#past that area (and its guardians)

[artificer-real]

Hey man. I accidentally ate the Moon's neuron flies. What do I do now. I think I killed him why is the gameplay so confusing LMFAO

WGGDKZJCLWVXKSHZK JXKBD HELP

okay dont worry i killed her my first playthrough too LMFAO

Alright lemmie tell you how Rainworld is as a game. At its core, its about trial and error. You fail, you miss, you fall, and you die. Constantly. However, you also learn. This is extremely important. No death is pointless, no action is a waste.

The gameplay is confusing, because youre just a slugcat! A small, frail creature in a large world. Who happens to get entangled in the business of gods, yknow?

Moon, at this point, is a broken god. She cant help you in any meaningful way. But there is another iterator in close vicinity that can. Five Pebbles, still high above the clouds, has a very valuable gift, if you wish for it

[confessedlyfannish]

Writing Prompt #12

Bruce is reading the paper when the pour of Tim's coffee goes abruptly quiet. It would be hard to pinpoint why this is disturbing if it wasn't for the way the soft, tinny sound the vent system in the manor makes cuts out for the first time since being updated in the 90s. The pour, Bruce realizes, has not slowed to a trickle before stopping. It has simply stopped. And there is no overeager clack of a the mug against the marble counter or the uncouth first slurp (nor muttered apology at Alfred's scolding look) immediately following the end of the pour.

Bruce fights the instinct to use all of his senses to investigate, and instead keeps his eyes on the byline of the article detailing the latest set of microearthquakes to hit the midwest in the last week. Microearthquakes aren't an unusual occurrence and aren't noticeable by human standards, which is why this article is regulated to page seven, but from several hundred a day worldwide to several hundred a day solely in the East North Central States, seismologists are baffled.

Bruce had been considering sending Superman to investigate under the guise of a Daily Planet article requested by Bruce Wayne (Wayne Industries does have an offshoot factory in the area) when everything had stopped twenty seconds ago. That is what he assumes has happened (having not moved a muscle to confirm) in the amount of time he assumes has passed. His million dollar Rolex does not quite audibly tick but in the absolute silence it should be heard, which confirms the silence to be exactly that—absolute.

While Bruce can hold his breath with the best of the Olympian swimmers, he has never accounted for a need to remain without blinking without being able to move one's eyes. Rotating the eyeballs will maintain lubrication such that one could go without blinking for up to ten minutes. But staring at the byline fixedly, he estimates another twenty seconds before tears start to form.

These are the thoughts Bruce distracts himself with, because he doesn't dare consider how Tim and Alfred haven't made a (living) sound in the past forty-five seconds. About Damian, packing his bag upstairs for school after a morning walk with Titus that was "just pushing it, Master Damian".

There is a knife to his right, if memory serves (it does). In the next five seconds—

"Your wards and guardian are fine, Mr. Wayne," the deepest voice Bruce has ever heard intones. For a dizzying moment, it is hard to pinpoint the location of the voice, for it comes from everywhere—like the chiming of a clocktower whilst inside the tower, so overpowering he is cocooned in its volume.

But it is not spoken loudly, just calmly, and when he puts the paper down, folds it, and looks to his right, a blue man sits in Dick's chair.

He wears a three piece suit made entirely of hues of violet, tie included. He has a black brooch in the shape of a cogwheel pinned to his chest pocket, a simple chain clipped to his lapel. Black leather gloves delicately thumb Bruce's watch (no longer on his wrist, somewhere between second 45 and 46 it has stopped being on his wrist), admiring it.

"You'll forgive me," the man says with surety. "Clocks are rather my thing, and this is an impressive piece." He turns it over and reveals the 'M. Brando' roughly scratched into the silver back. He frowns.

"What a shame," he says, placing it face side up on the table.

"Most would consider that the watch's most valuable characteristic." Bruce says, voice steady, hands neatly folded before him. Two inches from the knife. To his left, there is an open doorway to the kitchen. If he turns his head, he might be able to get a glance of Tim or Alfred.

He doesn't look away from the man.

"It is the arrogance of man," the man says, raising red eyes (sclera and all) to Bruce, "to think they can make their mark on time."

"...Is that supposed to be considered so literally?" Bruce asks, with a light smile he does not mean.

The man smiles lightly back, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks to be in his mid thirties, clean-shaven. His skin is a dull blue, his hair a shock of white, and a jagged scar runs through one eye and curving down the side of his cheek, an even darker, rawer shade of blue-purple.

The man turns the watch back over and taps at the engraving. "Let me ask you this," he says. "When we deface a work of art, does it become part of the art? Does it add to its intrinsic meaning?"

Bruce forces his shoulders to shrug. "It's arbitrary," he says. "A teenager inscribes his name on the wall of an Ancient Egyptian temple and his parents are forced to publicly apologize. But runic inscriptions are found on the Hagia Sophia that equate to an errant Viking guard having inscribed 'Halfdan was here' and we consider it an artifact of a time in which the Byzantine Empire had established an alliance with the Norse and converted vikings to Christianity."

"The vikings were as errant as the teenager," the man says, "in my experience." He leans back in his chair. "I suppose you could say the difference is time. When time passes, we start to think of things as artistic, or historical. We find the beauty in even the rubble, or at least we find necessity in the destruction..."

He offers Bruce the watch. After a moment, Bruce takes it.

"The problem, Mr. Wayne, is that time does not pass for me. I see it all as it was, as it is, as it ever will be, at all times. There is no refuge from the horror or comfort in that one day..." he closes his hand, the leather squeaking. And then his face smooths out, the brief severity gone. He regards Bruce calmly.

"You can look left, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks left. Framed by the doorway, Tim looks like a photograph caught in time. A stream of coffee escapes the spout of the stainless steel pot he prefers over the Breville in the name of expediency, frozen as it makes its way to the thermos proclaiming BITCH I MIGHTWING. Tim regards his task with a face of mindless concentration, mouth slack, lashes in dark relief against his pale skin as he looks down at the mug. Behind him, Bruce can see Alfred's hand outstretched towards the refrigerator handle, equally and terrifyingly still.

"My name is Clockwork," the man says. "I have other names, ones you undoubtedly know, but this one will be bestowed upon me from the mouth of a child I cherish, and so I favor it above all else. I am the Keeper of Time."

"What do you want from me?" Bruce asks, shedding Wayne for Batman in the time it takes to meet Clockwork's eyes. The man acknowledges the change with a greeting nod.

"In a few days time, you will send Superman to the Midwest to investigate the unusual seismic activity. By then, it will be too late, the activity will be gone. They will have already muzzled him."

"Him."

"There is a boy with the power to rule the realm I come from. Your government has been watching him. The day he turned 18, they took him from his family and hid him away. I want you to retrieve him. I want you to do it today."

"Why me?"

"His parents do not have the resources you do, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. You will dismantle the organization that is keen on keeping him imprisoned, and you will offer him a scholarship to the local University. You and yours will keep him safe within Gotham until he is able to take his place as my King."

This is a lot of information to take in, even for Bruce. The idea that there could be a boy powerful enough to rule over this (god, his mind whispers) entity and that somehow, he has slipped under all of their radars is as frustrating as it is overwhelming. But although Clockwork has seemed willing to converse, he doesn't know how many more questions he will get.

"You have the power to stop time," he decides on, "why don't you rescue him? Would he not be better suited with you and your people?"

"Within every monarchy, there is a court," Clockwork. "Mine will be unhappy with the choice I have made," he looks at Bruce's watch, head cocked. "In different worlds, they call you the Dark Knight. This will be your chance to serve before a True King."

Bruce bristles. "I bow to no one."

"You'll all serve him, one day," Clockwork says, patiently. "He is the ruler of realms where all souls go, new and old. When you finally take refuge, he will be your sanctuary." He frowns. "But your government rejects the idea of gods. All they know is he is other. Not human. Not meta. A weapon."

"A weapon you want me to bring to my city."

"I believe you call one of your weapons 'Clark', do you not?" Clockwork asks idly. "But you misunderstand me. They seek to weaponize him. He is not restrained for your safety, but for their gain."

"And if I don't take him?" Bruce asks, because a) Clockwork has implied he will be at the very least impeded, at worst destroyed over this, and b) he never did quite learn not to poke the bear. "You won't be around if I decide he's better off with the government."

"You will," Clockwork says, with the same certainty he's wielded this entire conversation. "Not because he is a child, though he is, nor because you are good, though you are, nor even because it is better power be close at hand than afar.

"I have told you my court will be unhappy with me. In truth, there are others who also defend the King. Together we will destroy the access to our world not long after this conversation. The court will be unable to touch him, but neither will we as we face the repercussions for our actions. I am telling you this, because in a timeline where I do not, you think I will be there to protect him. And so when he is in danger, even subconsciously, you choose to save him last, or not at all. And that is the wrong choice.

"So cement it in your head, Bruce Wayne," the man says, "You will go to him because I tell you to. And you will keep him safe until he is ready to return to us. He will find no safety net in me. So you will make the right choice, no matter the cost."

"Or, when our worlds connect again, and they will," his voice now echoes in triplicate with the voices of the many, the young, the old, Tim, Bruce's mother, Barry Allen, Bruce's own voice, "I will not be the only one who comes for you."

"Now," he says, producing a Wayne Industries branded BIC pen. "I will tell you the location the boy is being kept, and then I would like my medallion back, please. In that order."

Bruce glances down and sees a golden talisman, attached to a black ribbon that is draped haphazardly around the neck of his bathrobe, so light (too light, he still should have—) he has not felt its weight until this moment.

Bruce flips the paper over, takes the pen, and jots down the coordinates the being rattles off over the face of a senator. By his calculation, they do correspond with a location in the midwest.

"You will find him on B6. Take a left down the hallway and he will be in the third room down, the one with a reinforced steel door. Take Mr. Kent and Mr. Grayson with you, and when you leave take the staircase at the end of the hallway, not the elevator."

The man gets up, dusts off his impeccably clean pants, and offers him a hand to shake.

"We will not meet again for some time, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks at the creature, stands, and shakes his hand. It feels like nothing. The Keeper of Time sighs, although nothing has been said.

"Ask your question, Mr. Wayne."

"I have more than one."

"You do," Clockwork says. "But I have heard them all, and so they are one. Please ask, or I will not be inclined to answer it."

"What does this boy mean for the future, that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for him?"

There is a pause.

"So that is the one," Clockwork says, after a time. "Yes. I see. I should resolve this, I suppose."

"Resolve what?"

"It is not his future I mean to protect," the man says. "It is his present."

"You want to keep him safe now..." Bruce says, but he's not sure what the being is trying to say.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork repeats, stops. His expression turns solemn, red eyes widening. In their reflection, Bruce can see something. A rush of movement too quick to make heads or tails of, like playing fast forward on a videotape. "Superman reports no signs of unusual seismic activity. With nothing further to look into, you let it go in favor of other investigative pursuits. You do not find him, as you are not meant to. He stays there. His family, his friends, they cannot find him. His captors tell him they have moved on. He does not believe them, until he does. He stays there. He stays there until he is strong enough to save himself."

Clockwork speaks stiffly, rattling off the chain of events as if reading a Justice League debrief. "He is King. He will always be King. He is strong, and good, and compassionate, and he is great for my people because yours have betrayed his trust beyond repair. He throws himself into being the best to ever Be, because there is nothing Left for him otherwise. We love him. We love him. We love him. My King. Forevermore."

The red film in his eyes stall out, and Bruce is forced to look away from how bright the image is, barely making out a silhouette before they dull back to their regular red.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork says slowly, "To this future."

"Because of what it means in the present," Bruce finishes for him. "They're not just imprisoning him, are they."

"They will have already muzzled him."

Clockworks is right in front of him faster than he can process, fist gripping the medallion at his neck so tight he now feels the ribbon digging into his skin.

"Unlike you, Mr. Wayne," and for the first time, the god is angry, and the image of it will haunt Bruce for the rest of his life, "I do not believe in building a better future on the back of a broken child."

"Find him," the deity orders, and yanks the necklace so hard the ribbon rips—

Clack!

"sluuuuurp!"

"Master Timothy, honestly!"

"Sorry Alfred!"

[fluff-n-cookies]

Endeavor is not a "good man"

-----

Dabi is Reader’s father, Reader has blue eyes like his. No use of Y/N

For those who don’t know, this post is related to these

TW: mentions of financial difficulty, POC friendly, reader is a toddler around the age of 5, references to Dabi's relationship with endeavor, FEM READER, SPOILERS!!! scroll down for authors note :p

Pt 1, Pt 2

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At 1 pm sharp, every weekday, school lets out in the neighborhood, children run to their parents cars, walk home, or make their way to the train to go home.

what's unfortunate however, Is that there have been certain individuals spotted around the area.

Villains, I mean.

robbers that natch mothers purses away while they aren't looking, creep old men who watch from a distance, and with the rise of the League of Villains and their speculated hideout being close by, Yokohama's public council has urged for some heroes to take up the extra patrols available in such a... crime infested area. yes.

Endeavor's PR team eventually got wind of this and...

The bell rang, children burst through the doors eager to go home for the weekend, so joyous. only to find something even better, a hero, the new number 1 hero, Endeavor.

Swarmed, that what he was, swarmed and annoyed. but this is what's good for his reputation, good for the community, good for him to stay cool and chill as the youngsters say.

unbeknownst to him however, a harmless little thing lurks around the school building, hidden in shadows like her dad does whenever they go out into town together. She stares like a hawk. at least that's what she tries to look like anyway.

she ends up looking like a tiny wee kitten about to pounce on its mother's tail. how darling.

Dad doesn't like heroes.

she thinks to herself, clutching her new bag tightly, she got it just last week since school just started. It's pretty worn down, they had gotten it from the thrift, but it's also all they could afford at the moment.

especially that one...

she stood there for a moment. hidden in the shade of the ginkgo trees, she shook her head, and made it past the crowd of rowdy classmates, with flame hero endeavor at its center.

she was five now, that meant she would be just fine on the streets of Yokohama. Dad didn't need to take her on the bus and walk her to school and go back on the bus all over again. she could walk on her own to the bus stop, get on the bus, and then dad would walk her back to their apartment. easy. really easy.

at least it may have been if a hero wasn't following her. this one could burn her to a crisp, she'd be all crunchy like the toast and strawberry jam she'd had this morning.

Well, to be fair, from endeavor's perspective, all she saw was a little girl walking down the same route that he was meant to take for his patrol. simple. May as well make sure that she's okay and gets home safely, especially since she doesn't have her mom with her or anything.

she is a small little thing really. Shoto used to be like that, cute and stubby. Rei would dress him up in cute clothes whenever they would go out.

the girl keeps walking, walk, walk, walk, well, more of a slight toddle. occasionally saying "hi" to class mates as they go to their respective apartments and houses and to the strays that wander the alley ways.

where is this girl's house?

more importantly perhaps, where is her guardian?

he should probably introduce himself to her.

-----

Tags ; @red4-0 @likethegardenyk @suktoru @blurryperrtymoonlight @harkenizalone @lostiolite @rllytriedrn @mellyxqz @cupkiki @xxnessinessiellexx @dehlieee @mossysoup @ijwsbdinp @byul9158 @suksatoru @ssetsuka @savatar-de-mordor @justanotherweeb666 @frog-fans-unite

Ermmmm,I meant to write more, but like, I'm kinda tired, lil' something for you guys to munch on. and likeeee uhhh ssnsadns sand. yes sand. I'llfinsih this part laterrrr

[merakiui]

me & you, beyond a horizon so blue.

scaramouche/wanderer x (gender neutral) reader cw: slight angst, brief and vague mentions of scaramouche's past and the shouki no kami fight, you and wanderer have adopted a child together, this fic takes place before scara tries to erase himself in irminsul note - after he's defeated in a fight against the traveler, scaramouche wakes up in the distant future and learns a few things about an emotion he's always felt undeserving of.

It’s dark until he has the courage to force his eyes open.

Immediately, he wants to shut them. Near-blinding, the afternoon sun beams into his room through a part in the curtains. If he were human, it would have caused some sort of irreversible retinal damage. He’s not—though he isn’t spared the impending irritation—and so he’s able to adjust with relative quickness, his indigo eyes soon finding comfort in the brightness. It means a new day has dawned. He’s not dead—if that mortal concept can even apply to a puppet like him.

With a weak groan, Scaramouche drags a hand down his face and, like a sluggish, reanimated corpse, sits up in bed. The sheets are clean and soft, a soothing balm amidst the unrest that vibrates through him. It has been a long while since he’s slept through the night, preferring the shadows over the sun. Nocturnal like nature intended. A creature created in gloom can change and adapt, but it will always seek familiarity no matter what. 

Intrinsically like a rooted habit.

It’s only natural he would be forced into sleep, considering the fall was not pleasant, nor was the inevitable impact. He brings his fingers to his cheek, presses against the area, and assesses for injury. Nothing is damaged.

But then nothing is fixed. Not internally.

Having expected the dreary interior of an infirmary, he’s struck with bewilderment when he makes note of the bedroom he’s currently confined to. It’s furnished like a typical residence, unlike that of any inn he’s ever known, and there is a strange sense about this space. As if he’s always known about it and has just recalled it, destined to wake here one day and submit himself to its simple charms.

This can’t be right.

He’s never seen this bedroom before, let alone slept in it. Until now, that is. Perhaps a part of him has subconsciously willed it into existence with all of his fruitless wishing, the result of some illusion weaved from the intricacies of hopeful dreams.

Scaramouche glances at the bedside table, his brow furrowed in the beginnings of a wary scowl. Something is so obviously, painfully not right. He knows it has something to do with this room and the fact that he’s alone and unguarded. Lesser Lord Kusanali is not a fool, no matter how much he’d like to comfort himself with that delusion, and so he knows there should be no reason why he’s here instead of where he’s meant to be. 

And then he hears them—voices. Three of them, actually. One is high and giggly. It’s a little girl. Judging by the intonation of the other, an adult. Her guardian, to be more exact. He can’t place the third, especially since it’s one that sounds so grossly affectionate. He’s never heard anyone, human or not, speak with such tender warmth. 

He’s never known such a thing. Not in a long while. 

Scaramouche throws the covers off at once, stumbling from the bed in a panicked flurry. Watching it like it’s a threat, he clutches his chest. He doesn’t feel a heartbeat; rather, it’s the crackle of Electro deep within the core of his being that resounds, fizzling like snapped, angry circuitry. His fingers dig into wrinkled fabrics and he takes pause, realizing his actions.

To think something as mundane as a bed could startle him.

To think comfort would feel like a curse. 

What a joke. Even here, I’m not allowed the peace of a lonesome parting. 

He walks on intact legs, bidding the room a final glower before throwing the door open and stomping outside. Wherever he’s found himself, whether the mortal coil or a place beyond, he’s determined to get out. He pays no attention to the picture frames on the wall as he stalks down the hall, his mind working twice as fast to conjure a plan. If this place proves to be foul, there will be casualties. Three of them. 

Bloodshed is nothing new. 

What is new, though, is the scene he walks into when he approaches the kitchen, stepping through the threshold and immediately stopping short when he sees himself. 

Only…he’s different.

“You’re in poor shape,” his other self comments, almost conversationally, as if this sort of talk is casual. He’s dressed in breezy colors: whites and blues, the prettiest of hues. It’s a color scheme he would never entertain at present, but it sings of free skies with fluffy cumulus. An unburdened soul, light as a feather. 

Scaramouche opens his mouth to retort—so are you—and shuts it because that’s not true. His other self looks better than ever as he sits at the table. He looks healthy. 

He looks happy. 

“Whoa! There are two Papas?!” 

He flinches, horribly rigid, every sense on high alert. His gaze pans over to the little girl peeking out from behind your legs. She looks at him like he’s a wonder to behold—like he’s someone worth adoring. 

It’s different. It’s not the fondly fearful gaze of a devout follower, nor is it the clinical stare of a mournful creator or a deranged doctor. It’s something else. 

It’s…

What is it? What is that emotion—the one that has evaded him for the entirety of his existence?

“Good afternoon, sleepyhead. We were beginning to wonder when you’d wake up.”

He turns to look at you. A smile softens your features. Coupled with the glorious sunlight filtering in from the window, you are the most seraphic creature he’s ever seen. Horrified at the development of his thoughts, he hardens his face into a vicious glare and tamps down the weakness that rises to the surface.

“You were expecting me?” he asks, but it sounds like a demand. “What’s the meaning of this?” 

“Why don’t you take a seat? I can fetch you a cup of tea,” you offer, your voice gentle and coaxing. He glances at the little girl. Her gaze is worn down with worry.

“I will do no such thing,” he snaps, folding his arms across his chest. “You have no authority over me. I’ll sit if I so please, and I do not please. So I will not sit, nor will I indulge in tea.” 

His other self barks out a laugh. “To think I was like that… I was intolerable.”

“Still are,” you reply with a cheeky grin. 

“You’re just as bad,” he snipes back, but there isn’t any heat to the remark. There’s that emotion again, reflected so clearly when he’s looking at you. His other self smiles—genuinely smiles—and then addresses him next. The smile tightens into something serious. “Relax. We’re not going to bite.”

“No, but I can and I will. Don’t think for a minute that just because you’re me I won’t—” He stops himself when the little girl tugs on his shorts, peering up at him with more wide-eyed concern. Rather awkwardly, he does his best to bring his attitude to a child-friendly level. “I… I’m fine.” He searches the silence for her name. 

“Aaliya! Nice to meet you, Papa Number Two!”

Scaramouche nods mechanically, moves to bend down to her height, and then straightens again, thinking better of it. “What is all of this?” His hand sweeps across the room. “Just who are you?” 

Like clockwork finely tuned, you and his other self exchange a furtive glance before nodding. It’s some unspoken language Scaramouche can’t decode. He frowns as he watches this interaction, even more suspicious than before. 

“Aaliya, could you draw something for me?” you ask, guiding her from the kitchen towards the neighboring sitting room. Aaliya grabs a notebook and pencil from the countertop as she goes, humming her compliance. “We need another masterpiece to hang up, and you’re the best artist we’ve got.”

She giggles. “You can count on me!”

The sound calms him. He almost allows his shoulders to drop. Almost. 

Scaramouche watches from the doorway, observing the way you interact with the girl. It’s parental and adoring. You care for this child, and she cares for you. 

Just what is that elusive emotion? Why can’t he place it?

Once Aaliya has been successfully distracted with the allure of art, you return to take your seat beside his other self. Scaramouche stares between the both of you, utterly lost. 

“You don’t have to sit—not like I could get you to after you’ve made up your mind—but, at the very least, let’s talk.”

Scaramouche’s eyes narrow. “Speak.”

“So entitled…” His other self sighs. “I shouldn’t expect anything less. I am you, after all.” 

“Was,” he corrects astutely. “This isn’t the present day, and it can’t possibly be a dream.” He scrutinizes his surroundings, slowly fitting the pieces together. “It’s gone on for much too long.” 

His other self tilts his head, playful. “Are you sure you’re not just stuck under Buer’s thumb?”

Right. Dreams. Lesser Lord Kusanali can poke her nose in and out of dreams as she pleases.

“Plausible, yes. But this is too detailed. And you—” he gestures to Blue Scaramouche— “are different. I wouldn’t dream of something so inane. Something like…this.” 

Something so carefree and content, he almost tacks on as an afterthought, but he refrains. Weakness. 

“Oh, but of course. You’re too good for good things,” his other self jeers, sardonic in a way that incites violence. He pushes that urge away. There’s a child nearby. “For what it’s worth, we’re still the same person.”

“Do not compare me to a weakling like you.”

“Hah? You think I’m the weak one? I’ll show you—”

“Wawan, relax,” you say, moving your body to obstruct his view. 

Both look on, horrified. 

“Wawan?” Scaramouche ventures, brows furrowed. 

“You…” He turns away with a huff. 

“What? It’s cute! You like it!” You smile and nudge him.

Scaramouche is in awe, nearly slack-jawed from witnessing such a bold display. If anyone were to do that to him—to the fearsome Lord Harbinger Scaramouche—they would not get away unscathed. In fact, he’d subject them to a death so brutal they’d beg for release even in the afterlife. No one lays a finger on him unless they’re actively seeking a bloody finale. More importantly, no one reduces his being to such flowery nicknames. 

Disgusting. 

His other self—this Wawan fool—recovers from his flustered state and clears his throat. “Wanderer,” he says, hurrying the syllables before you can make any more comments. “The name I go by. You should know it because you’ll use it one day.”

“I will do no such thing.”

Wanderer’s expression softens at that—out of sympathy, he realizes. Uncharacteristic, Scaramouche thinks. I do not soften, nor do I sympathize. 

“You lost, Balladeer. There is no future for the god you hoped to become because he doesn’t exist. Not anymore.”

He bristles, suddenly defensive. “And who’s to say I haven’t already achieved godhood? Your claims are as useful as a corpse. You have no valid proof.”

“But I do. I’m you.”

“Even so, you’re woefully uninformed if you can so carelessly prattle on about—”

Wanderer sighs again, and this time you offer your hand. He hesitates, looking between Scaramouche and you, before his hand slips into yours, holding tight. Scaramouche’s face twists. 

Foul. 

“You failed, and this is the result of that—the future neither of us could have foreseen.” 

“Failure is a strong word,” you chime in, running your thumb over the top of his hand. You look at Scaramouche next. “You didn’t succeed, yes, but you can learn from your mistakes and grow.”

“And grow I so apparently did,” he mutters, bitter and resentful. “Into a weakling who…” He pauses, his tongue heavy in his mouth, eloquence escaping him. “A weakling who… Who shackles himself to idyllic nonsense with nothing but…” His fingers curl into tight fists. “Nothing but filthy weaknesses to show for it.”

Nonplussed, Wanderer submits to temporary silence, to the comforts you provide. There’s a feeling sprouting between the both of you. Neither of you says anything, but you understand regardless. It’s a silent sort of communication, an undeniable connection. An understanding fostered from that despicable emotion. 

With an offended scoff, Scaramouche turns swiftly on his heel and freezes when he finds Aaliya standing there. She peers up at him, studies his poker face, and presents him with her drawing. 

“Papa tells me love is hard, but it comes easy when you’re with the right people. You need to be willing and accepting. When you are, love will find you and you’ll find love.”

She presses the parchment into his hands. Shakily, he beholds it. It’s a poorly drawn family portrait, but Aaliya’s artistic talents mean nothing to him. It’s the first time he’s ever been willingly included in a portrait. A family portrait. The only time someone has bothered to document a side of him that isn’t the vindictive, villainous, ever-raging tempest he’s known for. The one time he’s ever known what it means to be loved. 

Ah. There’s that emotion. That temperamental, difficult, stormy emotion. It’s love.

In this future, he is treasured and cherished. He has a family. He has love, and he feels it and it’s reciprocated. Or Wanderer feels it, that is. But Scaramouche can see it: the quiet intricacies of your relationship—it’s all the result of love. You love him. Him—a being who was never created for the sake of loving. A being who has always been undeserving, unfit for the burden of divine admiration and reverence. You love him, and he loves you. Godhood and power and control—none of these things matter when compared to love itself.

Scaramouche stares at Aaliya next. He folds the drawing into a neat square, clutches it in a trembling fist, and—

And he cries.

Silently. His shoulders do not shudder. He does not gasp and wail like a newborn. It is entirely soundless, a reaction delayed by years. Tear trails streak down his porcelain cheeks in steady streams. His lip wobbles.

And he cries. 

He cries as he brushes past Aaliya, ignoring her protests and your mumble of, “Let him go. He needs space,” while he flees, beelining for the bedroom. He cries when he unfurls his fingers to cradle the folded square in his palm. He cries when he thinks of the life he’s lived—the suffering and the lies and the tragedy and the backstabbing and the manipulation. He cries because he can’t hold back anymore. Because he failed. Because he will never be a god. Because he is inadequate in the eyes of the divine—as unsubstantial as a common pest. 

He cries because he’s loved. Because someone has found something within his fractured being that’s worth loving. 

He cries into the night, curled in on himself to protect what’s left of his exposed weakness.

It’s dark when he closes his eyes, and unlike before they remain shut. Because if he opens them—if he doesn’t patch up the damaged floodgates—he will cry. 

And it hurts to cry.

And Scaramouche, for all of the pain he’s dealt, has never enjoyed being on the receiving end of agony, self-inflicted or otherwise.

It is a long, sleepless night punctuated with the soft pitter-patter of rainfall.

He’s lying sprawled like a defeated starfish when the first few rays of sunshine poke through the window. Groaning, he slides his arm over his eyes. He knows himself, even if Wanderer is a version of himself he has not yet experienced, and so he doesn’t expect to be checked on. The silence is both a comfort and a curse, smoothing his nerves and chewing through to the core of his being. 

He thinks I’ll come to him first. How utterly foolish.

Scaramouche turns his back towards the sun and presses his face further into the sheets, drained of energy even though he’s just woken up. His ears prick at the sound of a girlish giggle and he lifts his head slightly, his eyes sliding towards the window. Aaliya skips down the pathway, carrying a basket in one hand and holding another girl’s hand with her other. 

A friend, Scaramouche observes, watching the girls until they’re out of sight. He hears you call out to them even though they’re already long gone: “Be back before dinner and don’t get into any trouble!”

He peers at his own hand and flexes his fingers experimentally. Is everyone this feeble in the future, or am I just too strong?

There’s a knock on his door next. He intends to lie back down and block the world out, but instead he sits up and stares. 

“Balladeer, I’ve put a pot of tea on. You’re more than welcome to have some if you’d like.”

He won’t dignify you with a reply. Or that’s what he initially thinks, but then he’s covering the distance to the door before he can stop himself. He yanks it open, much to your surprise. 

“I—” he starts, his scowl mellowing into a reflection of the cold and cruel Fatuus he’s known to be. “I…will have a cup,” he finishes, oddly subdued.

“You don’t have to force yourself to talk. You can glare at us if it makes you feel better. Just make sure to take care of yourself, okay? We’re here for you if you need anything.”

He scoffs, straightens his posture into something regal, and pushes past you. “I was feeling much better until you opened your mouth and spat that irritating dross.”

You exhale through your nose, tentatively stepping into his path. For a minute he considers sweeping past you, but deep down he knows that he—the one he supposedly becomes in the future—would regret it. He would hate to push you away when you’re making an effort to be close—an emotional proximity he’s so clearly avoiding.

“You’re always welcome here.”

“Considering the circumstances, you have no choice but to be hospitable. It’s pointless to feign sincerity just because I’m here. I’m not fragile. Do not treat me as such.”

“You’re right. You’re far from fragile.”

He opens his mouth to argue that point and then pauses, absorbing your words with a dubious frown. 

“You may not believe me, but you’re very resilient and so strong. I should know because I wake next to him every morning, and his existence is enough to remind me that he’s come a very long way.” 

Smiling, you continue onwards. Scaramouche stalls, wondering what that could possibly mean. A very long way from what?

He’s not sure he wants the answer to that.

As if it matters.

“Without spoiling too much, I’ll say you’re in for a world of development,” Wanderer says once Scaramouche has graced the kitchen with his arrival. He’s sitting at the table, which is set for three people and adorned with the usual Sumerian snacks. The scent of tea hangs in the air, fragrant like perfume. “Lots of fun things.”

“Fun,” Scaramouche parrots, his nose scrunching. “What an unconventional way to refer to countless days and nights of agony.”

“I never said it’d be easy.”

“You never said it’d be difficult either.”

“Both of you,” you cut in—vocally and physically, you’re standing between the two of them— “no fighting at the table.”

Wanderer takes your hands in his when you lower into the seat beside him, his thumbs tracing delicate patterns into your skin. “Do you see how troublesome he is? Did you really have to put up with him all those years ago?”

“He’s part of you, Wawan.”

He scoffs. “No part I particularly care for anymore.”

Scaramouche rolls his eyes and folds his arms over his chest so the couple in front of him won’t pick up on his discomfort. “I’m not asking to be cared for or coddled. Hate me all you want. I don’t intend to like either of you.”

“Well?” Wanderer raises a brow, a smirk lazily tugging at his lips. “Insufferable.”

“Bitter like your tea,” you agree, to which Wanderer and Scaramouche huff in unison.

They glance at one another, searching the other for an indication of mutual tolerance, before turning away.

“I suppose,” Scaramouche says after a beat of silence, “I shall indulge. Be grateful.” He steps closer towards the table, lifts his cup from its saucer, and brings it to his lips. It’s lukewarm and just as bitter as the tea he’s enjoyed in the past. “It would be a shame to let tea go to waste after your efforts to prepare it.”

He nods in your direction and you beam under his approval.

“Thank you, Balladeer.”

His brow raises, but he doesn’t ask. You fill in the blanks yourself.

“This is the current you. Right now, Wanderer and I, this entire home, the life we share, and even our dear Aaliya—none of it exists in your present. If anything, we’re just a dream to you. So who else are you if not The Balladeer?” 

Who else…

“Obviously I’m no one in this…reality.” He frowns. “If I’ve become that, there’s no need for any of my current aliases.”

“Perhaps not, but you’ll see for yourself when you get there.”

“I’d rather not. I’ll simply shut my eyes.”

“Avoidance is a common symptom of unresolved trauma,” Wanderer oh-so-helpfully adds.

“Oh, you’re a comedian now, are you?” But he isn’t laughing. 

“Just passing on a fact I learned. You’ll hear it for yourself one day. Why not share it in advance? Soften the blow a little.”

“And you’re so perfect?”

“I have no intention to be.”

“Sure.” Scaramouche sips his tea, swallowing the torrent of insults weighing heavy in his mind and on his tongue. “I suppose all of this just fell into your imperfect lap then?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Before they can continue their petulant bickering, you gaze sharply at Wanderer and then at Scaramouche. He’s never felt compelled to obey anyone; he’s never needed to heed those who have always sat below him on the hierarchical pyramid. But for some reason he shuts his mouth and lowers his gaze to the floor.

This is pointless. I must find my way out of here at the earliest convenience before he drives me into the ground with his irritating sentiments.

“Arguing isn’t going to solve anything. He’s our guest, first and foremost. We should treat him like one.”

“I guess it can’t be helped. If this truly is our reality for the next few days, there’s no point in living in denial and self-loathing,” Wanderer concedes with a huff.

“Which is precisely why we should welcome this opportunity. It might not come around again.”

“Let’s hope it never does,” Wanderer and Scaramouche admit at the same time.

That elicits a giggle from you, and they turn on you with disapproving glares. “Sorry, sorry. It’s not funny—I know. I just couldn’t help it. You’re the same person, yet so different. Even your stares hold different feelings.”

Scaramouche won’t acknowledge your observations with a response. Instead, he watches his reflection as it warps and wavers in the tea. And then he drinks.

This is by far the most excruciating dream I’ve ever had the displeasure of experiencing.

There is no pain or death in this dream. No power tantamount to that of a god. He may as well be an apparition without an apparent place in this world. But there is domestic bliss and that is by far the most torturous aspect of this dream.

To think anyone could look upon my visage with such tenderness… You must be out of your mind.

“It’s not like I particularly care, but you seem to lead a quaint life.” Scaramouche sets his empty cup down and leans against the wall, his arms folding impetuously. “Why?”

Wanderer, troublesome menace that he is, bats his eyes and pulls you against him in a possessive half-hug. “Difficult to believe, isn’t it?”

Scaramouche wants to scowl, but he refrains. “I wasn’t asking you.”

“It’s mostly quaint,” you cut in, smooth as alabaster. “Life is always busier when you’re with your loved ones and there’s plenty to do—never a dull moment, as they say—but I don’t mind it. I like busy days.”

The delivery sounds rehearsed, but Scaramouche suspects it’s the truth. Your eyes soften and your smile mellows into something adoring when you nudge Wanderer. He almost retches outright when his other self nudges you back, discreetly reaching for your hand beneath the table. He won’t comment, but it prickles his skin with disgust when he watches this display. His other self fancies you so openly… The current Scaramouche would never.

Could never.

“Also, busy days prevent useless idling.”

“And keep boredom at bay,” Wanderer finishes. He assesses Scaramouche with a fleeting once-over. “You’ve always been a sad, lonesome existence. Your busy days were but minor distractions meant to fill a bottomless void that could never truly be filled.”

“What of it? I prefer solitude.”

He exhales a humorless breath. “Centuries of solitude and all it took was a single vase of flowers… Neither of us could have guessed.”

A vase of flowers? he wonders, bewildered, but too prideful to ask for an explanation. When will I ever receive flowers?

“You don’t need to worry about that right now,” you say, sipping at your tea with a cryptic smile. “Good things come to those who wait.”

Scaramouche rolls his eyes. “I’ve had enough ‘good things’ for the rest of my life.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. Even if you don’t think so, you’re deserving of good things. Everyone is, even if they’ve done something bad.”

He waits for the gutting punchline. It never comes.

He watches the world beyond the window: fluffy clouds, grass rustling in a breeze, a bird hopping about on the ground. His reflection frowns back at him. “I don’t agree.”

Wanderer shrugs. “If you say so.”

“That’s okay. If that’s what you think, who are we to judge your opinion?”

Briefly, Scaramouche wonders how you can have the patience to put up with him. With Wanderer, he thinks, even though he knows he’s just as troublesome, if not more.

He finishes the rest of his tea and then rises from his seat.

It’s not as if it matters. He doesn’t fit in this family portrait. He never will.

But he does in some distant future.

How peculiar…

Scaramouche wakes on his third day in a rather pleasant purgatory. As it happens, he’s still stuck in this unusual cottage with a bizarre doppelgänger.

So be it, he thinks, sitting up in bed. It occurs to him that he hasn’t been very resistant since he was plucked from his timeline and dropped here. But what is there to resist? You and his other self? This comfortable home? Family? Happiness? Love?

I should get back to my world as soon as possible. That’s my priority. Do not get distracted.

Ideally, he’d like to imagine that’s where he belongs, but he knows there’s no place in this world—or any other world and timeline—where he’s wanted and accepted. At the very least, there’s some semblance of home in his timeline. Even if it isn’t the most welcoming.

When he wanders into the kitchen, he finds you standing over the stovetop. Strips of meat sizzle in a pan. Sitting at the table, doodling on a blank page, is Aaliya. He hasn’t spoken much to her since his first day, and she hasn’t come to his room to pester him. 

“Let him settle in,” you and Wanderer tell her whenever she stalks past the closed door. 

Still, he feels the beginning of a smile pull at his lips as he watches her kick her legs to and fro to an imaginary tempo. 

I’m looking after a child in this timeline. Me. A parent…

He struggles to fathom it.

“Oh, Papa’s back!”

“Already?” You whirl around, a greeting on your tongue. “Ah, no, honey, that’s our visitor. The Balladeer is his name. He does look like Papa, though, doesn’t he?”

“B-Balla… Ballaba… Babadeer?” She scrunches her face up, perplexed.

Scaramouche offers her a gentle, understanding smile. “You may call me ‘Baba’ if it’s easier to pronounce.”

She lights up immediately. “Okay! You’re Baba and Papa’s Papa!”

He finds that the term is more endearing than any alias he’s taken on in the span of his lengthy existence.

“Speaking of, where is he? I would assume he’d be smart enough not to leave me by my lonesome.” 

“He’s out for the day. Won’t be back until later.” You lift the pan from the stove and proceed to distribute breakfast between two plates. He shakes his head at you when you attempt to fix him a plate. With a shrug, you add, “You slept in. How was it?”

“Acceptable,” he admits, lowering into the chair beside Aaliya. “I suppose it’s better than most places.”

“I’m happy to hear that.” You place a cup of tea in front of him. “Bitter. Just how you like it.”

Scaramouche eyes it like it’s poison. “Your hospitality is…appreciated.”

“What do you think?” Aaliya lifts her drawing, proudly showcasing the portrait she’s sketched of you.

Scaramouche is a critic of many things. Art is not one of them. Still, he takes the page in his hands and spends a moment admiring the shaky linework.

“Very wonderful,” he praises, and he means it. “You should become an artist.”

“I want to, but I also wanna be like Papa. He’s really smart.”

“Is he now?”

“Mhm! He’s studying at the Akademiya. My friends told me only really smart people go there.”

I’m a scholar? Truly? He looks to you for confirmation. The proud smile on your face is answer enough. To think this is what becomes of me in a distant reality…

“A commendable occupation. You should always do your best in your studies. They’re very important. But most of all…” He hesitates. Thankfully, his other self isn’t here to listen to his encouraging words and ridicule him. He’s certain he’d never hear the end of it. “You should pursue what you enjoy.” He reaches out to pat her on the head. “Always dream, Aaliya.”

“I will! I promise.”

Scaramouche doesn’t do promises, but somehow he’s convinced by this one.

You sit across from him. “Time to eat, my dear. You can finish your pretty drawing later.”

She nods and pushes her pencils and crayons away in favor of focusing on her plate. Scaramouche watches, stiff and awkward. Family meals are not an unusual occurrence, but it’s been so long since he’s spent quality time with another living creature. With humans.

Am I really so foolish that I’d willingly indulge in a life with humans? Don’t I know better?

“Wawan told me your arrival might be linked to a faulty Ley Line. We’re not sure when you’ll return to your world—if that’s even a possibility—but until we know more you can stay here with us.”

“If I must. Although I assumed that was already established.”

You chuckle. “Is that right? Then it looks like you’ve gotten comfortable in the three days you’ve been here.”

He rolls his eyes. “Your singular deeds are not enough to earn my veneration.”

“I’m not trying to.”

With a huff, he averts his eyes. An uncanny feeling crawls up his throat and settles on his cheeks. You hide your playful grin behind your utensils and eat alongside Aaliya in peaceful silence.

If only everyone could see him: a puppet now named Wanderer, who attends the Akademiya and has a family of his own. A puppet who seems complete when he surrounds himself with his loved ones. It’s impossible to live in denial when all of it is unfolding before his eyes like a fantastical tale in a storybook. He really can’t believe it.

“Tell me—am I fulfilled in this reality?”

You blink back at him, and suddenly he regrets asking. There’s vulnerability in a question like that. An open wound waiting to be exploited.

“Will knowing put you at ease?” Before he can snap back with a defensive reply, you add, “I suspect you’re already aware of the answer.”

He stares at the amber-colored tea in his cup. “I am,” he confesses quietly.

“And do you feel any better?”

“Am I supposed to feel that way?”

“I can’t tell you because there’s no right or wrong way when it comes to emotions. You just…feel them.”

Just feel them?

“I’m more conflicted than anything else. That Wanderer fool… He can’t truly be me. I would never allow myself to grow so weak. To surround myself with weaknesses… How utterly thoughtless.”

“What you see as weakness is his strength.”

Scaramouche’s gaze slides from the tea to you. “And he… And I… I’m happy here? This isn’t a grand farce?”

“As absurd as it seems, this is to be your reality. You’re not always going to be happy. Sometimes you’ll dwell on the past. Sometimes you’ll feel angry and upset. It’s all part of existing.”

“That sounds horrendous.”

“What does?”

“Existing. Isn’t it tiring? I’ve never understood how humans do it.”

“It’s tiring, yes. But it’s also very rewarding. To exist is to cherish happiness and weather hardship. It’s not perfect, but it’s enough. Sometimes all you need is enough.”

What if I’ve never had enough? What if I’ve never had anything?

He shuts his mouth. So many questions flit around in his head, but he already knows the answers to most of them. He just doesn’t want to hear it from himself.

To have enough when you’ve never had anything—when you’ve never felt like anything substantial—he surmises Wanderer can sympathize.

The first few drops of rain patter dry earth. Like dolls moved with wire, you and Scaramouche turn towards the window to watch water beads pearl on verdant fronds.

“Oh, it’s raining!” Aaliya exclaims with a delighted giggle. 

Scaramouche reaches to touch his cheek. A single tear wets his fingertip.

“Huh,” he mumbles. “So it is.”

Sitting on the stoop, watching worms wriggle in wet soil, Scaramouche sighs.

“Did you know the worms sometimes lose their way when it rains?”

“Is that right?” he murmurs, glancing at Aaliya who scoops one up from the stone path and places it in the grass. He smiles at her kind impartiality. “It’s very admirable of you to help them.”

“Mhm! Papa tells me even worms need homes, so it’s important to help them when the rain washes them away.”

He breathes a laugh that sounds more like a scoff. “I really said that? That’s difficult to imagine.”

Ironic, too.

“If no one helps, how will they find their homes?”

“They’ll find their way. Everyone does eventually.”

“Even you?” She blinks at him from where she stands in the grass, worms held in her palms.  

He exhales slowly and gazes skyward. The clouds have opened to let in the tiniest peek of sun. “If worms can find their way, then so, too, can I.”

He’s not sure he trusts it. Not now, at least. But it’s just as inevitable as the shifting seasons—an undeniable, irrefutable fact. He’s changing, if only slightly, and soon he’ll be in Wanderer’s shoes—a puppet with a home and a family. With all of life’s greatest joys and sorrows at his fingertips.

Aaliya sets the worms down in the grass before meandering over. She lowers to sit beside him, resting her head against his arm. “I believe in you, Baba.”

“Thank you.”

Soft as rain, subdued like a snuffed candle, his voice doesn’t waver. For the first time in a while, Scaramouche is defenseless. He’s not so sure he believes in himself. Wrapped in waning sun, listening to the hushed sway of grass, he tries on a smile. Albeit awkward, it fits.

He knows why his future self has become the wind, free and flowing, gentle and tumultuous all at once. Liberated from the past.

Even though he has his doubts, he knows he’ll get there soon.

The sky clears up just as Wanderer’s form comes into view. At first, he’s an insignificant pinprick against a blue sky. Aaliya jumps up from her spot on the stoop to run the rest of the way, calling out to him in an eager voice.

“Feeling any better?”

He keeps his eyes pinned stubbornly ahead. “It’s nothing to concern yourself with.”

“You’re our guest, silly. Of course I’m going to be concerned if you’re not comfortable during your stay. Ah, but I expect you’re coming up on the end of that, aren’t you?”

He blinks at his hands and realizes they’re transparent. “So it appears.”

“Does it?” you tease, patting him on the shoulder. Or you try to, at least. Your hand goes through him. “Guess it wasn’t very funny.”

“Not in the slightest,” he snaps with a scoff. He checks to make sure Wanderer isn’t within earshot. He’s kept occupied with Aaliya, who jumps around him like an energetic bunny. “But… Thank you…for everything. I’m aware I wasn’t the most grateful guest, nor the kindest.”

“You don’t have to be. As long as you felt safe and secure during your time here, despite everything that’s happened in your timeline, that’s all that matters.”

Scaramouche stares at you. I suppose it was a worthwhile escape. Unnecessary, but worthwhile.

“It wasn’t as hellish as I thought it’d be.”

“I’m glad. It was nice having you.”

Just then, Wanderer approaches. Aaliya sits proudly on his shoulders, her fists in his hair. “Glad to see everything’s still in one piece. No atrocities today?”

Suddenly, any sort of security Scaramouche might have been feeling evaporates. He’s reminded that it’s impossible to endure his other self for more than a few minutes. It’s actually impressive you’ve put up with him for this long.

Love is weird like that.

“Go back to the Akademiya and maybe you’ll learn a better sense of humor.”

“Aren’t you a bundle of joy?” Wanderer chuckles and levels him with a playful smile. His next words are tender and truthful. “Good luck on your journey. Have lots of fun.”

What sort of fun could possibly be found in pain? I don’t want or need your sardonic optimism.

“Oh? Baba’s leaving already?”

Scaramouche and Wanderer share a look. You smile behind your hand.

“Baba?”

“P-Pay it no mind!” He reaches for his hat in hopes of relieving everyone of his flustered expression and stops short. He’s not wearing his hat. He hasn’t had it this entire time. Refusing to admit he forgot such a crucial detail, he turns away and folds his arms over his chest. “It matters not.”

“Sure,” Wanderer concedes, but Scaramouche can tell he’s thinking something snarky. “We’ll go with that.”

“Thank you for visiting us,” you interject before the two of them can argue semantics. “Even though our time together was short, it wasn’t any less enjoyable.”

“I’ll miss you, Baba!” Aaliya extends her arm for a high-five.

“Careful now,” Wanderer warns, steadying her on his shoulders. “I suppose, though you’re more trouble than anything, it wasn’t so bad seeing my past self again.”

“You’re a welcoming lot,” he says with a curt nod. “It made this entire debacle slightly tolerable.”

“Only slightly?”

“Your presence didn’t add anything of substance. Don’t get it twisted.”

“Hmm. Perhaps not. At least I get to say I saw you once more.”

At that, he rolls his eyes. Am I supposed to feel flattered?

Wanderer smiles, but Scaramouche can’t place the authenticity. Maybe it’s there and he just doesn’t want to confront it.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. I know the feeling well enough.”

“And live every day one at a time. There’s no rush,” you advise, sweet like a real parent. 

“I believe in you, Baba! You’ll find your way just like the worms.”

Wanderer raises a curious brow, but instead of ridiculing him he takes your hand in his and squeezes. Aaliya giggles and pats Wanderer’s head. The three of you make a family. Togetherness. Love. It’s everything he’s never had.

Now he understands. When Wanderer is with you and Aaliya, he’s whole. He’s happy. Free. He’s turned a new leaf. There are still so many apertures and questions—so much he’s missing from a puzzle not yet pictured to completion—but he isn’t worried. Equipped with this new information, he finds himself at peace with the present situation.

“I don’t know if we’ll ever have the chance to meet again in this timeline, but if we do let’s not dwell on the past.”

Scaramouche can feel his consciousness slipping from this realm, every sense pouring in like light through the gaps in trees. Just before he can make sense of it all, he notices the pendant glowing just above Wanderer’s chest.

Impossible… Is that what I think it is?

“You have a lot to look forward to, so next time let’s talk about the future.”

Suddenly, he’s not so sure he wants to leave. Scaramouche steps towards his other self, hand splayed, and wants to say something. Anything. A million words and phrases stick to the roof of his mouth.

I’d like that, he thinks just as the rest of his corporeal form vanishes in a blip.

Scaramouche comes to in the infirmary. He lifts his arm towards the ceiling, observing shattered fingers and broken joints. Thin cracks run along his arm—surface injuries as far as he’s concerned. They’ll be gone within the day, a testament to his self-sufficiency.

You’re very resilient and so strong. Someone once told him that. But who? And why does it warm him so?

“Oh, you’re up!”

He gazes sidelong at Lesser Lord Kusanali, the God of Wisdom, past the wellness bouquet on the bedside desk, and his features harden with antipathy. “Buer.”

“Did you have a nice dream?”

“Dream?” He scoffs. “I don’t dream. Not anymore.”

But it feels like I’ve been asleep for ages… Just what have I been doing all this time?

“Everyone dreams—even when they’re awake. Dreams are what give us hope.”

“Not me.” He turns on his side and shuts his eyes to block her out. “I have no need for childish dreams and misguided hope.”

What does it matter? I have nothing. I am nothing. There’s nothing for me in this rotten world.

Her hum of acknowledgment reaches his ears. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Scaramouche scowls. Stop poking around in my head. You have no authority over my thoughts, Buer. Get lost.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m here to give you a second chance.”

“I don’t want it. It’s pointless to put me on the path to redemption. Inane, even.”

“Redemption starts with recognition. If you realize that what you’ve done is wrong and are willing to change, redemption will find its way to you.”

He inhales a long, weary breath. “What more is left for me?”

Scaramouche, despite his grandiose title, feels small lying here and contemplating the worth of his existence.

“Plenty of things—good and bad—that you’ve yet to experience.”

He tries to envision what these things could be and turns up blank.

Strange. I was so certain… He sits up in bed, clutching the space where his heart would be if he was human. I could have sworn there was something…

He gazes at his palms next. What happened while I was unconscious?

Surely he witnessed a joyous scene. Otherwise why would he wake feeling so…hopeful?

Inhaling a resolute breath, Scaramouche decides it doesn’t matter.

“Why don’t you take some time to think about it? I may not know the full extent of the turbulence in your mind, but I do know it’s not something to treat lightly.”

The void is both loud and quiet when she departs, and now he’s forced to come to terms with his reality. He lost. Even as a manufactured deity, he was still unfit for godhood. It was a moment so short-lived it was practically a blink—insignificant in the colossal tapestry of time.

“What a joke,” he spits, glaring at the wall ahead. “All of that for nothing…”

He sits back against the cushions and drowns in the silence. It doesn’t comfort him.

Don’t be so hard on yourself. Where has he heard that line before?

Perhaps it was just another delusion.

Scaramouche’s gaze is drawn to the bouquet next. The flowers are fresh and vibrant, each blossom a representation of good health and happiness. Someone placed these here. Someone went out of their way to assemble a bouquet in his honor and then send it over. He wonders if this is the work of Lesser Lord Kusanali.

Who else could muster the empathy for a sorry creature like him?

Will knowing put you at ease?

He thinks it might. At the very least, it would soothe a restless part of his being—the part that craves a connection and yearns to be wanted despite everything he’s done. He wants a heart and a home. He wants to feel the rays of the sun stinging his skin and bathe in the exhilaration of being alive and in the moment. He wants to finally know all of the sweetness he was deprived of in life. The sweetness that comes from love in all its many shapes and forms.

Scaramouche reaches for the bouquet and pauses. He could swipe it off the table and watch rumpled petals scatter amidst shattered glass in a puddle. He could ignore it and pretend it’s not worth his time or attention.

He wants to act like it doesn’t matter, but something’s nagging at him.

For once, the feeling isn’t terrible. For once, he has something to look forward to—an anchor to cling to in this vast, wild sea.

And he isn’t going to let go.

[galehowl]

in the darkest night, guiding stars

Some rambling about Tailmon's and Caedemon's complicated relationship in Aurora below~

Tailmon and Caedemon are two of some of the oldest Digimon aligned with both their own and mankind in Aurora, and their relationship goes far back to the very genesis of the Digital World.

As Huanglongmon's creations and members of the Archangels, both of them served them and the four Great Beasts as guardians of their world, alongside the other eight of their kind. For thousands of years, they were the guiding light for all the other Digimon to look up to, until Lucemon's betrayal, and the other six Archangels siding with him. Having discovered what would later become known as the Dark Area - an eldritch, mysterious and volatile dimension existing apart from the Digital and human worlds, yet intertwined with them - he chose to keep it secret, and, in time, his own desires, made worse by the influence of the Area, made him turn against his world and creators. The six others that succumbed to it all the same chose to follow their leader, and nearly laid waste to the Digital World by breaching the dimensional walls and unleashing the Area upon it, but were ultimately stopped by the remaining three Archangels, the world's inhabitants, and Huanglongmon's ultimate sacrifice to seal the Dark Area away, along with the traitors.

Ophanimon perished in those battles, but was reborn in the far future, though without memories of her past.

It was the actions of mankind that called her to action once more, and what awakened Caedemon from his eternal slumber deep within the Dark Area. It was when humans, upon discovering its existence, breached it in an attempt to take control of its powers and Caedemon himself - and sealed the fate of both worlds.

Caedemon, like his brethren, was never meant to be awakened, and Tailmon was mortified upon eventually figuring out the identity of the decaying beast. In her eyes, rightfully, not only was he a traitor, but also even alone a serious danger to both worlds, having become part of the Dark Area itself, but he was also absolutely not fit to be a Tamer's Digimon, especially to a child.

Caedemon initially also did little to soothe her concerns, even with her disdain and suspicions for him obvious, as he exhibited a selfish, troubled and nihilistic personality, caring little for their own kind, and consistently questioning whether or not humanity is even worth saving, with all they've learned about it - a big contrast to her more optimistic outlook on things, a love for all living beings, and a desire to seek out good in everyone, even to the detriment of herself and others.

Though they do eventually mend their once broken friendship, it takes a long time for things to get better, and a lot of change ( namely for Caedemon ) for them to find a way to complement each other in working together - two beings plucked from past long gone - to guide both worlds into a better future.

[girlactionfigure]

It was a "small" act.

But, at the time, she didn’t realize she was making a life-changing, and life-saving decision, not only for her but for hundreds of Polish Jews during the Second World War, helping save them from Nazi execution.

Only when she died, on April 8, 2022, at the age of 107 did the rest of the world learn of her courage.

She was born Carmen Koppel in Vienna, daughter of Frieda and Emil Koppel. Her father, an opera-loving grain merchant, chose her name after Bizet’s Carmen,” according to The Guardian, “She studied languages at the University of Vienna, taking shorthand to help with her note-taking.”

She said “My mother had insisted that I learn something useful, so I learnt to type.”

“In 1936 she married Josef Weitmann, who owned a curtain-making business in Kraków, and the couple settled there and had a son, Sascha.

“After the German occupation of Poland in 1939, the administration wanted to re-establish Kraków as Krakau, a German city. As Jews, [she] and her husband were forced to live in the Kraków ghetto, established by the Nazis in 1940. Its inhabitants were allowed to leave and return only with special permits. Josef was killed while trying to escape; Sascha was smuggled to relatives in Hungary.”

According to the New York Times, “in late 1944, as a slave laborer in the administrative offices of the Plaszow concentration camp in Poland, [she] typed an important version of the manifest of prisoners bound for [a] munitions factory in the area of the Czech Republic then known as the Sudetenland.”

“It was in those offices” that she also added her name and the names of two friends to the list, indicating her profession as “schreibkraft,” according to writer Alex Mindlin.

By typing that list, she almost certainly saved her own life, the lives of her friends, and many others, according to Mindlin.

That “list” “saved them from the gas chambers of Auschwitz, where most of the other Jews from Plaszow were deported,” according to The Teller Report.

Years later after the war, she would meet again the man who had made that list possible, the man who employed her.

She had a different last name by this time, but he still remembered her by her nickname. [She never liked the name “Carmen”, so close friends referred to her after a character in “La Bohème”.]

'It must have been around 1953,” she said. “I had gone to Vienna and I was walking along a street with an uncle. We were passing a coffee house where there was a group of people sitting. This large man ran across and hugged and started kissing me, saying: ‘Mimi, Mimi…’

“It was then that I realised that it was Schindler sitting with some of the Jews he had rescued.”

“The documents that [Mimi Reinhardt] worked on were made famous by Thomas Keneally’s 1982 novel . . . and by the 1993 Steven Spielberg movie ["Schindler's List"], both of which detailed the extraordinary lengths to which [Oskar] Schindler went to save the lives of some 1,200 of his Jewish workers,” according to the Times.

Other sources cite the number of lives saved even higher. According to AFP (Agence France-Presse) and The Times of Israel, “The lists which Reinhardt compiled for [Schindler] helped save the lives of some 1,300 Jews at considerable risk to his own life.”

“Austrian-born Reinhardt (sometimes spelled “Reinhard), herself a Jew, was recruited by Schindler himself and worked for him until 1945.”

This is a new story for the Jon S. Randal Peace Page. The Peace Page focuses on past and present stories seldom told of lives forgotten, ignored, or dismissed. The stories are gathered from writers, journalists, and historians to share awareness and foster understanding, to bring people together. And, as such, the stories are never relegated to one single month - they are available all year in the Peace Page archives and on this page each week throughout the year. We encourage you to learn more about the individuals and events mentioned here and to support the writers, educators, and historians whose words we present. Thank you for being here and helping us share awareness.

~~~~~

Reinhardt, then known as Carmen Koppel, “survived the final liquidation of the Kraków ghetto in March 1943, when 2,000 Jews were slaughtered, because the Nazis deemed her language and secretarial skills useful,” according to The Guardian.

At the time, the Red Army was approaching Poland and workers in Plaszow were being sent west to death camps,” according to The New York Times.

Reinhardt was a “prisoner at a concentration camp near Krakow, Poland during WWII in 1944,” according to the World Jewish Congress, when Schindler recruited her for a job in the camp's administrative office.

“Schindler and his Jewish accountant Itzhak Stern, who had helped to motivate Schindler, prepared the 'list' of essential workers - all of them Jews - for relocation to his new factory,' according to writer Peter Beaumont.

As Schindler’s secretary, Reinhardt “drew up the lists of Jewish workers in the Polish city of Krakow to work in the factory of her German industrialist boss”, according to writer Caroline Frost.

“This was a highly risky enterprise but is estimated to have saved . . . [the] workers from deportation and almost certain death in Nazi concentration camps.”

Reinhardt also “added the names of friends and her own married names until Schindler's quota negotiated with the SS was fulfilled: "Weitmann, Carmen, January 15, 1915, typist" is number 279 on the list.

“The rescue almost went awry” according to The Teller Report.

“On the way to Brünnlitz in 1944, the train carrying Schindler’s workers was diverted to Auschwitz,” according to The Guardian. “Death seemed inevitable. But Schindler used his military intelligence contacts to stop the diversion, claiming that these workers were vital for his armaments factory.”

“They had to stay in Auschwitz for two weeks,” according to The Teller Report.

“Mimi Reinhardt later compared the time to Dante's ‘Inferno’.”

“At the war’s end, [Schindler’s] workers were liberated, and Mimi was reunited with Sascha.”

Reinhardt “settled for a time in Morocco and then New York, where she lived for 50 years,” according to The Guardian. “She kept in touch with other ‘Schindler Jews’ whose lives had been saved by escaping the Plaszów camp under Schindler’s protection, but did not speak publicly about her earlier life until she moved to Israel in 2007.”

In Israel, she joined “her only son, Sacha Weitman, who was then a professor of sociology at Tel Aviv University,” according to The Times of Israel.

Schindler died in 1974, when he “was named by Israel’s Yad Vashem Holocaust museum as a member of the ‘Righteous Among the Nations’, an honour for non-Jews who tried to save Jews from Nazi extermination,’ according to Frost. “He is buried on the Mount of Olives just outside Jerusalem.”

The story of Reinhardt’s “small act” came to light when she was being interviewed by the Jewish Agency for Israel. (Note, “Reinhardt wasn’t directly portrayed in the Schindler’s List film,” according to News18.)

Reinhardt “expressed regret that Mr. Schindler, whom she adored, did not become a household name until after his death in 1974,” wrote Mindlin.

“He would have loved it, the attention,” she said.

She added in another interview, "I saw a man who was constantly risking his life for what he was doing. He was human. He must have had a heart of gold."

Reinhardt spent her last years at a nursing home north of Tel Aviv.

She is “mourned by her son and his family, as well as the thousands of people whose parents and grandparents she helped escape certain death,” according to the Jerusalem Post.

She has three granddaughters, nine great-grandchildren and two great-great-grandchildren.

In the image attached, Sasha Weitman, son of Mimi Reinhardt, holds an old photograph of his mother in Herzliya, Israel, (AP Photo/Ariel Schalit).

Of her contribution to history and assisting Schindler in saving hundreds of her fellow Jews, Reinhardt said, “I was just typing the list.”

~ jsr

The Jon S. Randal Peace Page  

[averagewriter-inthedark]

The Romantics 🎸 | Pete Mitchell Imagine

Part of my 'Y/n & The Romantics' TGM AU verse

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | TGM Masterlist

Characters & Pairings: Captain Pete ‘Maverick’ Mitchell x 80s Rockstar!reader (romantic), Bradley Bradshaw x reader (mother/son-type relationship), Dagger Squad (platonic)

content warnings: Fluff, slight profanity, flirtatious banter, light suggestive content, mentions of past drug use. pop culture references | Female!reader (she/her) | wc: 5k

Requested 📨 yes/no (for @fangirlvibez) 🩶

Premise: After two years since getting the band back together, Y/n and The Romantics have got the opportunity most artists dream of getting when they've achieved legendary status in their career: a documentary film. Recalling the days of discovery, early stardom and the love she found along the way, frontwoman & daughter of Rock n' Roll Y/n L/n-Mitchell writes a love letter to not only her fans, but the pilot who captured her heart...and the little girl with a voice of an angel who broke away from God to become a rockstar.

Note: I've said it and I'll say it again, writing dagger squad x famous!reader is in my top 3 pairings I've written for, and it makes me so happy that after two plus years of doing them, you guys love them and continue to request them--even when I've been slacking on getting through requests. This request was the spark I needed and once I started typing, it never stopped. Again (like every note in my works the past several months) I'm sorry for the wait and I hope this gives you everything you hoped for. 🩶

---------------------------------------

3….2….1…

“Are we rolling?” Y/n laughed, apologizing to the producers and crew in front of her when she realized they had already begun filming when she was off in la la land singing ‘How Will I Know,’ by Whitney Houston under her breath while an assistant made sure the mic was secured on her t-shirt.

“Yes, Ms. Y/n,” the lady in an all red pantsuit chuckled, adjusting her headset and motioning for the cameraman to not stop the camera. “But don’t worry we’ll edit it out.”

They were not going to edit it out. In fact it was going to be the opening sequence to Y/n’s personal bits. 

“I’m so embarrassed,” the rockstar hid her face with a hand, but then remembered she valued her life and would not ruin the masterpiece her makeup artist had created. “I’m sorry--I’m ready when you are, darling.” 

To celebrate the 45th anniversary of the release of their first song, Y/n & The Romantics were approached by HBO to film a documentary recounting their early days of their group, the height of their career, the twenty-year hiatus, and finally their reunion with a crew following them during the American leg of their 2024 world tour. It was an exciting opportunity. One the band--and especially their lifelong fans--were delighted. 

It’d been two years since their return to music. Together as a group that is. And not once had it lost its thrill. Releasing two albums, going on back-to-back World Tours, winning two Grammy’s and three Moonman. Performing at the Billboard Music Awards where they received the Icon Award. A song from their early albums featured on the Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3 soundtrack. 

Things were looking great. Perfect.

Now Y/n sat in the comfort of her home, dogs taking claim to areas not occupied by the many crew members, recording her personal interviews for the documentary while Pete and Rooster worked in the garage to pass time until Y/n and Pete were to do their piece. 

The producer adjusted herself in the chair, clipboard in her lap, “So, Y/n, I’m going to ask some relatively basic questions, but just speak what your heart desires. Sounds good?”

She gives a thumbs up, “sounds great.”

“I guess we’ll start by having you introduce yourself,” a few chuckles rang out. Y/n letting out a giggle as the producer shrugged with a smile. “I know, I know. We know you but for this part we’ll be showing flashbacks of your early childhood.” 

“Okay, okay. No pressure.” Y/n got comfortable. Looking straight at the camera, Y/n gave a dazzling smile. “Hi, I’m Y/n L/n, songwriter and frontwoman of Y/n and The Romantics. I was born and raised in Atlanta, Georgia and I will not disclose my age,” she winked, chuckling with the crew. She recently celebrated her 60th birthday. “You can google that information.” 

“Can you tell us about what your childhood was like? For those who may not know, how did you and the others meet?”

Y/n inhaled deeply, the memories of growing up in the late 60s and early 70s surfacing. Replying in her mind like an old film. Beaming as she recalled, “we all lived on the same block--went to the same elementary school and junior high before we got signed. Maya and I were neighbors, Evan lived across the street. Danny and Ronnie were up the road, closest to a convenient store we’d go to on the weekends to grab a coke or smoke a cigarette. We rode the same bus, had the same teachers. If I wasn’t at Maya’s, we were down at Ronnie’s or one of the guys. Chilling in the garage listening to the Beatles and B.B. King or taking the city bus to our favorite record store.”

A distant look in her eyes appeared when she began talking about her family. Both sets of grandparents died before she reached 21. Luckily they were able to witness Y/n’s career take off but missed out on major milestones. A few cousins passed on over the years, as did many friends. Unfortunately, her father greeted the other side when she was 45. And while it’s been fifteen years since, not a day goes by where she didn’t think of him. As for her mother, she just turned 90 and was still kicking. 

“My parents were working class citizens, who worked their tail off to provide for us. My father actually worked at the same company with Evan’s dad. Then mine, Ronnie’s, and Maya’s mom were part of the same social circle.” Exhaling, Y/n tilted her head with a small smile, “I had a good childhood. One many kids would wish for---a loving family living in a nice house. Yeah there were times where my parents had to forgo a home cooked meal in favor of keeping the lights on one more night. Occasionally birthday presents were postponed until a month after our birth date. But, we were happy. We had each other, and that’s all that mattered.”

Taking a sip of water, Y/n cleared her throat while adjusting her position on the couch, the producer asking, “When did you first fall in love with music? You mentioned you guys would go to the record store and in earlier interviews how you guys' covered musicians on the streets of Atlanta--which evidently is how you were discovered. Did you always want to pursue the industry as a rock band or did it come as a surprise.”

“A little bit of both,” she answered honestly. Y/n thought back to years leading up to their discovery. Their small, humble setup with secondhand instruments they got from yard sales with saved up allowance money. Claiming a corner near the busy intersection of downtown Atlanta which was now known as Olympic Centennial Park following the 1996 Atlanta Olympic Games. Keeping their guitar cases open for when passer byers dropped coins or loose bills. 

Was it the safest idea? Not really. But it was 1978 and things were different. People left their cars unlocked. One could ask a stranger for a cigarette or a ride down the street without a second thought. 1978 was a memorable year as the year the Women’s Army Corps came to an end, the discovery of Pluto’s first moon, the first IVF baby conceived, and Harriet Tubman became the first African American woman on a postage stamp. Georgia opened the first ever Home Depot, and native Jimmy Carter was president of the United States. 

“Music was always there growing up,” she explained. “My parents collected records--my mother always had one playing when cleaning or cooking. Either that or the radio was on. For my seventh birthday I received a wooden harmonica and boy was it the best gift ever,” she hummed with a smile. 

She still had that harmonic. It was on a shelf in her bedroom, right next to the picture frame holding the tickets and signed program from the Elvis Presley concert she attended in 1976. 

“Any allowance or birthday money I got was put in my piggybank--which was then cashed in on a used 1940s Fender Esquire I got from a yard sale for all of $40. And before you say anything--,” she pointed a finger, “$40 was a lot back in the day even if it was used. Especially for a twelve-year-old.” 

Like the harmonica, the first guitar Y/n ever owned was on display on the wall where the rest of them were. Beside her legendary hot pink ‘Dirty Shirley’ Fender Stratocaster and Elvis’s 1960 Gibson J-200 famously used in his 1968 comeback special.

“Of course the dream was to be discovered, signed, make music and be able to say we got to live the dream. Even if it was for a short amount of time,” Y/n talked with her hands, “but it was a shock. Never did we expect it would’ve happened the way it did. I mean c’mon,” a playful left her lips, leaning forward to emphasize her words, “we were fourteen! High school was about to start for us and there was no way in hell my parents would accept me dropping out to go live life as a rockstar.” 

“Can you tell us about that day? How exactly did it play out?” 

Of all the questions the producer asked throughout the duration of filming the documentary with the Romantics, hearing them recount the day they were discovered was in their top 3. The crew saw how each member brightened, turning back into their 14-year-old self with the excitement painting their face. 

“It was my idea to cover ‘Cry Baby’,” Danny stated. “Y/n and Maya were set on ‘California Dreamin’,’ Evan wanted to fit in, ‘Superstition,’, and Ronnie didn’t give a shit as long as we made the most out of the day. But it was yours truly who pushed for Y/n to cover Janis. You’re welcome.” 

Ronnie would go on to say, “Danny and Evan did what they always did when a pretty girl stopped to listen; fought for her attention. Maya kept telling them to shut up and focus because it was the one day of the week during the school year where we got to go into the city to play. My keyboard had probably another month before I needed to replace it. Transporting it back and forth every week kept scratching it up.”

“I don’t want to say it was superstition,” Evan winked, a nice call back to the song he originally wanted them to cover in their set list, “But when I woke up that morning, I felt something--like it wasn’t going to be a normal set we’d had. There was a shift in the air the moment I put the guitar on and Y/n started belting ‘Fortunate Son.’ Maybe it was just me…I don’t know. But to this day, I believe the stars happened to align at the right moment for us.”

Maya beamed with each word, “Halfway through our set, a butterfly landed on my bass, and it was only ten minutes later that Mr. Mayhew found us. To me it was a sign--and why my bass always has butterflies on it. Afterwards we begged my brother to take us to Burger Chef to celebrate. Which ugh--!” She made a sound of longing, “Doesn’t even exist anymore! God the days where I could get a burger, fries and a shake for less than a dollar.”

“It was like any other weekend,” scratching her jaw, Y/n remembered every detail of the moment she and the band were approached by the music producer. “It was Saturday, middle of May and already scorching hot by mid-afternoon. We were a week away from the last day of junior high. Maya’s older brother would take us to our usual spot on his way to work and pick us up at the end of his shift.” Y/n bit back a smile, thinking about the big juvenile crush she had on him. Probably because he had a car and job, which back then was an attractive thing for any guy. It never went anywhere of course, and the two stayed friends--attending each other's wedding years later. 

“Every week we’d plan a set list of songs, both covers and ones I wrote. If we ran out of songs before Maya’s brother got off, we’d either call one of our parents to pick us up or continue playing whatever song we felt like. I was intimidated, to say the least, when it came time to cover ‘Cry Baby.’ So I mentally went, ‘fuck it, just do it,’ and poured my entire soul into singing. When I finished the adrenaline kept pumping, and I barely registered the suited man walking up with a business card and telling me to, ‘have your parents call this number. You kids have talent that only comes once in a lifetime. I wanna help you share it with the world.’”

For the next hour the producer relayed the questions and Y/n recalled the years between 1979 and 1989. Their first decade as a band was filled with success and hardships. The launch of their debut single and album. Appearing on Johnny Carson and SNL, being the third music video to ever play on MTV and winning their first Grammy. We Are the World with Michael Jackson, collaborating with Duran Duran, Eurythmics, and Diana Ross. The international tours, the rumors of Danny and Y/n’s addiction--which were false, tense moments where someone nearly quit. The lawsuit against a producer who was cheating them out of money.  

It was tough. But they pulled through. 

“1989 was a memorable year,” the producer began, a knowing smile on her lips. “Not only for the band….but for you, Y/n. 1989 was the year you met Pete Mitchell.”

To say the heat in her veins rivaled that of a volcano on the verge of exploding, was an understatement. The confident, playful, rockstar reduced to that of a shy schoolgirl falling in love for the first time. 

“Yessss,” she bit her lip, glancing away from the camera to hide the grin, but it was to no avail. It stayed on as she returned her attention forward, “That’s right.” 

“We’re gonna bring Pete in soon, but like your bandmates we want to have you talk about your relationship before sitting you both down for the next portion of this interview.” 

“Of course. What would you like to know?”

“Well, to begin, can you tell us how you and Pete met? It was after you performed at the Staples Center, correct?”

“Yup. August 15, 1989, at what was once called Club Electric Idol, known today as Melvin’s Planet Enterprise in Los Angeles. We finished our gig at the Staples Center and decided to hit up a club to end the night. Electric Idol was not far from our hotel.” The blue strobe lights flashed in her mind, followed by the image of a young Pete, Ice, and Slider walking up. His hair perfectly styled, bomber jacket and aviators on. Y/n chuckled, “I don’t know how long we’d been there, but next thing I know this guy is tapping my shoulder to ask if he could take a moment of my time. At first I expected another drunken pick-up line, but Pete shocked my core when he and his friends started belting, ‘You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling,’ in the middle of the bar. Maya looked at him like he had two heads,” the giggles were now loose. Y/n unable to contain them. 

“I think Evan joined in,” a cough escaped, the woman shaking her head, “Pete was unlike any man I’d ever met. And considering I married the guy,” flashing her left hand, the diamond ring sparkled. “It’s safe to say he successfully wooed me with his beautiful rendition.”

The producer laughed with the rest of the crew, “Shall we bring him in then?”

“Ready when you are, baby.” 

Signaling the assistant, the young man raced out before returning a short moment later with Pete in tow. The pilot shyly waved to the guest, but instantly lit up when his eyes landed on Y/n. Nerves disappear with the relaxation of his features.

“Hey, hot shot.” 

“Hey there, songbird.” He took his place beside her on the couch, leaning back when the PA attached the mic to his shirt. “How’s it been going?”

“Perfect,” she replied with a smile, moving closer which then prompted their dog Ice to join them on the couch. Goose changed his napping spot to in front of Pete’s feet. Bella stayed on her bed. “Will Bradley manage the car on his own, or is he taking a break?” 

Pete reached down to give Goose a pat on the head, brushing his hand down his back to get rid of the shedding hair, “He’s heading to go shoot hoops with Jake and Payback. Said he’ll be back for dinner.”

Shuffling through her papers, the producer spoke into her headset before facing the couple. “Okay for this segment we’re gonna ease our way into the topic of relationships and maintaining them in this industry. Say whatever you’re comfortable with--we’ll edit out anything you might want cut in the final production.” 

Pete lifted a thumb, “Cool.” 

“Pete, before you came in Y/n was telling us about the night you met,” Red coating his cheeks in a flash, the pilot making a sound of embarrassment. 

“Oh God.”

Y/n giggled, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Oh stop it, you were the star of the night, Pete Mitchell.”

“Can you explain what prompted you to approach Y/n? You were with your friends, having just attended their show hours prior, on vacation. What outcome were you hoping to come out of it?”

“To be honest with you I wasn’t exactly thinking of the outcome,” Pete, still red as a tomato, stared into the camera with a pleading look as if begging the eventual audience to believe him. “My buddies and I had this thing where when we saw a pretty lady we’d say, ‘She’s lost that lovin’ feeling,’ which was code for, ‘Please help me impress her.’ I’d only done it a few times before Y/n,” Briefly glancing at her, Pete chuckled as he recalled the words he told her, repeating them to the camera, “The first time crashed and burned. The second one got me a date, and the third….third time's a charm.” 

The next few minutes the couple went back in time. Remembering it all like it was yesterday. Afterwards Pete spoke of their first date, how he asked Y/n to be his girlfriend and the reality of going public with their relationship.

“I knew what I was signing up for when I fell in love with Y/n,” with his hand placed on top of her knee, Pete started to caress the area. The leather of her pants smooth against his thumb. “We had high demand jobs. Sometimes I couldn’t get in touch with her per my missions' orders. Her schedule was constant. But when you love someone, you make the time. You show up when it matters. I made sure to be at every major performance. Called every week--I once drove around Reno for hours trying to find a working payphone so I could wish her luck before she took to the stage. Sent flowers to her dressing room--which in the beginning was damn hard because the security thought I was a crazed fan.” 

Y/n continued, but not before laughing at her husband. “Whenever we were on break from recording or tour, I’d go to whatever base Pete was stationed at. He’d take me to the hangar and show me all there was to Naval aviation. I would say more of what we’d do, but I don’t want him getting in anymore now that he’s retired,” a sly wink was sent to the camera, both adults giggling as Mav brought a finger to his mouth, ‘shhhh.’

“Now, Y/n, during the final show of the band’s reunion tour you revealed that the rumored break up between you two before you got married never happened. How did you manage to keep such a big secret like that all these years?”

“A great publicist, not going out as much when we had time off and learning the art of deception.” Of course that last one was a little lie. In reality, they were lucky it all worked out the way it did. That people, specifically reporters and paparazzi, started to leave Pete alone. Toning down their stalking of the poor guy. Plus the band’s and Y/n’s personal publicist, with the consent of everyone involved, planted seeds of her romantically linking to other high-profile individuals. Like Paul Rudd during his early years of fame, and Ethan Hawk.

“Things at my job were becoming unstable with the amount of attention I got being Y/n’s partner,” Pete explained. “My superiors were concerned with sending me out after an incident where a fan tried following me to the hangar. Now at the time, this was before September 11th, you could drive onto military installations, but there were still certain areas restricted to only personnel. This fan attempted to breach the restricted area, then there were times the paparazzi photographed me in places that were confidential.”

“So we staged a break-up,” Y/n threw her hands up, letting out an irritated sigh. 25 years later and it still bothered her how invasive people could be. Especially with Pete, her man. Compromising his job, and potentially his life.

She’d raise hell. 

Shaking her head, the rockstar went on to say, “It worked, thankfully. Got the paps and weirdos---yes I am the type to call obsessive, stalking fans weirdos,” her eyes were fierce, staring into the soul of the camera. 

Well, the soul of the audience watching.

“There are lines, people. Boundaries. Ones that should be respected. Yes, I’m aware what it means to be a public figure and therefore my life is an open book half the damn time. But seriously, that doesn’t give permission to stalk the lives of my loved ones. Hell!” she slapped a hand on her thigh, “Even when we first started out….we were kids. We should not have had to constantly watch our backs for people who might want to harm us. Or scare us for that matter.” 

They continued discussing the subject for a brief period. Followed by the events leading to their engagement and marriage. The wedding had been the talk of the year when it was announced. Y/n wore custom Chanel, Pete in his Dress Whites. An intimate ceremony with their friends, family, Pete’s superiors, and few members of the music industry Y/n grew close to. Dolly Parton, Diana Ross, Stevie Nicks, Michael Jackson, and fellow Atlanta natives TLC among the guest list. 

“You two have been together 34 years--married for 22. Maya and Evan recently celebrated 37 years as a couple--tying the knot in 1994. Danny and his wife have been married since 2000 and Ronnie recently celebrated 20 years with her wife. Pun intended, but it appears all members of Y/n and The Romantics found the key to life-lasting romance.”

“We did, didn’t we?!” Y/n clapped her hands in glee, lightly bouncing on the couch from the excitement. “I had never thought of that before, oh my gosh, that’s amazing!” Mav laughed with her but then had to calm down Goose who got up from the sudden noise and started barking. Making Ice, who’d been laying on the couch, get off to leave the living room. “I should write a song about that,” the idea came to mind, Y/n straightening up with an expression indicating a light bulb went off. “Oh yeah,” humming, she fell back against the couch with a content exhale, “I know what our next album is going to be. And I promise to put you on the credits,” she ends with a point to the producer, who appreciated the gesture with a grin and thumbs up.

“Looking forward to it.” 

November 10th, 2024 -- The Chinese Theater in Hollywood, Los Angeles, California. 

A block away from their Star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, Y/n and The Romantics stood in front of the iconic Chinese Theater to the flashing cameras and screams of fans for the premiere of their documentary film, “Rock to Romance: The Story of Five Kids from Atlanta with A Dream of Rock n’ Roll.’ 

Already a success with the critics praising the direction, production, and the intimate, raw interviews of the band members, the documentary was a hit. The Atlanta premiere the week prior reserved for special guests and critics shot Y/n back in time to 1978. They were at Olympic Centennial Park, down the street from the intersection where it all started. Overcome with emotion, the frontwoman had to excuse herself from the red carpet early. Escaping to a bathroom where Ronnie and Maya found her, the trio embraced in a hug with no words needed to understand the message. 

They lived their dreams. They were icons of Rock and Roll.

Now at the Hollywood premiere, Y/n was more relaxed. At ease with the environment. Reporters of major news stations and entertainment media waited patiently for their turn at interviewing the band. Celebrities from every industry one could think of attended. Many of which were fans themselves and had the honor of calling Y/n and The Romantics their friend. Directors Baz Luhrmann and Greta Gerwig--both secretly competing to direct the group's biopic. Georgia natives that couldn’t make the Atlanta premiere: Walton Goggins, Dakota and Elle Fanning and Gladys Knight. Actors including Robert Downey Jr., Jack Black, Chris Tucker, Meryl Streep, and Michele Yeoh. Professional dancer Derek Hough, who’d been Ronnie’s partner on Dancing With The Stars. Supermodels of the 80s and 90s Cindy Crawford, Tyra Banks, and Iman. Then there were some athletes like Rafael Nadal, Carl Lewis, Michael Jordan, Venus and Serena Williams, and Mary Lou Retton. 

And of course, you can’t forget the rockstars. Members of Duran Duran, Cheap Trick, U2, Guns N’ Roses, Journey, Blondie and Def Leppard. Cyndi Lauper, Janet Jackson, Pat Benatar, Annie Lennox, Stevie Nicks, Joan Jett, and Pattie LaBelle. 

Fans lined the streets, screaming each time a car rolled up and finally exploded the moment all five members were together. 

Y/n stood in the middle, Maya and Ronnie on either side, Evan next to Maya and Danny beside Ronnie. The ladies appeared as walking Goddesses in custom Dior and the fellas stunning in Louis Vuitton. They posed for the array of paparazzi and fans. Doing their best not to squint as the ongoing flashing lights blinded them. Ronnie cracked jokes; Evan flirted with Maya to get her blushing. Danny, like always, gave his blue steel.

 And Y/n? She was just happy to be there. 

Searching the crowd for her husband and invited guests, the rockstar was relieved when they finished the red carpet portion of the event. Beelining to Maverick, accompanied by the group of dagger ducklings she loved dearly. “I’m so happy you guys made it!!” Embracing each one of them, Y/n moved to Pete’s side once placing a motherly kiss to Rooster’s cheek. 

“We wouldn’t have missed this for the world, Y/n,” Natasha told her, the guys echoing with approval. She was wearing vintage Oscar De La Renta. A gift from Y/n when she made Commander. “This is insane,” she awed, motioning to the scene around them. The carpet was still underway with stars, the countdown to the film minutes away. “And here I thought nothing would compete with the Hall of Fame induction.”

“Speak for yourself, Trace,” Jake, handsome as ever in his Tom Ford suit, spoke from behind. “I for one knew this premiere would have a larger turn out. I mean c’mon, it’s all everyone’s been talking about since March.” Rolling her eyes, Natasha turned back to Y/n, who was biting back a laugh at the two. 

Rooster, out of his typical Hawaiian shirt and instead nicely dressed in a custom Ralph Lauren tuxedo, stepped forward. “I guess I’ll be the first of these clowns to say, congratulations to you and the band, Y/n on this amazing film. It’s been an honor watching it unfold, and we’re excited for what comes next.”

“Aw, Bradley,” she holds back the tears this time to not mess up her makeup, but pulls him into another hug nonetheless. “Thank you. It means so much to us--and I’m so grateful to have you all here. To be part of this journey. Supporting me and Pete, the band and just everything.” 

“No tears,” Reuben, also wearing Ralph Lauren, playfully scolds. “Can't be messing up that pretty face when you have a speech to give in front of a theater full of Hollywood hot shots. Save that for the party.”

“Please,” she scoffs, returning the manner, “I’ll be too drunk to cry. I might be 60, but I can still hold my liquor.”

“Planet Enterprise, right?” A Gucci wearing Javy raises a brow, making finger guns. 

The rockstar winked, “You know it.”

Ten minutes after passing time with small talk, the group were ushered inside where Y/n quickly returned to her bandmates for the speeches and introductions of the doc. Managing to keep it together, Y/n thanked her family, friends, Pete, the crew and production company for dedicating the time and energy to making the documentary, and of course her best friends on stage. 

The four individuals who were the only ones on the planet to relate to everything Y/n experienced in the world of rock n roll. 50+ years of friendship. Seeing each other at their best and worst. Accomplishing milestones together. 

They were more than a band. They were a family.

Finally the lights turned off, the screen went white, and the reel began rolling. Opening with the image of Y/n on her living room couch. The image of a woman, who was once a young girl with dreams of playing her Fender Esquire on the stages of Madison Square Garden and the Staples Center. Possessing the voice of an angel who broke away from God to become a rockstar. 

“If you could travel back to 1978 and give your fourteen-year-old self advice for the road ahead, what would you tell her?”

“I’d tell her……don’t lose that dream, little one. You’ve got the journey of a lifetime waiting for you.” 

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

TGM Tag List: @avaleineandafryingpan, @caitsymichelle13, @poppyalice2001, @cutelittlepotatofry, @luckyladycreator2, @americaarse , @elenavampire21, @back-tooo-black, @wildellaa , @artemissunn , @pinkpantheris , @kmc1989

[calabria-mediterranea]

A high-profile Italian author has accused Rai of censorship after his antifascist monologue was abruptly stopped from being aired, in what he called the “definitive demonstration” of alleged attempts by Giorgia Meloni’s government to wield its power over the state broadcaster.

Antonio Scurati was due to read the monologue marking the 25 April national holiday, which celebrates Italy’s liberation from fascism, on the Rai 3 talkshow Chesarà on Saturday night.

But as he prepared to travel to Rome, he received a note from Rai telling him his appearance had been cancelled “for editorial reasons”.

Scurati is well known in Italy for his books about the dictator Benito Mussolini and the fascist period. The cancellation of his monologue provoked fierce reaction from Rai journalists, fellow authors and opposition leaders.

His speech referenced Giacomo Matteotti, a political opponent of Mussolini who was murdered by fascist hitmen in 1924, and other massacres of the regime. It also contained a paragraph criticising Italy’s “post-fascist” leaders for not “repudiating their neofascist past”.

“Undoubtedly, this is what infuriated them,” Scurati told the Guardian. “And also because of what I represent and maintain in my books … [that] there is a continuity between the fascism of Mussolini and the populist nationalists in Europe.”

The Rai director Paolo Corsini denied that the monologue had been censored, telling the Italian media that an investigation “of an economic and contractual nature” was under way, while implying that the speech was cancelled because of the “higher than expected” fee sought by Scurati.

Scurati said his fee had been agreed and the contract signed before the monologue was due to be broadcast. “The fee was perfectly in line with those paid to authors … It was the same as in the past, when there were no issues.”

In solidarity, Serena Bortone, who presents Chesarà, read out the monologue on the show. It has also been published in full by several Italian newspapers and websites.

Meloni, whose Brothers of Italy party has neofascist origins, came to power in October 2022 with a coalition including the far-right League and the late Silvio Berlusconi’s Forza Italia.

During the election campaign, Meloni said the rightwing parties had “handed fascism over to history for decades now”. However, Scurati claimed in his monologue that when forced to address fascism at historical anniversaries, Meloni has “obstinately stuck to the ideological line of her neofascist culture of origin”, for example by blaming the Mussolini regime’s persecution of the Jews and other massacres on Nazi Germany alone.

Meloni responded by publishing the speech on her Facebook page, while attacking Scurati and accusing the left of “shouting at the regime”.

“Rai responded by simply refusing to pay €1,800 (the monthly salary of many employees) for a minute of monologue,” she said. “I don’t know what the truth is, but I will happily publish the text of the monologue (which I hope I don’t have to pay for) for two reasons: 1) Those who have always been ostracised and censored by the public service will never ask for anyone to be censored. Not even those who think their propaganda against the government should be paid for with citizens’ money. 2) Because Italians can freely judge its content.”

Since coming to power, the Meloni government has been accused of increasingly exerting its power over Rai while edging out managers or TV hosts with leftwing views. The European Commission was last week urged to investigate the government’s alleged attempts to turn the broadcaster into a “megaphone” for the ruling parties before the European elections.

Meloni’s administration has also been accused of trying to influence other areas of the press and targeting journalists with legal action who criticise the government. A Brothers of Italy politician recently proposed toughening penalties for defamation, including jail terms of two to three years.

Elly Schlein, the leader of the centre-left Democratic party, said: “The Scurati case is serious; Rai is the megaphone for the government.” Carlo Calenda, the leader of the centrist Azione party, said: “Silencing a writer for saying unpleasant things about the government is simply unacceptable.”

Scurati said he has received solidarity from many authors and journalists who were otherwise afraid to speak out against the government.

“This episode is the definitive demonstration, as it has finally aroused the revolt of other writers, intellectuals and journalists who until now kept quiet,” he said. “This government launches violent personal attacks against you for speaking out, in my case [that] I asked for too much money.”

Follow us on Instagram, @calabria_mediterranea

[caplanbuckybarnes]

Grind With Me

Summary: After the defeat of Thanos, the Avengers are assembled for a convention meeting.

Warnings: smut

You were at some convention with the Avengers. You were working hard at keeping the visitors handled and cared for appropriately. Steve was having a hard time, being around such a large crowd of humans again. Natasha seemed bored of the whole affair. Tony was having the time of his life, seeing as he lived in the spotlight all his life.

Clint flirted with a few females, causing his spectators to tell him off multiple times. Thor, of course, couldn’t make it, calling the event silly and unworthy of a God’s time. Peter Parker was enthralled by the attention he was receiving throughout the day. Wanda teased a few people, showing off her powers alongside Vision. The Guardians were off in another section, getting hammered with questions. Carol Danvers was away at a different table with Nick Fury.

Soon enough, the crowd surrounding the pack dissipated, allowing your friends to go grab a breath of air outside. Eventually, it was only you and your boyfriend Bucky standing around helping to clean the area before the other convention workers had gone off to rest before the new crowd of celebrities had set up around the area.

“You look bothered,” he spoke softly, running a finger down your cheek as he moved over to you, leaning against the counter, crossing his ankles.

You smiled. “I’m fine, Bucky, really.”

“You know,” he spoke slowly as he looked around the area, a suspicious glint settling in his irises. “I always wanted to come to these places with Steve when we were younger.”

“You mean, when you were back in the Golden Age?” You teased as he stepped behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist, kissing along your shoulder.

“You know, kitten,” he purred in your ear, knowing you loved the pet name he gave you whenever he was aroused. “There’s one thing I love to hear more than the silence around us right now. Do you know what that is?”

“What?” You swallowed down, feeling his hardened cock pressing agaisnt your ass through his jeans.

“I want to hear you moaning my name,” he whispered as he slid one hand down your torso and swiftly unbuttoned your jeans. He slid his hand inside your panties and mewled at the wetness that had already pooled along the material. “You’re already so wet for me, doll.”

You nodded before he pulled your panties to the side and starting rubbing at your clit. Your leg jolted at the sudden feeling, causing a slight whiper to fall from your lips.

“We have maybe fifteen minutes unless you want to get caught, Y/N,” he smirked, working at his pants with his other hand.

You smirked. “Challenge accepted.” And with that Bucky’s mouth met yours in a heated kiss before he bent you over the counter and nearly tore your jeans down your thighs with one hand as he worked to free his own arousal.

Once his cock was free from its confinements, his fingers found your senstive nub and had begn to circle it with his fingers.

As you ran your fingers through his soft brown locks, a moan fell past his lips, letting his eyes close in blissfulness. His lips molded together with your own as his hands wound around your body, pulling you tighter to his chest. He slid his hands down to your ass, squeezing and massaging your cheeks roughly.

You begun grinding your hips into his own, moans falling between your lips in gasps and pants. You felt his growing erection beneath his slacks. You never imagined how devilish you would feel with this man. Yoiu shushed him quietly as a moan escaped from his throat, almost vibrating in the silence of the room, your painted lips ghosting from his lips, meeting his jawline, his throat, his shoulder, biting, niobblign, suckling.

Once your teeth had grazed against the sensitive place on your neck, he let out a soft growl, flipping you onto your back against the couch, postionng himself between your ledgs.

“You really want him to find out about us, darlin’,” he smirked his voice deep with lust. “Don’t you?” With one hand, he inched the hem of your dress up your thighs, showcasing your panties, building the material at your waist. Instead of removing the panties, he pushed them to the side with a hooked finger. He pressed hungry, wet kisses against your thighs until he had reached your dripping wet, sensitive clothed core.

You’re hips jut upward towards his face as he eyed your cunt, tongue darting out to wet his lips as you locked a gaze with him. You laced your fingers through his hair, tugging at his locks. His eyes gazed at yours for one final moment before licking one long stripe from your entrance to your aching core. Your head threw back as your back arched in pleasure, finally receiving a small hint of friction you had so desperately craved.

Bucky hummed in appreciation while his tongue explored your folds, circling your clit for a moment until he begun tongue fucking you once he noticed your boy convulsing from pleasure.

You wanted to scream out his name in the most pleasurable way, but you knew you couldn’t. His mouth traced pattern upon pattern against your entrance, fucking you harshly. He knew your climax was arriving and he quickened his pace.

“James,” you breathlessly sighed, receiving a hum in response. Your breath caught in your throat as two of his fingers found a place in your mouth before he retracted them and ran them down your labia once more, plunging into your entrance, curling until they found that sweet spot inside of you.Your hips rocked gently onto his face as the knot in your stomach tightened. You had been so close to a release as he began to nibble softly against your nub of nerves, unable to contain the moan that fell from your throat.

He never ceased his assault, tongue fucking you while rubbing his cock against the couch for friction of his own. Another bout of release blindsided you, momentarily causing white circles to cloud your vision. Crying out in pleasure, Bucky slapped his hand over your mouth to muffle the volume. He gently worked you through another orgasm until you were breathlessly laying against the couch when Bucky returned to hover over you, your orgas covering his chin and mouth.

“You have to be quiet, Y/N,” he warned as he unbuckled his belt and pants, pushing them down his thighs along with his boxer briefs, allowing his erection to spring free from its confinements. He lined up with your entrance. You grabbed bucky’s hand and placed it roughly over your own mouth, knowing you wouldn’t be able to quell that moans that fell past you lips once he entered your body.

He slid inside yo, waiting until you had adjusted to his cock before slowly moving deeper inside you. A moan escaped your lips as he stretched your sensitive walls. When he began to move, you had become a squirming mess. Your nails cracked down the back of his shirt as he slowly thrust inside of you, searching for the right angle for pleasure for the pair of you.

You linked your heels behind his back to help assist him. Once he found the spot, you quivered involuntarily.. He smirked as he continued prodding inside you, grinding his pelvic bone against your core with every slow, deep thrust. You’d never felt this amount of desperation before, never knowing how your stomach could knot so tightly in pleasure.

“Let yourself go,” he whispered, his voice thick against your ear.

Within a few more powerful thrusts, you had your release; your body shaking violently, orgasm almost unbearably ethereal as fireworks clouded behind your eyelids. Bucky’s grunt was the only thing you could comprehend as his release quickly followed your own.

He kissed your lips softly just before his body fell onto yours in a blissful heap. Neither of you moved for a long moment, the only sounds in the room made by your breathing slowing down. “Sorry about the mess.” you finally spoke, glancing at the dark spot covering his trousers.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bucky weed you off, kissing your forehead before moving to sit himself on the couch. You swung your legs and attempted to stand, quickly realising you had a case of wobbly legs.

The pair of your giggled for a moment until he stood and stumbled over to his desk and grabbed a box of tissues before wiping himself down and limping over to you and helping you wipe yourself as well. You gave bucky one final longing kiss before speaking, “Wish me luck tonight?”

“Take care, Y/N,” Bucky bid as you tiptoed out of his office on weak knees.

[churino]

Design for dragonstorm

Unable to separate now as half of his components have been slain by humans over the years. with the autobot's own story now told, they begin to venture deeper into the allspark's citadel, and uncover earth's own ancient history

Dragonstorm is the last remnant of an ancient order of guardian knights that the allspark created in accordance with vector sigma's programming. One would imagine he's the inspiration for the myth of the dragon or the hydra but in truth it's the other way around, the knights styled themselves after great warriors and what what would be most fitting for their combined form if not a great dragon?.

In the ancient past dragonstorm had a massive pair of wings that allowed it to soar through the air dispite its stoney body, but the sight of a literal dragon flying through the air struck fear in the humans of this period who tarantulas manipulated to hunt down dragonstorm and incapacitate him, the humans succeed in hunting down 6 of it's 12 components, cutting off the dragon's wings,

When the knights met up again and attempted to combine, without the additional surface area of the wings to dissipate heat their internal components melted together and merged permanently, the constant pain turned dragonstorm feral and unfit to act as a guardian leading the allspark to create a new guardian who cares for dragonstorm as something akin to how an elderly human needs to be taken care of by their family

Unlike an elderly human however, dragonstorm is not weak or frail, he's more ferocious than he's ever been and has grown so accustomed to pain that nothing phases him. The mistress of flame is the newest guardian, dragonstorm is the second oldest

[cyberrose2001]

Hi, hope you’re having a good day!

Could I request a masc human!reader x tfp!ratchet where the reader is a classical musician. I could definitely see it help him calm down, and having a human who doesn’t talk all the time would be a welcome breath of fresh air for him.

TFP Ratchet x Masc Human Musician! Reader

Hi! Thanks for the request! Reader uses He/Him pronouns, can be read as platonic or romantic

thanks to @uselessmacrowave for helpin me out <3

Warnings: None, SFW

Word count: (will update soon)

Ratchet’s optics felt heavy, straining against the glow of the bright blue data pad. He glances at the time on the pad and sighs in frustration. He’d tried a couple of different ways to lull himself to sleep. One was a soothing and warm energon mix, light orange in colour, and gave a gentle glow to the darkened room while he sipped on it. But it was starting to cool off; he’d left it on the table too long.

He tosses the data pad next to him and stretches, old creaky joints moaning as he does so. Standing up, he takes the mug and swishes what’s left of the energon mix. Its glow has dulled, way past its primetime, and he can’t help but compare himself to a dull cup of energon.

He can’t help being old and irritable. It’s just part of aging, he thinks. Or that’s what he tells himself to justify his cold nature. He doesn’t mean to be, though; sometimes, he wants peace and quiet. Away from the war, away from his work and away from the bickering humans.

Most of the humans, at least.

He wanders off to the makeshift ‘kitchen’ area of the base, close enough to the main area so he can sneak off and concoct his energon mixes. He dumps the remainder of his cold drink and goes to pour himself another when he hears the gentle, long-winded notes of an instrument, causing his audial receptors to tune in. Ratchet hadn’t heard anything like this before, and it had a soothing, methodical flow to it, much different to music on Cybertron.

“What on Earth?” Ratchet questions to himself, glancing over his shoulder to find the source behind him. It sounds so close it may as well be, or maybe Ratchet is so sleep-deprived that he's finally at the audial hallucination stage. Probably not, but for his mental clarity he better check just to be sure. He finishes pouring his elixir and quietly treaded to the central part of the base. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to find around the corner, but what he finds is somewhat pathetic but endearing.

Alone on the platform of the many catwalks was his human, one of the less irritable ones Ratchet was assigned. He’s seated on an old chair that looks like it could collapse under him at any moment, complimented greatly by an equally more dusty piano with the dust half hazard wiped from it. It’s not elegant, that’s for sure.

But there's something so charming and different about this music. Usually, when the kids play instruments, Ratchet is the first to book it out of there; the ‘fine art’ they 'perform' is worse than the ear-splitting grinding of a starved scraplet. But this time, he walks closer as if his pedes have become part of a flowing river. The sound isn’t overbearing, and the notes are light and gentle; it’s as if his human is playing as delicately as possible not to wake anyone up.

Ratchet creeps closer, standing just outside of his humans field of vision, “What are you-”

“GAHH!” Y/n jumps out of his skin, causing him to slam on the keys and nearly fall off the chair. Ratchet flinches but keeps his composure, managing not to spill his drink.

The human places a hand over his heart and whips his head around, sighing in relief as he realises its his guardian, "Jesus, you should come with a bell."

“My apologies,” Ratchet murmurs, pausing momentarily, “I was curious where that noise was coming from.”

Y/n looks towards his guardian with worry, knowing how horrible his sleep schedule is, “I didn’t wake you, did I?” He whispers.

“No, no,” Ratchet sighs, placing his still full cup on a nearby bench, “I’ve been awake for… quite sometime now. Don't concern yourself with me," The bot leans against the railing, "The question is, what are you doing awake?”

Y/n glances at his phone, two-thirty am. He should be asleep but can’t convince himself to crawl into bed. The deafness of the night is too enticing, “I like the quiet.”

Ratchet nods in all-too-familiar understanding, grazing his optics back to the old piano, “I see… so what’s this then? It’s certainly more quiet than the ones I see Miko playing.”

“It’s a piano,” Y/n smudges the dust off one of the keys before wiping it on his jeans, “And it can be quiet or loud, depending on how you play it.”

Ratchet hums, shifting on his pedes slightly to lean against the railings, “Interesting, you never mentioned being a… musician, if that's what you call it.”

“I don’t like the attention it brings me, but I found this piano in one of the old storage closets and dragged it out… couldn’t help myself.” Y/n titters and positions his fingers over the keys, “You wanna listen? I mean, if you’re not busy, that is…”

“I suppose, if you don't mind an audience this time.” Ratchet casually says, making himself more comfortable against the catwalk, again ignoring his energon drink, "Show me your secret talent, kid."

The first light chords drift through the deafening silence of the room like a soft breeze. Ratchet observes his human, eyes closed and focused. How his hands float over the keys mesmerises Ratchet and reminds him of a well-trained pair of servos similar to his own.

"Sounds...nice..." Ratchet blinks his optics slowly, stifling a yawn. He should probably sit down, but his aching joints say otherwise.

Before long, he feels his optics becoming more and more heavy. The sweet song beckons him to stasis, but he stays put, his hefty frame rocking slightly. The gentleness of this new music is how Ratchet imagines what a warm hug would feel like or that first sip of energon mix after a long day.

Y/n pauses on a long chord to look at his guardian. He’s fallen asleep against the rail, arms folded with his chin tucked to his chest, and Y/n can’t help but smile at the rare sight. Ratchet rarely gets to rest, but managing to put him to sleep is another secret talent he can tick off the list.

[ratarit]

Egypt AU

(Warning: English is not my first language. I apologize if there are any errors in the text)

It is said that Thoth, one of the oldest of the Warden, is known as the bringer of chaos and fertility, the guardian of the sands of time. He is believed to have the ability to look into the past, as well as to see the future and its various branches. For this reason, Thoth is also called the guardian of forbidden knowledge/god of knowledge.He is said to take his duties quite seriously, even with a certain "fanaticism."It is thought that the desert is the largest area in Sonaria...Hellion's disposition is typically serene, preferring solitude to the company of other Warden.However, when provoked, he can become enraged, capable of creating formidable sandstorms and hurling stone "spears."He generally maintains a neutral stance towards most Warden, except for Eigion and Novus, preferring to avoid unnecessary interactions.However, He holds Eigion in a somewhat negative light and views sea creatures with disdain.Novus is a figure that He strongly disapproves of, and their past encounters have had unintended consequences for life on the planet. He has shown a more lenient demeanor towards the followers of the stone shrimp, though he maintains a cautious distance from their proximity to his belongings.At the moment, he has chosen to retreat from the rest of the Warden, opting to spend his time in his temple, studying and observing the passage of time. On occasion, he shares news with others through enigmatic prophecies.

[deathmetalunicorn1]

Hello, I was wondering if it's okay if I ask of this request?

Reader x Necrozma, Platonic or friendship like (you can change somethings if you want)

Reader, as sort of like ancient or historical figure, who befriended/bonded Necrozma. Known as Sort of like a guardian(or other) and has a weak body (or eyes) conditions. Reader's personality are pure-hearted/minded, creative, and pacifist (or as One Piece Otohime's personality )

((Y/N) can have a Team and you can change it if you want; Team: Primarina, Dusk Lycanroc, Umbreon, Espeon, Minior, Zoroark)

In ancient Alola Times, when the Light Trio (Solgaleo, Lunala, & Necrozma), and Necrozma (In his ultra/original/true form) are once a peaceful creatures that spread light throughout the universe in order to give life to planets. And the time people (and pokemon) worship these trio

At that time, the Light Trio met Reader and the guardian deities, at first, Guardian Deities and Light Trio were distrust and about to fight each other but Reader wouldn't allow it and compromise w/ them, then Necrozma and Reader, they bonded and trusted each other and became partners and friends, so does w/ others, they do enjoy each others company, whether their in training, helping, caring, etc.

Necrozma and Reader has a closest bond, as they enjoy each others company, whether Necrozma taking Reader to the sky to sightseeing, or Reader doing dance moves (similar to z-moves) or sculpting/crafting on the Stones/Crystals as Necrozma watching curiously at Reader doings, and vice versa

People of the Alola, know or aware of Reader and her befriended/bonded with any pokemon including the Legendary pokemon and they won't do anything harmful happens to Reader…

Until the ancient residents of Ultra Megalopolis, they take Reader as Hostage, managed to restrain Necrozma, imprisoning Them within the Megalo Tower, using Necrozma's light as a source of power…

When Reader finally escapes & tries to saved/rescued the confirmed, harmed, Necrozma, she got hurt in the process (eX she's alive but she got blind), which Necrozma had witness the scene & go berserk, resulting in its desire to drain all light from the universe to regain all of the light that it had lost And it rescue Rescue reader and escape as Necrozma find a safe place for Reader

At one time in the past, Necrozma arrived at the Pokémon planet in the Alola region, where it puts Reader to a safe area, and guardian deities saw Necrozma and Reader, they thought Necrozma hurt Reader, and they attacked it but Necrozma defeated the guardian deities, but Solgaleo & Lunala managed to defeat it and banish it back into Ultra Space. Before Necrozma's banishment, it left its 'last' message to them (like; 'take care of Reader' or other).

After Reader recovered (but she got blind) & find out what happened to Necrozma, Reader cries & promise to train, explore, and plan that someday she find & help Necrozma…

While goes on her (new) lifestyles, Reader found the fragments of Necrozma, decided to use these to create something, Z- crystals, rings, & moves, and with the help of the pokemon including the Legendary and also the Alolan people, to experiments and learns how to use it (also you can add that she's the one who gave these to the Totem pokemon, Kahunas, & others). Making Reader unknowingly became the originator/creator of Z-crystals, watches, moves

-It happened so long ago, now that you look back on it, your body old and frail now, as your Bewear napped behind you, snoring softly. You looked up, despite not being able to see, feeling the warm sunshine on your face as you longed to see one of your oldest friends once again.

-When you were a child, you had been out exploring with your Stufful and happened across a massive temple, one that was home to Solgaleo, Lunala, and Necrozma, the Light Trio.

-Inside you saw the Light Trio arguing with the Guardian Deities of Alola, like they were fighting about something, and being the peaceful person you were, you ran into the fray, holding up your little hands, “Don’t fight!”

-Everything froze, seeing you there, their large eyes blinking in confusion before they quickly calmed down, trying to figure out how you got to the temple as Stufful ran up to you, hiding behind your legs, peeking out.

-It was strange, seeing this young child amongst the strongest Pokemon in Alola, but they were all gentle with you, making sure you were safe as you wanted to befriend all of them.

-It was several years afterwards when something terrible happened, after you had been dubbed the priestess of the Light Trio, as you befriended them and they all trusted you, when unknown individuals from Ultra Megalopolis attacked, wanting Necrozma for their own needs.

-However, to get Necrozma, they had to take you first, knowing that you were the one who was the closest to Necrozma, knowing to keep you safe, the massive Pokemon would go without a fight.

-You fought back, telling Necrozma to fight, as you didn’t want to see your friend used in such a way, being turned into a power source to light this Megalopolis but he refused, not willing to put you at risk.

-You weren’t treated badly, as they kept you comfortable to keep Necrozma in check, but that didn’t mean that you were going to cooperate and you fought- you did your best to escape, to rescue your friend from this fate.

-After careful planning and some hard work, you were finally able to do it, escaping your captors and rushing to Megalo Tower where you saw your friend in such a state. You tried to free him, but that’s when you were attacked, being hit from behind, robbing you of your sight.

-Seeing this, Necrozma’s powers went berserk, and he attacked, fueled by his rage to rob the light from the universe to regain what he had lost to save you.

-He brought you home, not caring about his safety, he only cared about you and getting you away from these evil people who hurt you.

-When Lunala, Solgaleo and the Deities saw you and Necrozma after being missing for weeks now, you now blinded and hurt, they all immediately turned on Necrozma, thinking he had been the one to do it.

-He didn’t fight back, knowing they wouldn’t listen, and instead just told them to keep you safe, not wanting to see you hurt any longer, and he fled to Ultra Space, unable to be with you any longer, not willing to risk your safety again.

-When you awoke, no longer being able to see, you called out for Necrozma, but when the others told you, via telepathy, that they chased the one who hurt you away, you broke down, crying harshly, yelling at them that Necrozma was the one who saved you- telling them of the kidnappers and what they did to Necrozma, and that they were the ones who attacked you!

-You were furious, your heart broken that they immediately thought that he hurt you, something they still regretted to this day, not that you are old and grey.

-You forgave them, but you longed to have your friend back, wanting him back by your side. You missed him watching as you danced or tried your hands at different crafts, you missed watching him perform powerful attacks to impress you with- you missed Necrozma.

-That’s why you spent your life doing what you could, despite having no eyes, to train yourself, teaching yourself how to do things again.

-You created the Z-Crystals from the fragments you could find of your friend, used your dancing to create the moves to power the crystals, and created the powerful moves alongside the guardians, teaching the Alola people of their power.

-You never stopped looking for your friend, wanting him back in your life again.

-There were times when you could feel his presence, like he was watching over you, even after all these years.

-You sighed softly, closing your eyes as the sea air blew in, comforting you in a way, as you prayed that Necrozma would wait for you when your time finally came, and then you could be together forever, friends for life and death.

[silvermoon424]

Sailor Moon Name Meanings: 10 Main Sailor Senshi Edition

Most of the names in Sailor Moon are packed full of meaning, so I've decided to do a series of posts examining each name's etymology! Let's start with the main Sailor Senshi themselves.

Usagi Tsukino: “Rabbit of the Moon”

Usagi’s name is packed full of symbolism, as it directly references the East Asian legend of the “rabbit on the moon.” If you look at the full moon and observe its darker areas contrasted against the white ones, you may see the shape of a rabbit standing over a mortar with a pestle. According to folklore, this rabbit is making anything from the elixir of life to simple mochi.

It’s not just Usagi’s name that references this legend. Her odango hairstyle is meant to resemble rabbit’s ears (although this is far more obvious with Chibiusa), and many of her belongings feature cute pictures of bunnies. Unlike real rabbits though, Usagi hates carrots!

Ami Mizuno: “Asian Beauty of Water”

Time to clear up a misconception I myself have spread in the past. Ami’s name does not mean “Friend of Water,” it actually means “Asian Beauty of Water” according to the kanji in her name. Although Rei is commonly seen as the traditional Japanese beauty of the bunch, Ami isn’t far behind!

Of course, “Water” is a reference to Sailor Mercury’s powers over water and its different forms (ice and gas/fog). Apart from having powers over water, Ami is shown to love water in her civilian life, being an avid swimmer. Finally, Mercury in Japanese is “Suisei,” or “Water Star.”

Rei Hino: “Spirit of Fire”

Rei’s name reflects her status as the most spiritual of the Senshi, being a miko who is capable of using special powers (her psychic and purification powers) even when she’s not transformed. “Spirit of Fire” even brings to mind one of her special abilities, which is divining the future by meditating and staring into flames.

Of course, the “Fire” also references how Sailor Mars is the Senshi of Flames and Passion, being the Sailor Senshi who has mastery over fire. Finally, Mars in Japanese is “Kasei,” or “Fire Star.”

Makoto Kino: “Sincerity of Wood”

“Makoto” can have a number of different meanings, and we don’t 100% for sure know which one Mako’s is because her name is in hiragana. However, the fandom has largely chosen to go with the meaning of “sincerity.” This is a very suitable name for Mako, as she is one of the most sincere and honest characters in the entire series.

“Kino” means “of wood.” Although Sailor Jupiter is commonly associated with electricity, her powers really encompass nature as a whole. In the manga/reboot anime, she has a number of attacks that involve plants. Finally, the Japanese name for Jupiter is “Mokusei,” or “Wood Star.”

Minako Aino: “Beautiful Child of Love”

Minako’s name is very straightforward, being a reference to the mythological goddess Venus- the Roman goddess of love and beauty. Out of all the Senshi, Minako/Sailor Venus by far has the most associations with the deity who is the namesake of their guardian planet. In Codename: Sailor V, she is even outright stated to be the incarnation of the goddess Venus.

Out of all the Senshi, Minako is the only one who does not have a reference to the Japanese name of her planet in her name. In Japanese, “Venus” is called “Kinsei,” which means “Metal Star.” Although this is referenced in her powers (in the manga/reboot anime, Venus uses her metallic chain as well as a sword to attack), the reason why it’s not reflected in her name is probably because she was the very first Sailor Senshi created and Naoko Takeuchi hadn’t hammered out the naming scheme yet.

Chibiusa: “Small Rabbit”

“Chibiusa” is actually a nickname given to the girl when she arrived in the 20th century; her birth name is “Princess Usagi Small Lady Serenity.” Introducing herself as “Usagi,” she quickly got the name “Chibiusa” to distinguish her from the first Usagi (who, unbeknownst to her at the time, was her mother). It’s an appropriate nickname, as it basically just means “the smaller Usagi.” The same symbolism behind Usagi’s name applies here as well.

Setsuna Meioh: “Moment Dark King”

“Setsuna” means “moment” or “instant,” which is fitting for a character so heavily associated with time. “Setsuna” also sounds very similar to “setsunai,” which while difficult to get an exact translation of, basically means a strong mix of happiness and sadness. Think nostalgia, bittersweetness, sweet sorrow, etc. Again, this is very fitting for Setsuna, who is noted by other characters to appear slightly sorrowful at all times but still carries out her duties with pride.

“Dark King” is a reference to the Roman god Pluto, the namesake of Sailor Pluto’s guardian planet and the god of the underworld. While Sailor Pluto is most often associated with time, she is also referred to as the “Senshi of the Underworld” and some of her attacks (such as Dead Scream) are related to the underworld. Also, “Dark King” starts a naming convention with the Outer Senshi (sans Hotaru) who all directly reference their planet’s mythological namesakes in their family names.

Haruka Tenoh: Distant Sky King

“Haruka” can have a few different meanings, but our Haruka’s name means “distant” or “far off” (Haruka’s name, like most of the Senshi, is written in hiragana instead of kanji, meaning that its exact meaning is ambiguous). This reflects her initially standoffish, aloof nature and how she first presents herself to the Inner Senshi.

“Sky King” is a reference to the Roman god Uranus, the namesake of Sailor Uranus’s guardian planet and the primordial deity who represents the sky. Sailor Uranus’s powers are related to wind and the sky, making this a fitting tribute.

Michiru Kaioh: Rising Sea King

“Michiru” is a name that has nuance to it. I used “rising” here, but it can also translate to “mature,” “complete,” etc. The impression that “Michiru” gives off is a fulfilment of growth, like hopes that have been nurtured. Of course, this is extremely fitting for our Michiru. Like the rest of the Outer Senshi, she is very mature and is initially further along in her development as a Senshi than the Inners. I also like the term “rising” in particular, as it gives off the imagery of ocean waves as well as hinting that Michiru’s maturation and growth is still ongoing.

“Sea King” is a reference to the Roman god Neptune, the namesake of Sailor Neptune’s guardian planet and the god of the ocean. Sailor Neptune has powers over the sea, making it obvious where Naoko Takeuchi made mythological connections.

Hotaru Tomoe: Firefly Sprouting From Earth

Unlike the other Outer Senshi, whose names have significance from Greek/Roman mythology, Hotaru’s name is rooted in Japanese symbolism. In Japanese folklore, fireflies are thought to be the carriers of the souls of the dead (more specifically, the souls of soldiers who died in war). This is very fitting symbolism for Sailor Saturn, the Senshi of Death and Rebirth; in the manga and Crystal, Hotaru is even shown carrying and guarding the souls of the Inner Senshi. Other symbolism for fireflies is that they are beautiful and burn bright, but are short-lived; this is again fitting for Hotaru in her original life, as her life was doomed to be cut short before she was fortunately reborn.

The ”earth” (as in “dirt,” not the planet Earth) kanji in “Tomoe” is a reference to the planet Saturn, which in Japanese is called the “Earth Star” ("Dosei"). The planet Saturn has been known since ancient times, whereas the planets beyond it were only discovered thanks to modern telescopes. This is reflected in their Japanese names, as Saturn follows the traditional Japanese planet naming scheme of “element + star” whereas Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto are named following the same Roman mythological naming convention that Western astronomers used (“Neptune” being “Sea King Star,” etc).

[shares-a-vest]

Eddie and Steve's apartment morphs into what can only be described as a baby-proofed cluttered mess when Joanie enters their lives. And it only gets worse once she starts crawling.

Wayne discovers this when he arrives for a short stay over after being called up by the boys, proudly announcing their daughter began getting around on her own.

He chuckles as he looks around the cramped and crowded apartment. He suspects its more a case of keeping necessities within convenient arms reach than anything else. Plus, giving the kid the run of the place.

The dining table is a sight, covered in textbooks and paperwork from Steve's studies. And judging by the highchair set up close to the only cleared dining chair, she must be keeping him company too.

Steve gives a hurried, “Hi” and rushes to said table, collecting up his work to organise into one pile.

The living room is another story.

Each piece of furniture is pushed to the edges of the small room, like it's bursting at the seams and ready to explode out the windows. Everything is out of reach too, including the relatively harmless television remote.

Relatively harmless when you consider Eddie once dunked Wayne's remote into a short-lived fish tank years back...

His old coffee table is pushed up against the wall, making space for a playpen. In the centre of the room is a playmat, where his granddaughter is rolling around as that demonic black cat, Ozzy, examines her from after before vaulting over the couch and disappearing completely.

God knows where that other grey nightmare has got to.

“We live on the floor now,” Eddie enthuses, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

Steve grumbles and nods with grave seriousness as he appears next to him. Despite the good thirty years between them, on a bad day, Steve suffers from the same level of back pain.

“Come on,” Eddie beams, “I gotta show you all the stuff Joanie can do.”

His nephew puffs out his chest, proud.

Wayne smiles. He gets it, he really does. Even though he didn’t become Eddie’s legal guardian until the kid was ten, he’d spent enough time looking after him during the earlier milestones to take pride in them too.

“Eddie, our daughter isn’t a dog!” Steve chastises, pinching his nose.

“What?” Eddie feigns innocence, “I just want to show off all her tricks to her Pa!”

“If anything, that made her sound even more like a participant in a dog show!” Steve reiterates, glaring before lowering down at a snail's pace to join Joanie on the floor.

“Don’t worry,” Eddie mumbles, leaning in with his typical lack of personal space, “He’s just grumpy because he has a bunch of studying to do this weekend.”

“I can hear you, Eddie!” Steve calls from his spot on the floor, “And I’ll have time for us to watch a game,” he looks at his surroundings and grimaces, “… Maybe we’ll go to a sports bar.”

Eddie practically lunges into the living area and bumps into Steve on his way to joining his family, almost toppling the boy sideways.

Wayne follows along slowly, his bad knee already paining him at the thought of sitting on the floor and also (mainly) the dread of somehow finding his way back up.

“You know you’re gonna have to help me up off this rug,” he gripes, sitting on the couch with a loud sigh, "If I had’a known I was gonna end up with a rambunctious granddaughter scuttlin’ around, I would’a billed that top-secret Doc for a knee replacement.”

His back pains a little as he goes, lowering to the floor as he braces himself with his arm on the couch.

“I can ask Nancy to look into that,” Steve offers as he spots him, “… If you want, of course!”

Wayne waves the boy away as he settles with his back against the couch.

Eddie soon slaps at his shoulder as Joanie rolls onto her stomach and pushes up with her hands.

They all sit up a little straighter eager and expectant.

Joanie takes off, crawling with vigour as she makes little grunting noises to spur herself on. She bypasses Steve, who whimpers with disappointment like a sad puppy. And she quickly zooms past Eddie too.

Wayne’s heart swells his granddaughter pauses to look up at him with a wide, toothy smile. But she goes on her way, making a beeline for a purple sparkly dragon plushie upended next to Steve's coveted recliner.

Of course that's what Eddie's offspring would prioritise getting her little hands on.

Joanie plops herself down, holding the toy up in victory as she makes spittle-filled whooshing noises and waves it about.

She remains with her back to the trio left for dust on the other side the living room, off in her own floor-based world.

More of this au HERE

[fanaticsnail]

"Where one job ends, the other must begin."

Tobiuo & Heat

Modern Au

The Death Doula and The Undertaker

Summary: A palliative carer meets the love of her life at work, an undertaker who goes by the name 'Heat'. While Tobiuo begins to form a small crush on this man, Heat has already fallen head over heels for this doctor.

Text Chapters:

The 'Formal' Introduction

Sense of Humor

Written Chapters:

Coming Soon

Themes: End of life conversations, workplace romance, unlikely friends to lovers, text conversations, Tobiuo is mute and signs in Auslan, Heat has a criminal past, every character of One Piece has a modern occupation, Rosinante lives, the Heart Pirates are all in the medical field, more to come, Heat x Original Character (Tobiuo), Fishfolk and Minkfolk are not uncommon, one piece original character, canon divergence, alternate universe.

Warnings: Some chapters may include dark themes, dark humour, and adult language not meant for minors.

History below the cut.

A Brief History

Taken in from the streets while left in an unresponsive condition, the teenage amnesiac Tobiuo found care in the skilled hands of Lawrence Trafalgar and his legal adoptive guardian, Rosinante Donquixote. It mattered not where this blue Fishwoman came from, nor as to why she cannot speak, but to simply care for her as one would a patient in practicing medicine.

Law was a skilled student, his intellect vastly superior of one of his age, and the two developed an unlikely friendship which carried them both into medical school. Rosinante would go on to take in three more unruly teenagers and provide for them into their adulthood: Bepo, a kind and friendly minkman, Penguin, a dark-haired man with sensitive eyes, and Shachi, a fiery redhead with a short fuse.

The five found friendship with a few more within medical school, which then carried them onto their placements in residency. There is where Tobiuo found an unlikely rapport with the door security of the hospital, Jean Bart. They quickly became gym-buddies, and would enjoy each other's company sparring outside of the hospital grounds.

While Law was a great surgeon, Bepo an amazing nurse in the paediatric department, Penguin a skilled anesthetist, and Shachi a talented ER specialist - Tobiuo found her job in end of life areas. She held the hands of those meeting the end of their time in this life, and would sit calmly and patiently with them while exhaling their last breath.

This is where she met, who she commonly refers to as, 'The Hot Undertaker'.

Heath, who goes by the name 'Heat', was incarcerated for arson as a teenager - taking the fall for the head of his highschool friend group: Eustass Kid. Once out of prison, as he was tried as an adult for the severity of the crime, he found his entire world flipped on its head.

His best friend was in a near fatal car accident, claiming his left arm in the process, which was caused by a head on collision from the infamous crime-lord, Shepherd 'Shanks' of the Red-Haired Mafia. After receiving a large payout for the theft of his arm and in return for his silence, Kid turned his life around by buying a garage outright beside a restaurant where his blonde best friend worked as a line-cook.

Killian and Kid worked in tandem with Wyatt to make a good name for the business before they left to chase their own endeavors. Killian earned the name 'Killer' in highschool for his great feats in sport. Wyatt prefers 'Wire', and will not respond to his given name as he is not fond of it.

Straight out of prison, Heat returned and began sleeping at the Garage and scouring the newspapers and online ads for work. He was a decent welder, and works for Kid when he's short staffed - but being covered in tattoos and with a criminal record, he wanted to ensure Kid's business remained reputable.

One employment that took him on, no questions asked, was becoming a delivery driver for the dearly departed. He liked this job, enjoying the fact they provided him with a good wage, and was pleased by being needed and on call at all hours.

This is where our story begins: Tobiuo handing over the reigns once her work is completed, and Heat falling more for her every time their eyes meet.

Image Breakdown: "Heat" is a stock image of blue braids over the Suicide Squad member "Diablo", "Tobiuo" is a stock image of a woman taking a selfie in a bathroom that I edited to be blue, stock images of colour swatches, hearses, and hospital beds also seen. The flowers and make of this template was created on the app "polish" on my phone, and "ibis paint x". Text conversations are made using the app "iFake". Divider by @/firefly-graphics.

Tobiuo One Piece Original Character