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nyctonoxie · 1 month ago

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ᯓ★ ﹕ i look to you ( and i see nothing ) ➥ CHAPTER TWO : ballad of a master and padawan.

summary : Xel and Salem seem to have a bit of an,, odd relationship in Jedi standards. And apparently, Salem doesn't take too kindly to people mistreating their closest friend. notes : 2k words. ( ao3 link | masterlist )

Salem wakes up with sore shoulders and a painfully empty stomach. They’re out of it for quite a while, dragging themselves to the bathroom connected to their bedroom and deciding that– Yeah, a shower would be nice. They stand beneath the almost scalding hot water in hopes that it’d ease the pain that erupts from deep within their muscles in pulses. They wince, at first, but eventually relax as their body adjusts. It isn't until they’re out, and in the first few layers of their robes that they realize they are– not alone in their glorified studio apartment. Salem trudges out from their bedroom and emerges into the common area. They recognize the light hair of their master almost instantly. ��Master?” They question, now wide awake as they come into Xel’s view. “What are you doing?” Xel smiles, and holds out a small box. “Busy day today, unfortunately. Wanted you to sleep in a bit. I brought breakfast.” Salem grabs the box, walking over to the small seating area not too far away from Xel’s seat on their couch. “Oh– Thanks.” “You’re welcome~” Xel sing-songs, hopping up from her seat and beginning to pace. “You’ve got training with the other padawans today. Our fighters have just been repaired, so we’ll be going on a test flight with those after you’re finished with your session. Then we’ll be picking up your new droid.” “I already have a droid.” “DL-2J is my droid. ” “He likes me more.” “Y’know what–” And Xel pauses, pointing an accusatory finger at his padawan. “You’re gonna love your own droid more than him and I’m gonna make sure DL never lets you live it down.” Salem only laughs, focusing more on their food than the actual conversation at hand. Xel rambles on for a moment longer before nearing and eyeing the lack of a braid behind Salem's ear. Salem glances at them out of the corner of their eye, just raising an eyebrow. Xel doesn't say anything for a few moments longer, before holding one of their hands out. “Bands?” That earns a noise of recognition from Salem, who digs into their pocket and pulls out the assortment of bands typically kept on their braid. The two sit in a comfortable silence as Xel rebraids the longer section of hair. Then comes the bands. First is yellow, then black, and finally the recently added red band. There’s a single green bead entwined into their braid. Once Xel is done, he steps back and admires his work. Salem finishes their food and is ushered away to finish getting ready, and when they return Xel has very graciously neatened up the area. They exit Salem’s quarters in unison, holding a gentle conversation where Xel feels less like a master and more so like family. Like their connection with Anakin, Salem and Xel fall out of their Jedi roles and become ordinary people again. Maybe, in another world, they really would be family. ┅┅┅

Anakin had an early start with Obi-Wan. From the incessant knocking on his door to the buzzing of his communicator, he's long since learned that his master is rather punctual. With barely any time to waste after he’s dressed and eaten, Anakin falls into step just behind his Master. The man a few paces ahead smiles at him out of the corner of his eye. “You’re on time this morning,” “Well yes, Master. You’d leave without me If I wasn't.” Anakin remarks, reaching a hand up to rub any lingering sleep out of his eyes. His reply earns an amused huff out of Obi-Wan. He lets his pace falter so he can fall step into step with Anakin. “I do hope you remember our schedule for today.” “Yes, Master. We’re heading to the padawan training center.” “I was worried you were too tired to remember, Anakin. Yesterday seemed to take a lot out of you.” Anakin only sighs, but the corner of his mouth quirks up. “I remember. The two other signals as reminders helped too.” That rewards a hearty laugh from Obi-Wan, and Anakin laughs a little too. The two of them walk in an easy silence until they reach the Training Center, where Anakin is then instructed to stand with the others while his Master converses with older Jedi. He does briefly look around, but pays no mind to any of them afterwards. They’re all a little younger than he, and while that doesn't exactly bother him– he'd like to spar with someone his age or older. He wants a challenge. There’s still a few stragglers– older younglings who desperately want to be a part of the sparring. He almost finds it amusing, how someone not even half his height and nowhere near his skill level thinks they can go toe to toe with him. He’d half entertain the thought if it wasn't for these kids being rude about it. Didn't yoda ever teach them any manners? As he’s staring these younglings down, who are now gently cowering in fear, Salem enters the room with their own Master. Xel bids Salem goodbye before jogging over to the cluster of masters, inviting himself into their conversation after brief greetings. Salem, on the other hand, is trying to eye out a particular boy within the crowd. Their face lights up when they spot him, dirty blonde hair and gently towering over everyone else. They weave through the crowd to get to him, eyebrow raised as they realize he’s not-so-subtly intimidating the younglings.

“Anakin, don’t scare the younglings,” Salem half scolds, elbowing him as his eyes meet their own. They catch how they soften, but only slightly.

“You sound like my master.”

That earns him a laugh. “Guess we keep each other in check,” and they choose to ignore how close they’re standing. So close the fabrics of their robes brush against the others. They’ve been scolded for this before. Accidental naps where they are too close for the Jedi code to accept, followed by scoldings of attachments. They aren’t doing anything wrong. They just like each other's company.

Anakin speaks first. “Do you think you’ll win?” “Against you?” “Against anyone.” Salem hums. “Maybe,” They start, rocking on their heels. “Darra’s very skilled. She’s much better with a lightsaber than I am.” Salem goes quiet for a moment longer, but Anakin can tell they want to say more. He doesn’t speak until they finish their thought. “However– I’m better with the force.”

Anakin holds back a laugh. “You should be more confident in yourself.” “You sound like–” “-Your master? Seems like you've told me that before.” And he smiles as Salem grins at him. The two stay in a comfortable silence after that. Occasionally they’d share a critique of whoever was sparring, pointing out stumbles, flaws, or incorrect forms. Anakin is far more knowledgeable than Salem is– but they don’t mind letting him ramble. This routine goes on for quite a while, occasionally broken by off-topic side comments or misplaced jokes. They fail to realize the two of them are being watched– too caught up in their own little bubble. Mace Windu clears his throat from behind the two of them. Salem’s heart about stops and Anakin almost chokes. His eyes aren’t exactly kind. “Skywalker. You’re up. Go.”

Anakin stares at him for a good moment, eyes hardening into something darker. He hesitates. “Yes, Master Windu.” He spares Salem a fleeting glance, and Salem’s heart breaks for him as he walks away and onto the arena. They stay silent as Windu comes to stand beside them, arms crossed. “You should be careful around him, Hayes.” Salem fights to not roll their eyes. “He’s not a threat, Master Windu. He’s my friend.” He doesn't seem to agree. Just hums, and nods his head once. “Very well. May the force be with you.” In this instance, Salem takes that as an insult. Throughout the rest of their training, it feels as though the Master Jedi had it out for Anakin– and Salem, by proxy. They couldn't even praise or critique the other without it feeling as though they had holes burning through the backs of their heads with the staring. The most Salem got was a sympathetic glance from Xel, but it did little to soothe the sour feeling that rests in the back of their throat like bile. Even during their own training Salem can’t escape the emotions that course through their veins, and their fighting gives them away. When they lose themselves in their mind their movements get sloppy, and it only worsens when they become acutely aware of the critical gazes from masters twice their age. They don’t want to disappoint their Master– or anyone else. They don’t think they could handle seeing disappointment swim in their only close friends eyes. Salem can’t get out of that training room faster, weaving through the crowds of people and avoiding two sets of blue eyes that follow them through the crowd. They can hear the echo of Anakin's voice in their mind– but fortify it before he can say anything else. They don’t want to know what he might say. Their Master follows close behind, veering them off and into a quiet corner. He can tell they’re upset. Xel sets a gentle hand on their shoulder before speaking. “What happened in there? You were fine earlier,” “Master Windu got weird about me being close with Anakin. Again.” Xel sighs, squeezing their shoulder before her hand drops entirely. “The others don’t understand, Salem. They’re weary of him.” That only seems to frustrate them further. “Master– All he does is prove himself! And they’re still mean to him! I don’t– I won’t accept that ‘they’re weary’ as an answer.” There's a brief pause, and Xel ponders on their words for a good moment. “..Salem,” They start, sighing. “I know. We know. Obi-Wan and Master Jinn try very hard to prove that Anakin is on our side– but they don’t understand.” Salem goes to say something else, but just. Can’t. There is more they wish to say, and Xel knows this too, but they don’t have the words. Xel makes sure Salem is looking at him before he continues. “I’m in your corner, okay? I know it’s unfair. I know.” Those words mean far more to the two of them than anyone else. Salem nods solemnly, and an understanding passes over the two of them that is better left unsaid. ┅┅┅ It isn't until much later that Salem can find Anakin again, hidden away in the temple gardens. They can’t say he exactly looks pleased, considering he’s glaring daggers into the ground. He already knows they’re there– Salem can feel his force signature wrap around their mind and blur the edges. He doesn't speak. Neither does Salem. “..Sorry. About earlier.” Anakin’s eyes meet their own, hardened muscles relaxing. He looks much softer now, as if he's not burdened by his own mind. “It’s fine. What happened, anyway?” Salem makes themselves at home in the spot beside him. “Master Windu happened. You can figure how that went.” “I thought he liked you,” “It wasn't about what he said about me.” Anakin doesn't reply, but his eyes are knowing. They harden again as he clasps his hands, clenching them together so hard that his knuckles go white. They sit in silence for a good moment, and Salem isn't quite sure what to say.

"I'll show the, one day," His words are like venom, seeping from his mouth and plaguing everything around him. "I'll be the most powerful. I will." It's almost like a promise, a vow to himself and to anyone who will listen. At this moment, he doesn't look like himself. He stares at the ground as if a twisted version of himself is staring back at him, who’s only goal is to have more, be more. A gentle hand over his own pulls him out of it, and he’s Anakin again. “I know, Anakin. I don’t know why they view you the way they do.” Anakin listens intently, as if the words were from the mouth of god. How he has waited to hear someone to recognize his emotions. Oh how he has waited for someone not to scold him over it. “I’ll always be on your side, Anakin. I care about you. I’ll always be in your corner.” And they hold out their pinky, smiling gently. Anakin removes his hand from the iron lock he formally had them in, interlocking his pinky with their own. “Promise?” “I promise.”

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murdcrofcrows · 11 months ago

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stats • pinterest • connections

full name: rafferty desmond o'shea nicknames: rafe, mayhem, ireland gender / pronouns: cis male, he/him age & birthday: 31, October 18th occupation: underground fighter, professional poker player affiliation: hanging man, soldier orientation & status: pansexual kinsey scale - 4, the ash ketchum of hoes strengths: strategic, observant, resilient weaknesses: aggressive, jealous, oversensitive

diving deeper -

* ◟ : 〔 barry keoghan , cis man + he/him 〕 RAFFERTY ‘RAFE’ O’SHEA , some say you’re a THIRTY ONE YEAR OLD lost soul among the neon lights. known for being both ANALYTICAL and OVERSENSITIVE, one can’t help but think of GLITTER & GOLD by BARNS COURTNEY when you walk by. are you still a SOLDIER / UNDERGROUND FIGHTER & PROFESSIONAL POKER PLAYER at HANGING MAN / RALPH’S BOXING GYM, OLD WORLD CASINO, even with your reputation as the EMOTIONAL BRUISER? i think we’ll be seeing more of you and A STUTTER THAT SHINES THROUGH AT THE WORST OF TIMES, IRISH MIXED WITH A NYC ACCENT, STUDIOUS BLUE EYES DARTING AROUND THE ROOM, although we can’t help but think of MICKEY MILKOVICH (SHAMELESS), NATHAN YOUNG (MISFITS), ARM (CALM WITH HORSES), LANDO CALRISSIAN (SOLO) whenever we see you down these rainy streets.

BACKGROUND.

tw: abuse, neglect, violence, gore

born in a limerick prison to a drug addicted sex worker, rafferty o'shea was fated to walk the wrong path from the start. desmond o'shea, his father, high up in an old and known criminal organization which he achieved during his despicable involvement with the ira. by the time the prison guards handed rafferty over to him, the o'shea name was well known throughout not only ireland but the united kingdom in general.

as notorious as their name was, one would assume that they had money but rafe and his siblings never got any benefit from it if they did. they lived in a house that should have been condemned years before rafe or any of his assorted siblings came to live there. his mother was non-existent, or any mother figure for that matter, all his siblings related to him by his father alone. their bond was curated out of survival, often breaking by throwing one another under a bus if it meant the chance to get ahead.

money for food gave whatever woman he was seeing or supervising adult ( that rarely supervised any of them) at the time rarely made it into the kitchen. they were expected to eat what was there, or find some other way to feed themselves. It was a damn miracle any of them survived at all but somehow they managed. once they were old enough for school, they had a system down and were already involved in the family business in one way or another.

needless to say the volatile environment taught him little in the way of nurture or love. what he did learn was: don't talk to anyone in the government, never allow yourself to be perceived as weak, and do what your father says. that last one being clear because it you disobeyed you were sure to feel it for at least a day. even if you didn't, particularly in rafe's case who made a point to always take the brunt of their father's physical anger.

rafe became numb and cold on the outside, his emotions and feelings remained plenty but bottled. the pain was expressed in other ways; usually through picking fights, random acts of violence, and developing strategies to get him ahead of the game. later it meant parties, consuming substances to drown the demons or relief in the form of a little numbness. find some sources of pleasure in his life which only ever seemed to be chaotic, dark hell.

it was not long after his eighteenth birthday that enough was enough. the last time him and desmond got into it. in a series of events, rafe was set to lose twice in a week to ultimately make his father more money and a new contact on occasion. for whatever reason this was the moment his rage and rebellion hit a peak and in the fifth round he did not fall down. when his father met in the locker room after, rafe stilled at first, as per usual prepared to sustain the wrath of the patriarch. somewhere amidst desmond's hands around his throat, rafe snapped. he head butted the other man and brought him to the ground in less than a minute. rafe didn't stop until he was pulled off. the only way he knew the piece of shit was still alive was by the gurgling and sputtering of blood he witnessed being dragged from the room.

after that he was told it was best he got out of limerick, the country even, unless he was prepared for the retaliation. rafe had no reason to stay and a few poker contacts told him about the environment in new york city. a burning pile of trash would've been better than his supposed home so off he went

in his new environment, rafe thrived. he'd found a new organization to serve. more of a family than anything he'd known. the opponents were plentiful in both the ring and the casino. this place may seem like hell to some but rafferty o'shea has made it his playground. he'd always been happier in hell anyways.

QUICK CONNECTIONS.

opponents

rival poker players

casual affairs

hanging man friends, foes, partners in crime

exes

family (cousins and such)

those who knew him in ireland

victims

HEADCANONS.

coming soon

#lawlessintro #rafe | intro #violence tw #gore tw

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scuttling · 3 years ago

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Paper Rings

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader Word Count: 10,191 Tags: SFW, Fluff, Literature, Friends to lovers, Everyone thinks they're dating, There was only one bed, Some angst with a happy ending, Confessing love in the rain, TW fire and blood/wound Summary: Some of my favorite tropes rolled into one cute fic inspired by Taylor Swift's Paper Rings. (lyrics and music) Link to A03 or read below! “Good morning, my friendly neighborhood crime fighters,” Penelope says as she enters the briefing room, wearing a dress that is bright bubblegum pink, with fingerless gloves and glasses to match. You, Derek, and Spencer groan your replies, because you just got home from a case last night, with less than seven hours between arriving at your apartment and returning to the office, and that is everyone’s least favorite thing.

You can’t deny that her typical sunny disposition makes you smile a little bit brighter, but you’re still exhausted, and even your usual extra large travel mug of breakfast blend is barely taking the edge off.

That’s probably why, when Aaron enters with trays of steaming espresso drinks from the cafe down the street, and a striped box of donuts, you act like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Oh my god, I love you. Thank you, I love you.” He got an array of basic drinks based on everyone’s usual orders, and you scan for one that has something with latte, but he takes one out and hands it to you, smiling when you take a sip and sigh—okay, he’s smiling with his eyes, but you are well versed in his body language and facial expressions, and he’s practically grinning at getting your order (triple one pump hazelnut extra hot latte) correct.

You are not the only one to notice.

“Get a room, you two; it’s just coffee,” Derek says, taking the white mocha from the tray and drinking half of it in one sip. “Now if you tell me there’s a bear claw in there, I’ll confess my undying love too.”

“I don’t know; I asked for an assortment,” he says, and it’s clear he did, but your cup has your name on it; you cover the ink with your hand and take another grateful sip. “I do know there’s a plain glazed in there, though,” he says a bit lower, just for you, and you smile, give his wrist a squeeze, and dive for it before Jennifer Jareau can get her hands on it.

That’s all the morning meeting consists of—bickering and bantering and caffeine and carb consumption—and when the group disperses, you follow Aaron to his office and sit down in the chair across from his.

“Thanks again for breakfast. You definitely raised the morale of the troops,” you say with a sip of your perfect latte, and he shares the hint of a smile.

“You’re welcome. It helps that you’re all so easy to appease.” He flips open his bag, pulls out a small, worn, paperback book, tosses it toward you. You pick it up, run your hand over the well-loved cover, and hum.

“The Call of the Wild—this made it into the Aaron Hotchner Nightstand Collection?” He arches a brow.

“It’s so overrated that it’s underrated; no one ever actually reads it, they just assume they know what it’s about. It’s a great book, if you’ll give it a chance.”

“Hey, you’ve read all of mine without complaint; of course I’ll give it a chance.” You take the last, sad sip of your latte and stand up, point out the door with your thumb. “Speaking of, mine’s still downstairs on my desk. I’ll be right back.”

Exchanging books started as an offhand comment one night, on a flight home from Georgia, when he’d mentioned that he never buys new books, only cycles through the same ten or twelve he’s been reading since college. He knows what he likes, finds something different in the text each time he reads, and you’d found something so profoundly beautiful about that that you’d asked for the list. You wanted to know more about the books that tug at his emotions enough that he’s read them day in and day out for over twenty years with no boredom in sight.

He’d done you one better, said he’d be happy to lend them to you, if you’d like, and that was an offer you couldn’t refuse. Seeing college-aged Aaron’s notes in the margins of battered paperback novels was a prospect too good to be true.

Of course, you couldn’t accept the gesture without returning one of your own, so you’d offered to share your favorite books with him too, only... you don’t exactly give him your favorite books. You purposefully buy the cheesiest romance novels you can get your hands on, pass them off to him while he hands you poignant, classic novels that have won literary awards and Nobel prizes.

Today’s is called Lord of Scoundrels, complete with a shirtless man on the cover, kissing a woman with dark, flowing hair and a light blue dress; you snicker the whole way to your desk and back up to his office—earning curious glances from the rest of the team—and when you drop it on the desk in front of Aaron, you watch closely for a reaction.

As usual, he doesn’t really give you one, just flips the book over, skims the summary on the back, and nods.

“Sounds interesting,” he says, and your heart does a little flip.

He could easily hand the book back, laugh in your face, refuse to read something so clearly out of his wheelhouse, but he thinks these novels are important to you, and he never fails to read them, offering his favorite parts the same way you do for his.

The world probably doesn’t deserve Aaron Hotchner; you definitely don’t.

“I think you’ll really like it. Sebastian and Jessica start out kind of indifferent toward each other, but the more they interact, the more they find they have in common. It’s very acquaintances to friends to lovers, if you’re into that.” He looks up with an expression you place as uncertainty, even if you’re not quite sure the reason for it. You smile softly. “I should get to work, but thanks for the book. I’ll see you at lunch?”

It’s been so nice lately that you started taking your lunch outside, sitting on a bench beneath a huge, shady oak tree, and Aaron had taken to doing the same; you both quickly realized it was stupid to sit outside together, apart, so you meet up in the bullpen now and walk out side by side, spend the hour talking about your books or the team or Jack or life in general. He shakes the uncertain expression, nods his head.

“Of course. Thank you,” he says with a wave of the book, and you head back downstairs to start your day.

You’ve become mostly accustomed to the feeling, but it still surprises you a little when all that gets you through the day is thinking about your next conversation with Aaron. A week later, you’re on a case in Pittsburgh, and you and Aaron are paired up to room together. That’s nothing unusual—it seems like you’ve been rooming together more often than not lately, which is fine by you; he’s tidy, quiet, always interested in a late night snack, pretty much the perfect roommate—but when he opens the door and you step inside, the single king size bed in the middle of the room takes you by surprise.

“Uh… do you think it’s a mistake? Or maybe they just ran out of doubles?” you suggest; he's kind of frozen in place, and while it’s not ideal, you know it’s not actually going to be a problem. You’ve shared a bed with JJ before, and Spencer, and even though you don’t feel the same way about them as you do about Aaron, you think you can manage a couple nights in close quarters.

“Probably just ran out of doubles,” he agrees after a moment; he doesn’t bring up calling the front desk to ask for another room, so you don’t either, just hang your clothes and head into the bathroom to change into your pajamas and do your nightly routine.

It’s a little awkward at first, and you don’t know why; over the last six months or so, he’s actually become your closest friend on the team, and conversation usually comes easily, but silence settles over the room uncomfortably as you slip between the sheets on your side of the bed.

He goes into the bathroom, does his own nightly routine, then comes out in his pajamas and turns on CNN.

You take out your book, pay no attention to Aaron, but the longer he sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the news ticker on the television screen but not actually watching it, the more you wish he’d just get over himself and come to bed. If he’s trying to wait for you to fall asleep, he’s going to be waiting a while.

“So you were right; I love Buck,” you say as a way to start some conversation, to bring some normalcy to this unusual situation. You hold up the book you’re reading, the one he let you borrow. “His struggle between remaining loyal to his owner and answering the call of the wild—I love dogs, but I never imagined a book about a dog could be so moving.”

He turns back with a soft smile, then switches off the tv and heads over to his side of the bed; he pulls back the comforter, slides between the sheets, meets you toward the middle of the bed.

“I told you you’d like it; what chapter are you on?” He leans over to look, so close it wouldn’t take much to lift a hand and brush it over his hair; it looks unfairly soft, and part of you wants to card your fingers through it, to tug on it and mess it up a little. He probably wouldn’t even mind if you did.

“Chapter 7—I only have a few pages left.” You snuggle more comfortably against your pillow, lean into his shoulder, and move the book so it’s more evenly between you. “Want to finish it with me?”

He does, and you read silently at a similar pace; he reaches up to turn the pages, and you think about how these hands have flipped through this book so many times before, what he might have been thinking, feeling, while reading. It’s a more intimate act than you’ve shared with anyone in a really long time.

When you finish the book, you sigh, let the feeling of reading a really great story envelope you; you turn to face Aaron, and he’s looking at you… and then there’s a knock at the door that startles you both.

He gets up, walks over and checks the peep hole, then opens the door.

“Are you sure?” you hear JJ ask, and he steps back so she can enter the room; when she sees you tucked snugly into the middle of the bed, she shoots you a soft smile and mouths you’re welcome, which makes absolutely no sense without context. You’ll have to bring it up to her later and ask what exactly you’re supposed to be thanking her for.

“So you said the detective called?” Aaron prompts her, and she looks away from you, nods.

“Yes, he wanted me to ask if we could have a few agents meet him at the second crime scene tomorrow instead of the precinct, figured it could save a little time.” Aaron looks confused, like he doesn’t see why this couldn’t have waited until tomorrow, but he ultimately agrees.

“Sure. You, Reid, and Prentiss can head straight there, if that’s what he wants. I’ll let them know in the morning.” JJ nods, and looks over at you, and then back at Aaron, who makes a kind but curious face. “Was there something else?”

“Huh? Oh, no, that’s it. I just didn’t want to forget. I’ll let you guys go—enjoy the rest of your night,” she says with a smile and a wave, and when he closes the door behind her, you both exchange a look.

She’s definitely acting a little weird, but it’s late, so you give her the benefit of the doubt.

You scoot over to your side, put the book on the nightstand and switch off your lamp; Aaron climbs back into bed and switches his off, too, and he turns to face the wall while you lay on your back and stare at the ceiling.

It takes about half an hour, but he falls asleep first; you turn to face him, watching his back, following the rise and fall as he softly breathes in sleep, and the peaceful rhythm lulls you into submission, and you drift off as well.

When you wake up a couple hours later, he is on his stomach with his face pressed into his pillow, and you are draped over his back with your cheek against his t-shirt. It’s soft, and warm, and smells like him, and you glance at the clock and realize it’s too early to do anything but get comfortable and fall back asleep, so that’s exactly what you do.

The next time you wake up, to light creeping in between the curtains, Aaron is no longer in bed, but you’re holding his pillow, still warm beneath your cheek. He doesn’t act weird when you get up and start moving around, just pops out of the bathroom with his toothbrush dangling from his mouth.

“Got you a latte,” he says around it, gesturing to the desk and the pair of paper cups that sit on it, and you grin.

“Seriously, you’re my favorite human,” you answer, and you grab your coffee and lean against the doorframe, sipping and sighing until you’re a little more clear-headed. “Sorry if I crushed you; guess I was restless last night. I usually don’t move around that much.”

He just shrugs, spits out a mouthful of foam into the sink.

“You didn’t crush me. I’m pretty solid, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“I’ve noticed,” you tease, looking at him over the lid as you take another sip. “Now hurry up and quit hogging the bathroom if you want to leave here at a decent hour.” He rinses, zips up his toiletry bag noisily for dramatic effect, and slips past you, rubbing a hand over your unruly bed head as he goes. The day passes quickly, with lots of interviewing witnesses, following dead-end leads, and bad police station coffee. When Aaron calls it and tells everyone to get some dinner, you all split off into smaller groups—Spencer and Derek go for Chinese, JJ and Emily opt for pizza, and you and Aaron end up at a retro diner with burgers and milkshakes and a plate of fries between you to share.

“I think we should be focusing more on the docks,” you say, dipping a fry in ketchup and taking a bite. “Even if that’s not where the bodies end up, it seems to be where the unsub is meeting with the victims. We could stake it out tonight, maybe. If you want.” You never want to step on his toes, because he is the boss, the leader, even if you’re friends too; you try to be careful how you phrase things, especially in front of other people, because you don’t want your comfort to look like disrespect, however unintentional.

“That’s a good idea. You and I can head down there after this; I’ll let the others know to patrol nearby, in case we need backup.”

He dusts off his fingers and pulls out his phone, types out a text, and you look around the restaurant—the place looks like it was ripped right out of the 50s, with a checkered floor and lots of red vinyl, a shiny jukebox in the corner. Out of place is a flatscreen tv behind the counter; during the day, when it’s busier, it might play news or sports, but you two are the only ones here at the moment, so the staff is hanging out beneath it watching a movie. It’s Titanic, you realize, when the iconic ‘Rose floating on a piece of debris’ scene plays, and you snort, take a long drag of your chocolate shake.

“I always hated this part. They could have found a way for him to survive, too. Unnecessary death for the heartache factor,” you say, and Aaron looks up from his phone to the screen, makes a sound of contemplation.

“I always thought it was kind of romantic. When you love someone, you’d do anything for them to be okay, even at your own expense. Even if it’s stupid.” You look over his face, study the features you know like the back of your hand, and you guess you can kind of see that, but you can’t say that, so you just sigh.

“I suppose you think Romeo and Juliet is romantic, too,” you tease, and he looks back at you, rolls his eyes.

“It’s very much of its time; it's a lot harder to suffer a miscommunication like that these days. And there is something to be said for star-crossed lovers—people who shouldn’t be together, for one reason or another, but can’t help but drift close anyway.” You swirl your straw in the metal cup, thinking briefly of how that happens to describe the two of you, and when you look up at him, you think you see a hint of that same thought on his face.

More likely, that’s just wishful thinking.

“I like the sword-fights,” you say to lighten the mood, and he laughs, and you both polish off the rest of your food and then head for the docks.

Two hours in and absolutely nothing has happened, but just when you’re ready to complain, or suggest playing I Spy or something, there’s movement from one of the shipping containers to your right. You nudge Aaron, point to the container, and you both creep closer, trying to make out the situation.

When you’re just around the corner, it’s clearly two men fighting, but you obviously don’t know if this is your unsub, two random guys having it out on the docks, or what, so you mutually agree to wait until you have some kind of sign that this is your guy. When one of them pulls out a hunting knife that looks vaguely similar to your murder weapon—as close as you can tell in the dark, anyway—you raise your guns and identify yourselves as FBI.

The unsub drops the knife, but fists his hands in the other guy’s jacket, manhandles him to the edge of the dock, and shoves him into the water, then jumps as well. You swear, and Aaron takes off his jacket, throws it on the ground, then his phone on top of it, and looks back at you.

“Stay here and call for backup,” he instructs, and then he jumps in too; you call the team from your comms, get a response from Emily, and then toss your phone onto Aaron’s jacket and follow him.

He, of course, went for the victim first, so you look for the unsub, who is not visible above the water. You completely submerge yourself, feeling for more than looking for him, because the water is cloudy on a good day and pitch black at ten o’clock at night; when you pop your head up for air, you see Aaron getting the victim up onto the dock, and the unsub bobbing a bit further out. You swim to him, limbs aching, and he seems to know it’s time to give up.

He’s winded, gasping for breath, so you keep him above the water to your own detriment, dragging him by his wet jacket instead of cuffing him, because you’re not trying to kill the guy or lug his unconscious body back to shore. You just barely keep your own head above water most of the time, coming up for big gulps of air when absolutely necessary.

You finally make it to the dock, and your team has arrived, so Derek pulls him out of the water, makes sure he’s alright, and puts some cuffs on him. Aaron’s hands are on you right after, getting you up on the dock, wrapping a towel around your shoulders.

Despite the warm spring breeze, the water was freezing, and you can feel your teeth chattering. He rubs your arms for warmth, crouches down to look you seriously in the eyes.

“Thought I told you to stay here,” he says with an arched brow, a scowl you can tell is more concerned than angry. You wet your frozen lips and try your best to smile.

“You jump, I jump, Jack.”

He looks at you like you’re an idiot, but fondly, if that’s possible, then hugs you so tightly, guides your face to press against his warm neck. How he’s not teetering on the edge of hypothermia is anyone’s guess.

“Your lips are practically blue. Stupid,” he murmurs, but his mouth dusts over your temple in what is unmistakably a kiss, and when you’re able to feel your lips again, you reciprocate, press them a little harder against his throat while you shiver in his arms.

It doesn’t mean anything except I’m happy we’re both alive. Probably.

That night in bed, he faces the wall, and you stare at the ceiling, but you wake up with your nose against the back of his neck. The way he’s breathing tells you he’s not asleep, and when you wrap your arms around him, he holds them tight. Things don’t change after Pittsburgh, and that’s okay. You are comfortable with the way things are, and you love what you have—lunches under the oak tree, the exchange of books, late night texts when you both can’t sleep, hands brushing when you walk to the parking garage, glances shared across the jet. All those things make it easy not to focus on what you don’t have, what you’re not even sure Aaron would want anyway.

You exchange books again on Friday at lunch: he hands you Beloved by Toni Morrison, a book you already know and adore, and you hand him Ravished by Amanda Quick.

“Dubbed the Beast of Blackthorne Hall for his scarred face and lecherous past, Gideon,” Aaron shoots you a glance—��that’s purely coincidental”—“was strong and fierce and notoriously menacing. Yet Harriet could not find it in her heart to fear him. For in his tawny gaze she sensed a savage pain she longed to soothe... and a searing passion she yearned to answer.”

You hold back a smile.

“It’s a modern retelling of a classic story—Beauty and the Beast,” you add, taking a bite of your sandwich. He looks you over like there’s something he wants to say, but he just tucks it under his arm and steals a piece of melon from your lunch.

“I have Jack this weekend, so I probably won’t get to read much, but it sounds intriguing.”

“Well I hope you like it when you read it. Tell him I said hi; it’s been too long since I saw him. I bet he’s looking more like you every day,” you say, popping a piece of melon into your mouth. He smiles softly.

“A little, but Haley says she sees her father in him, and I have to agree. We may have to wait a few years until he looks like me; he’s too cute for that now.” He doesn’t sound self-deprecating, just fond, but you can’t let a comment like that stand, regardless.

“You’re cute; the difference is that kids are cute all the time. You’re an adult, so sometimes you’re handsome, sometimes you’re cute, sometimes you’re hot… it can be hard to reconcile.” This time, he looks you over with something light and playful in his eyes, and it’s something you want to explore, but the timer on your phone goes off, indicating that lunch is over, so you just exhale softly and pack up your things.

You don’t talk much after that—his Fridays are usually busy with meetings, and he leaves in a hurry to pick up Jack, which is understandable.

Emily, JJ, and Penelope invite you out for drinks and dinner—“because we know Hotch is busy,” Penelope says, which has literally nothing to do with your weekend plans, but you don’t correct them—so you don’t linger either.

You go out for Italian, so you are sleepy and full of wine and pasta by the end of the evening, and you smile at your friends.

“Thanks for inviting me out tonight, guys. I had a really good time.”

“Of course,” Emily says, taking her last sip of Pinot Noir. “We barely see you anymore; it was long overdue.”

“Definitely,” you agree. “I should really try to drag my ass out of bed more often.” You can’t help it, though, that after a long day, your bed and a good book just call your name. You’ve always been introverted in that way. JJ laughs softly, chin in her palm, elbow on the table.

“Honeymoon phase. Give it another couple months and you’ll be past that.” You do have a new memory foam mattress that has made sinking into the pillows and blankets all that more indulgent, but you didn’t think JJ knew about that. And you’ve never heard of a honeymoon phase for a mattress before.

“Eh, I don’t think so. There’s literally nothing more satisfying on this earth.” The three of them exchange an amused look, but your phone vibrates, and that catches your attention; you smile when it’s Aaron, sending you a photo of Jack with a toothy grin and his hands covered in fingerpaint. You look up to the sound of chairs scraping against the floor.

“Alright, we’ve lost her. See you all Monday,” Emily says, pulling you in for a hug; when she steps back, she smiles. “And tell Hotch we said hi.”

“I will,” you promise as you hug the other two. You hang back a moment, type out a reply—Looks like you’re having lots of fun without me!—and get into your car to head home.

You change into comfy clothes, drink a glass of water, and climb into bed with Beloved, and at around 9:30 you receive a reply.

Having the most fun we can without you. Maybe next time Jack is over, we can tempt you with dinosaur chicken nuggets and fingerpaint?

You smile, the happiest you’ve been all night—and that’s saying something, because you really did have a great time—and send back, It’s a date. Come Monday, you’re feeling pretty good, well-rested and relaxed from probably too much time in bed, but Aaron looks upset when he walks into the morning meeting. He keeps it short and sweet, and everyone disperses quickly, giving you sympathetic looks as you hang back to try to have a word with him. He clears off the white board, tidies up the table that doesn’t need tidying, and you place a hand on his back, gentle and comforting. He sighs, and you can feel the tension leave him almost instantly.

“Hey. What’s bothering you?” you ask softly, leaning around to try to catch his expression; he looks tired, sad, and maybe a little conflicted, leans into your touch.

“Taking Jack back to Haley’s was rough last night; it always is, but yesterday was really bad.” You know a little about this from weekends past, how Jack always cries when Aaron has to leave, how he feels terrible about it for the rest of the evening, but it must have been extreme for him to still be so upset. “And Haley…” He sighs again, runs his hand through his hair. “It’s like it’s one step forward, two steps back with her sometimes.”

“Why don’t we go sit in your office and you can tell me more?” You want to continue discussing this—that’s what friends are for, and he’s clearly in a bad state emotionally, you think it could help—but he just shakes his head.

“No, I… it’s okay. I don’t want to weigh you down with my problems.” You take your hand off his back, lean a hip against the table and look up at him.

“I’m not just your friend when it’s all easy breezy, lunch in the sunshine, talking about our favorite books,” you say with a sad smile; he reciprocates a little, which is more than you expected. “I’m here when things are complicated, when you have bad days, too. The Monday blues especially.” One of his hands rests on the table, and you cover it with yours, lean in to press your forehead to his shoulder. “Let me be here, okay? Even if all you need me to do is listen.”

It takes a moment, and his eyes are wet when he finally responds; he inhales deeply, nods, and brushes his free hand over your head in something of a hug, murmurs a rough, “okay.”

You sit in his office for an hour—which, again, is more than you expected—listening to him talk about his weekend with Jack, how heartbreaking it was to take him back to Haley’s, how he tried talking to her about taking him more often and she just wasn’t sure she could trust him to do what he says he’ll do. He understands where she’s coming from, knows he’s been unable to keep his word in the past, thinks he doesn’t deserve the benefit of the doubt; he hasn’t asked for advice, seems to just want to vent, so you just listen.

“Then I mentioned you, that you might come for dinner next time he’s over, and she was worried about that,” he says, exasperated, and you frown.

“Why would she worry about that? I’ve been around him lots of times.” It doesn't make sense, because Haley has always been nothing but sweet to you; Aaron looks up at your question, and it seems a little like maybe he hadn’t meant to say that part, though you can’t imagine why.

“It’s just different now… because he’s older,” he says after a brief moment of hesitation. “She doesn’t want him getting attached to someone who might not always be around, you know.” You sigh softly, because if that’s all it is…

You lean forward, take his hand, squeeze it tight.

“I’m always going to be around, Aaron. I can talk to her, if you want, tell her that.”

“No, it’s—you don’t have to do that.” He squeezes your hand back, closes his eyes for a beat. “Just hearing you say it, it makes things easier. I’ll talk to her again next time.”

You talk a little more, and he seems a lot better afterward, even if he is a bit less expressive during lunch; you figure any progress is good, but it makes you sad to see him so down, so naturally, you formulate a plan to help get him back to the Aaron you know and love.

At the end of the day, when he makes his way to the bullpen, you spin around in your chair, take him by the sleeve.

“You’re coming home with me tonight,” you say in no uncertain tone of voice. “For a few hours. I’ll bring you back for your car.” He agrees with a fond look, and you lose yourself in the expression for a moment, then stand up, grab your things, and walk with him out to the garage.

Rush hour traffic is what it is, and you leave Aaron in charge of the music, which means you get The Beatles and The Who, Rolling Stones and Neil Diamond, and you’re both singing along and so much happier by the time you pull into the parking lot of the bodega nearest your apartment.

“Just running in for provisions—be right back,” you say with a grin, and when you return with two paper bags of loot, he looks at you like you might be his favorite person in the world with an age in the double digits. It’s a look you love putting on his face.

“Do I get to see what provisions you’ve acquired?” he asks, teasing, but you shake your head and tell him he’ll see it when you get there.

With a pit stop in your apartment to grab a blanket and a few throw pillows, you take him up to the roof and get things ready for your makeshift picnic. There is white wine, still mostly chilled; cubed cheese, far from gourmet but no less delicious; crusty french bread that was fresh this morning but at this hour is a little extra crusty; blueberries, because they didn’t have grapes; dark chocolate, because you share a fondness for it; and paper cups for the wine.

Aaron takes a look at your bounty, spread over the blanket, and smiles the first real smile you’ve seen all day.

“Fancy,” he teases, and he takes off his jacket, gets on the ground with you. You pour each of you some wine, pop a blueberry in your mouth.

“No, but I thought a meal—and I do call it that loosely—under the stars might do you some good.” You lift your paper cup and tap it against his, brush your fingers over his hand. “To the best boss, best dad, best friend I could ask for.” You take a sip, but he doesn’t at first, watches you with something simmering behind his eyes.

“Do I get to make a toast?” he asks after a few beats, and you smile, nod, and hold up your cup. “To the only person stupid enough to jump into a freezing cold river after me. To the only person I would consider eating a bodega dinner with. To the only person who sees me the way you do.” You both take a sip, which is hard to swallow around the lump in your throat. He looks into your eyes, then breaks the dark chocolate into slivers and hands you a piece like he didn’t just say the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to you before.

You eat, and talk, and drink, and when you’re done with dinner you put everything back in the bags and lay back on the blanket, side by side, and stare up at the stars. The moon is high and full, shining while the stars twinkle around it, and you can’t think of a single time you’ve ever felt more at peace.

“This was really perfect,” Aaron says, almost a whisper, after about twenty minutes of companionable silence. “I can’t thank you enough for being there for me today.” You turn to face him, hands curled up under your chin, and he turns toward you as well. He’s so handsome in the moonlight your heart almost aches.

“You don’t have to thank me. I just wanted to see you happy.” You feel your eyes well up with tears, because he deserves to be happy; you sigh, blink them away, and he leans in and presses his lips to your forehead, rests them there for a long time. When he eventually pulls back, you bring a hand to his hair, brush it back at his temple, and then the creaking of the door makes you pull back, sit up.

It’s your neighbor from 422, who you’ve seen on the roof a handful of times, sneaking away from his wife to smoke a cigarette. He squints in the dark, recognizes you, and waves.

“Hey, 418! You’re not alone tonight.” Aaron sits up too, and you laugh softly.

“Nope, but we were just leaving. The roof is all yours.” Aaron stands, pulls you up, and you grab the blanket and pillows while he grabs the bags, and the two of you head back down to your place.

It’s after ten when you get the groceries put away, and you stand next to Aaron in your small kitchen, contemplating what you want to say next. Your mouth betrays your brain, says what you’ve been thinking but weren’t quite sure how to approach.

“It’s late; I know I said I’d take you back to your car, but you could stay here if you want. I have a spare toothbrush, and I know you have a spare suit at the office, and it’s not like it’s the first time we’ve shared a bed before.”

You’d completely understand if he’d rather go home—you hate when your plans are changed at the last minute, and you prefer to do your full nightly routine for your sanity’s sake—but he only nods, and you lead your way to the bedroom, show him the master bath.

You are in your pajamas, tucked into bed, when he comes out in his boxers and undershirt; he hangs up his suit in your closet where you’d left him some space, then climbs in beside you. He looks over at you, then past you, at your nightstand, which has a stack of books on it—none of them romance novels. You grin, busted after months of book exchanges, and he leans over you to look at the titles.

“Persuasion, To Kill A Mockingbird, One Hundred Years of Solitude—Beloved.” He looks from your copy of the novel to his, which you hold in your hands, and you shrug sheepishly.

“I like reading the notes you put in the margins,” you say meekly, hoping he’s not angry, but all he does is laugh.

“Let me guess: you don’t actually like romance novels.” He leans back against your pillow, and so do you, resting the book on your lap.

“I mean, I don’t not like them… but I’ve been buying those just for you.” The smile on his face is brilliant, and only makes you yearn for him more; things you have been purposefully not feeling are flooding your heart and mind and body now, with him so close, laughing over this stupid secret you’ve been hiding for so long. “And you, sweet man that you are, have been reading them, and discussing them.” You put your hand on his shoulder, and he ducks his head to laugh again.

“Since we’re being honest… I didn’t read all of them. I tried,” he says when you act offended, shoving the shoulder you’re resting against, “but some of them were so bad. I just flipped through, found something I thought could pass as my favorite part, and hoped to hell you didn't ask too many questions.”

You both laugh until you’re breathless—he is so different from how he was this morning it makes you want to cry—and when your laughter dies down you look at each other, sharing breath, two heads on one pillow; is it any wonder you bridge the distance, pull him close for a warm, gentle kiss?

When you break the kiss, you are instantly worried about what Aaron will do—you aren’t drunk, aren’t even tipsy, so you know he can’t be, so much bigger and more solid than you, but will he think it’s a mistake? He kissed back, you’re pretty sure, but maybe that was an accident, something done on autopilot—

He leans in for a second kiss, mouth deceptively soft, and you curl your arm around his back, press into it with lips desperate not to let this end now that it’s started. When you separate, you are both looking into each other’s eyes again, breathing a bit heavily, and you meet in the middle for a third kiss, the best kiss you’ve ever had in your life.

That kiss ends when you yawn in his face, and he chuckles softly, leans over and switches off your bedside lamp; you smile at the ceiling, and he wraps his arms around you, presses his lips to your shoulder, and tells you good night. The next day, the two of you arrive at work early so he can shower and change into his fresh clothes without anyone on the team noticing—not that you think they would really care, but they’re nosy, and a little annoying, so you both agree that’s probably for the best.

You don’t talk about the kisses, even though they’ve been the only thing running through your mind since they happened; you promise to discuss it at lunch, though, and that’s such a sweet, romantic prospect that you think you prefer it better that way anyway.

Only, you don’t ever get to lunch, because there’s an urgent case in Minneapolis, an all hands on deck situation, meaning even Penelope joins you on the jet. You debrief on the flight, hunker down in the conference room, and split up to cover more ground; you barely get to speak to Aaron the whole time you’re there except to be given instructions and to fill him on what, if anything, you’ve learned.

You don’t even make it to your hotel that night, working around the clock to catch the people responsible for terrorizing the city. It takes not one, but almost two full days, and when you board the jet on Wednesday evening, everyone is dead on their feet. You barely remember the flight or the trip home, and you fall onto your bed fully clothed and crash just like that.

Thursday is your birthday, which you almost forgot, and so you assumed everyone else would too. You should have known better, because even if your team can be annoying, they are still your friends, and they love you, so you are well and truly spoiled.

You are treated to a latte and bagels from Emily, purple cupcakes with silver sprinkles from Penelope, a piggy back ride from Derek, a book of poetry you’ve had your eye on from Spencer, and a card from JJ—really, it turns out, from all of them.

“Enjoy a romantic getaway on us?” There’s some kind of certificate in the card, and when you flip it over, you discover that it’s for a hotel and spa that offers couples massages, mud baths, intimate aromatherapy? You arch a brow. “Uh, thanks, guys. Are you trying to tell me something here?” JJ’s face falls a little and she points to the card.

“It’s a romantic getaway. For you and Hotch? Since things have been so hectic lately,” she says, but your ears are kind of ringing and your brain is stuck on the for you and Hotch part.

“Oh. Um. Sorry—it’s just kind of soon, I think? How do you guys even know about that?” you murmur. The two of you haven’t had time to discuss Monday yet, and you haven’t spoken a word to anyone; you wouldn’t have guessed Aaron would have either, but there is a gift certificate for a romantic getaway in your hands, and you’re kind of spiraling.

“Well come on, we haven’t exactly been pretending we don’t know,” Emily says, and you can feel the confusion in your features when you look up at her. “And you guys haven’t been exactly secretive. We’re happy for you, though.”

“I mean, we haven’t been secretive, but we haven’t really had a chance to talk about it yet. It’s only been three days.” You are met with looks similar to the one on your own face.

“What do you mean, three days?” Spencer asks with a frown. “You and Hotch have been dating for almost two months. Right?” he says, looking at the others, and they nod, but it’s tentative. Your first reaction is to flush, and you close the card, fan your face with it.

“You guys think… You guys thought…” You look at them, then up at Aaron’s office; there’s no way he can know that you’re having a moment, but he chooses then to come downstairs, coincidentally. He’s smiling at first, but it falls when he looks at your face.

“Hey. Is everything okay?” He presses a cool hand to your hot cheek, flicks his eyes over yours, and JJ makes a noise; when you glance over at her, she’s gesturing between the two of you.

“I’m sorry, we were wrong? What were we supposed to think?” Aaron frowns, not following, and you take a deep breath.

“They got me a gift certificate for my birthday. To a spa. For you and I to have a romantic getaway, because they were under the assumption we’ve been dating… for two months.” The way he pulls back quickly makes your stomach ache a little, but you say nothing. You should have known.

“You say I love you,” Derek begins like he’s listing evidence. “You have lunch together every day. You’re always smiling at each other.”

“Seriously, some of the softest, gooiest smiles I’ve ever seen,” Penelope adds.

“You eat together on cases, you’re texting all the time when you’re not together.”

“I’ve been pairing the two of you up in hotels since I first figured out you were dating,” JJ says, and the whole ‘you’re welcome’ thing suddenly makes some sense. “I booked you that room with just the one bed so you’d maybe feel more comfortable about us knowing, so you’d see that we don’t mind.”

“You’re always looking at each other, always touching,” Spencer says. “In Pittsburgh—that was the first time you really hugged or kissed each other in front of us. We were trying to pretend it wasn’t a big deal, but it was kind of a big deal.”

You look over at Aaron, try to gauge his reaction, but for the first time in a long time you can’t tell what he’s feeling. You can’t really tell what you’re feeling, either. Sadness. Worry. Loss? But what have you lost?

“We’re friends,” you say, even if it sounds weak to your own ears. “We’re… close.”

“We wouldn’t exactly make sense as a couple, would we?” Aaron asks rhetorically, and your heart clenches when he says that. He told you this morning that he’d made dinner plans for you, both for your birthday and to discuss the kisses, what they mean, where you go from here, but that doesn’t sound very promising anymore. “We’re just—”

“Star-crossed,” you say, but you feel like your eyes are vacant. You can hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears. You’re stupid for kissing him, for letting yourself think he could feel the same way you feel, have felt for a while. Isn’t friendship enough? Don’t you already have this special bond so unlike what you have with anyone else in your life? Why press your luck? You know better than that. “We should get back to work.”

You don’t look at Aaron, so you don’t know whether or not he looks at you. JJ does, and you can tell she knows you’re upset, but she just nudges everyone on their way, and you take a seat at your desk—it’s covered in balloons and streamers, the Penelope special.

You’ve never felt less like celebrating.

At lunchtime, Aaron stops at your desk, and the two of you walk out to the bench, open your bags in silence. You’re almost halfway through the hour before he tries to speak.

“Uh. I. About earlier,” he finally gets out, looking down at his sandwich, and you shake your head even though he’s not watching you.

“It’s fine. We don’t have to.” You take a bite of your salad even though you don’t taste it. “You’re right, it doesn’t make sense. You are who you are,” smart, sweet, handsome, tender, caring, “and I am who I am.” Too quiet, too young, too impulsive, too silly, too emotional. He nods, looks at your face for the first time in a while, swallows.

“Right.” You’re due to exchange books back—his is on your lap, yours is on his—and he picks them both up. “I’m like this,” he says, holding up Beloved. “Faded cover, dog-eared pages, scribbles in the margins: middle-aged, divorced, a little broken, barely holding it together for the kid I don’t get to spend enough time with. You’re like this,” he says, holding up Ravished. “Fresh and glossy and shiny and new, with your whole life ahead of you, the whole world ahead of you. You could do anything, with anyone.”

You frown, because this is not what you meant, at all. How could he think that about himself, when the well-loved cover and the dog-eared pages and the scribbles in the margins are all the best parts of him?

“Aaron,” you say, but it sounds like pleading; you reach out to put your hands on his arms, but he pulls them back. His eyes are rimmed red, lips pressed together to hold back everything he’s not saying.

“I think lunch is almost over.” He packs up his things, leaves you with tears in your eyes and a wilted salad and a brand new romance novel you’re never going to read.

Later, he cancels dinner, says something came up, and you go home to your empty bed and watch Titanic and bawl your eyes out when Rose tells Jack she’ll never let go. Friday, you get another case. Weekend cases are no one’s favorite, but especially not yours, when you desperately needed that buffer of time away from Aaron to sort out your feelings and get back to some sense of normalcy. Instead, you’re flying to a small town outside of Nashville to catch a serial arsonist, and when you get to your hotel, you and Aaron are sharing a room.

At least there are two beds, this time.

You go with Emily and Spencer to a crime scene, walking around a house that was once picture perfect and is now all charred wood and ash, and you quickly tell yourself to get a grip and not look for metaphors for your own life while trying to solve a case. What kind of investigator are you? Pathetic, apparently.

You work until evening, and when it’s time to break for dinner, you buy a sad looking assortment of items from the police station vending machine and eat in the conference room by yourself.

It’s a good thing you do, because they get a call about the fire while everyone is still away, and you and a few locals are the first on the scene.

It doesn’t start out bad, mostly located in the back of the house, but you know how quickly these things can spread, and the fire department is working hard to put it out. One of the officers is talking to the family, and the mother is crying, so you come closer to figure out why.

“She said the daughter was supposed to be staying at a friend’s, but sometimes she changes her mind at the last minute and comes home. She can’t get ahold of her,” the officer says, and you nod, thinking.

“Where would she be? The front or the back?”

“Her room is in the front, second floor; if she’s here, that’s where she’d be,” the mother says, wiping her eyes with a tissue, and you tell the officer to stay with them, that you’ll take care of it. You talk to the firefighters—this town is so small there are only two that were able to respond, and they’re both busy trying to put out the fire, but they clear you to go in if you stick to the front of the building and get out of there as fast as you can.

Your team isn’t here yet either, too far out for comms to be effective, and you can’t get ahold of Aaron, so you make a judgement call and head inside.

The front of the house is so eerily normal it’s almost easy to calm your nerves and pretend the back isn’t in the process of being destroyed. You open the front door, run up the staircase, and call out for the girl; she answers, not from the front of the house, but the back—a bathroom maybe? Flames lick up the wall beside it, but you can get to the knob, and she comes rushing out, into your arms, terrified. You weren't expecting that, and you both fall back: your head hits off the floor, but she seems okay, so you tell her to run out the front door and find her mom.

You press a hand to the back of your head, and it comes back tacky with blood. There’s ringing in your ears for a couple of minutes, and then your favorite voice in the world comes through.

“Where are you? We’re here, where are you?” You’re getting hotter, and when you crane your neck up, you can see why: the fire is getting closer, creeping toward the staircase, creeping toward you. You inhale, cough, and press your walkie button.

“I��m upstairs in the hall; hit my head. It’s not safe.”

“I’m coming for you.” You groan. Stubborn man.

“It’s not safe, Aaron.” You hear the crackle of static, hope maybe he heard your warning and will wait until more firefighters arrive—but knowing him the way you do, that’s just wishful thinking. His voice rings out again, and despite the pain, you can’t help but smile.

“You jump, I jump, Jack. Just stay put; I’ll be right there.” You close your eyes, drift in and out of consciousness; when you see him, all you can think is how ridiculously in love with him you are, and that you really hope you’ll be around to tell him. You are, of course, fine. Your head is the worst of it, even the smoke inhalation was mild, and the fire didn’t touch you, so there are no burns. Aaron doesn’t leave your side the entire time you’re being checked over, looks serious and concerned, though he smiles when the mother comes over and squeezes you so tightly you wince a little. It starts to rain, making the firefighters' jobs a little easier, and it feels oddly cleansing, after the day you’ve had. Someone offers you an umbrella, but you decline.

The fire is successfully put out, and the half of your team that didn’t respond to the scene responded to a call for suspicious activity, which ends up being your unsub. You are all happy no one was killed this time, and since you’re staying the night again, the group decides to grab a drink to celebrate. You don’t have a concussion, but your head still aches, so you pass, and Aaron passes with you.

You head to the hotel, park in the lot, but you don’t even make it halfway across before you stop, a hand on his arm.

“I need to say something,” you tell him, and he looks up at the dark sky like, right here? Right now?, even though you’re both already drenched. You nod, because if you don’t do this now you might never—almost dying always gives you an unhealthy amount of confidence, which you attribute to equal amounts of adrenaline and stupidity. “When we first met, I didn’t think we’d have a lot in common. We’re both quiet, but in wildly different ways, and I’m quick to trust and let people in while your guard is almost never down.”

He looks a little sad at that, and you realize you’re kind of doing what he did, putting the two of you into completely different categories, emphasizing the ways you don’t belong together. But that’s dumb, so you don’t give him time to focus on that for long.

“But being your friend, Aaron—the more time I spent with you, the more I came to feel like no one has ever understood me the way you do. No one has ever seen me the way you do.” Rain is pouring down all around you, beating against the pavement, flattening your hair against your head, but you don’t care. Regardless of his reaction, this is actually kind of perfect. “I didn’t mean to fall in love with you—that was an accident, I admit. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” You step closer to him, put your hands on his waist; he doesn’t pull away. “I don’t need shiny, glossy things; you're the one I want—faded cover, dog-eared pages, notes in the margins. I love you exactly as you are.”

He is gorgeous in the rain, water in his hair, dripping off his nose. His expression looks hopeful, and you pray to god that’s not wishful thinking.

“Say something, anything,” you beg, anticipation killing you, and he presses his hands to your cheeks and pulls you close for a deep, passionate, soulful kiss that says it all.

The words are nice to hear, though.

“I didn’t mean to fall in love with you either,” he breathes against your lips when the kiss breaks. “I told myself it was just a crush, because someone so young and beautiful was paying so much attention to me, treating me like more than just the guy giving orders. But the more time I spent with you, the more undeniable it became. You are everything good about the world—bright, optimistic, caring, funny, sweet. How could anyone not fall in love with you?”

You swallow hard, lean up to press your lips against his again.

“When you said we wouldn’t make sense as a couple…” He shakes his head.

“That was just me chickening out. After we kissed, I was all but ready to ask you to go steady,” he says, and you both smile, because he’s such an old fashioned dork, but god, do you love him. “And then we found out that the team thought we’d been together for months, and you looked freaked out, so I freaked out. I’m sorry. I should have made us talk about it sooner.”

“Classic pointless miscommunication,” you say with a laugh, and he chuckles too, kisses you again.

“Let’s go inside and get dried off; there’s a birthday gift in my bag I’ve been meaning to give you.” He takes your hand, and you head up, duck into the bathroom to change into dry clothes, squeeze the water out of your hair. There is a small, flat, wrapped present on your bed when you emerge, and you smile, sink down to open it.

It’s Romeo and Juliet, a brand new copy, but when you flip through it, there are blue inked notes in the margins. Aaron comes to sit beside you, touches your face like you’re something precious.

“The course of true love never did run smooth,” he murmurs, and you smack him on the arm with the book.

“That’s from A Midsummer Night's Dream, and I know you know that,” you say with a grin. He nods in admission, and you wrap your arms around his shoulders, lean in for a warm, loving kiss. When you pull back, it’s with a soft smile. “Give me my sin again?”

“My pleasure,” he whispers, and you sink into his embrace and promise never to let go. The following week, you both leave work at noon on Friday so you can enjoy your romantic getaway. You drive to the spa, and Aaron reads over the brochure on his phone with a tone you find hilarious.

“Mud bath—I’m not bathing in mud. That’s counterintuitive.”

“It’s special mud; more like clay,” you say, but he snorts, scrolls.

“Seaweed wrap—nobody is wrapping me in seaweed. That sounds like a nightmare.” You laugh softly and take your exit.

“It’s supposed to be rejuvenating. JJ recommended it.”

“JJ weighs fifty pounds. It would take all the seaweed in the Atlantic to wrap me,” he says, and you roll your eyes, jab your finger into his ribs.

“But what if I get to unwrap you?” you ask, eyebrows raised; you briefly glance over and he makes a face of contemplation.

“Okay, that’s a maybe. Intimate aromatherapy—what does that even mean?”

“I think it means we do something that makes us smell good and then we go back to our room and kiss and stuff.”

“Now that doesn’t sound half bad,” he murmurs. “Foot massage? I’m not letting a stranger touch my feet, that’s weird.” You look over at him, squinting.

“You literally plugged someone’s bullet wound with your finger yesterday, but someone touching your feet is where you draw the line? Will you do anything on the list?” He scrolls down it, and his extended silence makes you laugh.

“Meditation. Couples massage,” he says, reaching over to rest a hand on your thigh. “There’s a sauna.” You think of him, sweat-drenched in a fluffy white towel, and take a deep, calming breath. “I bet the room is nice; did you bring a book?” You smile indulgently, reach out a hand to brush through his hair.

“Yep. It’s called A Duke’s Wild Kiss…” He gives you a mildly withering look, and you lightly tap the bridge of his nose. “Just kidding. I brought To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf.” His answering smile is brilliant.

“Are you serious?” You nod, and he gestures to the backseat, where your bags are. “That’s what I brought, too.”

You spend too much of your romantic getaway in your room, but it is really nice; you do the couples massage, though, and aromatherapy, and the sauna, and then you take turns giving each other a foot massage while the other reads To the Lighthouse out loud.

The world probably doesn’t deserve Aaron Hotchner; you definitely don’t, but somehow you get to keep him anyway. A/N: Though I snuck in a few parts of a few different lyrics, two lines in particular inspired this fic: 'Now I've read all of the books beside your bed' and 'I hate accidents except when we went from friends to this.' A lot of my fics lately have incorporated books... guess I better get reading!

Taglist ❤️: @thaddeusly @arsonhotchner @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @mintphoenix @meghannnnnn @disgruntledchowchow @azenpal @g-l-pierce @my-rosegold-soul @ssamorganhotchner @heliotropehotch @angelhotchner @qtip-blog @gspenc @wishuhadstayed @averyhotchner

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfic #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x female reader #hotch x female reader #hotch x reader #paper rings #inspired by #taylor swift

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phoenixyfriend · 3 years ago

Text

SW Shitpost Collective

Shitposts and Assorted Thoughts

Navigation Post

Fun fact, tumblr allows 250 links on the old editor and 100 in the new. So. Network of masterlists.

This post is currently divided as such:

Writing Jokes

Anakin or Vader

Ahsoka

Obi-Wan

Disaster Lineage

Mandalore (and Jango) (and Clones)

Other

General SW Fic Writing Jokes

The nichest of skills

Studying the Hydian Way

Writing fic about Mandalorians

Ottomans or Hassocks

Anakin under the influence

Rotisserie blorbo Anakin (rarepair week)

How to incite an incident in an Ahsoka fic

Allowance for being repetitive

Nictitating Membranes

Positivity for me to come back to - Pt. 2

Age differences and the treatment thereof

The default plot for a time-travel fic: Road Trip!

Characterization by ignorance

Imagine if Huttese got used like Mando’a

Permission to talk shit, sir?

Too deep in the sauce

I promise it’s a different kind of weird shit

ANAKIN or VADER

Darth Vader at 7-11 with Jar Jar Binks as the Bugs Bunny

Fem!Anakin deserves to be a disaster lesbian

Anakin’s SOs Need to be Down With Murder Incredible Violence

Tarkin Lies About War Crimes

I’ll get the Shovel

Crazy Frog Saves the Galaxy

Anakin’s Weird Hobbies

Anakin’s chip removal was covered under Space HIPPA

Anakin the Token Straight

Anakin’s Ghost Knows Where Kix Is - Full on AU

Anakin’s a ferret

Anon came in with the Wormie pun

Raised-a-Sith Anakin and Ventress, the worst older sister

The range of Anakin ships

Breha tries to mom Anakin, it goes... somewhere

Anakin/Therapy

Lightsaber rotary cutter

Anakin skipped Philosophy 101 and all his ‘new ideas about the Force’ have been covered a million times already by others over the centuries

We love an “Anakin’s Bio Dad” plot

My Best Friend’s Brother

Anakin’s Gender is “I threw out the box with the instructions”

Uchihahahaha face

AHSOKA

Lizard-Eating Contest

Ladette Ahsoka (addendum)

Ahsoka uses friendly violence to prove Anakin loves her

Manic stabby good influence

Fighting God with Your Tits Out

Jangosoka

Ahsoka’s taller than Jango

Just want Ahsoka to cry sometimes

Karaoke: “Kill Your Husband” Country

Rexsoka formalwear

Ahsoka on fighter jets makes me gay

Ahsoka should get to carry Boba like the football

Why Ahsoka is the best (no questions)

Mistaken for Villain

Best Ahsoka outfits, ranked

Dance Studio AU, Acro Ahsoka

LET HER MARKS GLOW

Demigoddess Ahsoka vs. Vader

Cool nicknames in the future

She’s got the Dark Veins conditions 😔 - I have made this joke multiple times alkdfpasdha

Most of Ahsoka’s partners are at least a little GNC

OBI-WAN

Gay or European?

Fuck Around and Find Out - Now with art by @dragondrawer28!

* Everyone in Anchorhead Knows Crazy Old Ben is a Jedi

Obi-Wan has a Vision, is then a Seemingly Intoxicated Dick About It

Space Monk Pirate

Obi-Wan with babies

Obi-Wan really looked up to Depa as a padawan

Why MaulObi?

Ballgown Obi with art by @currysrealm

Banana swim shorts Obi by @masteryaddleisagilf

Let’s Shake It Up a Little! Bee Movie quote, art by @mercurialvoid

The only non-annoying person in Obi-Wan’s life is Bail

Maul shows up on the Death Star

I dropped my Obi-Wan Funko and... this poor man...

Obi-Wan failed to commit a war crime

Use the Force!...to pick your outfit for the fancy event

Obi-Wan getting dragged by Cody and Satine for not being enough of a romantic

Fandom at large: this man is Dad Shaped

DISASTER LINEAGE

THIS is what breaks your suspension of disbelief?

T-Pose to intimidate

Time-travel default names for the trio

Anakin is meme illiterate (Ahsoka and Obi-Wan are not)

“That sounds wrong but I don’t know enough ab--Oh, it’s REALLY wrong.”

The Allergy Metaphor that doesn’t actually work

Someone brings up Obi-Wan’s sex life and Anakin’s got his hands over his ears screaming LALALA

Maul is back. Again.

Chibi Disaster Lineage

Text messages between the TCW trio when Anakin finds out Palpatine is a Sith Lord a little too early

Anakin keeps bug snacks in his arm, Ahsoka approves

What if Rael Averross was Anakin’s Bio Dad

Anakin sees Shrimp Colors - And Obi-Wan is colorblind

Anakin ragging on old pics of Obi-Wan

Anakin just loves his family SO much

These chucklefucks almost killed the Chancellor -

Qui-Gon saves the universe via being a petty bitch

Qui-Gon’s Sexy Bitch shirt - Now with fanart (kind of) by @chocomars!

Qui-Gon says Gadzooks

Distribution of slut points

Stupidly overprotective (of Obi) Qui-Gon

“No, no, I think Qui-Gon got himself in trouble.” (Qui-Gon survives Naboo)

Anakin demanding to know if Qui-Gon slept with Shmi -

Why the disaster lineage left (view on mobile or dashboard sidebar, as tumblr mucked up the formatting on desktop browser view)

Rael w/ Xanatos (swinging ferret)

Invite Ventress to things

Rael and Feemor are mostly unmentioned, Qui-Gon and Xan both had long hair, Komari and Obi-Wan... uh... I got nothing

History’s Most Destructive Divorce (Dooku and Jocasta have divorced energy)

Vader buds, Obi-Wan has feelings about it

Spreading Yoda’s stories of Dooku’s Embarrassing Teen Years

Splicing together the new and old timelines puts Mace as being only three years older than Xanatos - On the same

Cin Drallig and Mace Windu on the other branches of the Yoda lineages

Mace Windu has to deal with Mandalorians Assigning Daughter Label to Depa

Did you know Xan doesn’t have a surname?

MANDALORE

KRYZES AND POLITICS (plus maybe Jango)

Mandalorian Sluttiness Levels

Kryze sister age swap? Just an excuse for Komari/Bo

Care Bear Tiddy Window

Three Mandalorians Stuck in a Room

Jangobime

Chimera Jango

Bo-Katan did so many things wrong

Jango keeps dodging Satine’s calls

Mishima Incident reference

My expectations for the anticipated, unnamed Taika Waititi Star Wars movie

Monty Python Peasants

Bo-Katan is Not going to apologize

CLONES (plus maybe Jango)

Army of Omegas

Still-Militarized Mandalore

Jango Gets Cold Feet

How Jango Ships Work For Me

Baby Rex has the most raspberry-worthy tummy

Omega as a Fett/Kryze child instead of a clone (Jango was not informed of this plan ahead of time)

Jango/Shaak Ti and the cockblocking clones

Double-aging past RotS is technically Filoni canon

Fives dances like a K-pop video

Rex vs. Padme shipping disasters

Consider some Cody Ships

Boba really wants to piss off Bo-Katan

Jango Fett equals ...Space Taylor Swift?

Is Boba a bastard? Discuss.

Clones pretending to be Boba’s Dad

OTHER SHITPOSTS

Maul’s Wrenches

Padme, Queen of “I Can Fix Her”

@masteryaddleisagilf made this meme for me

Male Model Maul

Ages???

Tags I want to make a reality

Recurring AU elements

TCW goth/prep nerd/jock alignment chart (originally @willowcrowned)

Quinlan’s fake-evil politician contact

Trans Aayla

DILF Energy

Combat Wedges

Yularen is Not Here For It

Luke time-traveling to troll his parents about not using BC

Luke meets Satine in the Rebellion

Trickster God Artoo

Leia’s modern AU version of L0LA could be a hedgehog

Leia Orange in Spantone Color

The Star Wars Universe, especially the Prequels, are full of people who are simultaneously incredibly smart and also total idiots

#masterlists #star wars #phoenix posts

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capricorn-stark · 3 years ago

Text

Protégé

pairing: red hood!jason todd x robin!reader, slow burn

warning: swearing

a/n: for context, this is somewhat loosely based off of Battle for the Cowl (2009) which I definitely recommend as a read!

There was something about falling that you would never, ever get tired of.

Ever.

Probably.

With the wind whistling in your ears, your hair floating up in a million directions, and your limbs seemingly weightless as the buildings and lights blurred into one endless streak of color, the rush of adrenaline that ran through your body right before your grappling hook shot out and you landed quietly on the concrete was about a million times better than any sparring session back at the cave.

You grinned as you straightened, rather proud of the fact that you had actually managed to land so smoothly without nearly paralyzing yourself. Again.The landing was something you had been working on for a while now.

You could practically hear Bruce’s voice ringing through your head after your little stunt, lamenting on and on about how you had more important things to focus on during patrols, and you let out a sigh as you ran down the backway of the nearly empty streets.

The heavy man who had been bound up with a decently made gag and one of Bruce’s fancy tech pieces (Batcuffs, maybe? Something else with Bat smacked in front of it?) grunted beside you.

“What? Not like you had someplace to be.” You grabbed the back of his rather tacky-looking spandex suit to drag him along back to where your mentor was supposed to be.

Despite your (many) disagreements and his (many) criticisms of your hand-to-hand combat skills, attitude issues, and pretty much everything else relating to you, Bruce had actually still allowed you to go off on your own tonight. It might’ve been because he wanted a few hours of nothing but beating up petty criminals by himself for stress-relief, it might’ve been because he had started trying out that whole independence thing with you a little more (even though you were still only permitted to be about five blocks or so away), it might’ve been plot-convenience - but either way, you appreciated the gesture.

It didn’t take long for you to pull your new friend over to what should’ve been your rendezvous point with Batman, letting the man drop with a dull thud and a grunt of protest against the concrete as you glanced around for the other man. You weren’t particularly concerned by the fact that the Bat himself wasn’t there yet - after all, he was the goddamn Batman. He’d show up eventually. In the meanwhile, you decided to go over the information you had gotten on the criminal with you.

Just for the sake of it. Bruce would make you go over it anyways.

“Drury Walker, thirty-two years old, found him trying to mug someone in a back alley and make an escape. Called himself…” you paused, looking down at his sorry-looking outfit for a few moments while he looked up at you with murder and vengence in his eyes. “...Killer Moth.”

“Killer Moth?” A completely new voice repeated in disbelief, causing you to immediately whirl around to face them in a fight stance, heart racing at a million miles per hour. The guy in front of you had his hands up in the air, his face concealed with some sort of red knock-off Iron Man helmet. He was gonna get copyrighted by Marvel Studios. “Shit, sorry,” he started at the sight of you, still leaning up against one of the walls. “I was supposed to make a wholeass dramatic entrance, but you said his name was Killer Moth and that-” The man made a noise that was either a sharp cough or a laugh of some kind. “-sounded so fucking lame I couldn’t help myself.”

Despite the fact that you were definitely in some sort of major trouble with this new guy, he really did have a point. Even Killer Moth himself would’ve been embarrassed by how trash his name was, if not for the fact that he looked like he was on the verge of an aneurysm - understandably so, since the new guy had produced not one, but two guns out of apparently nowhere.

“And let me guess,” he continued, pointing one of them at your head, his tone still all-too light and easy. “You must be the Bat’s brand-new Robin.”

Now this is where most people would've shut up and proceeded to be complicit with the dude holding two guns. But Batman hadn’t seen reason and made you his (sort of) partner because you were like other people. Hell no.

“Do I look like a traffic signal to you?” It had been the very first of your amendments with Bruce. You would not be fighting crime looking like a literal traffic signal or, at best, a clown from Haly’s Circus. And the tiny green shorts had to go. “Or Robin Hood?” The guy had a rather awkward pause where his gun sort of dipped. Killer Moth was looking between you with wide eyes. “Do I?”

“I guess you kinda got a point.” You huffed and he raised his gun again, getting more in-your-face as his already angry-looking helmet somehow managed to look angrier. You weren’t exactly sure how a helmet could convey so much emotion. “But you work with Batman. And I heard you went by Robin.”

Okay, so you couldn’t make him change the name, but you had agreed it would be more of an honorary thing.

“It’s complicated.”

Using such a phrase as an excuse to escape from situations you didn’t want to go into was one of the many things you had learned from Bruce in your five months of training. Somehow, that seemed to trigger the guy further.

“So you do work with Batman.”

Before he could do something actually insane, you had managed to push the gun pointed at your head away from you, using his brief second of surprise to take it out of his hands, kick him in the chest, and round back on him with it in hand.

“And what about it?”

As cool as you thought you might’ve sounded didn’t cover for the fact that you were still nerve-wracked about what was happening right then. Especially after the guy started to dramatically slow-clap like some sort of evil thespian in a high school drama.

“Not bad, Robin. Not bad.” He looked at the gun in your hands and grinned. “If you weren’t Batman’s new replacement sidekick, I might’ve believed you had the balls to use that thing.”

Now, you were an excellent fighter. You had to be, after your excessive training with the guy who had literally mastered about every martial art in existence during his (give or take) five year-long mission to find himself. Plus, some personal experience. But fighting someone like this guy? Built like a tank and padded up in a whole lot of armor and packing an assortment of knives, guns, and even a damn taser you got a first-hand taste of?

You fought hard, but about five minutes and another round of the taser later, you saw the knock-off Iron Man helmet staring down at you before the world went black.

~*~

You woke up in what you assumed was the self-dubbed Red Hood’s safehouse of sorts.

“How the hell did he rope you into this shit?” he demanded with what you could only assume was him glaring at you through the helmet. Probably some expression that made someone look all angsty and annoyed - which was fair, since he had been trying to drill you for information you straight up refused to give while bound (way too tightly) to a chair for quite some time now. Rather rude. “Let me guess. You watched your parents die.” You stared at him before shrugging.

“Nope.”

“Oh, so they just went ahead and died somehow. Untimely accident caused by some psycho bitch in a Spirit Halloween costume.”

“…nope.”

“They abandoned you as a child.”

“No, they didn’t - does divorce count?”

Red Hoodlum’s hands kept clenching and unclenching while he stood there, staring at the wall behind you in silence. From the way his chest kept rising and falling, you were tempted to believe he was practicing breathing exercises amidst his rather violent twitching.

“Divorce - what the hell is your trauma supposed to be? Why did he pick you?!”

“Hey, just because my trauma doesn’t include people dying doesn’t make it any less traumatic,” you scoffed in response, knowing you were absolutely right about that. Your middle school guidance counselor had said so (and it’s true, ladies and gentlemen, trauma comes in many forms!). “Kinda rude to assume it didn’t affect me somehow.”

He seemed rather abashed at that and you heard him clear his throat a little.

“...right, yeah. Sorry.”

“Apology accepted - can you loosen these ropes a little? It’s starting to kinda hurt.”

“Do I look ten? That’s the oldest trick in the book, I’m not gonna-”

“I’m not going to run, just loosen the ropes a little.” He still looked like he didn’t believe you. “Come on, I don’t think I can outrun your guns.” As in his literal array of guns tacked up to the wall behind him, not his gigantic biceps.

And you weren’t too worried about being held hostage by him, either. You figured you had ten minutes tops before Batman burst in through the doorway, ready to give you a lecture on why straying from the specifically designated parts of Gotham he had let you traipse around was a terribly stupid idea.

“No.” He was already walking towards the door, because apparently, he had enough of trying to interrogate you.

“Hold on, I feel like my wrists are actually about to start bleeding or something - where are you going?”

“Keep talking and I’m gonna get the duct tape.”

“Is that a threat?” Sounding more confident than you actually felt should eventually make you more confident. Eventually.

The Red Hood sucked in a breath, stopping by the doorway and turning to face you, reaching into his pockets to get what you assumed was either a gun or duct tape when you both startled from a sudden crash. The man in front of you was already whirling around with two guns positioned to shoot when you heard the familiar voice of someone else.

“Hold your fire, soldier. I’m not here for you.” A pause. “Or I wasn’t, but now I kind of am.”

Apparently, Batman was too busy to save you. Now, you got Nightwing.

And as much as you liked Nightwing, that still kinda stung.

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hurricanes-art · 4 years ago

Note

i am interested in your hades au, would you mind giving some details about it? 👁 it looks really interesting

[This AU is from these drawings!]

*cracks knuckles* Ok! I actually got enough sleep last night so I'm finally feeling up to explaining this au lmao

Also I hope that by “some details” you meant “way way too many” because I am nothing if not long winded. Also @hades-hellsite asked for context too, here you go

The central premise is that, after he dies, Achilles manages to make an arrangement with Hades that allows both him and Patroclus to stay in Elysium together. He's not employed to work at the house and he never becomes Zagreus's combat trainer.

Hades makes a few attempts to find Zagreus a different teacher among the shades of great warriors, but being skilled does not make someone able to teach. And being able to teach one way doesn't mean someone will be good for every student. When Zagreus doesn't learn well with the few mentors Hades tries, which he barely gives a chance to breathe anyway, he's quick to decide that he must have no martial ability and declares Zagreus a failure in that as he has about so many things.

This has two major effects on Zagreus before his escape attempts begin. One, without any chance to actually grow into aptitude in combat, he's left without anything substantial to put his energy into and, more importantly, he's left without anything he feels good at and that gives value to his efforts. Two is that, in Achilles' absence, very few people in the house give him any care and support untwisted by the politics of the house and the judgment of his father. There is Orpheus, kind to him before Hades locks him away for refusing to sing, Hypnos, willing to put the house to sleep so he can find the truth though jumbled up in his own problems, and Nyx.

Nyx is the only one to aid Zagreus when he decides to try to escape. She contacts Olympus and weaves careful lies to win their support and blesses his departure. She's also the only one who believes that Zagreus has the slightest chance of escaping. Already in canon, most everyone tells him there no way he'll make it out, but here, it's so much worse. He doesn't know how to fight, his initial attempts are pitiful and his progress negligible, and near everyone lashes out at him to get back in line and stop making things worse.

He doesn't even have the Infernal Arms. Achilles is the one who brings them to him in canon; here Zagreus takes a simple bronze sword from one of the house's many displays of weapons from wars long past. He thanks the Fates that the Styx restores it the same way it does his body when he dies because he nicks and dulls the edges every time.

Despite all the disadvantages, Zagreus throws himself into escaping with unshakable determination, bone deep stubbornness. He picks up his sword and will figure out how to use it himself. Experience will be his teacher. He dies over and over and he watches his enemies and learns how they move and how he must react, mimicking their attacks for his own use and adjusting and adjusting after each failure. And contrary to Hades' adamant belief, Zagreus is very intelligent and learns brilliantly when allowed to and he grows stronger and stronger.

There's no teacher more savage than experience in something like this, though. The pursuit is agonizing and the cost is enormous and adjusting to this ceaseless violence feels impossible.

Much of my interest in this idea is how the added strain on his circumstances and relationships affects Zagreus and his mental state. At his best, Zag looks a lot like he does in canon, with his laurels unfurled and vibrant, and his feet glowing hot, but he rarely feels his best here. His laurel leaves curl in dry and crisp, muted like the leaves of autumn. Flakes of ash and soot build up over his legs and encase more and more as he suffers. So deep is his feeling of failure and being trapped that it affects him physically.

Not always, though. His flames respond to his emotions, burn brighter in his passion. Enthusiasm, love, fervor, bliss, anger set him glowing.

After a brutally drawn out span of time, Zagreus meets Achilles and Patroclus in Elysium and tbh, the rest of my interest is really in how the altered circumstances change the evolution of their relationships with each other. The pair of warriors were never separated for an extended time and Achilles is less downtrodden and resigned and Patroclus is less bitter and abrasive when Zagreus stumbles upon them.

They don't fight him, which Zagreus counts among his greatest blessings, although Achilles still seems to have an interest. It makes him twitchy and he jumps when Achilles finally lifts his spear and swings it around in his third time in their little glade only to bump the flat of the blade against elbow and tell him to keep it in more towards his body. Zagreus blinks rapidly at him before adjusting his arm.

Achilles helps him here and there, tips and tricks and valuable advice, but he never gives anything near the thorough instruction he did in canon. On one hand, he doesn't need to. Zagreus is a self made fighter and it leaves him with weaknesses but it is also a powerful thing. He is unpredictable and incredibly adaptable and he only continues to improve.

On the other hand, there's no room for it. Achilles is gentle with his guidance, but Zagreus is rubbed raw by all the fighting he's done and all that still depends on it. He doesn't want to always focus on the weapon in his hands. Patroclus notices and curbs Achilles' input when it exceeds its bounds. He sits aside and observers carefully when they spar. Zagreus doesn't need another's direction which is fine by him, who's lost all desire for combat. He gives his aid through his assortment of trinkets that carry Zagreus further to the surface.

Zagreus barely knows what to do with himself in the face of their care. He's so unaccustomed to such generous and genuine support, interest devoid of expectation or blame. As familiarity between the three of them grows, their interactions grow warmer, more tender and comfortable. Their care lays on a foundation, not a hinge, and Zagreus grapples with understanding that he really can lean on it. It all leaves him so uncertain yet so desperate because he wants more than anything to have joy and conversation and company with others where he doesn't shoulder heavy guilt from unspoken accusations over his escaping the house and to have a place he feels he belongs without being an intrusion.

He does at first believe he's intruding, though. Intruding on their time together in the peace of Elysium. It takes them time to convince him that they value his presence immeasurably. The opportunity to stay together in the Underworld has been invaluable for Achilles and Patroclus, but the peace of Elysium is a deceptive thing. It wears away and prickles at them, pressing down in odd warping ways. Patroclus is beyond pleased to have the war behind him and that it can never force him to fight again, and despite Achilles retaining an interest in competition and combat, he does feel the same way. Having a cause though, something to believe in and worth devoting their efforts towards... They didn't realize how deeply they missed it until Zagreus. It is revitalizing. They thrive in his genuine, boundless kindness and long to support him.

The drawings of Orpheus arguing with Hades and Zagreus fighting with Nyx is from one of my plot point ideas. Later down the line, together, Hades, Persephone, and Nyx agree to forbid Zagreus from seeing Achilles and Patroclus at Nyx's behest. Similarly to how she talks about Dusa in canon, she sees mortal shades as beneath his station and that it's highly unbecoming for the prince to be consorting with them. Zagreus fights against the idea ferociously and is only smothered by the threat that, if he seeks them out anyway, Hades will void Achilles' agreement and have Patroclus moved to the proper plane of the Underworld.

It crushes Zagreus. He loves them and cares about them so much and being torn apart from them is a wound that cuts so deep. But even more than that, what breaks him open most, is the fact that it came from someone he cared for and trusted most. Nyx was the one person in the House he could depend on most and this betrayal at her hand is devastating. And for such a worthless reason as propriety and godly vanity. It's not her place to force those upon him. It hurts Zagreus to the core.

Orpheus is the only one willing to stick up for him in this, deeply empathetic to the grief of being separated from loved ones and well acquainted with the fact that such punishments will only damage, never correct. After all, his stint of punishment in Erebus didn't revive his desire to sing, it was Zagreus's dedication and vibrancy that did that. One of the many invaluable gifts Zagreus gave him, including reuniting him with Eurydice, making him happier than he'd been since her death. Orpheus can't keep biting his tongue when all these gods refuse to see any of this.

It all comes to a head dramatically and painfully and I've thought of a few variations on how it would play out. I'll leave it for now though, I might draw it or write it later >:3c Also this got really long lol. Hopefully the idea is at least somewhat interesting!

And here, have the lines from these two drawings because I like the way they look

#hades game #hades supergiant #zagreus #achilles #patroclus #nyx #orpheus #god of ash au #which is a tag i might not use again lol #my art #my writing #i guess #this is so long please forgive me #i had one thought of achilles not working at the house and it drove me to madness #apparently

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lsvdw-blog · 3 years ago

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Not a Minute More: Part 5

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x f!MC

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings; Rating: Severe bodily injury, Mentions of blood, Angst; Mature, 18+

Premise: Everyone is in the fight to save lives and they finally find out what happened to Serena.

Author’s Note: This is very heavy - I apologize in advance 😭 Thank you to my girl @choiceskatie for pre-reading 😘 I hope you enjoy and thank you for reading 💖

~ Monday, 3:00pm ~

The explosion at Harvard labs reverberated throughout the campus and the surrounding suburb. The ER is swamped, an all hands on deck situation. Ambulance after ambulance arrives, wheeling in more patients before departing. Doctors and nurses are being pulled every which way, trying to help as many patients as promptly as possible. But they’re quickly becoming overwhelmed. Empty boxes of sterile gloves line the walls, medical equipment wrappers scatter the floor. They can barely hear each others’ shouts over the cries and less severe injuries are left unattended as the dire patients are intubated, defibrillated, or ushered off to an OR.

Ethan, Naveen, and Serena’s friends are on the ER floor, moving as quickly as they can, doing as much as they can, hoping their training and expertise is enough. But every time someone enters the hospital, they can’t help but pause for a beat and stare, hoping it’s her.

~ 4:00pm ~

Patients are referred to by their room number, blurring together. Everyone is exhausted, limbs heavy, grabbing yet another cup of coffee to keep going.

“Incoming!” A handful of nurses and doctors leave their stable patients and rush to the entrance, receiving the new bout of admittees.

“What’ve we got?”

“Two individuals, one male, one female, recovered just outside one of the classified Harvard labs. They’re unconscious, but stable. We didn’t see any obvious injuries, but that doesn’t rule out anything internal. The site of the explosion just cleared enough for us to work our way there,” one of the EMTs respond.

Ethan’s ears perk up at this new piece of information, but before he can corner the EMT, there’s another shout.

“We need an OR room stat!!!” Everyone turns towards the automatic doors at the familiar voice.

Rapidly pushing the side of a stretcher, is Rafael, his face ashen.*

Reclined on the stretcher, is Serena.

Ethan feels his world stop, the noise and hurried movements of the ER fading to black as his eyes trail over her. She’s covered in blood, drifting in and out of consciousness, and breathing through an oxygen mask. There’s several visible gashes on her head and body, but the most alarming thing is the large piece of metal protruding from the side of her abdomen.

She slowly turns her head towards him, as if she can sense his presence nearby.

As they lock eyes, he regains his senses, and rushes to her side.

While the paramedics continue to push the stretcher, he reaches for her hand and clutches it over his heart. "Baby, can you hear me?!"

She blinks groggily at him, acknowledging his words.

"H—," she swallows. "...Hurts," she manages to squeak out.

He nods continuously, his other hand reaching up to brush her blood-matted hair away from her face. "I know, baby, I know. Help is on the way. Until then, I need you to stay awake, okay?" He lifts her hand and kisses it. "Look at me, focus on me, and stay here with me," he urges. He relaxes a fraction of an inch when he feels her lightly squeeze his hand.

"Dr. Ramsey, I need you to step back!"

He shakes his head furiously. "I'm scrubbing in."

"The hell you are! We both know you can't be in there." Harper watches him closely. He's hunched over the stretcher, keeping pace, knuckles white from gripping Serena’s hand, eyes never leaving her face.

Harper sighs and her voice softens just a touch. "Let me do my job."**

He knows Harper is right, but Serena’s eyes are searching his and the thought of leaving her side makes him sick.

"E…"

"I'm here, I'm right here," he responds, tapping their entwined hands over his heart, hoping she can feel the heart that beats for her.

"I lo—," she lets out a breath and her eyes close.

"Rookie?" Her head lolls to the side.

"SERENA!!" He squeezes her hand multiple times, but her hand remains limp in his grasp.

As they push through the doors to the OR, her hand is ripped away from his. He reaches for her, but is stopped by Naveen and a few security guards he called for backup.

"LET ME THROUGH!! SERENA!!!" His voice cracks over her name. He continues to fight, leaving the security guards no choice but to drag him back towards the ER entrance.

Naveen stands in front of him. "ETHAN! You're not in the right state to be in the OR! Serena needs you to trust in Harper and her team. She needs you to be here when she wakes up! And you can't do that if I have to lock you down!"

Naveen takes in the man before him. Ethan's normally perfectly coiffed hair is in disarray, strands falling in his eyes. Cheeks flushed from the effort of screaming and battling the guards' hold. Hands and clothes covered in blood. Serena’s blood.

Naveen's heart plummets at the realization and it aches for the man he's come to consider a son.

Ethan stares down Naveen, chest heaving. After a few seconds, he gives a curt nod. Naveen waves his hand and the guards let go.

As soon as Ethan has range of motion, he walks to the nearest wall, and punches it. He walks away in a huff, leaving a room full of stunned individuals, and a gaping hole in the wall.

~ 8:45pm ~

Ethan sits with his head hung low in the waiting room, elbows resting on his bouncing knees, hands clenched together. Different people have come through, taking turns checking on him. He only mumbles or moves his head in response. The assortment of food and drinks brought to him remain untouched. He refuses to go home, sleep, or even change out of his bloodied clothes. Each time there's slight movement in the direction of the OR entry, he immediately turns towards it, only to be disappointed.

Naveen has been watching from afar, waiting to take his turn. He meanders over, silently taking a seat next to Ethan. He leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers over his stomach. He sits calmly, patiently.

After ten minutes, Ethan lets out a shaky breath.

"She needed me," he whispers, barely loud enough to be heard.

Naveen remains quiet, waiting for Ethan to continue.

“She left me a voicemail… said she was scared, that she wanted to hear my voice. I’m supposed to be her protector, but I didn't even pick up the phone.” He buries his head in his hands.

Naveen leans forward, gently placing a hand on Ethan's shoulder.

"My boy. You couldn't possibly have known what was going to transpire today. You can't hold yourself responsible. Don't think I haven't seen the way you look at her, treat her. How you're always standing slightly behind her, a pillar of support during patient interactions, ready to step in if need be. How you consistently have a gentle hand on her, guiding her through the busy corridors. How you wait to leave together so she doesn't have to take the T,*** despite the fact that your shift ended hours earlier. You do protect her, every single day."

"But when she needed me most!” He shakes his head. “I wasn't there. I failed her. Miserably.” He runs his hands through his hair.

"She is everything to me, Naveen, everything. She's shown me what it means to be loved unconditionally, that vulnerability isn't a weakness. I no longer see the world in strictly black and white, or even in shades of grey. I see hues of red, purple, green, the whole damn rainbow, all because of her. She's made me a better mentor and doctor, a better son, a better man. I can’t even imagine where, or who, I’d be now without her. I wasted so much time running from my feelings, when committing to her has been the best decision I've ever made.”

He takes a steadying breath.

"She's the love of my life and now… not only may I never get the chance to tell her, but I also may never get to see our future together," his voice cracks and tears stream down his face.

He swivels his head slowly to face Naveen. "I can't lose her. I just can't."

Naveen nods solemnly. "I’m worried too; I don’t want to lose her either. One of the best surgeons in the country is leading her case. You know Harper and her team will do everything they can and we know Serena is one hell of a fighter. She has to be, to have gotten past your walls and to deal with you on a daily basis,” he teases.

It does the trick, as Ethan chuckles through his tears, nodding in agreement.

“She really is something, isn’t she?”

“She really is,” Naveen responds with a twinkle in his eyes. “And that’s another reason why I have faith. She's a warrior, having fought so long for you, for your relationship, and she knows you’re out here, waiting for her, waiting to be reunited and happy together. She wouldn’t give up now.”

Naveen locks eyes with his protégé.

“The two of you? The story is far from over. I know that in my soul.”

Ethan holds Naveen’s determined gaze, drawing strength from it, and sits up a little straighter.

“Thank you, Naveen. It means more than you know. And… I’ll take care of the hole in the wall,” Ethan grimaces.

“Don’t worry about it, my boy. I’m just relieved you didn’t do more damage,” he laughs. “And if we’re being completely honest, I’d be more shocked if you hadn’t punched a wall.”

Naveen gives Ethan a wink before he stands and walks back towards his office, leaving Ethan shaking his head in amusement, feeling a bit lighter and more hopeful.

~ Tuesday, 1:30am; 1 Day Since Attack ~

Ethan had finally dozed off, albeit uncomfortably, in a waiting room chair, when he felt a petite hand gently shaking him awake. He lifted his head and opened his eyes, coming face-to-face with Harper. He bolts up.

“Where is she? How is she?” Ethan’s eyes are frantic, searching Harper’s face for any sign of information.

She remains silent for a few beats.

“She’s currently being moved to the ICU.”

“She’s alive?”

Harper nods. “She’s alive.”

Before Ethan can breathe a sigh of relief, Harper continues.

“But Ethan… it was really bad. The piece of metal in her body was larger than we thought. It spanned from her kidney to her lungs. It was only two centimeters away from puncturing her heart. Additionally, it was so embedded within her body that every time she took a breath, it dug itself deeper. This isn’t even mentioning the bits of shrapnel she had in other places.”

She squares her shoulders, bracing herself for what she’s about to tell her friend.

“At one point during the surgery, she flatlined.”

Ethan gasps and his eyes widen.

“For a very short, and scary, moment, she was gone.”

Harper’s words hit Ethan like a semi-truck and he has to sit back down to try and calm his thundering heartbeat. Harper crouches down in front of him, eyes softening.

“But we were able to bring her back and I strongly believe that the brief lack of oxygen will not have any lasting effects.”

“However, she has been through a lot in the past twelve hours,” she gently places her hand on his shoulder. “She’s still in a coma and we cannot say for certain if she’ll wake back up.”

Ethan tightly shuts his eyes and balls his hands into fists.

“I assure you, Ethan, that we did everything we could. But now, it’s up to her, and her body, to decide if she wants to rejoin us.”

A tear slips down Ethan’s face.

“Can I see her?” His words come out soft, broken.

“No visitors until she makes it through the night. But, you can see her through the window.”

Ethan is unmoving, trying to swallow the lump in his throat.

Harper stands. “Come on,” she tilts her head slightly. “Let’s take a walk.”

Ethan follows suit and they make their way through the waiting room, side by side.

~ 2:00 am ~

Before Ethan knows it, they’re in the ICU, Harper having coyly led him in that direction. She comes to a stop in front of a room.

“This is her. If you need anything at all, you know where to find me.”

Ethan stops her as she begins to turn away, looking at her earnestly.

“Thank you for saving her, Harper. It means…,” he sighs. “Everything.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she responds, eyes fixed on Serena through the window.

Ethan gives a weak nod.

“She’s a stubborn one. I have a feeling she isn’t done with us yet.”

She turns and walks down the hall a ways, before glancing back. Ethan has one hand on the glass, watching Serena wistfully. She hopes that doing everything she could was enough.

~~~~~~

Disclaimers:

*I kept Rafael as an EMT because I wanted to include as much of the crew as possible and having a friend wheel Serena in adds to the angst deliciousness.

**I know Harper is a neurosurgeon, but I wanted to include her badass self and a bit of her platonic friendship with Ethan. So slight Harper AU!

***The “T” is what the locals in Boston call the subway.

#ethan ramsey × mc #dr. ethan ramsey #ethan ramsey fanfiction #ethan ramsey fic #ethan ramsey open heart #ethan ramsey #ethan x mc #open heart fic #open heart ethan #open heart fanfiction #choices open heart #open heart choices

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dragons-ire · 3 years ago

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Unsung Prompts - My Secret Companion

I once traveled with a guide who was taking me to Faya. He didn't speak for nine hours. At the end of it he pointed at the horizon and said, "Faya!"

-Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

Mehryde's Meyhene saw a steady trickle of customers in the heat of the afternoon. People drifting in and out. Drinks being poured liberally in the wake of world-ending catastophe. Food stirred up in the kitchens in the back. Dancers on the small stage most afternoons to entertain the sparse crowds.

Lots of locals. Not too many travelers, even in the wake of the Tower offshores destruction.

Just a few.

The Raen woman in the far table looked up when Breandan arrived. A little wilted in Thavnair's sweltering heat, but none the worse for wear. She said nothing when he helped himself to a chair. Waited, her hands folded on the table as he ordered a drink from a passing server

Her crimson-colored gaze regarded him, her face betraying little until she spoke.

Thank you for meeting with me. I will admit, it was curious to me that a foreigner would take such an interest in visiting our holy sites.

"My client wants to visit some of these places in the countryside." Breandan replied without missing too much of a beat. "Now that it's …safer to do so."

Your client does understand, yes, that even a small expedition would require a diversion of the Radiant Host's already thin resources?

"I'm not asking the Host to expend any resources." Breandan set his cup down and reached to unroll a map on the table. "I'm a capable fighter, and I'm confident that I can navigate the backcountry with my client intact. I just wanted to know a little background, and -

And it is still not…possible to meet this mysterious client face to face? I would think that an individual with such an interest in culture would at least be willing to interact with the people here.

"I'm afraid not." While the Raen looked back at him with an expression both sereve and confused, Breandan shifted his gaze to the nearest arched window. His gaze followed the arc of a carved peacocks tail ornamentation at the top, the feathers and eyes so promiment in the city's architecture.

"They're very demanding, and one of their demands is that I do all the negotiating." The drink in front of him got picked back up with a kind of resignation.

"I was hoping I could assure you of their sincerity by…offering my assistance to you as well? I'd be happy to liase with the Host in the field if there were any lingering troubles in the area."

This earned him a lifted brow but no real complaint. After a moment to refresh herself with her drink, she leaned over the map and laid one finger to a marker in the southeastern corner.

The pilgrims do not often venture to Purusa. The road there was always perilous, and even moreso now.. Her explanation came quietly and evenly.

Which is a pity, because it is a beautiful place. It is named after a process done by our alchemists, which someone like you may find interesting to learn.

Her red eyes landed on his face again. He looked away, then down at his cup.

However, she continued, if you were to help make the road a little safer on your travel there, the Host batallion stationed in Palaka's Stand would surely be appreciative. I will send word to the commander to expect you.

"Understood." Breandan lowered his head and curled a hand around his cup. "We'll head out for Palaka's Stand as soon as possible."

After that, the conversation turned to little. Some advice about navigating the markets, bits of local trivia about the region Breandan and the client would be headed. And before long, he found himself wandering back through Radz-at-Han's colorful streets, a paper-wrapped package of food from the Meyhene still warm and tucked under one arm.

The small inn room was equally colorful on the inside; a window open to the view of the city below. Breandan took a seat on the bed and opened the parcel to a small assortment of food items.

"Sorry, they didn't have eggs." He spoke aloud to the room as he was peeling a strip of red-coated tandoori chicken off the bone. "We can head out whenever you want to go, though."

The piece of chicken got dangled beneath the bed by his fingers, lightly. At first there was nothing.

Then, a sound of leathery wings flapping, hitting the underside of the bedframe

One claw reached out to curl around his wrist. He felt the little prick of teeth against his fingers. Still a little sharp like the creature it belonged to hadn't yet lost its taste for dragoon along with meats of a tamer kind.

The eyes of the peacock fan carved above the window watched the room and its inhabitants like the all-seeing Eye of the divinity that was said to watch over this entire land.

#lohs #unsung adventures #ic writing #my writing

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spn-fanfic-reblog-writes · 2 years ago

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Blood in Heaven and Hell - Chapter 10

Summary: The gang prepares for battle and goes to find Castiel at Alex’s childhood home.

Word Count: ~2.9K

Pairing: None

Canon: Supernatural (AU; Season 10-ish; Bobby and Charlie lived. Angels can fly)

Warning: Show-level violence. *Trigger Warning*: Horror. Self-harm. Patricide. Implied cannibalism. Fire/explosion. Strict/Controlling parent.

Beta’d by the always kind, @myloversgone

Author’s Notes: Dark fic chapter. Please heed trigger warnings. If I forgot any, please let me know so I can add them. Next chapter is an interesting one.

Feedback is gold!

Alex sat at the table, finished making hex bag bombs and set them in a satchel. She glared at the bags and overthought everything.

I should have realized that Heaven would be stupid and just go. Just go, go, go, she thought to herself. Now, my best friend, Dean’s best friend, is captured and I have the two people I know I love and technically my Mom’s sworn enemy willing to get our Angel back.

She squinted her eyes, staring at the table with almost a sneer on her face.

Maybe Rowena just wants to see what we’re dealing with when it comes to Aggie and Aloy? Maybe she can figure out what the fuck is wrong with them, because they aren’t themselves and haven’t been for a decade. She sighed heavily and brought a fingernail to her mouth, chewing on it.

Rowena’s heels clicked as she entered the room, “How’s it coming?”

Alex sat up, not realizing she had scooted down in her seat so much, “I’m done.”

“I thought you wanted to be defensive. Do you think you are going to need this much?” Rowena asked, concerned.

“I want to make sure everyone has defenses. I know Sam and Dean can fight. Guns and knives are great but not when you have people that can control your body and your weapons turning them against you, in addition to magic. Everyone needs to be on the defensive,” she spoke almost like a General going into war. She looked down and whispered, “I don’t want to lose anyone.”

Rowena looked down at her sympathetically and motioned for her to follow, “Come on.”

Alex got up to follow her.

“Can you engrave?” asked Rowena.

“Engrave, how?”

“You can make fire with your hands. Can you use that to engrave in metal? Etching is not easy in such a short time, so I thought I’d ask.” asked Rowena.

Alex thought as she continued to walk.

Rowena slowed down slightly to have Alex beside her, taking her to the armory.

“It depends on the metal. I haven’t tested how hot I can get it in a while but I have engraved sigils in steel, gold, and I think silver before. Why?”

“That’ll do. I want to enchant their weapons to prevent them from being used against the boys,” Rowena explained.

Alex’s brow rose in surprise. Why didn’t I think of that? She smiled at Rowena, “That’s a great idea. Of course. Let me see what I can do. Not sure how much Sam and Dean will like it but it can work. I wish we had more time. There is so much I could do. I’m just worried about Casi. I don’t know how long he can last or what they could be doing to him.”

An hour later, knives and their guns were either spelled and/or enchanted with the sigils that they had time to do.

“I don’t understand why we need all of this if we are just going in and rescuing Cas,” said Dean.

Alex looked at him, “You’ve seen me fight. You’ve seen me do magic. You’ve seen me heal. You haven’t seen my demon side which is just as bad as any powerful demon, more so than Crowley, the King of Hell. You’re going up against two of me that are older, not as strong hand-to-hand or weapon fighters, demonic focused, and more reliant on magic and their powers than I am.”

Dean pursed his lips as he began to understand and nodded.

“One more thing for you two, in case we get separated,” Alex picked up two large Ziploc bags with an assortment of ingredients written on paper. “These go in your satchel and are used in emergencies. All you do is pour the ingredients on the floor, light them, and say the words. Latin for you, Sam. Phonetics for you, Dean.”

Dean grinned, “You get me.”

Alex chuckled and shook her head, “These will create a portal that will remain open for 30 seconds. Think of where you want to go before stepping through. Preferably think of where you wanna go as you cast it and continue thinking about that as you walk through. You will be tired once you get through. You will need to drink the entire bottle of water and eat the entire chocolate bar when you come through, which is why they’re in there too. You will pass out if you don’t start on it within like 2 mins of exiting on the other side. Clear?”

The brothers nodded and spoke in unison, “Clear.”

“Rowena will be staying here in case anything or anyone gets through that shouldn’t and to help you two, should you need to use the portal. The goal is to find Castiel, and get in and out as quickly as we can, under an hour is preferred. With how late it is, they should be asleep. We are going to arrive at the house on the second floor. I will turn off the wards for our departure. Being on the second floor means a bottleneck situation can occur on the stairs. If it does, I will handle it. I will give you two cover to go and finish searching for Casi, if we don’t find him on the second floor. The first floor has the usual setup: a kitchen, living room, den, and office. There is also a storage room, pantry, and laundry room. Upstairs are just bedrooms and bathrooms. Remember what you have with you; they are powerful witches with weak fighting skills. They will run if engaged in hand-to-hand or weapons combat. Remember to shoot and ask questions later. Everyone needs to come out of this alive. Ok?” Alex paused, looking at Sam and Dean, “Ok. Let’s go.” She walked over to them and took out some gum, sticking a piece in her mouth. Taking a deep breath, she put her hands on their shoulders.

Rowena was alone and cleaning up what mess Alex left while making the hex bombs. “Godspeed,” she mumbled to herself as she too began to prepare precautionary measures.

Arriving on the second floor in her mother’s old workshop room, she had realized she forgot to do one thing; hence the need for a room.

“Why are we in here?” asked Dean, quietly.

“I forgot to do something,” replied Alex in her normal voice. “We don’t have to be quiet. Each room has a silence spell cast on it, so the sound doesn't leave the room without sticking your head out of the door,” she advised. She took out a sharpie and on the inside left wrist, she drew a sigil. She then showed it to the brothers, “This sigil will allow you to open any room or location here. I forgot about it until right before we left. I need both of your left wrists.”

“It has to be left?” inquired Sam.

“Yes, it’s the devil’s hand or the bad hand. It’s some stupid superstition my Mom had.” Alex explained and shook her head as she drew the sigil in sharpie on both of their wrists. “Ok, we should be good now.” Putting the sharpie away in her pocket, she motioned to the door and opened it, “You have to put your left wrist in first or you’ll get stuck until you do.” She showed them by placing her right wrist in the doorway then pulled and pushed to reveal she was stuck.

Both brothers raised their eyebrows, surprised.

She stuck her left wrist in and it deactivated with a quick flicker of sparkling blue. She moved both arms to show that she was no longer stuck. Looking out of the room into the hallway, she took a deep breath and motioned for the men to follow her as she remained in front.

They proceeded to check each room, confirming all were clear.

Alex remained in front, acting as the first responder should her siblings show and attack. Once at the stairs, she takes her sharpie out again and draws the same sigil on the first step of the stairs. Putting it away, she cautiously stepped down and looked around the small stairwell to the first floor. Everything was clear. They didn’t change any of the defenses, more than likely thinking I wouldn’t want to come back, she thought to herself. Ha, serves them right. They quietly and quickly move down the steps. Alex remained watchful of the room they were entering but found it empty. She motioned for Dean to go left and Sam to go right, checking the other rooms downstairs as she stood guard.

The place was dim with only the kitchen light on. Unexpectedly, a person enters from the garage door into the kitchen. Sarah, but it is actually a demon possessing Sarah’s body.

Alex grinned wickedly then pulled out her hunting knife from her boot and throws it at her between Demon-Sarah’s shoulder blades.

Demon-Sarah yelped and tried to remove the blade but was unable to reach it.

Alex ran towards her and clotheslined her, making her fall flat on her face. She quickly boxed in her hips with her feet, pulled the knife out, and rolled her over, staring into black orbs. “Hey, Monster,” she spoke with gritted teeth and straddled her. Laying in punch after punch to her face, glaring with brilliant yellow eyes. When blood began to come out of her mouth, Alex stopped and put the hunting knife back in her boot. “Where are they?” She demanded of the Demon.

Demon-Sarah remained silent and spit in Alex’s face, which only angered Alex more.

Alex grabbed her by her throat and slowly got up, making sure her grip remained secure.

Demon-Sarah grasped her wrists, attempting to pry her hand off but Alex is too strong. “Look at me,” Alex commanded.

Dean returned empty-handed to the stairs and Sam returned with an injured but able to walk Castiel. All three watched Alex with Sarah; Castiel was able to see the Demon’s true form as well.

The Demon did as they were told, their black orbs looking into bright yellow ones.

The wicked grin returned to Alex’s lips.

“Alex,” called Castiel with a warning tone underneath.

She turned to look at them all, “One minute.” They all saw her eyes, brilliant, bright, demonic.

“Fine, let’s do this the hard way,” Alex pulled the demon’s form from Sarah’s body, letting it fall to the floor, cold and grey. She was choking black smoke in humanoid form. “Now. Where. Are. They?”

The demon pointed to the backyard.

“Good job,” Alex threw it to the floor, kept her hand out, eyes focused, and watched the demon return to Hell.

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and took off her belt. Gingerly, she placed the belt around Sarah’s lifeless corpse into a sort of handle. Picking her up by the handle, she placed Sarah’s corpse on her back and walked towards Castiel, noticing the manacles still on him. Gently, she put the body down and examined the manacle and chain.

“Alex, are you ok?” asked Castiel, concerned.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she automatically replied, keeping her eyes on the manacles. She took out her hunting knife again and held her hand over the manacles. “Hold still,” she said as quietly as she could. Her voice was almost like raspy. With the knife in her palm, she placed several cuts into her open hand, blood pouring over them.

Once the manacles were coated with her blood, they quickly unlocked. Castiel quickly grabbed her injured hand and healed it. He smiled at her and spoke quietly, "Thank you."

She smiled back and nodded. Alex placed the entire blade in her mouth, sucking the blood off and putting it back in her boot sheath. Licking her lips, she picked Sarah back up and explained, “My siblings are in the backyard.”

“Alex, your eyes,” demanded Castiel.

“I’m aware, Casi. I can’t deal with it here but this,” she pointed to the overall house, “is helping,” she advised.

A sudden deep scream is heard from the backyard that made Alex’s body instantly tense.

“Dad?” said a confused Alex. She looked over her shoulder at the corpse she needed to keep safe.

“I’ll take her,” said Castiel, taking Sarah’s corpse from her. “Go!”

Alex ran to the back of the house with the brothers at her heels and Castiel returning to the bunker. She pushed open the screen door in time to see her sister, Agnes, ripping out their father’s heart from his open rib cage still beating in her hand on a large cement slab table. Alex’s stomach dropped and time stood still for a moment.

Agnes turned to her to offer the heart, “Want some?” A devilish grin flashed white teeth across her cruel face.

Time restarted for Alex, and she noticed that Aloy, her brother, was nowhere in sight. She rushed towards her sister, throwing knives from her thigh holster that Agnes easily stopped with one hand.

Their father’s face was left in a scream, his throat cut where his grace would have been removed, and his chest cavity filled with blood that poured out as it began to pool on the grass below. She jumped over the slab, knocking the heart from Agnes’ hand and started landing blows, alternating toward Agnes' face and chest. While Agnes blocked some of the punches, the majority landed.

Meanwhile, Dean and Sam moved to the far side of the corpse on the slab table, waiting to see if or when backup may be needed. Turning back to back, they both remained watchful.

Aloy watched from the side of the house, invisible.

Their father’s ghost suddenly appeared next to him as a shadowy figure and took a few minutes to understand what happened to him. Once he grasped the situation, their father spoke to Aloy, “You’ll be safe with your little sister, Aloy.”

“I played that card already, Dad. She won’t believe me again,” he explained.

“She will if you put your soul back and she knows it,” he offered. “She already has it and doesn’t even know it.”

Aloy remained silent and nodded at the figured then went back to watching the situation unfold.

As Agnes attempted to fight back and distance herself to give enough space to cast a spell, Alex would quickly counter and move in to stop her from doing so; their father suddenly appeared between them, “Stop this!” he said, startling both of his children, still a shadowy figure.

Alex took the opportunity to hit her sister with all her strength, causing her to slide back approximately 50 feet away into the field. Her yellow eyes glowed angrily at her father. “Dad, what the hell?”

“She’s not worth it,” her Dad said.

“She just killed you and damned herself,” Alex stated.

“Alex, your eyes,” her father gasped and reached out to try to touch her but only passed through her, causing goosebumps to form.

“Everyone is freaking out about my eyes. Dad, go find your reaper. Say hi to Mom for me and tell her I hate her,” Alex stated through gritted teeth and turned to walk away from him towards his corpse. She found his heart not far from him and placed it back in his chest cavity. She pushed his ribs back together to close them up.

Sam yelled at her, “We gotta go.”

“Not without his body,” she yelled back.

Dean moved and stood guard near her as Sam prepared the portal as a just-in-case measure.

Alex laid her hand on her dad's broken chest and light flickered a few times, “Shit.” She turned to Dean, “I need your belt.”

He quickly complied and rearmed himself as Alex created a sort of handle on the now no-longer-bleeding corpse.

“Let’s go,” she informed Dean and walked to Sam as he was ready to cast the portal. She realized she was unable to fly them out of there and nodded to him. She waited for it to open. She scanned her childhood home once more. She adjusted her grip and grabbed a handful of the hex bombs to throw them at the house and backyard, smirking. They left her hand and she spoke the word “Incindio” as they walked through. The hex bombs landed and exploded, causing a huge fire to erupt.

Tag: @fluffiest-dreams @riley-phoenix

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captainkurosolaire · 3 years ago

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Prompt #27 ~ Warfare

♫Till I Die♫

The fall of Garlemald's effects ran-through out the realm suddenly the shift of power had been flipped over. As many of the countrymen deserted, or those scattered, were pursued. Now they understood what it was like to be the spoils to war. Hunter's turned to prey. A privateer ship supporting under the banner of the Crimson. Chased pursued in the open seas of an attempted escape, a remnant squadron. Their division shattered as their Empire was crumbling to dust. The divisional commander of her ship was taking huge mortar's although the sea-vessel was sturdy and advanced, was taking blows, her men were taking hefty causalities, hearing in screams. They couldn't flee from this. In the fang's of revenge, under the skies of war, monsters were born. The people who once felt were fighting for righteousness, become no-better. These Privateer's were rejoicing. "Commander. Two more alliance accompanying vessels of the opposition have ascended over waves, we've nowhere to go!" The morale of her people were descending. "We've deserved this outcome. It was an honor." Her sentimental tone, spoke they'd rather imperial salute each-other, and commit suicide before becoming prisoners. Right in their contemplated end. The shift was about to turn again.

"A third vessel had wedged between the middle of their reinforcements!" Was shortly called out, giving them further, resolve of hopelessness, before... "Wait. The middle-vessel is bombarding the others!" Suddenly a massive ship rising over tides, removing the fake red Maelstrom banner had been withdrawn into an iconic pirate flag hoisted. Upon the bow-spirit was a tricorne-man. Treading past the destruction of two smaller privateers vessels. The ambush assault left them fodder out-maneuvered. Gathered man, etched in warpaint, they were banned ready for a fight. To intervene between this naval battle. The Seeker leapt back to his decks to bolster. "I would ask ye my Crew, within my helm. T' PRAY for yer enemies. Give them an early moment of silence. For these poor unfortunate soul's will b' educated, they'll earn their red-coats upon this Sun!" He roared and screamed with a warrior shout That followed behind others. "Give Boy-Lad his sea-legs. Let him earn his stripes t' walk over bones!" A crippled and amputated legless fighter crawled on the floor in disbelief, as Sol made augmented prosthetic legs. Unified chaos positioned, to invade the vessel of the privateer from behind. "Aid th' carrier of Garlean's, give all others no-quarter!" Viciously a stampede of leaps was drawn, it was anarchy. Projectiles flung back and forth, sniper shots from the crow's nest of the Worldly Finder started picking off them. Each Crewmate nearly about to be butchered by an opposition was protected by another, they fought as sword and shield, and reversed the roles. Rallied by a leader who was believed-long-flung dead. The brute Seeker skirmishes an assortment of parries to one of the swashbucklers before pulling out a sheathed revolver in the other hand and angling it under his chin and pulling the trigger in a massacre. Completely butchery. Blood of not his own making savagely drew over his face. As he bellowed another victoriously battle-cry that kept even his own injuries gaining on Crew to fight-on. The Garlean's left their hunker, to unity in bewilderment anyone would fight under their behalf. The Captain was almost executed by an aimed shot musketeer but was shot back by an assault rifle of the imperialist. The buccaneer brought terrifying laughter. "THEIR NUMBERS ONLY GIVE US MORE HEADS T' ROLL!" Not only bolstering morality to his own fighters, but also was making hesitation and fear start wearying the grip's of his oppositions, a tactician of dirty behavior. How long have they gotten to do anything they wanted? Or used the excuse of the Garlemald for them to justify or blame their heinous antics? These seas held no discrimination. Yet being constantly corrupted. Putrid borders, barriers for entries, they started skewering Beast Tribes because they strictly took advantage of the Calamity. They put a price-tag on the seas, owning it. Law and restricting and it's no different than what Captain's seen before, they're vindictive and greed-coated. Yet unlike Garlemald who were openly wanting to conqueror, the Maelstrom and Grand Companies alike played fantasy pretend. They're unbeatable, the good! Couldn't do any wrongs, existed of no poison. Bullshit, in war there was no such thing. It's a contest of ego. How many times had the Captain seen a Maelstrom get promoted after they violated his kinsmen, while preaching they were pirates... How many times did he watch them do nothing as people plead in the dirty-alleys before a gal went abducted and missing. These seas would find freedom from vile. Disarray and unorganized, suddenly being attacked by two-sides, the privateer's were being annihilated. Counter measured every-time they brought their marine scholars out, their magic was cancelled by the Historian of the Goldbrand, the purest faith in the Twelve, who brought them no harm, other than silencing their spells. The God's weren't on their side, they belonged to this pirate. That fiendish outcast hound of an Xaela, who ghoulishly shrieked, was feasting on arm's while slewing them in beheaded messes. A Quartermaster

followed by impaling them and hurling the smaller runt's of the enemies. Captain leapt up off that mountain of a Hellsguard on his Crew and bounced off his shoulders dexterously onto the stern. Exchanging in runaways some jumping overboard. "Draw them from th' seas back up here! Their corpses is unworthy t' share with the benthos!" Angry swarming came to their noisy vocalized leader. If they could just behead that blasted vermin then all of them would crumble to despair. He played defensively and evaded one of them about to slayed, was sniped from afar. The handicapped soldier got a puncturing stab on one of the men to protect his Captain before collapsing as his new leg's were already damaged and punctured. The Seeker picked up the adrenaline as blood cut's were protruding from his cheek. He threw his coat onto one of them and jabbed a series of quick deft dirks. A swishing blade came again as he relied on his above-feline scents. The thing he was mocked for by these giants. Doing a handstand leg, disarm from twisting the wrist of the deathly aggressor. The Seeker rolled away and jumped off the stern and swung a leap into the cabin, where he saw the frantic Head-Captain of this enemy helm, run-into, gathering up belongings to attempt plotting retreat. Unexpectedly a flintlock shot at his leg making him fall over all his glistening golds and gil he was trying to rummage into a burlap sack like a coward trying to recollect himself. He brought his own gun out but was disarmed by the wrist from another firearm shot, "Cap'n Daniwyrn... Ye have lost your sense. Recall me." These two knew each-other full and well, this was more than just a one-sided squabble, now. It held harboring emotion. "...Yer supposed t' b' blimey dead!" The callus blood-thirsty Seeker lowered his arm. "Dead is what ye did t' someone I loved. Well, I got yer message. Ye saw t' remove her head cause she moved t' me. If you couldn't have her, neither ov' us could." He lectured in all this chaos-warfare and took a menacing seat. "See, I am not here for revenge on you. This goes beyond that. Now, ye made a crime, sin I find very offensive..." The sea-wolf tried regaining himself while trying to also slowly scoot his bottom and get back his disarmed gun. Knowing was about to be sentenced to a horrific death, or believed. "You have tainted these seas, Daniwyrn. The punishment fer losing your sense. Is crueler than death by my hand. It's t' live as such." He shot the ear's respectively of the privateer. Then the Seeker stood up. Fiendishly brought out his coeurl toothed carved dagger and carved out eye to eye from his enemy. While he was screaming in anguish and incomprehensible pain never able to reel back. He cut that tongue like a fleeting ribbon.

Taking the senses of someone who lacked senses firstly. A fitting treatment, barbarically exercised. He bathed in all the blood over his inferior feline frame. "I know you can't hear me, see, nor speak, though I'm also a nice-guy, I'll leave ye with yer gun... if get the opportunity you should kill yourself." He'd savagely trail, beating his enemy who barely was functioning, stuck in a haze, discombobulated, suffering severe blood-loss. Loading and priming the revolver with one bullet, he'd force it into the arm's of his blind foe and make him squeeze it. Captain walked out as if this was just a regular circumstance. The duty of returning. Closing the cabin door. Hearing a procedure gun-shot ring-throughout. A signal was overhead horned, "They've got more crimson reinforcements!" The battle sizzled and the sparks were over. "Let us gather up, plunder post-haste. Burn this shite down." They took the Garlemald survivors and retreated, licking wounds but won victorious.

#Prompt - Benthos #FFXivWrite2021 #ffxivwrite2021 #FFxivwrite #tw: war mention #Tw:gore #tw: violence #ffxiv writers #Tales of the Goldbrand #long one'#Naval Battles #darker themes #-Captain Kuro Solaire #Creative Writing #Pirate

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incorrectsmashbrosquotes · 4 years ago

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Super Miitopia Ultimate

During a match between MegaMan and Ridley, MegaMan runs and grabs an Assist Trophy.

MegaMan: Get ready, you mutated pterodactyl! It’s time for me to summon an ally!

He raises the item in the air, waiting for it to do the usual Assist Trophy thing.

….

Nothing happens.

RIdley: Doesn’t someone usually come out by now?

MegaMan: Give it a minute…

…Nothing happens. Again.

MegaMan: ,,,, (cries)

Ridley, shrugging: Well, when an opportunity arises. (Proceeds to attack Rock)

Later that day, the Hands decided to go the Assist Trophy Apartments to find out why they didn’t come out when they were called.

Crazy Hand: You think something happened?

Master Hand: That’s one possibility. But it’s anyone’s guess on how the connection with the Assist Trophy itself got interrupted. The items were on as requested.

Both soon arrive and open the door to find the building completely deserted.

Crazy Hand: Huh. You think we got the wrong building?

Master Hand: This is the only building they could be in. Where did they all go?

Crazy Hand, noticing something: Hey! A rectangular thing that contains assorted words joined together in sentences to convey messages!

Master Hand: You mean a letter?

Crazy Hand: No. It’s a bunch of squished up letters and spaces to separate more squished up letters, so it’s definitely what I said.

Master Hand sighs and goes over to the letter, looking it over.

Master Hand: …Hang on a second. If this note is accurate, then the only place they could be is….!

Crazy Hand: Wait, we’re doing music class now? Pick one! A letter or a note?

Elsewhere, in a distant fantasy land, a spotlight casts a shadow upon a silhouette ….

Waluigi, narrating to himself: Wah. I, Waluigi, once wished to join Smash Brothers as a fighter. However, time and time again, I was cast aside. I fell into a deep slump, and looked back at myself. Just, who is Waluigi? What are his dreams and aspirations that set him apart from the rest? And the other Assist Trophies who are not as great as Waluigi but are still decent? How much did they want to get in?

Waluigi: Soon, everything changed when Mii Gunner gave me an invitation. She said here, anyone was welcome, and they could be anything their heart desired. A simple townsperson, a king, or even a hero who goes to save the world….

Waluigi: And that sounded just like the type of thing that I needed. Now, I shall go and save the world…

Waluigi spins and strikes a pose, as the rest of the light comes on as he shows his current Job.

(Pop Star) Waluigi: And spread the name as the greatest Pop Star who ever lived!

Waluigi (Pop Star) takes center stage!!

It appears the Waluigi has gone to Miitopia in pursuit of an adventure of his own! But he isn’t alone! The other Assist Trophies have come along for the ride with some jobs of their own!

Shovel Knight (Chef): Shovel my food into your mouth! Preferably with an eating utensil!

Shovel Knight (Chef) is serving up some adventure!

Midna (Theif): Hey, that item of yours looks pretty big. Mind if I take it? Don’t worry, I’m not gonna sell it for gold. (She will.)

Midna (Thief) steals the enemies heart!

Starfy (Cleric): As the healer, I control how much HP you have. Do not mess with the white mage!

Starfy (Cleric) will hopefully choose to heal you.

Black Knight (Warrior): …Nothing changed. I still use a sword.

Skull Kid (Mage): I can’t tell if you’re mad or upset.

Black Knight (Warrior) and Skull Kid (Mage) are practically the same!

Callie (Cat): I’m Callie, nya!

Marie (Cat): And I’m Meowie…nya.

Callie and Marie: And we’re gonna make sure you Meow Fresh!

The “Cat” Sisters make a live debut!

Phosphora (Imp): Huh. I wonder if this is what it’s like to be like Midna.

Phosphora (Imp) is realizing things!

Knuckles (Scientist): I’m a sceintist of average intelligence!

Knuckles (Scientist) blew something up!

Ghirahim (Tank): Mmmm, careful now. I know how to aim this cannon of mine~. I might fire by mistake.

Ghirahim (Tank) is locked and loaded!

Shadow (Flower): ….I swear, if anyone of you take a picture of this…

Shadow shows us his Chaos Flower Power! Beware his petals!

Ashley (Princess): -Seething with rage at whoever put her in this dress-

Ashley (Princess) is real mad!

Tiki (Vampire): You…want me to bite you?

Tiki (Vampire) is bloodthirsty for battle!

Yuri Kozukata (Elf): I gained plus 5 in DEX!

Yuri (Elf) is going to get the perfect shot…with her bow and arrow!

And more of the Assist Trophy cast are here too! In Miitopia, they can be anything! Kings, royal guardsmen, and even shopkeepers. And that’s not all. Every Assist Trophy is here! And they’ll have to band together in order to defeat the Dark Lord…

Nikki is the Dark Lord?!

Super Miitopia Ultimate! Where Assistants in one world are the main cast in this one.

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rolanberry-rebel · 3 years ago

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Info sheet: Kjalla Nisemi

Name: Kjalla Nisemi Nicknames: K, Two-Guns, “oh hell, not her!”, “Gun-bunny” if you want to get shot Race: Viera (rava) Age: mid-late 30s in hyuran years, exact age unknown (even to her, really) Gender: Cis female Orientation: Whatever suits her at the moment Relationship status: Whatever suits her at the moment Profession: Professional psycho, hired gun, mechanic

Height: 6′2″ Weight: 160lbs. Eyes: Icy blue Hair: Dark blue Skin: Greyish-blue Build: Fit, busty Scars: Deep scar along the left side of her jaw, scarring around her wrists and fingers, scar tissue along her neck. Tattoos: Blue markings along her face; a thorny blue vine splayed down the back of her neck, along her right shoulder and twining around her right bicep Fashion: Spartan and street-tough; never goes anywhere without her kickin’ boots and a good jacket. Loves leather, loves fishnets, loves denim, loves spikes. Comfortable and not necessarily showy. Dark colors. Loves red; loves black. Not afraid to show off what she’s got. When she thinks she’ll need it she's outfitted in the one of the suits of heavy armor she custom-builds herself, varying from more mobile sets of light plate to bulky, gadget-augmented battle suits. Accessories: Kjalla wears a fair amount of jewelry, a lot of it worn and tarnished, suggesting it might have some sentimental value. Often seen with a smattering of dull gold and silver rings, earrings, and a bridge piercing with a pair of rubies at each end.

Birthplace: the Golmore jungles somewhere. Residence: Her junk shop/personal safehouse off of a private jetty near Kugane. Alignment: Chaotic Evil Hobbies: Violence, rowdy nights out, any and every manner of indulgence, creating new weapons and gadgets for her armors, salvaging and experimenting with old junk, making and spending lots of gil Likes: Exciting experiences, adrenaline rushes, the opposite sex, the same sex, swapping stories, swapping punches, money, people with guts, alcohol, tinkering away Dislikes: Cowards, soft people, pretty things, lalafel, you if you get in her way. And chocobos. Disgusting things. Personality: Erratic and unconstrained, shifting wildly with her impulsive mood swings. One night you buy her a drink and you might flirt your way back to her junk-shop; the next she might put a round through your skull. More than anything she likes to surprise and be surprised, so always expect the unexpected. Always headstrong and often arrogant, and you should absolutely never tell her what to do. Ever. In spite of her crazed impulses, when she’s not in a bad mood Kjalla can be incorrigibly flirtatious, friendly, and fun to have a good night out with. Virtues: Strong, physically and emotionally; there’s very little that will break her, and she’s seen it all. Strong leadership instinct, whether through her charisma or force of character simply overwhelming others into following. Obsessively self-sufficient and fiercely independent. Determined and diligent when there’s work to do, and will not quit until she gets it done. Streetwise, clever, skilled; not conventionally smart but picks up new hands-on skills quickly. A fierce, experienced fighter. Unfailingly loyal to those who prove themselves worth it. Bad habits: The obvious - she’s utterly immoral, indulging in any behavior if it makes her feel good. Impulsive, reckless, violent, quick to anger and lash out at others. Heart hard as a rock and a firm believer in the survival of the fittest (the fittest, of course, being her). Trusts next to no one and will betray others save her closest circle if it helps her get ahead. Stubborn as hell. Promiscuous with little regard for whom it might hurt. Huge chip on her shoulder. Has a major problem with authority. Unintelligent by conventional standards, and completely dead to magic.

Significant Other: *derisive laughter* Children: *even more incredulous laughter* Family: All presumed dead, except for her sister Eyrisse, from whom she is estranged. Pets: Linchpin and Electrode, her pair of baby coeurls, who live at her junk-shop. Their unique grounding and electrical powers help Kjalla with her electrical experiments.

Friends: People aren’t friends to Kjalla; they’re tools, things to be used, experienced and discarded. (Most of the time, anyway...)

You might know Kjalla if...

Merciless Mercenary. Kjalla is a notoriously cutthroat sellsword, unscrupulous - more than willing and able to do any job big or small, just as long as kids aren’t involved. (That’s the one line she doesn’t cross.) From political leaders to petty thieves, she’s taken them all. Her race may paint her as a novelty - it’s not often you see a viera mercenary traipsing around the world, after all - but she’s no laughing matter. If you hire mercenaries, work with them, or are one yourself, there’s a good chance you’ve heard of her, under one of her assorted names - some flattering, some very much not.

Underworld Surgeon. Kjalla has no magical healing talent but she’s a darn good field surgeon, and has a great knowledge of alchemical remedies, salves and drugs. A ‘side-job’ of hers is to sell her services as a mundane healer to shady characters who, for fear of the law, of the attention, or otherwise - avoid visiting a reputable establishment for healing after an incident. Criminals on the run, overdose cases, just someone who wants to stay off the grid - if you’re in need of a quick patching-up and you’d rather keep it discreet, her junk-shop is always open.

Life of the Party. Kjalla is a staple in a few of her favorite seedy dives in cities across the world - and would certainly be recognizable to regulars, given scar-covered, foul-mouthed viera with backwater accents aren’t exactly easy to miss. If you frequent these kinds of establishments, you’ve no doubt heard of, seen, and maybe even gotten into a drunken brawl with her.

Purveyor of Dangerous and Exploding Things. Kjalla loves weapons - all of them, but especially guns, bombs, tasers, flamethrowers, dynamite, and weapons far more bizarre and exotic. If you’re a weapon collector, an arms dealer, or if you’re looking to outfit yourself with something significantly more dangerous, you’ve no doubt run in to back-alley gunrunners and smugglers who’ve mentioned her as a supplier. Conversely, if you’re searching for training in gunsmithing or engineering from a master, she might consider it... you’ll probably wind up dead, though, so maaaybe not a good idea... unless that’s your kink.

Garlean Killer: There’re few jobs Kjalla loves more than the ones where she gets to pop Garlean heads like grapes. Though one could scarcely call the viera a principled woman whose violence is politically sophisticated, she takes a perverse delight in torturing and killing agents of the empire, even if she’s not getting paid to do it. Naturally her reputation for murdering prominent officers, personnel, facilities, and stealing lots of Garlean technology has made her a notorious outlaw in the empire, and if you’re involved in any of those fields, you’d recognize her scarred visage anywhere. Just be careful - she really does love planting bullets right in those third eyes.

Hi! I’ve been RPing forever and I’m lookin for new friends!

Adult female OOCly who’s RPed in every game you can probably think of and happy RPing lots of themes/scene types so long as we talk about it beforehand.

Kjalla is violent, rude, crude, and lustful. I however am (well, in my opinion, anyway...) none of those things, and am happy to talk with nice people! Just be aware most RP involving her’s gonna be one of those things, lol.

Available at random times, usually late evenings EST. Will always try to respond to private messages here no matter when you send them though!

Discord: I’m not on there very much, but I know it’s become a big way for a lotta people to do most of their OOC communication/RP threads so I’m willing to get on there if you wanna talk!

In-game: Anylissa Sebastis (Balmung) or Kjalla Nisemi (Mateus)

If you’re not into psychotic rabbit-ladies, I have my playful spoiled heiress, Anylissa, if you’d prefer. :>

#kjalla #ffxiv rp

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theheartsmistakes · 4 years ago

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The Last Night Part XXIX

It was still a few hours until dawn when Cordelia woke with a stubborn kink in her shoulder and with all of her fingers numb and tingly in her left hand where it was trapped underneath James's arm. His slow, even breath tickled the hairs at the top of her head and his diaphragm pressed against hers. Her nose was pressed against his chest, breathing in the delightful smell of cedar, mint, and the unique sweet scent that only belonged to James. It was like standing in a garden after it had rained. She inhaled deeply and traced the pale outline of a rune that had been carved just below his right clavicle.

“Did you just—“ She could hear the smirk in his voice. “—smell me?”

Cordelia stopped her tracing and slid her hand up and around his shoulder, drawing him closer. “I did. Is that odd? I thought you were asleep.”

The arm that he had lazily draped across her waist tightened. “Do you often smell people in their sleep?”

Cordelia blushed. “No, that is reserved only for you. I very much like the way that you smell.”

For the moment, they allowed themselves the chance to pretend that in a few short hours that they would not have to face a battle that might define the rest of their lives or the end thereof. For the moment, they were merely two souls in love; not bound together by propriety or social ingenuity or lies or secrets, but because they saw past all of those things to the core of the other person.

Any moment they would be called to fight; come what may, because that was who they were. Fighters. Hunters. Guardians. They were stories told at night to young children to make them feel safe from the monsters that not only lurked underneath their very beds but also from the monsters that haunted the night. They were myths and legends, born into a society that trained them to fight so that the mundane could live, but never something they chose for themselves.

For now, they got to choose to be something different— to be ordinary.

Cordelia pressed her forehead into his chest as he drew lazy circles on her bareback.

She was surprised at how little she cared when it came to modesty. She wanted to feel every part of him; to memorize the feeling of his jaw underneath her fingertips. To trace the bands of muscle around his arms down to the callouses on his hands received from hours of training with knives. She slowly explored every scar, every freckle, every part that made him tense or groan with pleasure.

She tilted her chin up and brushed her nose along his chin. He met her mouth with his and she memorized the feeling of his lips against hers. The sound that emanated from the back of his throat as she slid her foot up the inside of his calf sent a swirl of pleasure through her center.

“Everyone is probably still asleep or in their bedrooms,” she said against his mouth. “I should slip away before we’re found.”

James dragged his hand from where it’d tangled in her hair, down across her jaw, and cupped her cheek. “You’ll stay close during the battle? And if things start to turn against us, I want you to grab my mother and run. Run as far away as you can. If Belial— if his plan works, then he will not hesitate to kill you or use you in some heinous way against me. I need to know that there is a plan in place. I need to be able to hold onto that.”

There were a hundred things she wanted to say; things she wanted to promise him. Belial wouldn’t win. He couldn’t. He’d been defeated before and he could be defeated again. They would see each other after.

“We’ll go together,” she said.

James’s grip tightened. “If I can’t. If for whatever reason I am detained or— or if I’ve fallen, you must promise me that you will run.”

“James—“ Surely, he couldn’t expect her to make such a promise. “Do you not expect us to win?”

“Please Cordelia,” he pressed his forehead against hers.

She started to move away from him, a weight pooled in her stomach. “Is that what this was about? Just in case we didn’t have another chance?”

“What?” His hand slid back into her hair. “No, God, Cordelia. Is that what it was for you?”

“No,” she scoffed. “I told you, I told you the night I left how I felt about you. It has not changed.”

“And I told you last night that I am yours.” He kissed her forehead, her cheek, her mouth, her neck. “I’m not asking you not to fight. I’m not asking you to run. I just— I need to know that if something happens to me and I cannot get to you that you will do what you must to stay alive.”

Cordelia felt as if she could hardly breathe. She needed him to fight and if that meant that she had to make a promise that she may not fully intend to keep, then she would.

So she swallowed and nodded.

They dressed quickly. While he was lacing his boots, she slipped into just her dress and gathered her broken corset into her arms. She didn’t like it much anyway. She found the newly fashionable brasiers to be vastly more comfortable, but they could hardly afford them and her mother did not approve. She said they were for "girls of questionable morals".

She bent at the waist as he lifted his head to look at her and kissed him. A sweet, leisurely kiss that felt all too much like a goodbye.

“I’ll meet you in the drawing-room in twenty minutes,” she said and kissed him one more time before she slipped from the doorway.

The Institute was empty except for Bridget singing in the kitchen a somber Irish tune. The sound followed Cordelia up the stairs to her bedroom. She pressed her back against the door, closed her eyes as her clothes tumbled from her arms onto the floor. She felt trapped between both the feeling of complete elation, misery and fear in a web that she could not easily untangle herself from.

But she didn’t have time for all that.

She set her chin and went about removing her dress.

After cleaning herself up from a basin in the bathroom, she found her gear in a drawer and dressed. A pair of black, leather trousers that hugged her curves and made it easier for her to kick or run. A black blouse that swooped across her chest and a girdle that protected her center, held in place by straps that concealed an assortment of weapons. She went about braiding her hair and then twisting it into a knot at the nape of her neck and secured it with pins.

She dug her boots out of the small closet and fastened the leathers with just enough room left to secure a few throwing knives.

Cortana rested against the wall beneath the window where she had left it. She picked it up and drew the blade out of the scabbard relishing in the harmonic sound it made upon being set free. With her hand wrapped around the hilt, the balance was perfectly even.

It had never let her down before; it would not let her down now.

She slid it back into its scabbard and slid her arm through the strap, so the blade lay across her back.

Commotion came from downstairs as she descended into the foyer. She looked to her left into the drawing-room and saw Matthew’s golden head of hair first. He was applying runes to James where they stood by the fireplace. Thomas and Christopher sat on the sofa while Christopher applied runes to Thomas. Anna stood on the opposite end of the room with a dark-haired girl that Cordelia quickly recognized as Ariadne Bridgestock. They were standing close to one another as if whispering in each other’s ear as Anna applied a rune to Ariadne’s forearm.

When she looked to her right from her place of the stairs, Will, Tessa Charlotte, Cecily, Gabriel, Gideon, and Sophie were all huddled in the foyer talking or rather listening to Charles who stood in the center of the group. Will kept his arm around his wife. She looked like something that could at any moment shatter at the harshest of sounds. Will looked moments away from shoving Charles into a wall for something he was saying to the group. Even Charlotte’s mouth fell open at what her son was suggesting.

Cordelia suspected that it had something to do with Lucie and imagined Will finally hitting him in the stomach. She smirked at the image and turned to her left when a hand caught her arm.

Alastair turned her and looked her over quickly. He untwisted the strap on her shoulder and smoothed the leather. “You look tired. Did you not sleep?”

Cordelia balked and crossed her arms defensively. “Yes, I slept peacefully while my best friend is trapped with a greater demon that wants to use her as a host to imprison the entire world and all of my friends and family are about to face a terrible, bloody battle to end him which might also mean the end of my best friend.”

“I’m sorry,” said Alastair.

“Don’t be sorry,” seethed Cordelia. “Help me with my Marks.”

He drew a stele from his pocket as Cordelia began to roll up her sleeves.

“How is mum?” She asked as the tip of the knife touched her skin.

“Worried,” said Alastair as his dark hair spilled into his face. “I had to give her a calming rune and dose her tea with a sleeping serum Brother Zachariah gave me to get her to rest. It’s not good for the baby.”

“Will you stay with her?”

Alastair looked up at her. “Do you think that I should?”

“I think one of us should,” she said. “If she loses one of us it will be devastating, but if she loses both of it, well, it could destroy her.”

Alastair pulled down her sleeve as he finished the swiftness rune on her right arm. She could feel its power thrumming through her veins and she suddenly felt more sure on her feet. He pushed up her left sleeve and started working on a strengthening rune. “Mother knew the world that we were being born into. She knew we would not grow to be lawyers, bankers, fisherman, seamstresses, simpletons, or the like… when I was three I held a blade in my hand and learned to disembowel Raum demons.”

“You were three?” Cordelia looked up at him. “Mother wouldn’t let me hold a blade until I was done with my first year of primary studies. She insisted I learn how to spell my name before I killed a demon.”

They both laughed. He finished with the strengthening rune and rolled down her sleeve. He twirled his fingers for her to turn around. She faced the wall and he pulled aside her collar to expose her left shoulder blade.

“What on Earth!” hissed Alastair as he pushed her head to expose her neck. “Cordelia, you have a bruise underneath your— Cordelia.” His voice hitched. “Tell me this is not what I think it is.”

Cordelia instantly clamped her hand over her neck and spun back around. She had not seen it there. She barely had time to look in the mirror as she dressed and she was too preoccupied with her hair to notice.

Her cheeks instantly turned red and she fought for a valid excuse. “I burnt myself with a curling rod.” She surprised herself with how quickly she’d come up with it. “I’ve been so preoccupied lately that I haven’t applied an iratze. It’s fine. Why? What did you think it was?” She kept her voice sweet, convincing.

Alastair narrowed his eyes and glanced over her shoulder to where James now applied runes to Matthew. He cleared his throat. “Well, it looks like—Nothing. Be more careful. Turn back around so I can finish.”

She spun back around and pressed her chilled palm to her cheeks to help cool the blush.

As the strength, fearless, and multiple other fighting runes sank into her skin and sang with her blood, she felt significantly less vulnerable. When she finished applying runes to Alastair, Charles appeared in the foyer and called to gather everyone in.

Alastair sheathed his stele and grumbled something under his breath that Cordelia could hear but the words “power-hungry” and “fraud” stood out. She nudged him with her shoulder and they walked in.

Cordelia’s eyes wandered around the faces in the room. The air hummed with anticipation and power, like the minutes before a cannon burst. She stood between Will and Alastair. Across from her stood James and Matthew. She caught his eyes and held them for a long moment before Charles began to speak.

“Here is the plan—“ he started.

Under his breath, Cordelia heard Will mutter. “Fuck this plan…”

She had heard him curse before but never intentionally in her presence. He was in the kitchen alone when he burnt himself on a fresh meat pie and yelled a string of profanities that would have made a bar fly blush. Lucie and Cordelia giggled and scurried away before he could see them.

“You all may not like it,” said Charles, “but it is how it is going to be or you can face the judgment of the Clave.”

“Fuck the Clave,” muttered Will.

Cordelia glanced at Alastair who had his head down and was noticeable smirking.

“Is there something you would like to say, Mr. Herondale!” Charles stuttered. “Or can I continue?”

“If you think I am going to let you give them the order to target my daughter,” started Will, clearly unable to contain himself any longer. "Then you are sadly mistaken. You a poor excuse for a Fairchild."

“What?” Cordelia said and stepped forward into the circle. “Target her how?”

“Our mission is to detain, Lucie Herondale,” said Charles as his voice started to rise. “By whatever means necessary.”

“What does that mean?” said James. “Whatever means necessary. Are you talking about killing her?”

“Of course it is not our intention, but if the situation deems necessary,” said Charles as voices continued to build. He closed his eyes and his mouth pinches into a thin line. “Listen to me! Listen! I understand that you all wish to save the Herondale girl, but—“

“Lucie,” said Cordelia. “Her name is Lucie. You can try to dissociate from that fact, but the rest of us cannot.”

“Lucie,” repeated Charles, “is for all we know gone already. We have no idea the kind of power that she now wields after being merged with Belial. We have no idea what she is capable of. She may not hesitate to raze us all to the ground. All that I am asking is that you extend her the same courtesy.”

“You are talking as if it would be her intent,” said Matthew. “She wouldn’t be the one choosing to raze us to the ground it would be Belial inside of her.”

Charlies rolled his jaw. “It won’t matter, she will be consumed by him.”

"That doesn't make them the same!" shouted Will.

“What if we can somehow separate them?” asked Thomas and looked to Christopher.

“It’s possible,” said Cordelia. “It’s been done before. You heard Tatiana or Tatiana’s ring rather.”

Will visibly flinched and Tessa exhaled.

“She’d have to end herself,” said Magnus. “If his host is no longer alive, then neither is he. It would mean suicide.”

The room grew quiet and the power and anticipation evaporated, replaced with an icy chill that settled into Cordelia’s bones.

“Not every bit of a good story is true,” said Lucie. Her cheeks were bright pink. “It’s the story that important.”

“If there is any way to save the—Lucie, then, by all means, do so,” said Charles, interrupting Cordelia’s thoughts. “But if the moment arrives, when it comes between ending Belial’s rampage and saving her… then do the right thing. Or suffer the consequences in the end, whatever they may be.” He glanced at his watch. “It is nearly dawn. We should all start to prepare. Magnus said the contact points could be central London, the Thames, or the Tower Bridge. I want people stationed at all of those locations and the back-up will follow upon his arrival. If there is no activity in ten hours then we will reconvene here.”

He pushed past Anna and Ariadne as he left the circle and stalked towards the door. Will had turned and was holding Tessa. Matthew had his hand on James’s shoulder who was staring with intent down at the floor.

She turned to Alastair. “Where were we when we were attacked by the demon while in the carriage?”

His eyes searched hers. “Just before we reached the bridge over the Thames. Why?”

“I think that’s where he’s going to come from,” said Cordelia in a low voice. “And that’s where we should be. I’m not going to let them kill her.”

“Cordelia—“

“The brave princess Lucretia raced through the marble halls of the palace. "I must find Cordelia, " she gasped. "I must save her."

“I must save her,” she said and hugged him so only he could hear. “Will you help me try?”

A/N: The italicized sentences are paraphrased quotes from Chain of Gold by Cassandra Clare. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. I know I said we would see what Lucie is up to but there was still much to be done! We will see her again in the next chapter. Love you all!

#the last night fanfiction #the last hours #chain of gold fanfic #the shadowhunter chronicles #cassandra clare #jordelia fanfiction #james x cordelia #the ship is sailing my friends #lucie herondale #the merry thieves #belial #alastair carstairs

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thesedangeroustemptations · 3 years ago

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Decided to post one of my OC’s on here, so I hope y’all like her

( the devil's match ) ┊ ❛ ya know, being a dick will not make yours any bigger, so can we skip that step and get to the part where I break your neck? ❜

character name . . kyomi tausa'afia ka'uhane.

title / ring name . . ms. ka'uhane / 'the goddess of volcanoes and destruction, pele!'

meaning of names . .

kyomi: "pure and beautiful, to cleanse." named after her paternal grandmother, it was one handed down every few generations to those who seemed to shine bright with purity from birth, which was exactly what she appeared to have done. as she grew, she always had a shining glint in her eye, though many would say it's one of mischief while others see differently.

tausa'afia: " pleasant, lovable " in the first few days of her life, she didn't have a middle name as their family reserved it for when their personality began to shine through, that way they had a name that fit them that emerged later on. kyomi was a sweet and adorable baby, capturing the hearts of anyone who held or even looked at her, hence why her middle names meaning reflects just that.

ka'uhane : " soul, spirit " the surname is from her father's family line, having been derived 1500 years ago to distinguish his family's martial arts as users of spirit and soul, versus just muscle and occasional mind.

nicknames . .

" i can't believe you'd put yourself in danger like this, kyo, do you thrive on getting your head kicked in that badly? " — wakatsuki takeshi, seething, after winning her battle against saw paing but sustaining major injuries.

" pele, you'd better not fucking lose, fuck him up! " — adam dudley and cosmo imai yelling at her from the stands during her match.

" the strength of your spirit never ceases to amaze me, tausa, but remember, even the strong need to rest sometimes, and you need to realize that doesn't make you weak. rest now, get your revenge when you're healed. " — sawada keizaburo, attempting to comfort his best friend after being unsure of whether her unborn child will survive due to being forced to fight in the kengan annihilation matches despite her condition.

" you still haven't figured it out yet, 'omi? you cannot love both of us and act like it's fine and dandy. fucking pick or i'll kill him right now. " — ohma tokita confronting kyomi after finding out that she's been sharing a bed with Ichiro Nakata as well as him, ready to kill the supposed 'superman'.

age . . kyomi is is twenty years of age

gender . . she was born of the female gender.

height/weight . . she stands at 5'2'' while weighing 155lbs of pure muscle.

appearance . . " oh, but that's the irony, broken people like her are not fragile. "

kengan match records . . 46 wins, 0 loses.

physical scent . . kyomi's natural scent is one of the saltwater and sandalwood, with hints of plumeria flower.

sexual orientation . . she is bisexual, biromantic.

marital status . . currently not married.

" i can't believe your sweet-tempered father was reincarnated into that girl. she's tough as nails. "

occupation . . kengan fighter, personal body guard / assassin, head of the ka'uhane clan with the inherited abilities of her ancestors. *

personality type . . enfj-t — the protagonist.

[ positive ]

‣ motivational, inspirational; bring out the best in others

‣ very perceptive about people's thoughts and motives

‣ fun to be with - lively sense of humor, dramatic, energetic, optimistic

‣ strive for "win-win" situation

‣ loyal and committed

‣ warmly affectionate and affirming

[ negative ]

‣ tendency to be smothering and over-protective/manipulative and controlling

‣ doesn't pay enough attention to her own needs

‣ critical of opinions and attitudes which don't match her own/sometimes unaware of social appropriateness or protocol

‣ extremely sensitive to conflict, with a tendency to sweep things under the rug as an avoidance tactic/blames herself when things go wrong, and not give themselves credit when things go right

‣ her sharply defined value systems make her unbending in some areas/she may be so attuned to what is socially accepted or expected that she's unable to assess whether something is "right" or "wrong" outside of what her social circle expects

personality description . . ❛ part of her mystery is how she is calm in the storm and anxious in the quiet. ❜

‣ kyomi is a typically bright, energetic and friendly individual, radiating warmth and acceptance to all those who come in contact with her. her kindness is talked of in abundance with her people, as well as her humor that can at times have the entire tribe rolling about with laughter. exceptionally considerate of others feelings, she will often force hers down to where she no longer has to deal with them so she can focus on the tasks/needs of others at hand. despite all of this, she is a skilled warrior who’s talents outshine those who are double her age and trained every moment of the time, leading to her confidence in her abilities to border on cocky. with these abilities however, she is able to defend her tribe and grow an ever expanding bodyguard service from those she’s trained, hiring them out to the highest bidder with these skills. her intelligence is what helped her launch the idea, her mistrust and misjudgement will end up being her downfall; getting her into situations where she’s forced to be the compeditor for Omni Air International, who threatened to level her village if she didn’t comply. over her family and fellow villagers she is fiercely protective and thoughtful, willing to lay down her life if need be for them so they could continue to live in peace. aside from that, she at times can be extremely angry and resentful of the hand she had been dealt, knowing that it was beyond her control and that was what bothered her the most. in competition, she is a blood thirsty and calculating competitor, who would rather break necks than ask or answer any questions directed at her. when pushed to it, she will shut down the side that everyone knows and loves entirely, revealing a murdeous monster who would tear down anyone in her path.

likes . . relaxing in the sun, training, eating exotic and new foods, spending time with her twin children.

dislikes . . being told what to do/forced into situations where she has no control, arrogant people, disloyalty, early mornings.

skills . . healing by meditation, knive throwing, rock/ice climbing, cooking, drawing/painting, ballet, hula dance.

any flaws . . she can be very critical of others with no real cause, her jealousy is out of control, she’s got a large scar on her back, left hip and left thigh from when she was attacked by a shark at the age of 12.

personal phobias . . deep bodies of water, dark spaces, being alone,

habits . . nail biting, smoking, constantly triple checking her surroundings, self isolation when feeling vulnerable.

weapons . . seismic senescing through her hands and feet, pressure point and medical knowledge, garrote, knive throwing, judo, kenpo, jujitsu, grappling, wrestling.

family or blood relatives . . — akela ka’uhane | father, 39 years old | alive | intermediate chief along side his wife in his daughters absence/guardian of his grandchildren.

— makani ka’uhane | mother, 37 years old | alive | intermediate chieftess alongside her husband in her daughters absence/guardian of her granddaughter/healer

— noe olina ka’uhane | daughter, 3 years old | alive | living with her grandparents while her mother is away, training in meditation and energy control with her grandfather.

—- kanoa haikili ka’uhane | son, 3 years old | alive | living with his grandparents while his mother is away, training in meditation and energy control with his grandfather.

affiliated company / empoleeyer . . omni air international

friends . . — miyuki dotokayashi | best friend | alive | daughter of naga dotokayashi, ceo of Omni air international

— sawada keizaburo | best friend/unofficial bodyguard & uncle to her children | alive | kengan fighter/employed by murder music.

— wakatsuki takashi | best friend/father figure | alive | kengan fighter/empoyed by furumi pharmaceuticals.

— saw paing yoroizuka | close friend | alive | kengan fighter/employed by village of the dawn.

— adam dudley | close friend | alive | kengan fighter/employed by boss burger.

— imai cosmo | close friend/brother figure | alive | kengan fighter / employed by nishihonji security services.

— okubo naoya | close friend/ex-lover | alive | kengan fighter.

— himuro ryo | close friend | alive | kengan fighter.

— kaneda suekichi | close friend | alive | kengan fighter.

— gaolang wongsawat | close friend | alive | kengan fighter.

romantic interest(s) . . ohma tokita & ichiro 'lihito' nakata — ❛ you’re selfish, is what you are. making us both love you and then refusing to choose, what the fuck is your game? ❜

— ohma 'the ashura' tokita : my, oh my. the relationship between ohma and kyomi began when they first encountered each other during her first trip to japan 2 years prior, representing Omni Air International and winning 27 consecutive matches before the annihilation tournament took place. they met in a coffee shop, he decided to stop in and devour whatever pastries they had on display for the day, and due to his large, intimidating frame, most people were afraid of him and kept his distance; not kyomi. she found his seemingly brooding and potentially aggressive nature comical in contrast to the sweet treats he was eating, so she being the outgoing individual she was, went up to him and asked him how the desserts tasted now that he'd robbed everyone else of the chance. her boldness and confidence in the way she carried herself was enough to catch his attention and intrigue, so he invited her to sit with him and try the remains of what he hadn't inhaled just yet. it was in that sit down, taste testing the different assortments that laid in front of them, that a bond was formed and only grew with the more time they spent together, finding more commonalities than initially suspected. as close as they got, there was still a wall put up between the two of them, set up unintentionally by both parties to refrain from either getting hurt. this didn't stop jealousy and possessiveness to overwhelm the 'relationship' that they had developed, resulting in it's momentary end in an explosive way. now, two months later, they met once again at the kengan annihilation tournament representing their respective companies, which was a shock to them both, especially on her end. the greatest shock for ohma was when the new 'superhuman' he had been introduced to a little while prior to this, was now following around his woman like a puppy, only sparking the killer instinct within him that lie just beneath the surface. that, and the hickies and love marks that covered her body in the most obvious and infuriating places. now aggressive and hostile toward the woman who somehow held a vice grip on his heart, he couldn't help but blame himself at the same time for allowing her to slip through his fingers, however he will be damned if he lets 'lihito' steal what's his. with kyomi seeming to decide that she was fine with loving the both of them, fucking the both of the, that was when he snapped and would become a much more outwardly angry person than his usual calm demeanor, lashing out at any person who happened to make the wrong comment in his presence. despite his feelings of rage and hostility toward the situation, he couldn't help the fact that he loved her, and he would continue to love her even if he hated the choices that she was making, and the fact that even though he knew her for two years time now, it still felt as though she was hiding a part of herself from him, which was frustrating for the fighter, because in their long nights together, he had spilled his guts to her, given her every part of him, and he was met with this.

— ichiro ‘lihito’ nakata : meeting this goddess was a complete accident, one that ichiro was more grateful for than he cared to admit out loud- scratch that, he'd happily yell it from whatever roof top she requested. having met after he was observing his competition for the next few matches, he quickly took notice of the seemingly unbeatable 'pele', swiftly deciding two things: that she would soon be his, and he did not want to fight her in any upcoming matches, because he knew he would get his ass handed to him, and that wasn't something the self proclaimed superhuman could afford to his ego or image. after she mopped the floor with her opponent, he approached her and asked if she would like to get something to eat, explaining he knew just how strenuous and appetite increasing these matches could be, it didn't take much pressure to get her to agree. the two went to an authentic japanese ramen shop, as she had never been before and had only been in japan for a few days, which was mostly spent fighting or training, this being the first time she actually had a moment to herself to breath. they ate bowl after bowl, stacking the piles high as they could go before ichiro realized that this woman had not only stolen his heart, but emptied his wallet as well, not that he minded. her smile and full belly was all he cared about at that moment. over the next few months, the two became closer and closer, though there was weeks where she would pull away and disappear, for reasons he did not know of; come to find out much later, she was spending the other parts of her time with the infamous ohma tokita, his self decided rival in the kengan matches. this discovery once they had arrived at the tournament only fueled ichiro's rage and desire to win, to prove that he was the better man, the stronger man, the one for her. though the two decided amongst themselves that they would compete for her heart, they were infuriated to see that she decided that it was fine to simply love them both, which wouldn't have been too terrible for him if it wasn't for the fact that ohma made it abundantly clear that he wasn't okay with that, and would repeatedly threaten ichiro's life, which was met with the response of 'try it' every single time. the relationship that they have is a rather lax and easy going one, though at times he can be a bit smothering and over-protective, that's only because he doesn't want to lose out on what he sees as his one chance at happiness.

backstory . . kyomi was born the only child to a long line of renowned martial artists, one that had developed it's own style that included many aspects that weren't included in the traditional way of teaching. over 1500 years ago, her ancestors figured out how to manipulate matter and atoms, giving them partial manipulation over their surroundings as well as a physical power up. they also figured out the ability to heal themselves faster through the power of meditation, which came in handy for those who chose to be warriors, such as kyo. the longer the line, the more ancestors that could be called upon for assistance in a fight, using their knowledge and own distinct styles of fighting, the stronger the power up, making kyomi at the time, the strongest ever of her line, surpassing that of her past life and previous tribal chief by what seemed like miles. from a young age, she displayed strong discipline and technique, mastering things thrown at her within a few days time and leaving her teachers in absolute awe, as well as her parents, though they also beamed with happiness. the ancestral spirit didn't manifest in every generation, it only happened when the current host dies, so it can be passed to the new one, which so happened to be a feisty, strong-willed and opinionated young woman who was more than willing to kill for her goals and those she cares for. at the age of 16, she made the mistake of getting too attached to a tourist visiting one of the vacation spots on the main parts of her island, resulting in her losing her virginity and discovering she was pregnant a few months later. with the support of her family and village, she had her children and would not have been able to handle it without the backing that she had. as chieftess in training, her father and mother handled most things for her while she focused on her own children, but also growing up still given she had them so young. it was during this time that it became apparent that she was suffering from post-partum-rage, which was honed and harnessed into a deadly weapon to add precision and greater force behind her strikes. at the age of 18, she was brought to omni air international headquarters by her best friend, being told that her father wanted someone strong to represent his company in what was known as the kengan matches in japan. this didn't appeal to her too much, initially she refused, but when her home and tribe were threatened with extinction, her own children who were innocent, she had no choice but to comply. her best friend had no knowledge of this, and was unable to stop her father from forcing her companions hand, but it was no use, he would not budge on his decision. she was the strongest by far that he had come across, and he wouldn't let her slip through his fingers when he had the power to bend her to his will, no matter the rage and resentment he was building within his fighter. after saying her goodbyes to her one and a half year olds, her parents and her village, she set off to japan, where she found it hard to adjust to the culture and the language, resulting in many fights and brawls due to misunderstandings. it was during this time that she met several people who would become close friends and mentors to her, the relationships forming due to their close proximity from the kengan matches, as they were all participants in some way or another. the romantic relationships she did not plan for, and being the privileged person that she was, assumed that she would just be able to have both of the people who had captured her heart, not taking their feelings into consideration whatsoever. this was a result of no one taking hers into consideration for bringing her there in the first place, forcing her to fight for the lives of her people and not being allowed to lose no matter what. she cared very little for what people viewed as 'fair', even if she did love them.

extra . . — kyomi is ambidextrous, though the punches from her left hand hurt far more than the ones from her right, she believes most of her past lives were prodominantly left handed, which she finds awesome as hell.

— even after two years, the people closest to her, aside from sawada and wakatsuki, known nothing about her life back in hawaii, which is something that she prefers to keep due to her not knowing who she can truly trust anymore.

— though both ohma tokita and ichiro nakata have perminent places in her heart, if she was forced to choose, she would have to drop them both because she couldn't bear hurting one by choosing the other

— sawada interestingly enough knew kyomi before she came to japan, having met her a few times when he and his employer made trips to hawaii to open new stores there for murder music, as he was her body guard as well as fighter. the two clicked while she was pregnant, he was very kind and thoughtful when interacting with her, never once judged her and was there when her twins were born. he's a brother that she never had, acting as her protector and best friend all at the same time; the relationship she has with lihito makes him sick to his stomach but it's her life, and he refuses to say anything for fear of getting his face kicked in.

— she and raian have an unspoken rivalry, due to them both having destructive power, and her being referred to as 'the devil's match'. kyomi finds his blood lust entertaining and would love to fight him, him feeling the same with her, but having a bordering obsession with her as well, having to keep constant tabs on her and be aware of where she is at all times, something he does his best to keep hidden from everyone, including those in the kure clan. If anyone is going to beat her for good it would be him.

#kengan ashura #kengan omega #kenganverse

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