#so hopefully the wait is worth it

[shmaptainwrites]

when you want to be writing fanfic but life be life-ing

[seventh-district]

Making Incorrect H:SR Quotes Until I Run Out of (hopefully) Original Ideas - Pt. 4 - Nuthin' but Boothill Edition

[Pt. 1] [Pt. 2] [Pt. 3] [Pt. 5] [Pt. 6]

[demaparbat-hp]

Almost

[jojo-schmo]

[The Forgotten Land Roleswap: Chapter 2 49-50]

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[emblazons]

"Do you not see, Eleven?"

El & 001 + Mike Wheeler & Martin Brenner Parallels see also: Vecna' using El's trauma to manipulate(!) her ⤷ inspired by @heroesbyler & my own commentary (x)

[northstarscowboyhat]

I know your art (which is bedazzling, btw!) is primarily about staroba, but I gotta ask. How is my favorite “vampire”, Dalv doing in your Lucky Clover AU?

First of all, thank you so much! I know I tend to hyperfocus on the Staroba and Clover end of the AU, given my obvious bias LOL. But it was about time I designed Dalv and Martlet, so two for one special!

Dalv is in his late 30s and doing quite a bit better! He's still quite introverted, but has more of a social life in Snowdin! In the time that's passed since Clover chose to live in the Underground, he's become a very successful children's book author and illustrator and gains a ton of joy from that. Overall he's living a bit more of a quiet and peaceful life despite his past struggles, but he's quite content with that! He still in contact with Clover and the others and they visit him fairly often.

Martlet is in her early 30s, and she's just as energetic and spry as ever! She still has some scatter brained tendencies, but she's a lot more responsible and a lot more independent now. She also still lives in Snowdin, though she flies to the Oasis Valley like, daily, to see her buddy Clover LOL. She quit her job with the Royal Guard and took up carpentry, and is successfully running her own independent business! She's upbeat and cheerful, but she generally tries to keep a low profile in Snowdin. Despite it being quite a few years, there's still some rumours and talk about why a Royal Guard in Snowdin suddenly quit her position...

[poisonousquinzel]

ngl real missed opportunity by DC to let Harley and Mr. Freeze become friends during her primary villain arc (btas or other) cause tbh I can't imagine he'd enjoy sitting in his cell listening to Joker brag about all the ways he's cruel, abusive and uncaring towards Harley, a woman who loves him, while Victor's entire goal is to save his wife who he loves dearly ya know ???? and it's not like all of them haven't been locked up together, the other rogues Know. Joker's not like most abusers who try to keep it behind closed doors, he's very public with his abuse.

And just that feeling of like "I am doing everything I can to save my wife, I have become a criminal and have done awful things in the name of love and I just want nothing more than to have her back and You Have Someone Who Loves You That Much, That Much To Become A Criminal As Well And You Repay That Love By ABUSING HER."

[the-ghostly-butterfly]

Snippet 1.4

Previous

The next morning, Henchman sat in the infirmary of Villain's Headquarters, the atmosphere as thick as smoke. Henchman figured Villain let slip to someone what they were planning to do the Henchman as a punishment for what they'd done, or maybe even details of how they'd be tortured or killed, or maybe even thrown out for the heroes to round up like a stray dog, most likely with their tongue cut out and hands broken so they didn't stand a chance at revealing anything they'd learned about Villain

They didn't really know anything useful for the heroes anyway. They knew Villain's favorite color (dark blue), favorite foods (anything with chocolate), allergies (blueberries), their least favorite movie genre (horror) and a couple other things they picked up from being around Villain so much.

They learned why Villain didn't get on well with their parents (they very much had a favorite child and it wasn't Villain) and what'd brought on their anger towards the Hero Agency once Villain brought them into their confidence, sure, but they didn't know much more about plans then the average civilian--that would be Right Hand. Their actual duties consisted of watching over supplies, managing other henchmen and keeping an eye on the overall workings of Headquarters.

Henchman hoped that taking down Hero would make Villain proud of them. Would make them allow Henchman into their inner circle and bring them into their confidence. They'd hoped to get as close to Villain as Right Hand--closer, after bringing down Hero. And instead, they'd suffered two humiliating defeats (and several broken ribs).

It all came to a head when Medic came in to check on Henchman's stitches. in addition to the blunt force trauma of being thrown through a window and into a wall, glass shards stuck into their back and left jagged, stinging wounds that oozed blood well into the night. Henchman sat on their cot, facing away from Medic as their wounds were inspected and re-dressed, and even then they could feel the hesitation Medic's hands, which were usually sure and quick.

Silence hung in the room like a dead man.

"What are they gonna do?" Henchman asked in a croaky voice, just barely above a whisper.

Medic paused. Considered. "What?"

"Villain. What are they gonna do to me?"

Again, they were met with silence. Henchman was sure the stress was worse than any answer Medic could've given until... Medic laughed. They laughed. It wasn't a snort or a scoff, or even a giggle--and they didn't even try to hide it! Medic stepped back for a moment, cackling as Henchman's stomach dropped. Of all the answers they were expecting, that was one they hadn't prepared for in the slightest.

"Oh, God, I needed that. You're hysterical."

"I'm being serious!" Henchman whirled around half way before the agony from the mess that somehow made up their abdomen sent lightning-hot reminders of why that was a horrible idea.

"Stop it, you're gonna hurt yourself," Medic scolded lightly, laughter still dancing in their eyes. "Have you really been stressed about that the whole time?"

"YES!" Henchman was near screaming now, though they weren't sure if it was ager or confusion that raised their voice. "Why wouldn't I be? Did you see how furious Villain was before they left? And I haven't seen them since. I left without permission and acted without orders; they have every reason to be upset. And everyone and everything's been so quiet today, it's like I've been handed down a death sentence."

Medic cleared their throat and the last embers of amusement flickered out. "Yeah, well, you're right about that, but you're not the one in danger. Or at least, you weren't when it mattered."

The tone of Medic's voice was dead serious--terrifying--and didn't help the growing pit of anxiety that had hunkered down in Henchman's stomach. They felt like they were going to pass out, woozy and dizzy and like the world was tipping out from under them.

A sharp snap under their nose anchored them a little more steadily to the bed they were sitting on, Medic having circled around the cot to look Henchman in the eyes. "You're fine, relax. The rest of us weren't supposed to tell you because it was bad, even for Villain, but I don't think you're in for anything more than a slap on the wrist, and neither does anyone else."

And they wouldn't understand that even if Henchman wasn't going to be killed, as thankful for that as they were, even a slap on the wrist as Medic said would destroy everything Henchman had been working towards. Everything they'd been hoping for. They should've known going into the fight that they were putting Villain's trust in them on the line, and they had--to a point.

They never expected they would fail as horribly as they did, nor that Villain would react with the kind of quiet fury usually reserved for their rare interactions with heroes or other members of the Agency itself. They hadn't expected to be sent to the infirmary the way that they were, or to be teleported directly to it from an alley just off the main scene of the fight after barely getting away.

And what they really weren't expecting was what hurt most: The fact that Villain had put them here and walked off without another word. They'd spoken in their office, but beyond that, there wasn't even a threatening note, or a warning given through Medic. They'd been effectively put in time out, knowing what might be coming but not having enough confidence to really prepare themselves one way or another.

“Hey, what did I just say?” Medic says, this time with annoyance in their tone. “Even if I don’t know the details, I know you’re gonna be fine, okay? You’re gonna be fine, and I don’t think you’re clocking Villain’s feelings towards what you did to Hero as correctly as you think you are, yeah?”

Their assessment was fair, if not a little stinging. They’d never been good at reading people, but they’d hoped Villain was the exception. Even with their monotone voice and often stony demeanor, Henchman knew how tired they were in a glance after a fight; knew when to call for Medic or coffee or let them get straight to their personal rooms and block everyone else from entering–something Right Hand was usually supposed to do. 

The entire night, they’d tried not to deliberate too much on Right Hand. They’d tried to ignore the stinging jealousy of the fact that there was already someone that was so close to Villain they could almost read their thoughts. They knew Villain kept a certian amount of professionalism and distance between themselves and Right Hand that didn’t seem to be present between Villain and Henchman, but most liekly because it wasn’t seen as necessary. They weren’t close enough for it to matter in the first place. 

“Okay,” Henchman murmured, and one look at Meidc’s face made it clear to even them that they didn’t beleive them for a second. Nevertheless, Medic stepped away. 

“Okay,” they echoed, with much more confidence. “You seem to be healing well, all things considered, and I have other patients I need to take care of, so I’m going to leave you here, okay? Try not to freak out too much on me, yeah?”

Henchman gave a weak nod, and an even weaker smile. They were sure that Medic could see them spiraling form the outside, but if they did, they didn’t say anything about it. “Yeah.”

Next

Tagging: @nameless-beanie @crow-with-a-typewriter @mylovelyme (If you wanted to be tagged and weren't please just poke me with a stick)

[vivianquill]

Emberfish and 19 for the whump prompts??

Prompt from the whumperless whump event July:

19. The whump morning after: Tending to injuries / Domestic hurt comfort / “Let's check the bandages, okay?”

Tango was tired.

Well, he was more than tired, but that's what he'd told Jimmy when the other mer had asked how he was feeling. The other stuff didn't really matter.

He just wanted to go home. He wanted to be with his pod. Tango was sick of humans and sick of all of them treating him like he was a shell knife.

His gills ached and his fins were sore and if anyone else tried to talk to him right now he would probably bite first, ask questions later.

Tango was stretched out at the deepest part of the pool, all his fins spread out as large as they could go. The cool stone was soothing. The water here always seemed to be too warm. Sure, the sea got warm at the surface, and there were warm currents that swept along, but you could always find a cool spot.

He missed the taste of the ocean.

Tango missed everything about it, really.

He looked up as a shadow passed over the surface of the water, and Jimmy dropped into the pool soon after, chirping softly.

"Tango?" Jimmy drifted down next to him, sails spread to slow his fall, "I've got more fish, if you want some. Or there's pizza."

"Pizza?"

"It's-- a human food. It's good."

Tango sighed, pushing himself up. He would be left alone faster if he humored Jimmy. He just hoped that he wasn't going to get pounced on the moment he surfaced. Tango had had Enough of the poking and prodding and getting the sense knocked out of him.

He shook out his fins, folding them neatly along his tail, "Fine."

Jimmy beamed at him, before darting back up to the surface of the pool. Tango followed, as cautious as he had a right to be.

Jimmy was sat on the edge of the pool, a plate of pizza and fish siting in his lap. Lizzie was stood next to Jimmy's 'wheelchair' moveificator thingy. She was holding a plate full of food.

When Tango hoisted himself out of the water to sit, Lizzie crouched and offered it to him.

He took it, careful to not let his hands brush Lizzie's.

She had been nice enough when they'd first met, but he still didn't know what to think about her. But at least she hadn't attacked him yet.

"The pizza is kinda hot, be careful." Jimmy mentioned, scooping up a piece from his plate and taking a bite out of it.

Tango mirrored Jimmy, balancing a piece of pizza on his fingers and taking a bite out of it. He almost spit it back out, not expecting-- whatever the taste of this was. He wasn't sure if he liked it or not.

It was salty and savory and-- he didn't have the words for it. It was like sour, but more sharp in his mouth, and the heat was even more strange.

It was one more new thing in a sea of newness when Tango wanted something familiar.

He swallowed the bite down, trying to hide his grimace. Tango set it back on the plate in favor of the fish instead. He didn't think he could get away with just-- not eating anything. Not without Jimmy bothering him about it.

He shook away thoughts of Bdubs doing the same. He was not going to cry. Not in front of a human. Because Lizzie had frustratingly not left after giving him the food. At least she was over by the opening into the human den, and not anywhere near him.

Tango flinched out of his thoughts at the sound of the human saying something.

"After you're done eating Lizzie wants to check your bandages again." Jimmy translated. He was done with his food already, looking at Tango with concern, "Are you okay Tango? Is there something wrong?"

Yes, Tango didn't say, Everything is wrong.

"No. I just-- don't like the pizza."

Jimmy tipped his head the same way Skizz did when he'd done something surprising, and Tango offered him what was left of his food.

Lizzie stood, and Tango had to fight to keep himself where he was.

He didn't want her hands on his fins again.

Thankfully, she didn't touch his tail. Tango probably would have bit her, threats from Joel meant nothing. He'd already clocked the armored mer's weak points. It would be easy to get his teeth or his knife--

He didn't have his knife.

It would be easy for Tango to get his teeth into the soft of Joel's neck.

Lizzie was murmuring something as she unwrapped the bandages around his side, before making eye contact with Tango and saying something that sounded like a question.

"Can you flex your gills?" Jimmy asked, "She wants to make sure they're healing right."

Tango silently obliged, wincing from the pain of the scabs pulling apart along the edges of his slits. His other sets bit with pain from being opened so wide.

All four sets were damaged, he couldn't deny it. Not with the way he felt them tremble as he slowly, carefully matched their open and close to each breathe he took.

He ignored the stinging discomfort of Lizzie doing something at the edge of his sight, flexing each time she asked him to.

Tango hadn't had any trouble with breathing so far, but--

It was the homesickness making him lethargic. And the humans at the fish rescue-- his humans-- had given him things to numb the pain. Those had make him dizzy too. And Jimmy's human had stings that made him sleepy. None of this had anything to do with his damaged gills.

Tango drifted back into focus as Lizzie wrapped a new bandage around his chest, not looking over at Jimmy as he spoke, "When can I go home? You said I would be released once I'm healed."

There was an exchange between Jimmy and the human, before Jimmy answered him.

"Lizzie says it will probably be half a moon."

Tango bit back a whine, pinning his head fins down.

"It's mostly because we don't know where your pod is." Jimmy explained, "We know you have one, yeah, so you'll be fine once you can meet up with them again but we don't know where they are, so we can't just-- take you back to them."

"I'll be able to find them. Even if I don't I have friends in the Hivemind pod. News travels fast when Doc wants it to, and they're probably already on the lookout." Tango protested, a hiss underpinning the frustration in his words.

"We don't know where that pod would be either!" Jimmy threw up his hands.

Tango blinked, taken aback. Jimmy really didn't talk with other mer much, did he?

"The hivemind pod is stationary. They don't migrate."

Now it was Jimmy's turn to blink in surprise.

"What?"

[spiffyspidr]

Is anyone else here a fan of Corpse Flowers? (:

I fukign love these things so much!! Their vegative state is my favourite, since they just look so alien and ancient at the same time! C:

[kirk-says-wah]

the halloween fic unfortunately won’t be posted tomorrow 🥲 I have no idea when it will be finished, but I’m hoping by the end of next month if I can

[starlightlacrimosazpsff]

◇ 𝓐𝓵𝓵 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓛𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓵𝓮 𝓣𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 ◇

TO: @hollythius-rising EVENT HOSTED BY: @solarisfortuneia

SYNOPSIS:

The most renowned love stories tend to be about either whirlwind romances or heartfelt tragedies. A love brewed by fighting against all odds provides a sense of fulfillment after all the drama, the angst, the conflicts, and the memories. It is a buildup to the climax wherein the readers live vicariously, to see the leads achieve happiness after a lifetime of misery. However, in reality, many pairs of soulmates find peace in the simplistic beauty that life can offer. They fight when absolutely necessary to maintain the harmony that safeguards the fragile glass known as happiness. Amidst the trivialities, the foundations of felicity can be forged little by little; and what once served as mere frivolity becomes the profound bond of unconditional loyalty—the foundation of all true loves.

ENTRY TYPE: Event Submission, F!Reader

WARNING(S): mentions of abuse, mentions of violence, mentions of problematic themes, implications of neurodivergence, blood, unstable mental state, juxtaposed writing style, ambiguous relationships, slight toxicity, mild angst (because I need to sprinkle some even if my focus is fluff), author is sorry for submitting late, etc...

CHARACTER(S):

Diluc Ragnvindr, Alhaitham, Childe/Tartaglia/Ajax

•

•

•

•☆••☆••☆•

DILUC RAGNVINDR is a man of intrigue filled with mysteries hidden in the darkest shadows of the night. In a way, he is someone who breathes in contradictions as much as he lives in resolute convictions. He approaches life with a headstrong mind and steadfast heart, yet his soul tends to navigate a treacherous world by means of putting on masks infused with his spirit to distribute justice. The body born with the red hair of dawn and the crimson eyes of dusk takes flight as the firebird across the twilight. He honors the name of Noctua, which had blessed him at the tender age of 10. Despite his straightforward nature, his true persona is as elusive as any respectable gentleman with skeletons locked in his closet—or buried in Dawn Winery, for this case.

However, as expected of any formidable vigilante, there is one trustworthy confidante behind them. They are the precious secret keeper, the one to uphold the contingencies that shall be in play if the vigilante falls amidst disaster. In some cases, they stand as the one person who will remember the masked heroes for all their entirety and become their proof of existence.

For Diluc, that is you.

He had just become the Cavalry Captain of Ordo Favonius when he met you. The sight of you, a girl no older than him, battered and covered in blood was bone-chilling. He swiftly commanded the Knights of Favonius to escort you safely to Mondstadt, and led the caravan while ensuring your comfort. A peaceful smile was on your delicate lips even as tears poured down your cheeks. He asked for the reason behind your contradicting expression, bewildered and alarmed as he floundered on how to help you.

"Barbatos heard my prayers." You told him, "I am free now."

Diluc figured that is when his infatuation started with you. The years that had passed as you settled down into the city, the years that had passed after his departure from Mondstadt due to the death of his father, and the years that had passed when he returned...

None of it made a difference to what he feels for you.

If anything, the flames grew stronger and more adamant to have you.

As always, Diluc's nights conclude with a visit to your abode. After his nightly patrols, you are always the solace that awaits him. Whenever he tried to stop his visits, you will go to Dawn Winery yourself to ensure he took care of himself. He never wants you to ever risk yourself by travelling in the dark just to check on him, so he found it easier to just visit you after his patrols.

Sorry to have kept you waiting. Diluc seems to say whenever he finds you asleep on your couch, waiting for him all night. He would carry you in his arms, tucking you back to your bed. As he turns to leave, your hand would tug on his sleeve. His crimson eyes would see you awake, just barely to give him a pleading gaze and a dazzling smile. A part of him wondered if you dreamed of him all those years he had been away, utterly consumed by scathing grief. It made him ponder for how much longer he will keep you waiting.

I am fine, just stay with me. You seem to reply as you watch him discard his coat to join you. The line between friends and lovers blur for those nights of synchronicity. He would hold you until dawn, wherein the morning light would take him back to Dawn Winery. You wake up to an empty bed, yet the warmth soothes you despite his absence. You never complained nor expected more than what he could provide. You never tried to put a label to what you have. The important point is that Diluc always came to you, and that was all that ever mattered.

Please never let me go. Diluc was used to fighting his battles alone, yet he could never resist the allure of returning to you the first night you patched him up after a rough confrontation against a hoard of enemies. It yielded further moments wherein you would either prepare him a warm bath, or just patch him up with a few words of admonishment to be more careful next time. Every touch made him adore you, and every word made him admire you.

I am always with you. That was all you could truly offer to ease his suffering. You knew that your dear knight of dawn is broken, and pieces of him have permanently gone missing. He cannot be fixed and you do not seek to do it. You merely hold him, as his body was covered in gauze with his head on your shoulders. You do not speak of the tears you do not see as it soaked your dress, nor do you speak of the nightmares he confided to you past gritted teeth. I love you. Who will say it first?

"Honestly," you sighed, "your injuries tonight make me think you're doing it on purpose at this point."

Diluc almost smirked, "I suppose the notion is not too far off."

You plastered the adhesive bandage a little too harshly onto his chest, making him wince. He caressed the abused skin before putting on the spare shirt you gave him while you took hold of his cloak. You retrieved your sewing kit to repair the slight tear on the fabric.

"Don't even joke about that!" You scowled sternly, "What are you, a child? If you wish to see me, you ask for an invitation. Better yet, try to start a conversation. It feels as if you can only talk to me as the Darknight Hero and never as Diluc Ragnvindr."

He frowned confusedly, "What do you mean? If anyone knows all sides of me, it's you."

You raised a brow at him in challenge, "Oh yeah? Then why do you avoid crossing my path during daytime? Why do you only dare approach me during nighttime, away from any prying eyes?"

His lips part to deny your allegations but promptly close it when you point your needle at him. There was a stern glint in your eyes, the familiar fire that rivalled his own Pyro Vision. It makes him look away guiltily, fiddling with his ponytail as he released his hair from the tie. Seeing that he was not arguing anymore, you went back to your task as you continued to speak.

"I'm not one of those girls vying for your attention or anything," you said calmly, "but I won't deny that it grates on my nerves as I see you changing directions whenever you spot me en route. Then you come to my home as if it was like any other night."

You cut the thread as you finished stitching, glancing back at Diluc.

"Are you ashamed of me or something?" You asked bluntly.

"No!" He protested vehemently, "It's the total opposite."

A slight blush engulfed his face at the unwitting confession, but he does not correct himself nor take it back. You stared with wide eyes of awe and surprise, taken aback yet mostly amused. Rather than delving into it, you decided to keep silent as your eyes evaluated Diluc under a new light. You chuckled goodheartedly as you stood up, gesturing for him to do the same. Once he did, you help him put his coat back on and may have lingered to touch his arms. You were utterly shameless, grinning as he did not even tense up. It shows his familiarity with your caresses, even as you blatantly traced his shoulders to dust off some unseen lint.

"You owe me a date tomorrow then, Master Diluc~!" You whispered onto his ear.

Your cheeky remark ends with a chaste peck on his cheek, making the man look at you with a flustered astonishment. You giggle at his adorable expression, turning away to clean up the clutter in your living room. There was a sensual sway to your hips as you walked away, a soothing hum reverberating from your lips. This sight of you, bathed under the moonlight, felt so domestic and surreal to Diluc. Once again, he finds himself pining for a dream that could be just a step away from reality. He only needs to muster the courage to take that step, and you could be his for as long as you would have him in return.

Diluc yearns for you. He yearns for a future with you.

At the same time, he wonders if he could protect you beyond the clandestine moments shared with you. As he grabs your hand and twirls you into his arms, he found his answer by brushing his lips against yours with an intense look on his eyes.

"You missed." He retorts.

That was your first kiss with Diluc Ragnvindr.

"The wind wisps guided us, but the flame sprites united us."

•☆••☆••☆•

ALHAITHAM is a man of logic and rationality defined by the reasonable standards of routine. As an advocate of truth and wisdom, he has a thirst for knowledge controlled only by the disciplinary restraint of abstinence. This balanced mindset has earned him the title of Scribe within Sumeru's Akademiya, a well-maintained equilibrium between ambition and humility. Alas, this chosen lifestyle is not without its drawbacks to accompany the merits. Though this silver-haired scholar would argue that these cons are not truly detrimental, his peers would beg to differ when they tend to suffer said disadvantages more often than not. After all, the most brilliant geniuses tend to have quirks; and for this scholar hailing from the Darshan of Haravatat, it is his grievously cold-hearted personality.

His harsh disposition, more often than not, can be attributed to his analytical behavior. While he is not unsympathetic, Alhaitham is the type to prioritize facts over sentimental attachments. Because of this, most of his peers find it hard to get along with him.

That was, of course, until he was paired with you.

You had been desperate to find a decent roommate in the dormitories of the Akademiya, while Alhaitham wants a roommate whom would just learn to respect his supposedly strict boundaries. You heard from a friend about it and sought his contacts on the message board. You passed his initial assessment of you, and everything else was history.

Alhaitham was extremely meticulous of his space because he wants to be efficient with his time. That means every single thing in his home needs to be set in its place so a routine would remain undisturbed. If something goes wrong, it irritates him and it puts his mental facilities to work for something he deems could have been avoided. Despite his effective work ethics, he can be quite lazy in that regard. He does not wish to waste time and effort for someone else's incompetence, which people tend to find off-putting. However, you see it differently. He has his preferences, and it just so happens to be more thorough than most—which you respect.

For a while, you took the time to observe Alhaitham closely. It befuddled and agitated him at first, since there are times your glare could be quite piercing. If you had a problem with him, you should just say it. There are even moments when he thought you were stalking him. Alas, it was actually because you were taking note of his boundaries and his miniscule habits to adapt to them without compromising your own comfort.

Once the first week had passed, Alhaitham noticed your efforts blossom.

To his pleasant surprise, it even benefited him.

"[Name]," he called indifferently, "have you seen—"

"—your book on ancient runes?" You finished, "You left it on the couch when you got the emergency summons from your thesis professor. It was inspection day and I didn't want it to get confiscated, so I put it on the third shelf on the right with a disguised journal cover."

His sharp eyes looked at your precise directions. Lo and behold, there was his book—untouched and even bookmarked on the last page he left. It was a rather neat bookmark too, laminated autumn leaves and ferns with the Sumerian letters that spell your name on the paper base.

"You want one?" You asked, "I could make a custom design for you. I saw your old bookmark when I was cleaning the trash, and it will help keep your pages neat by not having to fold them."

Alhaitham stares at you with a calculative detachment, yet you did not miss the flicker of warm gratitude that you knew surprised even himself. He nods wordlessly while politely handing your bookmark back.

After you both graduated, it took little time for him to achieve the job of Scribe. Meanwhile, you ended up getting a job in Zubayr Theater to pursue the arts as a playwright. Much to Alhaitham's surprise, it had been your plan all along. Your time spent learning in Haravatat was to provide a deeper nuance to your stories by making use of ancient languages and inputting traditional designs onto your craftsmanship. It was an amalgamation of wisdom that you proclaim the sages have neglected, an artform they prohibit due to ignorance. As he read one of your plays on a whim, he begins to see you in an appraising light. In fact, the appreciative delight he felt in your texts was demonstrated by how he never misses a single play written by you when it is performed on stage.

You could not pinpoint when things began to transition from platonic kinship to romantic entanglement between you two. All you can recall is that Alhaitham invited you to live with him again.

"Don't you already have a roommate? Kaveh, was it?" You asked curiously.

Alhaitham scoffs, "He tends to get on my nerves a bit. Having you there would teach him a thing or two about respecting my space, and minding his own business."

You snorted amusedly but accepted his offer. You knew better than to question Alhaitham. Although you wanted to joke about whether he still has room in his house, you knew it will fly over his head. It would only be a leeway to roast you about how he would not have offered if he did not have a room unoccupied to accommodate you.

Henceforth, that is how you got your own key to Alhaitham's house.

It must have been quite a shock to witness for Kaveh, how you and Alhaitham seamlessly move around each other. You always rise an hour before Alhaitham's scheduled awakening in the morning. You bathe and keep the bathroom clean, with enough hot water for him to use. Then, you cook breakfast and brew his coffee with a specific mug he uses in the morning to keep track of his caffeine intake. Straight black and no sugar, but you will add two teaspoons of cream to ensure it does not scratch his throat. By the time he gets dressed, you have his meal set on the table right where his seat has a good view on the window. It was not the landscape itself but the sunlight that hits just right for him to read any book he currently fancies while he sat to eat.

Alhaitham will always clean his own dishes, which will leave you to double-check your things before you both leave for your respective jobs together. Kaveh gapes when he actually sees the silver-haired man help carry your things while you put on your shoes.

"Kaveh," Alhaitham said nonchalantly, "we're both going to be home late. Don't wait up."

You smiled warmly, "There's still food left for you if you get hungry. Oh, and—"

With no hint of shame, your hands patted Alhaitham down. Your calloused fingers rummage his pockets and retrieve his keys, separating the ones that belonged to Kaveh which got dragged with his own. The most astonishing is how the man remains unfazed by your casual yet intimate touches, even leaning into it.

"—here are your keys again!" You laughed as you threw them at the blond, "Honestly, I should get us some kind of key hangers to prevent this from happening."

"Do you want to go now?" Alhaitham asked smoothly, "I have some time."

"I don't have the money for it yet!"

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course, I'm paying."

Kaveh could only stare incredulously as he held his keys. He watches you both depart, voices fading behind the door and into the distance.

Meanwhile, Alhaitham all too chivalrously takes your hand in his as you both strolled down the streets. You hummed a familiar tune that you have been working to integrate on your next play. He takes note of it, subtly turning a vial in his headphones to record your voice. You did not stop him, eyes wandering to window shop.

"How was your latest research?" You asked.

"Troublesome," Alhaitham sighs lightly, "the scholars involved in it give me a headache."

You cooed, raising your free hand to sweep his bangs and massage his temple mildly. You stopped to focus back on walking but now allowed your fingers to stroke the callouses on the hand you held. Soon, he drops you off at Zubayr Theater and releases you from his grasp. You held back a smile, cheeks blushing, when he kisses the back of your hand before tracing your palm with his fingertips as he lets you go. For a moment, his intense gaze shimmered in a darker turquoise and vibrant rustic orange—reminding you of both the rainforests and deserts of Sumeru.

"I'll stop by in the library with tea and snacks for you." You mention.

Alhaitham gives you a fond smile, a privilege only ever meant for you.

"I would appreciate that." He replied.

"Be the oasis to my desert, the prized flower in my secret garden."

•☆••☆••☆•

CHILDE is a man that goes by many names, each with a role to play like a performer on a stage. Amongst all these aliases, one of them comes with a literal mask belonging to a Fatui Harbinger—Tartaglia, the Eleventh. He is the youngest to ever rise to such a status, and it was with good reason. With the exception of the higher-ranked Harbingers, his skills in the battlefield are practically unparalleled. Frankly, the only thing sharper than his twin hydro blades is his ambition for more power and worthy opponents. That is likely why he fit right into the standards of the Fatui, enough to please even the cold-hearted Tsaritsa whom is implied to have a soft spot for her Harbingers despite her loveless soul. As the person that grew up with him, you felt proud of him yet also concerned over him.

After all, regardless of everything, he remains as Ajax to you.

In a matter of three days, that Ajax lost the light in his eyes but you carried that light in your heart. It seems that was enough to you, and that was also reason enough for him to still come home to you.

"What gave you strength to return?" You asked delicately, "Three months in the Abyss only to realize Teyvat only missed you for three days, it must have been a tumultuous affair. What enabled you to gain power to rise above it?"

Childe looks at you with a wistful smile, eyes remaining dull. However, the touch of his gloved hand in yours displayed an everlasting bond while the other held the fishing pole.

"My family," he replied, "and you..."

You smiled fondly, sagging in relief. Ajax still lives even if his light has dimmed.

The times he returned from missions—covered in blood that you knew were a mix of his own, and that of another poor soul that has ceased to exist—were all vivid in your memories. The first few nights, your hands trembled; yet you showed no fear in your eyes as you gazed into those lifeless blues. He was still Ajax, whom just grew up for the thrill of battles and an ambition for chaos. When he smiles at his siblings, you feel his genuine love envelop the room and that is how you knew the existence of Tartaglia can never truly overcome Ajax. The light of a flame may extinguish, but the warmth of its existence shall leave ashes and soot—until the day it ignites again.

Wrapped in bandages, Childe pulls you into his arms and lies down on your bed. You let him do as he pleased, aware that once the high from the bloodbath is over for the Tsaritsa's Tartaglia...all that would be left is the turmoil of your Ajax.

"If you are bloodstained," you swore, "then I will wash you all clean."

His embrace tightens, cradling the back of your head to ensure you will not look at him. You close your eyes and sigh, pressing your ear against his chest. The thumping of his heart races slightly as the heat of your skin passes to his own, soothing the scars and invigorating his veins.

"That would make you an accomplice." He said huskily, "I don't want to taint you."

You laughed blithely, wriggling from his grip to lift your head and boop his nose.

"Silly, Ajax~!" You crooned adoringly, "Even the purest snow needs to get dirty to melt into spring; and even the clearest waters hold their secrets beyond what the eyes can see."

Your eyes gained a ruthless gleam that made Childe's breath hitch. Your fingertips traced his torso, dabbling on the line between his skin and the gauzes. Your hand wraps around his throat, not tight to suffocate but enough to make him feel the weight of its existence. It was not calloused from a lifetime of battles, but from years of labor within Snezhnaya's endless winter. Nevertheless, it felt soft and delicate compared to his own.

"Should the day ever come," you promised solemnly, "that Tartaglia devours Ajax within you, I would kill you myself."

Childe's eyes widened. For a second, the lost spark in his eyes flickered.

"Tainting me or not," you smirked meaningfully, "it was never a choice for you to make, Ajax."

In a matter of circumstance, you joined the Fatui with a determined glint in your eyes and a menacing sharpness in your serene smile. You were not empty or unfeeling, for you still shone with an unforgiving light that dismantled even the Harbingers to their core. You did not hold the same prowess as Childe did when he started as a recruit, but your potential was overflowing when it came to everything else. It took a matter of months before the Harbingers, excluding perhaps the Jester and Capitano whom had been silent, began fighting in a passive-aggressive manner in an attempt to have you as their subordinate. The Tsaritsa had been indifferent, though she did seem to smile when you met her eyes fearlessly after your paths briefly crossed in the Zapolyarny Palace.

The other Harbingers must have taken quite a hit to their pride when you chose to bend one knee—bowing only in front of the Eleventh, right where they can see you.

"This humble soldier swears allegiance to Tartaglia, Eleventh of the Fatui Harbingers."

Childe gave a knowing smile, eyes flashing in appreciative endearment as he beholds your glorious form. He glances at his fellow Harbingers with a triumphant glare, brimming with possessive arrogance to which they all scowled. There was a palpable tension, a hint of envy to know that the lowest rank amongst them can encourage such devout loyalty. It was obvious there was something else to your relationship, but nobody could alas prove it.

"Rise, [Name]." He projects strongly, "This Harbinger acknowledges your oath."

Although you have joined his crusade in the Fatui, it did not mean you had to leave the place you have made for yourself in his family as his childhood friend. Since Childe made it clear he wishes to keep his real job a secret from the little ones, you also played your part in the secrecy. As far as his younger siblings are concerned, you are now an employee in Childe's toymaking company. In fact, you are the main designer of the toys. It is not too far from the truth since you end up being the one providing the toys to keep covering for Childe's lie. He knows engineering is one of your many talents, a reason why even Dottore and Sandrone had been very interested to have you as an assistant.

"[Name]," Teucer said when you joined their family for dinner, "when are you going to marry our brother?"

Childe ended up choking on his water, spilling it all over the table—much to his mother's chagrin. His father amusedly watches him struggle to regain his breath, patting his back in mocking consolation. You remain unfazed as you smiled at Teucer, whom sat on your other side. You chuckled as you grabbed the napkin, wiping away the crumbs and sauce on his youthful face. As Childe coughed into his elbow, he could not help but admire that maternal glow around you.

"When your brother asks, I suppose." You answered seriously.

Tonia squeals in delight while Anthon whistles, and Teucer celebrates by clapping his hands. All three glared at Childe expectantly while he stared at you, mouth agape and cheeks flushing in a rare image of flustered astonishment. His eyes seem to shake in unfathomable emotions, gulping dryly when you met his gaze with a challenging smile.

"It's getting late." His mother saves the day, "Ajax should escort [Name] back home."

His father smirked before Childe could agree, "Or [Name] could just stay the night like she always did when she and Ajax were younger. It's been a while since she has visited. It would be a shame for her to leave so soon."

Tonia nodded sagely, "I agree. Besides, maybe our dumb brother could finally pop the question if he gets used to sharing a room with his future wife again."

Just like that, the almighty Eleventh Harbinger got bullied by his own family.

In the solitude of his bedroom, you and Childe got dressed for bed with your backs turned to each other. Once done, you boldly embrace him from behind as you wrap your arms around his shoulders. You lean your head against his while he sat hunched over the bedside, elbows on his knees. He sighs with an exasperated smile, tilting his head to look back at you.

"You have got to stop teasing me like that." He said.

You grinned smugly, kissing him passionately on the lips.

Friend, comrade, lover—the label matters not.

The absolute truth is that you are bound to be together until your hearts stopped beating.

"Beyond the gods I defy, my end shall come in your hands."

•☆••☆••☆•

[flythesail]

I do love rereading my own writing though like, wow the author put everything I want in this

[basicallyjaywalker]

Trying To Make Something Out of Clay

It only took me getting back at school to finish editing this! I am not kidding good grief

Anyways! At long last @cboffshore I deliver you: JAY! my specialty

Prompt: Jay, Look Who’s Inside Again by Bo Burnham, eagle, fastidious, pardon, clay, separation, earthquake, and protest

AO3 Link

Fic also under the cut!

Pottery classes wouldn’t have been Jay’s first idea for a birthday gift to himself, but he could never dodge his mother’s chipper voice in his head. 

Coupons! They’re like an excuse to do things. Always keep your eyes out for the real deals… From there, she’d go into a spiel about good versus bad deals, ones designed to make you spend money rather than save it, and eventually that would develop into discussions of unit prices and store brands and what-have-you about “mother’s know-how.” 

All that to say, when the coupon came in for “Free Pottery Lessons!” with the purchase of a starter pack, Jay knew how to calculate the value. Cost was the starter pack, lessons would cover all of the basics of pottery, he would be able to make more cool gifts for his friends and family… worth it. Plus, the studio said once he finished his lessons, he was still welcome to come back and use their equipment to mold and fire the clay. Plus plus, if he decided he didn’t like it, he could always use the clay and tools in the starter kit for another project. No matter what, there wasn’t a way to lose! His mom would be so proud. 

And that was how he ended up sitting in front of a clay-stained table, almost a month after his birthday, sculpting. Now Nya’s birthday was coming up and he was making her a seagull figurine. Unfortunately, they hadn’t gotten to the “figurine” part in his basics classes, so Jay was having to wing it with what he knew. However, what he knew seemed to be very lumpy and not very gull-like. 

He frowned, examining the vaguely bird-shaped lump of clay on the table. Its legs were short and thick, holding the uneven, bulbous body up off the table. Jay had thought he made wings, but they seemed to be lost within the sinking mass. The head was little more than a drooping oval, the end of which molded into the torso much too high up (or maybe this gull's neck was just in the middle of its spine). 

… Yeah, he couldn’t pass this off as a seagull. He could barely pass it off as a bird. Maybe he should just make Nya something else.

 Just as he reached to put his tools up, the studio door opened behind him and he spun around to see his teacher, Kat, in her clay stained apron.

“Ah, pardon me,” She smiled at him and raised her hand in a wave, it was stained reddish orange, “just grabbin’ somethin’ for my next group. Whatcha makin’?”

“Something for Nya,” Jay said, trying to shield the misshapen heap from her view. The light-up grin on Kat’s face told him he failed. 

“What a lovely turtle! I’m sure she’ll love it.”

“It’s supposed to be a seagull.”

“Oh.” 

Jay sighed. “Yeah, we’re not quite there yet.”

“Well,” she clapped her hands together, sending a few splatters of rust-colored clay flying, ���trust the process! It’ll turn out swell, I’m sure. Do you need a reference?”

“That might help,” was what he said out loud. What he thought was, I know what a seagull looks like. I don’t think looking at another one is going to help. Still, he managed to hold his tongue. As much as he liked Kat, some days, her teaching just bugged him. She always went on about “the process.” Trust the process! Everything looks bad until it’s done! Sometimes, it even looks bad after, it’s just the artist's way. 

As she left the room, Jay continued ruminating on that idea. Trust the process. He stared at the ugly lump on his table. He wasn’t sure “the process” could save this one. Still, he supposed giving it a try was better than giving up. 

Frowning, he tried to fix the head, adding some clay to make it rounder, more… sharp? Less like a turtle. A few globs there, a dab here, some shaping… hey! Now that was a seagull. The legs could use some carving, but they were sleeker now; he could actually make out the shape of wings in the blobby body, and the neck wasn’t coming out of the middle of the spine! Jay could almost envision the thing trying to steal his french fries on the beach, as long as he was squinting really, really hard. Slowly, he drew his hands away.

Immediately, the head drooped and detached from the rest of the body.

“Oh, come on!” Jay exclaimed just as Kat walked back in and interrupted what was about to be a long string of words about the clay, gravity, and the concept of seagulls in general. In her hands she cradled a majestic gull perched on a rock, caught mid-caw.

“This is from one of our old students. She left it here and never came back, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you used it as reference.”

“Thanks.” Jay took the figurine and examined it. It was a simple shape, lots of round circles, and some small details for the wings and feet. It looked easy enough to make. Looked being the keyword. 

Kat looked at the self-decapitated bird and tilted her head. “Fix-it attempt gone horribly, horribly wrong?”

He nodded, pursing his lips. 

“You’ll get it,” she said, spirited as ever, “it just takes some time to master, y’know? New skills and all that.”

He nodded again. She’d told him the same thing during his first few lessons, when the teacup he tried to make for Master Wu ended up looking more like a soup bowl made by an avant-garde artiste. He knew she was right, it was just the way learning went, but it didn’t stop the nagging irritation he felt staring at the pathetic pile of muddy material in front of him. 

“I’ve gotta get my next class started, lemme know if you need anything else.”

One last nod and Kat was gone, leaving him alone again. Jay sat down and continued to stare at the distended body. He placed his new reference next to it and felt the minute bit of confidence that sprouted from his forming gull fly away. 

Maybe he could pass his off as a seagull that went through a tsunami or earthquake. Then again, that felt a little too morbid. Maybe a mutant seagull, left alive to propagate his species after a nuclear apocalypse wiped out the rest, save for him and the perfect specimen sat beside him, a symbol of a simpler time? 

No, that was too far-fetched. 

Sighing, Jay figured his best way out was to start from scratch. He pushed the majestic reference gull out of the blast radius before slamming his fist down on his failure. The wet clay gave easily under the force, body and head merging into one flat, knuckle-imprinted puddle. Jay knew it wasn’t necessary—and rather messy—to do it this way, but it allowed him some sort of catharsis. That alone made it worth the bit of splash onto his apron and face. 

Now, he could start again. 

His hands started to shape the clay, eyes focused on the reference as he tried to imitate the product in front of him. He didn’t need the rock, just the bird. That was enough of a change to keep it from being plagiarism, right? Could you plagiarize a clay sculpture?

As he worked, his mind wandered. Initially, it was just about the concept of plagiarism and if copying the reference counted. He was pretty sure he watched a video recently on that. Could one plagiarize an artstyle the same way they plagiarized research? Then it moved to the feeling of the clay. It squished under his hands like mud, but held like a sand castle. He used to build sand castles in his yard, when he was too young to help his parents build their various projects. His mom would give him a water bottle and tell him his job was to make a palace for the nearby ants to live in. Jay took his job very seriously, working fastidiously far after his parents went inside and even when Edna tried to call him in for dinner. He never truly mastered the art, despite various attempts to mimic the grandiose castles he saw in the storybooks his father used to lull him to sleep. His castles always ended up a solid mound. No doors, no windows, and definitely no rooms where the creatures nearby could rest. 

Well, that little memory didn’t bode well for this project. 

Jay clenched his jaw and forced himself to focus on the task at hand, but still his thoughts swirled about his head like a storm. He was good at so many things, how come castles and seagulls outsmarted him? He was an inventor, for First’s sake! Sure, he fell out of practice recently, but he’d done it his whole life! Surely no one loses skills that fast, right? All his years of practice should amount to something, should translate to making a clay bird? But wires and gears and cogs were so much different than clay. They were rigid, fixed. They fit together like pieces of a puzzle and always worked as intended. They were predictable. Clay wasn’t like that. It morphed not only under the weight of its creator’s hands, but under its own. Sometimes, it held its shape perfectly, strong like a tree in a storm. Other times, as Jay experienced over his time learning to sculpt pots and cups, it drooped or flattened or folded itself over like a cloud rolling over the horizon. Capricious, that’s the word he would use to describe it. Clay was capricious.

Okay, maybe inventing wasn’t his best comparison. He rifled through his skills toolbox again. An art form would serve better as a comparison. Painting? Paints could be difficult too. When he first started learning, driven by the small pieces his father used to make of the night sky, he hated it. The paints always turned to a muddy mess on his canvases, leading him to ruin more than one still-wet attempt by throwing it into the sand. He only got the hang of it after sitting down with his dad one day, both of them looking to capture a gorgeous eagle that landed in their junkyard. It was rare to see them in the Sea of Sands, as they preferred the shores of Ninjago more, but here this one was, perched on a pile of scrap his dad pulled out for a project the day before. At first, Jay didn’t understand why his dad had a sketchbook and pencil out or why he took a picture of the bird. Instead, Jay went straight to trying to capture its glossy feathers and curved beak, only to be vexed when the browns and whites he was using merged into one murky beige. He tried to fix it, but the problem only worsened until, with a yell, he scribbled over the whole thing in black. The commotion frightened the bird away, which only served to heighten Jay’s frustration. Great. Great! The bird was gone. Now he had to remember what it looked like to try and paint it again. 

That was when his father picked up his painting, examining the mess he made. He commented on how they would have to repurpose the canvas for something else and Jay felt a hot flush of shame hit his cheeks. He apologized for his outburst, but his dad just patted his head and sat with him. He explained how painting wasn’t just about putting paint on the canvas, but how you needed a sketch to start with so you could have an idea of how to make the picture by hand, how to plan your layers so your colors wouldn’t all mix, and how to control your brush so there were no stray bumps in the smooth lines. Jay still didn’t fully get it, but this time he actually finished the painting. It was rough, looking closer to a pigeon than an eagle, but it was dry and not covered in sand. His dad hung it up in their living room. 

Maybe Jay could draw on his painting skills. Paint was finicky, often felt like it had a mind of its own. Surely, there was something within this childhood memory that could help him out now?

Splat.

The noise roused Jay from his thoughts. In his daydreaming, he’d pulled the neck of the gull out too thin and the head—which was just a little bead at the end of the spaghetti string—now drooped on the table. 

Dammit. 

Jay squished the horror noodle back into the body and checked his watch. The place closed in an hour. He’d made no progress. His deadline wasn’t imminent (Nya’s birthday wasn’t for another few weeks) but it still weighed heavy on his mind. He wanted to get something done today, before Kat asked him to clean up. There was no telling when an attack on Ninjago might drag him away from this, swallowing his time and bringing the date closer and closer until he was forced to rush the project to completion.

Change of plans. He wasn’t good at sculpting, but he wasn’t willing to switch to painting. He was going to make the most of this studio and his work so far. He was good at engineering. He stared at the clay. This gull wasn’t a sculpture, it was a… a machine! Like Zane’s Falcon. Yeah, he could work with that.

First step of the process, separate the parts. Separation was easy, since the limbs of this bird seemed intent on breaking apart. There was the head, the wings, the feet, the torso… he could break those down further! The head had eyes, a beak, feathers on top? Little hairs? Whatever. The point was, he could break it down. He could maybe get somewhere with that.

What next? He had the parts, now he had to figure out how they fit together. The bird needed a base, otherwise its feet would be too small for its body (or alternatively, to support itself its feet would need to be comically large, which must’ve been why the original had a rock base). Then, the torso rested on the feet. The wings then melded to the torso, becoming almost part of it. The head was connected by the neck, which needed to be enough to set it apart from the body, but not too long and skinny that it would fall. That’s where his issue was. The first-forsaken neck. Solve that, he solved the whole thing.

Maybe he was a genius. Maybe he’d finally cracked the code! …Okay, maybe he already knew that was the problem, but breaking it down helped! The storm in his brain calmed and he could focus his attention on the task at hand: fixing this stupid bird before Kat—

“Hey, Jay!”

Are you kidding me?

Kat bounded over, her apron, arms, and even parts of her face stained orangish brown with clay. She grinned from ear to ear as she settled back into her spot across from Jay. “How’s it going?”

“Eh, fine. I’m just trying to figure out how to make the neck work.” He sighed and rolled his eyes. “I can’t figure out how to make it look like a neck, y’know? Like… How do birds even function? I know their necks aren’t super complicated, but it’s like I put the head on and it all goes splat!”

“Have you been using an armature?” 

“...what?” 

Kat burst into giggles. “You’ve not been using an armature this entire time? It’s what helps the clay keep its shape. You’ve been freeballing it?”

“I didn’t know!” Jay protested. This whole time he’d been missing a key part of the body—robotic, flesh, or clay—skeleton! Muscles! That’s why the stupid bird kept self-decapitating! It had no bones! How hadn’t I realized?!

Kat leaned over, examining the bird while Jay’s face cycled through shades of red. “Well, in that case, as an act of freestanding feathered figurine formation, you haven’t done a half bad job.” She held her hand out. “And if you can come back tomorrow, I’ll show you how to make a wire armature. Then, we can get you going on this project, for real this time. Deal?”

“I’ll try to make it.” Jay sighed and held his hand out, still covered in clay. “Deal.”

After a messy handshake, Jay washed, put away his tools, gathered his things, and left. The late afternoon sun hung lazily above the horizon, not ready to dip fully out of sight, leaving the sky a brilliant, cloudless azure. The golden light reflected off the lush zelkova trees that lined the sidewalk outside, turning the leaves chartreuse. Crickets chirped quietly at their feet and in their branches, warming up for their song later in the evening. Other than that, the streets were quiet. Warm rays hit his face and he sighed. In the distance, he could smell something cooking, maybe a barbecue in the residential area a few blocks over? His stomach growled. It really was time for him to head home.

Tomorrow, he’d come back and make an armature. Then, that stupid bird would finally come into form. 

All things considered, Jay figured he made good on that coupon. Free figurine lessons! And he didn’t even have to buy a second kit. Plus, something about working, letting his thoughts roam free… Jay wasn’t sure what it was, but he was excited to go back there soon, and there wasn’t much more to say about that.

[youngpettyqueen]

for prompts, might I suggest a number 14 with Julian takin care of Kira, and a ‘it feels worse than it looks—no wait-‘ with Julian being a bad patient?

oh my god I finally fucking finished it.

I am SO SORRY this took so long I got hit with. the most violent writer's block ive had in a HOT minute and this had me fighting for my life. I dont even know how many times I wrote and rewrote this. I went through so many different ideas it was actually ridiculous. at one point I had something finished but it Was Not Good and I dont believe in posting writing I dont like so I scrapped it and started again

I keep waffling on whether or not I like this, but thats entirely because ive spent way too long staring at it. im sure in a few days ill actually really like it, cause I really like the dialogue, which was what I wrote out first. pulling myself out of my perfectionism, I do think I like this, and at the very least im proud of getting it down when it gave me so much trouble

again, im so sorry it took so long, but writer's block is a bitch and ive had a lot going on lately, so I hope you understand <3

for the readers- 14 on the list is "Stop pretending that any of this is ok. It's not." I did adjust that one a bit cause I was having trouble making it flow. but, without further ado, here's what I've got! 

Kira slides down with her back against the wall, grinding her teeth as she clutches at her wounded shoulder. The pain is still hot, the hole burned into her skin practically still smoking. She hisses as her palm makes contact with the sticky, raw flesh, but she still clamps down. 

“Anytime you wanna get over here, Julian!” She calls, her voice strained. 

“Doing my best, Major!” Julian calls from where he is, hunkered down behind some debris as a makeshift shield against the barrage of disruptor fire. 

This is, in eloquent terms, a right fucking mess. Getting into a fight with a bunch of Jem’Hadar soldiers is never a good thing, even when they’re prepared. When they’re not prepared, it’s even worse. And this time, they weren’t prepared. Because there weren’t supposed to be any Jem’Hadar on this planet. This was supposed to be a quick pit stop for the Defiant, replacing some whatsit that O’Brien said was damaged in their last firefight, but then there were Jem’Hadar soldiers and they’ve managed to land themselves in a whole different firefight. 

It really just hasn’t been a great week. 

Kira inches closer to the wall’s edge. Her grip on her phaser isn’t stable, but it’ll have to do. She takes a deep, steadying breath, and then she twists over so that she’s peering out from behind the corner. She spots the Jem’Hadar pinning them down, quick count tells here there’s 3 of them, and she snaps her phaser up to hit them with some fire of her own. The motion pulls at her injured shoulder in a way that makes her want to scream, but she bites down on it. 

Julian, bless him, takes the opportunity to lunge out from behind the debris. He scrambles across the gap, barely dodging the returning fire from the Jem’Hadar, and manages to throw himself down behind the security of the wall. He plasters himself up against the wall beside Kira, right as she ducks back behind cover as the Jem’Hadar’s fire intensifies. 

Kira looks at him. He looks at her. He’s breathing hard and heavy, his hair a mess and dirt and blood staining his face. She musters up a grin to tell him, “You’re late.”

Julian gives her a flat look as he turns to her. “Forgive me, it’s a bit difficult to make house calls in the middle of a battlefield,” He replies, sounding very, very tired. But then his eyes flick to her bloody hand, still clamped over her wounded shoulder, and she watches his expression shift as he clicks back into what’s affectionately referred to as doctor mode, “Let’s see that shoulder, then.” 

Kira moves her hand, letting Julian get a look at the wound. She winces as he pulls aside the burnt fabric, taking a deep breath in through her nose and resisting the reflex to jerk away. “How’s it look?” She asks, mostly just to distract herself. 

“Like it needs more than what I’ve got,” Julian replies, frowning, “The dermal regenerator I have will do for now, but this is deep. I’ll need to immobilize your arm,” He tells her, giving her an apologetic look, “If you move it too much, you’ll risk tearing it open again.”

“Just do what you have to,” Kira tells him, “Won’t be the first time I’ve had to shoot myself out with only one arm.” 

Julian nods, and returns his attention to her wound. “Right,” He pulls his kit up and rifles through it for a second. The first thing he pulls out is a hypospray, which he quickly sticks into her neck. Kira relaxes fractionally as the painkillers immediately start to work, dulling some of the burning in her shoulder. Then he’s pulling out the dermal regenerator, and bracing his hand against her shoulder again, “Try to hold still.” He advises.

Kira just gives a tight nod, already gritting her teeth and bracing herself. She feels the dermal regenerator start to work. The hypo helps, but it doesn’t take away that burning, itchy sort of feeling of muscle and nerves and skin stitching itself back together inch by inch. She clenches her fists tight, breathing hard through her nose as Julian works. 

“Sorry, I know this stings,” Julian says, “I’m doing the best I can. This regenerator wasn’t meant for a wound like this.” 

Kira grunts a wordless acknowledgement. If she says anything, it’s just going to be a string of curses. Instead, she focuses on keeping her ear on the sound of disruptor fire, making sure it isn’t getting closer. If the Jem’Hadar decide to come after them, she wants to be ready. 

“Done,” Julian pipes up. She looks over as he puts the regenerator back in his kit, taking the worst of the pain with it and leaving her with a dull ache, “That’s the hard part done. I’m going to move your arm now,” His hands are gentle, taking her arm and carefully easing it away from her side, “There we go. Alright, hold it there, please.” 

Kira does. Julian sits back, and unzips his jacket to get at his undershirt. “This will have to do,” He tells her, tearing a couple of strips from his undershirt, “These won’t be the most comfortable, but they’ll have to do. I’m out of bandages.” He leans back in, starting to bind her arm with the torn fabric.

“Sorry about your shirt.” She cracks weakly.

“I’ll get a new one.” He replies, without so much as a smile.

She hates how flat his voice is. Hates how… unlike him, it is. Quiet, with no bite. “C’mon, Julian, where’s that boyish optimism of yours?” She asks, “I could really use a hit of it right about now.”

Julian secures the bandage around her arm. “I must’ve dropped it when they started shooting at us,” He says, not meeting her eyes, “Do me a favour, Major. Don’t pretend any of this is ok,” He sits back again, still not meeting her eyes, all caught up in taking in his work, “Cause it’s really not.” He does look her in the eye, then. And he looks so… tired.

But then, he’s looked like that for a while, hasn’t he?

Kira gives him a smile. A sad, quiet little smile. “I never said any of this was ok,” She corrects, “I’m just… used to it, at this point.” Very, very used to it. Used to it in a way she hopes he never is. 

Julian considers that for a moment. His expression is hard to read- sad, maybe. Sympathetic. Then he sighs, and breaks eye contact. “Well, I suppose I’m getting used to it, too,” He scrubs a bloody hand through his hair, “We should get going. Can you walk?” He asks.

No time for sentiment, then. Kira nods. “It’s just the arm,” She assures him, “I can do a hell of a lot more than walk.”

“Good,” Julian starts to push himself up to stand, “Let’s-“ He doesn’t get far. He wobbles suddenly, his eyes widening slightly as he nearly topples right over. He barely manages to catch himself, bracing a hand against the wall before he can fall against it.

Kira quickly reaches out to steady him. “Julian?” She sits up, frowning, “What’s wrong?”

Julian frowns, confused. “I… don’t know,” He says, looking down, “I can’t feel my-“ He cuts off, suddenly, his eyes fixing on something, “Ah.”

Kira’s brow furrows. “Ah? What’s-“ She follows his gaze, and comes to the same abrupt halt as she sees just what he’s found, “Ah.” 

Julian has a substantial wound in his thigh. A chunk of his pant leg has been burned away, revealing a raw, painful-looking burn that’s steadily oozing blood down his leg. Kira’s eyes widen at the sight of it. That doesn’t look good. That really doesn’t look good.

“Well,” Julian says, “That’s not ideal.” And then he sways alarmingly, nearly crumpling right to the ground.

“Julian!” Kira lurches forward, manages to catch him by the arms. He grimaces as he eases himself down, taking his weight off his injured leg, “Damnit, Julian, what were you thinking ignoring this? Gimme that tricorder-“ She reaches for his medkit, not waiting for him as she rummages through it herself.

“I wasn’t ignoring it!” He exclaims, “I couldn’t feel it! Honest!” 

Kira finds the tricorder and pulls it out. “Don’t tell me they augmented the ability to feel pain out of you,” He shifts again, adjusting his position to give her a better angle to scan him, and it draws a painful hiss out of him, “Guess not.” She hums.

Julian manages a weak chuckle, the first one she’s gotten out of him all day. “Not as such,” He confirms, “I’ve just been- gah!” He grinds his molars as she pulls the burnt fabric away from the wound, “Preoccupied.” He growls.

Kira huffs softly as she reads the results on the tricorder. It’s not a fun wound. “So busy trying not to get shot that you didn’t realize you got shot?” She asks, arching a brow at him, “I’m almost impressed.”

“Only almost?” Julian asks, all mock indignation, “I’d hate to see what I’d have to do to actually impress you,” He mutters. His eyes drift down, then back up at her. He looks worried, “How bad is it?”

Kira puts the tricorder down. “How bad does it feel?” She dodges. 

“Pfft, this little thing?” He scoffs, gives a weak little wave that’s probably went to ‘wave off’ the pain, “It’s nothing. Just a scratch. It feels worse than it… no. No, wait, that’s not right,” He blinks, and she can almost see the gears in his head turning as he tries to figure out the order of the words, “I don’t mean to alarm you, Major, but I think the shock might be setting in.” He tells her.

Kira can’t help but roll her eyes. “No kidding,” She says, “This isn’t my first time, Julian. Hand me the regenerator, I’ll do what I can with it.” She holds her hand out expectantly.

Julian hands it over. “Now who’s being serious?” He asks.

Kira adjusts how she’s holding him, making sure she’s holding the burnt edges of his uniform away from his skin so that she doesn’t accidentally fuse any fabric to him. “Oh, so you can make jokes,” She takes the dermal regenerator and adjusts her hold on it, making sure it won’t slide out of her hand, which is slick with blood, “I thought you dropped that along with your optimism.” She gets the regenerator going, doing what she can with the wound.

Julian chuckles again, grins at her. “I told you, the shock’s setting in,” He replies, all charm, “I’ll say anything just to say anything. Apologies, but I’m going to be talking your ear off until we get out of here.” He warns.

Kira keeps her eyes on her work, keeps her hand braced on his thigh to hold him still. “As opposed to when you don’t talk my ear off.” She counters. After a few seconds, she can see that the burn’s healed as much as it’s going to. She switches the regenerator off and hands it back to him.

“Rude,” Julian huffs, taking the regenerator and putting it back in his medkit, “How’d the regenerator do? I don’t want to look.” He’s looking even as he says it, like he can’t help himself. 

“It’ll hold,” She tells him, not seeing any point in sugar-coating it. He would see right through her in a second, “For now. I’m gonna bandage it, just in case,” She adds. Now it’s her turn to get at her undershirt, tear it up for strips of fabric, “I liked this shirt, you know.” She informs him as she does.

“I suppose we’re even, then,” Julian cracks weakly, “Have I ever told you you’d make a great medic?” He asks.

There’s the Julian she knows. “Flattery will get you nowhere,” She tells him. Satisfied with her bandages, she gets them ready, “I do have one question for you, Doctor.” 

Julian frowns, confused. Yeah, the shock really has set in if he can’t see what she’s doing. “Go ahead.” He invites.

Kira starts wrapping his leg. “What are your plans for the rest of the day?” She asks.

He looks even more confused. “What are my-“ She yanks the bandages tight before he can finish, and he cuts off with a pitched yelp, “Fuck!”

Maybe it’s a bit mean to chuckle, but Kira can’t help it. She doesn’t often get to hear him curse. “Oh, language,” She tuts as she finishes tying the bandages off, “There. Nice and tight. That oughta hold you together till we get out of here.” She gives his knee a pat. 

Julian pouts at her. “You enjoyed that.” He accuses. 

“I did no such thing,” Kira replies smoothly as she pulls his medkit closer to her and starts rifling through it, not bothering to ask him, “Want a hypo?” She offers.

“No,” Julian shakes his head, making her stop short and give him an incredulous look, “I’ve only got the one left. Save it for someone who needs it.” He reasons. 

Her look quickly flattens. “Don’t start with the heroics, Julian,” She advises, “You’re not gonna be treating any patients until after you’ve been treated. On the Defiant.” She doubts he can even stand on his own, let alone treat people.

“I can hold out till then,” He insists, “Someone else might-“

“Julian,” Kira cuts in, not giving him any room to argue, “Take the fucking hypo.” 

Julian’s brows shoot up and he looks a little stunned. Just for a moment, though, before he huffs a bit of a laugh. “Now who needs to watch their language,” He says, his tone light and teasing, “Alright, go ahead.” He nods.

Kira takes the hypo out of his kit. “Oh, thank you,” She replies, making sure her own tone savours strongly of sarcasm, “You’re a terrible patient, you know that?” 

There’s that grin again. All charm. “So Nurse Jabara keeps telling me.” He replies, like the pain in the ass he is.

“You should listen to her. She’s always right,” Kira sticks the hypo in his neck, and watches his shoulders instantly sink down a notch. She didn’t even realize how tense he was, “Better?” She asks. 

Julian takes a deep breath. Probably the first one he’s taken all day. “…Much,” He admits, with the decency to look a little sheepish, “Thank you, Major.” His smile’s a bit less charm now, a bit more sincere.

Kira finds herself smiling back. “Anytime,” She says. She shoots a quick look around, regaining her bearings a bit now that they’re both taken care of. She can still hear blasters firing, but not as close. They might’ve moved off somewhere else. Or they could be waiting, “We should probably get moving.” She suggests.

“Probably,” Julian agrees, “Just one problem, though. I don’t think I can walk.” He tells her.

Kira figured. “Can you limp?” She asks, “I’ve still got two good shoulders, both perfectly good for leaning on.” She offers, patting her shoulder for emphasis.

There’s that glint in his eye. First time she’s seen it today- stubborn determination, or, in another word, cocky. “I think I can manage that.” He says.

Kira grins. “Great,” She ducks in and gets her arm around his waist, pulling him in snug against her as he wraps his arm around her shoulders, “Alright, lean on me. Steady. And…” She pushes herself up, and brings him with her. He leans heavy into her side, and she tightens her hold on him to keep him steady, “Up we go. Ready?” She asks.

Julian takes a moment to find his balance, shifting most of his weight off of his injured leg and compensating on Kira’s shoulder. “As I can be,” He tells her with a nod, “Let’s go.”

And they’re off. Making quite the sight as they hobble back into the action, pressed hip to hip and clinging tight to each other. But, hey, they’re still kicking, and they’ve still got their phasers, so they’ll make do. They always do. 

[sun-fish4]

12 year old me screaming rn I finally did it😭

I think spinerette fits but might change it lol