes the slightest bit quieter. Gepard also learns that Sampo’s hands are warm and that Gepard’s tendency to stare makes him skittish.

(He’s been told, many, many, many times that his staring is… creepy. Unnerving. Gepard doesn’t understand how or what he’s doing wrong, but he’s used to people tensing and glancing away, saying he looks too stern. Gepard expects Sampo to say the same, to say his stare is freaky or weird like so many people have before. But he never does.)

It’s these little, mundane, strange things Gepard has learned that causes him to realize something is wrong this time as soon as he wakes up.

The injury and the fever the infection has inspired has been making him sluggish, slow to realize himself and feeling like an alien in his own skin. It takes him a few minutes this time, too, to wake up fully. His head feels heavy like cotton is pressing against the back of his eyes, he feels too hot and too cold at the same time. He’s sweaty and disgusting, shivering under his blankets, but every uncovered inch of skin feels chilled as if the air is made of ice.

Something is wrong. He knows something is wrong before he fully opens his eyes. 

The first thing he'd learned about Sampo is that he's made of movement and noise. For someone who slinks around back alleys and evades the Guards with ease, there's a constant restless energy under his skin that has him shifting and talking and waltzing around the small house all the time. Even in his silence, when he thinks Gepard is asleep and and is laying on the sofa late at night or tiptoeing as he peeks through the bedroom door, he’s loud. Sampo’s presence is imprinted on Gepard’s awareness, a constant feeling in the back of his head like a sixth sense. Many, many times Gepard has woken up shocked from subtle nightmares, only to become all-too aware of Sampo laying on the sofa in the other room and clinging to his distant company to calm himself.

Even in his foggy, feverish state, his mind far away from himself and nothing but aching pain and cold-hot shivers consuming him, he wakes up and everything feels wrong. He shuffles, groans and untangles himself from the sweat-damp sheets and blankets he was twisted up in. He rubs at his eyes, tries to focus, tries to listen for Sampo in the other room. “S-Sampo?” He huffs out, his voice raw and his words dragging through his throat. “Sam… Sampo?” 

There’s nothing. No response, no sound of movement, no rushed surge of footsteps towards his door as Sampo always does when Gepard barely even thinks to call for him. There’s nothing but the echoing, suffocating silence of simply being completely and utterly alone. 

It only takes him a few seconds to panic. 

Gepard had seen himself as a prisoner in the beginning, sure that Sampo had some ulterior motive to saving him and tending to him. He’d battled his own thankful relief of being alive with his strange, gnawing guilt and doubt that he even should be. Gepard had found all worry for himself shifted to Sampo, a strange feeling of anxiety and concern for the conman. He’d started to cling to it, pretending to be fine and hiding his delirious mind and fevers to keep that unfamiliar, pinched expression from Sampo’s face. 

The monster he’d seen carve through his Guards, echoing their voices as it circled the house, inspired a kind of fear in him he hadn’t experienced before.

He can’t stop thinking about what it would do to Sampo, how it could kill and take the last person with him stranded out in the Cold Plains. He couldn’t stop dreaming of it, of black shards of fragmentum crawling over Sampo’s skin, his clothes, crackling in his voice. He couldn’t stand it, he couldn’t let Sampo be the one to take his place.

Maybe the monster wants Gepard dead, maybe it knows Gepard had been the only one to escape it. Maybe it wants to leave Gepard to fester and fade away, alone with his fever and his infection and his grief. Maybe the monster knows Gepard wouldn’t make it out of here and wants to kill Sampo in his place, the one who saved Gepard, in some twisted sort of revenge. 

(If he could think clearly, if he could think of anything other than the bone-chilling, soul-crushing fear that had consumed him in a tidal wave, he’d know none of that made sense. The fragmentum amalgamation was a mindless, lumbering husk of his Silvermane Guards. It acted without thought, dragged itself towards the warm bodies of living creatures, absorbing their life and their flesh into itself.)

Gepard is on his feet without thinking about it, the sudden piercing pain of his broken leg making his head clear the slightest bit. He slips his feet into the old slippers (the one’s Sampo got me, his mind unhelpfully supplies, making his chest feel heavy and tight) and grabs the shoddy crutch off the wall (the one Sampo made. Sampo made it. He made it for me. For me. Where is he?). He huffs, gasps for tight breaths as he shambles out of the room, feeling the temperature rapidly dip the farther he gets from the single remaining geomarrow heater. He squints and scans the room, the small living room and attached kitchenette. The pile of Sampo’s gloves and parka, usually dumped in a mess in the corner by the door, is gone just as Sampo is.

“Sampo?” He croaks out hopelessly, as if the other man will manifest in front of him at the sound of his desperate fear. But there’s no one but him, his heart sinking to his stomach. “Shit… Shit, shit shit!” 

Gepard moves as quickly as he can, around the room and towards the door, putting too much weight on his bad leg. He ignores the pain, the constant screaming ache of his wound, and only pauses in front of the door when he stares at his bare, outreached hand. 

He spins back around, muffling a sound in the back of his throat. He trips into the kitchen, catching himself on a counter and letting the crutch clatter to the floor as he starts yanking drawers open, tearing through cupboards, shelves, through old dusty silverware and dishware, dust and cobwebs swirling disturbed in the air around him. “C’mon, come on!” He hisses through his teeth, the wound in his side burning as he ducked to look underneath the cabinets. “Where in Qlipoth’s name did he hide it?” 

Trying not to scream with his rising fear and frustration, Gepard stops suddenly. He turns and looks back at the old, unused wood stove. He’d watched Sampo a lot, when he didn’t know Gepard was watching, through the cracked open bedroom door. Sampo had sometimes stopped, paused at the wood stove with a hum, or his gaze drifting to it. Gepard recalls hearing the grinding, metallic screech of the heavy iron door opening a few times, usually at night or when Gepard was struggling to sleep through his suffering. Sampo had hovered around and looked into the stove many, many times after Gepard and him argued, after Gepard demanded his gauntlet returned to him so he could march out to his death.

 “Idiot,” Gepard mutters to himself, kicking himself for having forgotten. He ignores the ripping feeling in his side as he bends down to grab his crutch, leaning on it as he ambles towards the stove. Getting to his knees he twists the handle, the door of the stove moving with a hefty groan. The inside is black, soot and old ashes making the inside of the wood stove look like a ceaseless black void. It made the gleam of metal stand out and instantly catch his attention. 

Ash clings black and grey to his hands as he grabs his gauntlet, hands shaking as he held it in front of him. It felt both heavy and light at the same time, cold metal making his fingers feel numb. The metallic surface, the delicate metal plates making up the fingers and the faintly glowing blue geomarrow protruding from the wrist, are all tarnished with soot. Streaks of black give way under his fingers, staining them black. 

It feels familiar, comforting as he puts it on. Gepard stretches his fingers, feeling the grind of the metal joints and the low clattering sounds of metal on metal as he clenches his fist. The feeling of the abnormal cold, a sort of tingling energy pressed to his skin, is something he almost missed. He clenches his fist, feeling frost flare up and swirl around his hand, clinging to the metal gauntlet.

Sampo had disarmed him, taken his gauntlet and only weapon when he’d first dragged Gepard, unconscious and near dead, into this abandoned house. He’d been panicked when he’d first woken up, then furious when Sampo refused to give it back after the monster made its presence known. He understands why for both instances, now; no doubt Gepard would have frozen Sampo solid when he’d first seen the criminal hovering over him, and he would’ve marched into the snow and cold to hunt the monster down if Sampo had given it back to him. 

He can’t say it aloud, can’t bear to think about it, but the gauntlet feels… wrong, now. Grim, heavy, a weight digging into his skin and digging down to his bones. He realizes he hadn’t seen it, worn it since he had struggled against the fragmentum amalgamation. He can’t help but imagine the blood of his fallen Guards frozen to his metal fingers. 

 Gepard doesn’t think of anything else, doesn’t think about the severity of his own actions: he has no shoes besides thin slippers, no coat or weapon; he could barely walk, and not without pain; he had no clue exactly where they were in the Cold Plains, where Sampo could be, if he could find him.

It doesn’t matter, though. He couldn’t do nothing, couldn’t let Sampo remain out there where that thing is. He couldn’t even stand the thought of it, the possibility of Sampo being cut down by the fragmentum amalgamation, absorbed into its form with the Silvermane Guards that Gepard had led to their deaths. 

The thought of Sampo being the one to die to the fragmentum amalgamation in his place has Gepard opening the door, not even flinching at the rush of cold as he rushes out into the nothingness.

[sasanka-27]

It’s real

| Fandom: supernatural | Pairing: Dean/Castiel | Words: 7k+

| Type: oneshot | Rating: Teen and up | Author: Sasanka27

Summary: Morning of his birthday Dean wakes up alone doubting if he hadn’t dream the good parts of his life.

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