#some of these got a bit angsty

[arsenicflame]

It's a time-honoured tradition- every time Sam comes across Izzy (and Ed) in their travels, he asks Izzy to marry him. And every time, Izzy turns him down.

At this point, Sam is asking more for the sake of it than any belief Izzy will ever say yes, a remnant of childhood dedication touched with 30 years of heartbreak and regret- though even now, a small part of him still holds out hope. Sam's promises have only got more extravagant over the years, from a job as his first mate, to a captaincy, a fleet at his command, a whole fucking island if that's what Izzy wants- but he knows it isn't though, not really. If Izzy was ever going to agree to marry him, to leave his life and go with Sam, it wouldn't be for anything Sam could offer him. Izzy never did care for flashy shows of wealth, for a ship or to be captain. The only thing that ever mattered to him was loyalty given, and loyalty shown in return. 

It all comes to a head after Stede left and came back, after Izzy lost a toe, lost his leg. Sam hasn't seen him since before things with Ed started to really slide off the rails, before stress permanently set into the lines of Izzy’s face. So, when he sees a dishevelled man with a hoof for a leg in a no-name port, he doesn't even consider the idea that he might know him. It's only when he turns towards him, and Sam catches a glance at those oh too familiar tattoos, he realises this is Izzy, his Izzy, that stands before him.

Knowing Izzy's discomfort with pity, he doesn't treat him any differently than he would in years gone by, positioning himself in Izzy's line of sight before approaching and sweeping him up into a bone crushing hug. 

“Israel-goddamn-Hands!” he exclaims, as Izzy grumbles back a begrudging “Samuel-fucking-Bellamy”, a tradition almost as old as their friendship itself. Izzy might not hug him back, but he can’t keep the corner of his mouth from twitching, just for a second.

(If Sam holds Izzy a little tighter and a little longer than usual, well. That's his business)

By the time Sam lets go, most of the crew has appeared in the town square, drawn in by the commotion. They may have given Izzy his leg and welcomed him as one of them, but still there’s an underlying tension, with nobody quite ready to set aside everything that happened before the Kraken. Seeing him cosying up to an unknown man sets everyone on edge, unsure whether to come to their first mate’s aid, or to assume that they've been betrayed once again.

When Ed sees that the yelling was Sam, his hand goes tense where it's held in Stede's. He knows the routine, has seen it more times than he can count, but as he watches them part he realises that this is the first time in a long time he's unsure of what Izzy's response will be.

Knowing that something’s different, knowing that Izzy's feeling vulnerable already, Sam doesn't go for the same flashy proposal he’s been giving for years. He doesn't promise Izzy the world, he doesn't cause a scene (or, any more of a scene than he already has, anyway). He looks at the fractured man in front of him, takes his face in his hands, and says the exact same thing to him he said when they were little more than boys. “Israel, I have to ask you. I know what you'll say, but I have to try. Come with me. Marry me and sail away with me. I'll keep you safe”

And Izzy… hesitates. He glances over at Ed, at Stede, and says to Sam “...We’re staying in port for a week. Ask me again then”

That's the moment Sam knows there is something deeply, horribly, wrong. He's not just looking at an Izzy who got seriously injured in a fight and is struggling to cope, this is something so much bigger than that- and that Ed has something to do with it. Izzy wouldn't even be considering leaving if he didn't. Whether it was negligence or something more sinister, Sam doesn't yet know, but he intends to find out.

[likesdoodling]

Another one of the paintings I did this week, was playing around with lighting and felt like painting Zuko, so I did. :D (oh yeah - and a close up if you're interested - you can see the sketch lines if you squint, but I reckon that's part of the charm~ *smiles innocently)

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

IF I FELL THROUGH THE FLOOR I WOULD KEEP FALLING ; SUGURU GETO

synopsis; when geto knocks at your front door ten years after leaving you behind, he’s fully expecting a middle finger — or a hand to the throat. you invite him in, instead.

word count; 7.5k

contents; suguru geto/reader, gn!reader, geto-typical angst with lots of yearning, hopeful ending (but also not really), geto’s pov, reader is a softie, intense mutual pining, tea as a metaphor for love <3, geto is terminally bitter and terminally lonely and also kind of a bitch but we love him

a/n; i’m extremely normal abt suguru geto and the debilitating loneliness he must’ve felt during the ten years after he left <33

”it’s been a while.”

the smile on his face must be sweet, he thinks, illuminated by the blurry light of the morning sun. as charming as it’s always been. coated in a thin layer of lighthearted deceit, a cruelly projected sense of normalcy. with a hand raised up in cheerful greeting, geto gazes down at you.

admittedly, he’s a little underwhelmed by your reaction.

astonishment or bafflement was maybe a little too much to ask for — you don’t look very surprised to see him at all. almost as if you were expecting him to show up in front of your apartment, at the break of dawn. and, really, maybe you were.

satoru must have told you already. why wouldn’t he let you in on their touching reunion, the promise of war that spilled so easily from his lips?

of course you would have heard of it by now.

… still, geto can’t deny that it’s just a little bit disappointing. he would’ve liked to see your wide eyes, would’ve liked to hear you stammer a bit.

the expression you’re currently sporting is something else entirely.

(you look sad.)

there’s a fondness in your eyes, though, unmistakable. a spark of it, entirely impossible to ignore, that catches him off guard. and there’s a softness in the way you raise your head to look up at him, a familiarity that flickers in the depths of your iris. something that welcomes him back.

geto can’t help but be a little bit put off by it.

it looks the same as always. you look the same as always. and geto’s heart constricts, where it rests, tucked away deep within the confines of his ribcage. it twists and turns like a vine around a carcass.

a moment passes. the sun peeks out from beneath the curtain of the horizon, the violet and indigo of the morning sky melting into that familiar burst of ochre. and geto is content, to silently admire the way that you glow in its light. he waits, patiently, for your expression to shift — to melt into one of anger, or repulsion, or any other kind of bitter hue.

it never does.

a sigh flows from your parted lips, instead. a soft little breath. in the bitter cold of a morning such as this, it turns into vapour as it drifts through the air.

you blink, tiredly, eyelashes fluttering with something akin to exasperation.

”you’re a cruel guy, you know that?”

geto blinks. a fickle moment passes.

then, he smiles.

you’re admonishing him, but you’re doing so almost gently — with an easygoing kind of disapproval. as if you’re still in high school, huffing over the teasing bout of laughter he lets slip when you trip over air.

geto’s lips curl up, smoothly, an action he’s grown awfully used to over the years. smiles are a form of currency, he has come to realize — smiles of deceit, of fondness, of barely contained disgust. all kinds of smiles, whether plastered on or genuine. a means to meet an end. a single tug of his lips, encompassing an immeasurable number of unspoken words.

the smile that geto graces you with is an amused one. it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s friendly enough. ”so i’ve been told.”

for a minute, you do nothing but observe him. there’s a turmoil behind your eyes that seeps out in the way you look at him, the way you shift from foot to foot and gnaw at your bottom lip anxiously. geto doesn’t interrupt, observing you in turn. waiting for one of you to move the first piece of this little morning game of chess.

in the light, he can almost delude himself into thinking that your eyes change colour, different shades and hues dancing around your dilated pupils. as you gaze over the contours of his face, a certain kind of affection blooms within them, one that geto expected to have faded over the years. 

but it’s still there. and it’s the same. a little more blurry, maybe, a little faded at the edges — more matured. but still the same, despite that. 

(a memory comes to him. one of you, and him; sharing a bag of chips on the school’s rooftop when neither of you could sleep.

bathed in the light of the moon, your eyes glimmered with that very same affection, like a shooting star breaking out across the night sky.)

one long, careful, tender moment passes by. 

the intense contemplation on your features is almost enough to coax a chuckle from the depths of his throat. an urge to tease you creeps up on him, slowly, but before he can open his mouth you seem to come to a kind of conclusion.

and so, you step to the side — allowing him to see inside your apartment, catch a brief glimpse of the interior. you look oddly comfortable, at peace, having made your move; the next piece is his to place.

what a surprising move, though. geto can’t help it if his eyes widen just a smidge, if he blinks in a way that could almost be interpreted as briefly confused. out of all the possible scenarios he’s played out in his mind over the years, this wasn’t the one he expected to merge with reality.

”wanna come in?” you ask, tentative. your voice is inviting. a little clumsy, although he supposes that could just be because of fatigue. it is early, after all.

geto takes a moment to think.

as far as he can tell — and he always can, in one way or another — there is no deceit hidden in your expression. no signs of bloodlust, no spark of violence, no quiet resentment bubbling beneath the surface. earnest. that’s all it is. a little awkward, but candid. pure, in a way.

you aren’t trying to trick him. you’re genuinely, seriously, honest-to-god inviting him inside your apartment.

the next move is his to make.

and geto knows exactly what he should do. he should decline, politely, excuse himself with feigned remorse and a jovial invitation to his own personal hell.

(surely, you already know. the others have almost certainly told you by now. geto just wanted to personally invite you, himself. face to face.)

right. that’s what he should do. that’s the winning move.

and yet, he finds himself moving.

lips curling up on their own, without his approval, geto moves forward. one step is all it takes for him to cross the threshold of your home; a boundary he didn’t expect you to offer up so callously, truth be told, but who is he to deny the wishes of a dear old friend?

”why, thank you,” he smiles, voice pleasant, smooth like silk.

(for just a little while, he supposes he can indulge himself in the opportunity you’ve so graciously given him. just for a bit.)

geto doesn’t bother taking off his footwear, and he knows you couldn’t care less either way. allowing him to pass you by as he waltzes into your very own space, you close the door behind him. he half-expects to hear the click of the lock, but it never comes.

a particular scent envelops him, as he stands by the coat rack, unmoving — he has no intention of taking off his robes, heavy with his carefully nurtured devotion. a symbol of his choice.

the scent is familiar, but also unlike anything he can recall within the borders of his memory; a soothing blend between fresh laundry, and sunlight, and cat fur, and something rather sweet.

there’s more to it than that, though. a certain scent geto could only ever describe as you. 

(his heart aches with longing.)

as he ponders the intricacies of the fragrance, geto is acutely aware of the stare burning into his back. how careless of him, to leave it facing you, unguarded and vulnerable.

what a perfect opportunity he’s presented you with; the great curse user suguru geto, forever exiled and wanted dead, now merely a fly at the mercy of the web you’ve created. trapped in your apartment with his back turned to you, a mere lamb to the slaughter.

how easy it would be, for you to plunge a knife into his flesh. to curve your way along his spine.

you do nothing of the sort, though. and for some reason, the realization that you aren’t going to irks him, even though deep down he knew that would be the case. still, it crawls its way under his skin, along the arteries of his forearm, an itch he yearns to claw away.

how foolish. how very like you.

(what a cruel thing change can be, when no one else seems to succumb to it.)

unable to do anything but accept it, however, geto turns towards you once more. you stiffen, as if burned by his gaze, and a part of him delights in it.

”how have you been?” he asks, bright and courteous. there’s a genuinity to the question that geto can’t deny. something about this situation sends a spark of fondness running through his veins.

at the sound of his voice, your eyes soften again. it’s a subtle shift, but he doesn’t miss it. doesn’t think he ever really could, because even though the light inside your eyes makes him uncomfortable, down to the very marrow of his bones, he can do nothing but bask in it. in your attention, in that heavy gaze.

a single word could never hope to faithfully describe the emotion smouldering inside it — but if forced to, geto would humbly settle on resignation.

it’s almost as if you still haven’t fully accepted it, ten years down the line, that you’re only just beginning to. like even now, you’re convinced that it’s nothing more than one big joke; that he’s about to reveal a hidden camera, and gleefully tell you that it was all a prank to get back at satoru.

naive, naive, naive. but geto can’t deny that it tastes sweet, on his tongue — to imagine that you might still have some faith in him, after all this time.

a sigh leaves your lips. you sound a little bit exhausted. it sends a pang of ache to the very center of his heart, and a part of him yearns to soothe you. another part relishes in the pain he must have brought you over the years.

the rest of him smoothly tucks those stray thoughts away, as he brushes non-existent dust off from his robes.

then, your eyes take on a more tender hue. you ignore his question entirely, and speak in a low voice. raspy and sincere, and maybe just a tad bitter, given everything.

”those robes don’t suit you, suguru.”

— a shiver travels down his spine.

suguru.

(the way your lips form around the syllables is still so lovely.)

you’re full of surprises, as always. at least to a certain extent, he was expecting you to settle on geto, to draw a firm line in the sand between him and you. the ocean and the land, always meant to be separated by that thin line, kept apart in each other’s best interest.

but geto is beginning to accept that you’re going to do this your way — sincerely.

the statement is a veil, obscuring a million unspoken thoughts, double meanings that aren’t particularly hard to discern. a silent rejection, a quiet disapproval. there’s a grief to it that sits heavy on your tongue.

taking a moment to collect himself, geto meets your gaze, and all its weight. his lips curl up into a sad smile, a little fatigued. he wonders if you can hear it, in his voice.

(maybe it was stupid of him, to think he could keep this meeting professional.)

”… is that so?”

you continue to look at him, as if waiting for something else. but geto doesn’t give you what you want, that touch of tender honesty he’s sure you’re hoping for.

”i think they suit me just fine,” he playfully disagrees, instead, tone bordering on something childishly stubborn.

you wait just a single moment more, still clinging to that hope for something sincere, anything. 

then you huff. it sounds vaguely amused.

”you look like a con artist,” you deadpan, eyes flitting down to examine the outfit again. geto would be offended by your rudeness if you didn’t also happen to be right.

”how sweet of you,” he purrs, shooting you a smug smile. the words are lighthearted, mildly teasing. “that’s exactly what i’m going for.”

you give him an unimpressed look, that he mirrors with a perfect smile — and then you give in to another amused exhale, paired with a soft shake of your head.

there it is again, geto thinks. that sense of déjà vu. it’s equal parts eerie as it is comforting.

silence lingers in the air around you, as hazy sunlight flits in through the gap between your curtains and cascades across the floorboards. until you clear your throat endearingly, and walk past him.

”well, make yourself at home,” you murmur in passing.

considering the circumstances, the words are spoken fairly naturally, and geto has to resist the urge to laugh at how ridiculous this is. inviting a wanted criminal into your home, a literal mass murderer, and treating him with the same politeness you’d show to any other guest.

what would the elders think, he wonders, if they knew? would they brand you an accomplice, question your motives? put your head on the chopping block right next to his? he wouldn’t put it past them, the pieces of shit.

but despite his amusement, geto doesn’t laugh. he only watches as you make your way to the kitchen counter, a firefly catching his eye in the summer night.

(except you aren’t a firefly, and it’s not summer. it’s winter, and you’re someone geto wishes he didn’t still care for.)

”i was thinking of making tea,” you hum, voice soft but still easy for him to discern from his spot in the living room. ”do you want some?”

geto’s lips quirk up into a tiny smile. his voice is teasing, as it flows out from his lips.

”how generous,” he chirps, still idly watching the way you move around the open space, your hair changing colour in the flickering light of the sun. ”satoru could learn a thing or two from you.”

he expects you to flinch. a suitable reaction, to how casually he brings up his reunion with his best friend, like it’s nothing. like it means nothing. like nothing’s wrong.

geto knows it’s cruel, which is exactly why he does it.

but you don’t flinch. you don’t even stiffen. and he senses no anger in your body language, in the silence that settles in the space between his words and yours. all you do is exhale sharply, a little exasperated.

”you shouldn’t be so cruel to him.” a beat. your voice sounds just a little smaller when you continue. ”he’s missed you, you know.”

the reply is nearly instantaneous, and it’s bare. honest. you sound like you’re scolding him, but it’s more protective than angry. and it’s gentle, like you’re patching him up after a mission, reprimanding him for not being more careful.

at this point, geto can tell you have no intention of playing along. how annoying. he wishes you would — that earnest sadness and regret of yours is almost unbearable, and the gentle bluntness you present him with cuts much deeper than his casual cruelty ever could.

you aren’t going to play along, aren’t going to pretend you don’t care. geto wonders why you won’t, why you’re the only one who still refuses to.

satoru certainly has no issue with it. playing along, putting up a front. attempting to treat him coldly, as an enemy. but geto knows him, knows his soul like the back of his hand, and he could tell it was trembling when their eyes met. from underneath those bandages of his, the thin layer of cowardice that shields those precious eyes from the rest of the world. from geto.

and shoko is just as unbothered as ever. always playing it cool, never caught off guard or shaken to her core. geto can’t even tell if it’s an act or not, anymore. but he knows that she was angry, when they spoke that day, ten years in the past. knows she wanted to tell him off, but chose not to.

both her and satoru are like that. always have been. closed off, accustomed to bearing an unbearable weight, resigned to the ache that it brings them. acting distant in a desperate attempt to mend it.

you, though?

you were always a little too sincere for your own good, a little too true to yourself. it must hurt you, he thinks. it must hurt you even just to look at him. yet you continue to do so, unflinchingly.

that’s simply how you are.

you’ve always enjoyed dipping your toes into the grief of it all, leaning into the pain. always the first to take that step into the abyss. content to tear yourself open for everyone to see, even if no one follows suit.

never averting your eyes. never taking the easy way out.

(unlike him.)

geto hums, smiling a little at the sickening irony of it all.

the gentle clinking of ceramic resounds throughout the kitchen, and geto’s ears perk up. his gaze follows your hands, as they move to grab two cups from the wall cabinet. floral designs, he dully notes. blue bells on one, red camellias on the other. a porcelain teapot rests on the kitchen table, but no flowers adorn it.

without your expressions to keep him entertained, geto decides to wallow in the fleeting peace and quiet. aside from your soft breathing and the occasional clinking of teacups, there are no sounds to be heard. 

a moment that seems to exist outside of time and space, where time passes backwards and your shuffling in the kitchen is his only concern.

eager to satiate the mellow boredom in his chest, geto’s eyes begin to flit across the space of your apartment. greedily drinking in every detail he can see, as if he’s trying to memorize it all. maybe he is.

everything he can see is a piece of your existence, in one way or another. every inch of the apartment is littered with your fingerprints, your choices and fickle tastes.

like the rich yellow of the curtains you’ve picked out to frame the glass of the windows, bright and stark and blending smoothly in with the cream colour of the wallpaper surrounding it. or the forgotten cup on the table in front of the tv, a faded green. he vaguely remembers seeing you drink out of it back when things were still good, when you both thought of the school as your home.

a book rests on the duvet pillows of your couch, but he sees no bookmark peeking out from between the pages. geto wonders if you still dog-ear your books, and thinks to himself that a crime of that calibre would warrant your own exile if the world was only fair. alas, it isn’t. war of the foxes, he reads from the cover. ironic.

along the windowsills are potted plants, stacked up next to each other, green and flourishing despite the snowy wonderland of the outside world. their leaves differ in shape and size, some accompanied by blooming flowers. he imagines you watering them, dutifully, nurturing them with gentle hands and sleepy smiles. 

there are many things to look at, more and more little fragments sprouting up the longer geto continues to do so. a knitted sweater thrown over the wooden armrest of a chair. colourful candy wrappers littering the table. an old radio tucked away in a corner of the room. 

geto drinks it all in — a home you’ve painstakingly created, that you’ve allowed him into. he examines it thoroughly, the way an art dealer judges a painting on display. turning the image over inside his mind, twisting it, burning it into his retinas. soaking in every little detail he manages to find. 

your home.

(it’s so like you that it hurts.)

finally, geto thinks he’s had his fill of the living room. so he ventures into the kitchen, only a couple long strides away.

the scent that greets him this time is comforting, homey. the aroma of coffee grounds, a touch of leftover curry, a strong fragrance of blooming hyacinths and dried lavender sitting contentedly by the windowsill. through the translucent glass, geto sees layers upon layers of snow on the rooftops, and the gradual rise of the glittering sun. 

the quiet buzzing of the electric kettle is the only sound he hears, along with the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall, as his eyes wander along the kitchen.

the shelves are stacked with a variety of different spices, and glass jars of honey and jam. along the counters rest a wide array of kitchen appliances, from blenders to rice cookers to french presses. mugs with silly designs are stuffed into an opened wall cabinet, and geto recognizes some of them, to his silent delight. 

there are colourful post-it notes stuck to the fridge, messy scribbles of recipes and reminders. meetings, birthdays, grocery lists. even just little doodles, smiley faces and napping cats that make his lips quirk up. and polaroids — he tries not to let his gaze linger on the picture of satoru sleeping in the most uncomfortable, inhumane position he’s ever witnessed, nor the blurry image of shoko smoking by a balcony railing, sleeves cuffed and expression forlorn. he can’t imagine either of them noticed you snapping the photos.

(no polaroids of him. of course not. why would there be?)

geto tries not to look over at the fridge again, examining the floor and furniture instead. over in the corner stands a bowl of cat food, seemingly untouched. the kitchen table is covered with a checkered cloth, kept down by a plate of chocolate chip cookies. 

your kitchen is fairly small, but it’s cozy. rays of fresh sunlight envelop it in a giddy, ruminating glow. like something out of a dream.

when geto enters the space, your eyes flit over to him briefly, and he shoots you a friendly smile. your eyes do that thing, again, where they crumble a little at the corners and get a tad softer. like you’re looking at an old friend.

(he supposes you are.)

you clear your throat before speaking, as he takes in all the sights.

”what kind of tea do you want? i’ve got, uh…” 

with gentle movements, you open a wall cabinet, eyes swiftly scanning over the different labels of the many boxes, jars and sachets of tea inside. dutifully, you list off the ones you can see. 

”earl grey, chamomile… oolong, rooibos…” you continue, seemingly never running out of options, fingers tapping at the handle. ”ah, this one’s kinda weird. it’s supposed to be, like, cherry flavoured? don’t ask, satoru picked it out — but it tastes more like laundry detergent.” 

a pause. 

”it’s pretty good, though.”

geto can’t help it. the comment coaxes a chuckle from out his chest, and he’s surprised at how genuine it sounds when it spills from his lips. 

you seem to notice it, too, seeing as you perk up where you stand by the counter. out of the corner of his eye, geto thinks he almost catches the fleeting glimmer of a tiny smile on your lips.

and for a moment, everything feels familiar. eerie and comforting, in equal measure. a sense of nostalgia drifts throughout the kitchen, mingling with the scent of tea leaves and sunshine and freshly baked cookies. 

this is the opportunity you’ve given him — a slice of normalcy. as close to normalcy as one can come to in a situation such as this. a soft bout of laughter, shared between estranged childhood friends, one of which is a mass murderer. it’s really not normal at all.

normalcy is no more than a fever dream. that much has always been the case, but —

there’s a comfort in it, in this. the familiarity of it all. the way you settle into old roles, share knowing looks and cycle through old memories he knows you’re both haunted by.

it’s soothing.

he’s changed, and you’ve changed, but there’s still a sense of belonging between the two of you. in this moment, this sole flicker of nostalgia. in this kitchen.

and for a moment, geto almost forgets why he’s there. almost forgets the unforgettable, the inevitability of a choice he made long ago. it stings, and he wonders how you can bear it; this thin line between longing and awareness.

”so? what’ll it be?”

your voice rings out across the open space, face angled towards the table to meet his stare. 

geto hums, absentmindedly, and takes a step closer.

the narrow distance between you two lies heavy, as he shuffles up right next to you, haphazardly sweeping his eyes over the wide assortment in front of him. he can almost, almost hear your breath hitch when the fabric of his clothing grazes your shoulder.

he wonders if the tea is just an excuse, to be able to come so close. to bask in your warmth.

you don’t move away.

”oolong,” he firmly decides. he doesn’t really need to think about it.

then he swiftly turns on his heel, and takes a seat by the kitchen table. confident and graceful — as if this isn’t your kitchen, but his. unconcerned over table manners, his elbows resting on the wooden board, as his jaw meets the heel of his palm. he bites into one of the chocolate chip cookies, the sweetness crumbling on his tongue.

this time, you finally do stiffen — though geto doesn’t see it. he does, however, feel your lingering stare, and when he tilts his head in your direction he catches a glint of sorrow passing through the depths of your irises.

geto blinks. he tilts his head questioningly, a cue for you to follow.

and finally, finally, you stammer. barely, but it’s there. that nervous shiver of your voice.

”ah — sorry,” you mumble, gaze falling down to the floorboards. you seem almost flustered. ”it’s just…” 

there’s something raw in your voice, something that wavers. 

”back then, you’d always choose earl grey.”

a long moment of silence passes.

there are a million unspoken words in that sentence, geto knows. words you’ll never say, words you’ve always yearned to say. though he has no intention of digging them out. 

the sentiment is more than enough.

a bitter taste settles on his tongue, but he smiles, careful to keep his voice light.

”well,” he hums. ”some things change, i suppose.”

to that, you huff out a breath of amusement, turning around to face the counter once more. but not before eyeing his robes again, expression rich with humour.

”yeah,” you hum, lighthearted. something close to a chuckle. ”i suppose they do.”

geto grins softly, in tandem, from his spot by the table. like you’re still teenagers, sharing a look over an inside joke no one else is privy to.

after that, he simply watches you work, chewing at the treat while he waits for the tea to be done. the light of the electric kettle flickers off, and your hands curl around the handle, bringing it to rest next to the teapot on the tablecloth. he watches, expression mildly bored, as you grab the ceramic cups and the silken sachet bag of dried tea leaves.

a strong scent of oolong tea wafts through the air, when you flick your fingers to pour some of the leaves into the teapot. there’s a certain elegance in the way you pour the boiling water, slowly, in a smooth circular pattern. geto follows the movement, the rise and fall of the leaves as water fills the strainer.

you’re unhurried, methodical. there is care in the motion of your hands, the intense gaze you bear as you perform it. every slight twitch of your knuckles, the soft exhale you emit when the teapot has been filled. 

geto can do nothing but watch, in silent admiration. 

you put the porcelain lid back on, blocking the steam rising up in a flurry of warmth. while the tea simmers, soaking up the flavour of the leaves, you busy yourself with readying two teaspoons. 

”how do you take it, these days?” you ask him, as you languidly pour hot tea into the cups. ”any sweetener? milk?”

”one cube of sugar. no milk.”

at that, your eyes flit up, recognition blooming in them as you hear the familiar sentence. but geto keeps his gaze glued to the hyacinths on the windowsill, never meeting yours.

truthfully, he says it mostly to appease you. he figures he can give you this one thing, at least — this one hope that maybe everything hasn’t changed, after all. that he hasn’t changed, in his entirety, that there’s still some remnant left of who he used to be. even if all that’s left of him is just one single cube of sugar.

it’s kind of funny. but geto doesn’t laugh. 

you place a cup in front of him. the one adorned by red camellias. geto racks his brain, flitting through past conversations with florists and paragraphs memorized from non-fiction books on botany. what was it, again?

eternal love. long-lasting devotion.

the petals and the calyx of a camellia always fall together.

geto bites back a laugh. some part of him wonders if you’re making fun of him, if this is how you’re planning to release your pent-up anger — in such a petty, roundabout manner. but deep down he knows it was no more than an absentminded choice, on your part.

(you always hurt him most when it’s not your intention to do so.)

as you take a seat on the opposite side of the table, he gingerly touches the rim of the cup. soft steam rises from the liquid, its colour marigold-esque, and geto breathes it in deeply before bringing the ceramic to his lips.

you watch, in anticipation. intensely enough that he can feel it even when his eyes flutter shut, your gaze prickling his skin as he sips from the cup.

the warmth of the tea is comforting, a distinctly floral taste spreading along his tongue. there’s a slight nuttiness to the taste, a rich sweetness. as it runs down his throat, geto hears himself hum softly. a satisfied smile slips into the curve of his lips. inside the depths of his chest, a light nostalgia swirls, pleasant and tingly. 

he remembers moonlit nights, whispered secrets you could only ever tell each other, the glimmer of aluminium and rush of caffeine as you gulped down the too-sweet coffee that the vending machines had to offer.

he remembers sunny mornings, muffled laughter shared in the solitude of the kitchen, basking in the floral scent of chamomile and lavender and everything in between as the world woke up around you.

with a clink, geto sets his cup down on the table, pinkie raised lightly. smile a tad bittersweet.

”this is good tea.”

a moment passes. you break out into a genuine smile, nearly beaming, delighted by his approval. 

”isn’t it?” you chirp, fingers curling around your own cup, the little painted flowers adorning it. blue bells. geto recalls that old wives’ tale — how wearing a wreath of blue bells compels one to tell the truth. ”nanami got this one for me, actually.”

he smiles, perking up ever so slightly. a little more animated. ”oh?” he takes another sip. ”he always was a snob, wasn’t he.” 

that makes your own smile grow, lips twitching upwards, and an amused exhale flows from your lips. a gentle breath. you always were very fond of your grumpy underclassman. ”yeah.”

there’s something familiar about this, geto can’t help but think. eerily so. an acute sense of déjà vu, the same one that’s been plaguing him all morning.

the way you’re treating him isn’t how one would treat an enemy, nor a stranger — it’s how one would treat an old friend. that, and nothing more.

(geto wishes he could say it didn’t soothe his heart so terribly.)

he allows himself to sink deeper into the rotten sweetness of it all. indulges in this one fleeting moment, before everything crashes and burns. 

the world outside your kitchen is a cold one, he knows, blanketed by snow and frost that has yet to be stained red. the pure white is a warning, not a consolation — a reminder that there are still things to be lost.

the world of curses is an empty promise, the promise of suffering being rewarded. the idea that the sun will melt the frost around your legs if you wade through enough snow. 

(but geto knows better.)

outside your kitchen, only one path exists for him. it isn’t a kind one, nor is it particularly comforting. but, unlike those empty promises, that path has a truth to it. an end point, that isn’t just wait and see what happens, maybe the sun will rise if you’re lucky.

he isn’t a fool. the world is as cruel as it is beautiful, which is a false simile because cruelty is only ever beautiful when you aren’t a part of it. another one of those empty promises. geto has no idea how they kept him going for so long.

but here, in this moment — the world feels rather kind. kind in the sense of being just enough, the kind of brief solace that used to give him enough hope to get through the day.

for now, this aching gap of yet-to-be-ruined is enough. it’s all that he cares about, all that exists.

— but all good things must eventually come to an end. 

geto knows it better than anyone, so he isn’t particularly surprised when he looks up to see your face set into hard lines.

you meet his eyes with a certain flickering determination, a conviction — and geto knows you’re about to cross the comfortable line he was hoping you could both maintain for just a little longer.

”suguru.”

he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to. a smile is enough. so his lips curl up, silently.

”can i ask you something?”

every move geto makes is calculated, a performance, as your words sink into his subconscious. dragging the silence out, as if trying to waltz around the inevitable end of this sickeningly sweet game of morning chess. 

the slow circling of his spoon, creating a vortex for the oolong tea to follow, as it catches the light falling from the window. the way he leans back, to make himself comfortable, letting his jaw rest on the heel of his palm as he dissects your expression from across the table.

there is something almost taunting in his eyes. 

but he smiles. courteous, bright. ”go ahead.”

for just a second, he sees you falter. just a smidge, but the way your nails dig into the skin of your palm is telling, just like the way your eyes choose to linger on the tablecloth a second longer than they need to.

then you meet his eyes once more, and begin to speak. geto hangs on to your words, as if they even matter.

”i’m not expecting you to be honest with me,” you state, bluntly. he’s glad to know you’re on the same page for once. ”but i’d appreciate it if you could. just this one time. i won’t ask for anything else.”

another long and tactful sip of his tea. he wasn’t lying, before — it really is very nice. the flavour is strong and thick on his tongue, sweet and bitter all in one. expensive. the pads of his fingers tap along the ceramic of his cup, right over the red flowers that seem to taunt him so.

here it comes. your lips part, but no sound comes out, and geto knows you’re thinking of how best to phrase your inquiry. it doesn’t take you long to decide, a firmness blossoming in the scope of your iris. a sense of finality.

”are you happy?”

despite everything, his breath hitches in his throat. the movement of his fingers halts.

your question comes out clear, candid, sincere. the look in your eyes makes him feel a little like he’s being devoured. vaguely aware of how his smile wavers, for just a split second, geto can only hope you don’t notice it — but he doubts you do, because you only continue to speak, unperturbed.

”i’m sure you’ve changed a lot, these past ten years. and i’m sure you’ve had more than enough time to convince yourself that you’re happy, even if you aren’t.” you bite your lip. ”i should’ve asked you this a long time ago. but now — i’m asking.”

geto’s eyes never leave your face.

”are you happy? are you genuinely satisfied with your life? are you happy with your choice?” 

there’s something desperate in your eyes, now. something geto can’t look away from, despite himself. all he can do is touch the ceramic beneath his fingers, hot enough to burn, and listen to you speak. 

”if… if you are, then —” 

you take a deep breath, a sharp inhale that geto would mimic if he wasn’t dead set on maintaining his composure.

”— then i won’t get in the way. i’ll let you live your life the way you want to. just as long as that’s true.” 

geto looks at you, smile nowhere to be seen. time itself seems to halt, in the space of your kitchen. the current center of the world.

he doesn’t dare to even breathe.

”… but,” your voice trembles. you stare intently at your own cup, surely beginning to grow lukewarm at this point. what a waste of good tea. ”if you aren’t happy, then —”

a pause. no one says a thing.

”then what?” geto spits. his voice comes out sounding just a tad sharp, cold like the frost outside your apartment. more so than he meant it to.

your pupils waver, before you lift your head to look at him. the resolution in your eyes makes his breath hitch. an unflinching kindness, one he can’t remember you ever not having.

”— then i’ll do whatever it takes to change that. no matter what.” a beat. “even if it makes you hate me.”

such immense honesty.

geto wonders why he came here, in the first place.

to declare war. was that his genuine desire, though? or was it just another excuse?

with satoru, he can pretend. with shoko, he can pretend. with himself, he can certainly pretend.

but with you?

his fingers leave the ceramic, eyes burning with a decision mirroring yours.

geto’s burned many bridges, in his life. but this particular bridge is one he’ll miss. the cinders that follow won’t keep him warm, that much he knows.

but in the face of such honesty — such genuine kindness — he couldn’t bear not to give you a serious answer.

(it’s the least he could do for you.)

”i am.”

a moment passes. the center of the world shifts. 

”i’m happy with my choice.”

it was the only one worth making.

as they fall from his lips, the words taste heavy, absolute. in the light of a morning still yet to be broken by the passage of time, your eyes shift. for a moment geto wonders if you’ll close them. if you’ll give yourself that one relief.

you don’t.

instead, you bite your lip, eyes stubbornly never leaving his own. now you look a little angry, a little frustrated. he’s glad to see that flicker of fury directed at him, at last.

”but are you happy?” you persist, frustrated in a way that buzzes with kindness and concern. a way that makes him feel rather lost.

geto hears himself speak before he has a chance to think about his answer. the voice that comes out of his throat sounds oddly soft.

”that doesn’t matter.”

”it should.”

your reply is equally instantaneous. and geto feels a tremor run through his heart.

”are you happy, suguru?” you try again, pleading. that hope of yours is back, the hope that he’ll be honest just this once. sincere, even just for a syllable or two.

the clock on the wall ticks, hands moving methodically and cruelly, second by second. another moment of time burned to cinders. geto knows what must be done.

this mindless self-indulgence was nice, for a while. but geto has more bridges to burn. more wars to brew.

one final touch. that’s what he’ll give you, in return for your generosity. one final touch of tender honesty, even if it burns his tongue.

”i will be,” he exhales, breathless. ”once all this is over.”

then he gets up from his chair, the squeaking of wood against the floorboards signaling a parting. your eyes never leave his face, as he dusts off his robes absentmindedly, glancing at the half-finished cup on the table.

then geto smiles at you. there’s a fondness to it, one he’d only ever show you. his eyes crinkle, just barely, and the dark brown of his iris shifts into a mellow amber as sunlight cascades down the contours of his face. a genuine smile.

”thank you for the tea.”

there it is. your eyes soften, again, helplessly. 

you aren’t satisfied. geto doubts you ever will be.

but you’ve always been the only one to tear yourself open, the only one to step into the abyss. geto has always admired it, just as much as he’s always found it foolish. not once has he ever followed suit.

things like honesty and tenderness don’t suit him. he doesn’t think they suit any sorcerer, except maybe for you.

at last, that grieving resignation finds its way to your eyes again. it doesn’t hurt him as much this time, perhaps because he was waiting for it.

”… you’re welcome,” you breathe. a sad little breath.

geto allows himself to look at you for just a moment more.

then he turns on his heel.

”well, this was nice,” he hums. ”but i really must be going now.”

pleasant and jovial. a voice unsuited for a situation like this. geto wonders if it hurts you as much as it hurts him.

rubbing salt into wounds is all he seems to do these days, anyhow. so he smiles. ”i’ll see you on the battlefield, i hope —”

”suguru.”

…

deep down, geto knows that there’s no going back from this. that the moment he moves his feet, the moment he leaves your apartment — the moment he steps over the threshold in front of him — he can never return.

your kitchen was never his to walk into, in the first place. he was never meant to set foot into your home. that was your choice. geto can’t help but think that it’s every bit as cruel as the one he made ten years ago.

your voice is the same as always. sad and fond. familiar, in how it twists and tugs at his heart in a way nothing else can anymore.

geto waits. he’ll let you have the final word. the final piece moved into place. checkmate.

he’ll let you be the one to devour that aching gap.

curse me, he whispers to the confines of his mind. resent me. i’ve caused you so much pain.

curse me yourself, so i can hate you properly.

”if you ever want another cup, i’ll be here.”

silence falls upon the kitchen.

geto stands still, feet rooted in the spot by the threshold separating the kitchen from the living room. the ticking of the clock is the only sound he hears.

there isn’t a trace of resentment in your voice.

(he wishes you would play along, even just once.)

a low hum buzzes in his throat. the seconds stretch on; more hands moved, more time burned into nothing. the silence is deafening, thick and heavy. an intense moment of contemplation, as geto tries not to shiver under the warmth of your constant gaze, burning into his back.

the center of the world shifts, once more. the gaze of fate falls upon the two of you, bathed in the rays of the rising sun, in a kitchen where normalcy is a little more than just a fever dream.

it doesn’t mean anything, anything at all.

geto knows it. he knows it better than anyone. but maybe he can allow this mindless self-indulgence to carry on, for just a little longer. if only to give him the excuse he needs to see you again, to stand in your kitchen like this, like the view of the rising sun is something he’s allowed to behold.

how greedy. how callous. hasn’t he always been, though?

just for a little bit longer.

”… you know,”

geto takes a step forward, robes fluttering with the movement, heavy and pious. he crosses the threshold, words just above a whisper, just loud enough for you to hear.

(in the space between the words, laced together with the silence, lies the ghost of a smile.)

”it’s been a while since i had earl grey.”

[pup-pee]

she red on my stoner until the red sun never sets IT NEVER SETS I AHVENT SLEPT

[jessicas-pi]

evil space dad and his evil space daughter

theyre on an evil space family road trip to Jotunheim

I don't have a little ficlet to go along with this art, but I do have some story/plot outline ramble stuff!

so. without further ado,

IDEAS!

Skoll and Hati are actual characters from Norse mythology, so Baylan Skoll and Shin Hati are both very fun and somewhat difficult to fit into the Rebelvengers AU! Here's what I've got worked out: Baylan is an Asgardian who was once well-known for both his wisdom and his swordsmanship, but over time, he was slowly consumed by fear over the foretold fall of Asgard in Ragnarok, and set out to prevent it. Shin is a Light Elf who he finds and begins training—more on that in a bit.

I'm going back and forth on if I want them to have killed the mythological wolves Skoll and Hati (who were said to devour the sun and moon during Ragnarok) as part of Baylan's plan for preventing Ragnarok, and have Skoll and Hati be the wolf skins they're wearing, OR if I want Baylan and Shin to BE the Skoll and Hati figures in the Rebelvengers AU, with the wolf-skins as just references to the OG mythology. Either way, there'll be a kind of becoming-the-future-you-tried-to-prevent thing, and Baylan and Shin unintentionally start the ball rolling on Rebelvengers Ragnarok in the end. (Despite my Evil Space Family jokes, they are more sympathetic characters here than in canon—misled heroes, rather than outright antagonists. Might give them redemption arcs, idk.)

but, BACK TO PLOT STUFF!

When a pair of Jotun warriors shatter the Bifrost in a last-ditch attempt to keep the lieutenant of an extragalactic warlord from invading Asgard and obtaining the Tesseract as part of his evil plan to destroy half of all life in the universe (it's a long story), the resulting shockwave throws many Asgardian warriors, including Baylan—who had returned to Asgard to assist in the battle against said extragalactic warlord—into the abyss. But instead of plummeting into nothingness, the energy from the explosion ends up sending him hurling along one of the branches of the World Tree, and eventually leaves him stranded on the dead planet Svartalfheim.

Soon after, he finds Shin, an orphaned Light Elf girl who was also cast onto Svartalfheim by the Big Bifrost Kaboom, and trains her, becoming someone she looks up to as a father. They manage to scrape out their survival for five long years, before they eventually stumble upon the five-thousand-year-old wreck of an Asgardian prisoner transport. They explore it, and piece together its story. The crew was killed in the crash—as evidenced by the empty heaps of armor, the warriors' bones long turned to dust—and the stasis pods containing Dark Elf prisoners taken in the Battle of Svartalfheim had all been smashed.

All, that is, save one.

They open the last pod and find that the prisoner within is alive. Awakened from her hibernation, this Dark Elf briefly attempts to murderize them both until they talk her down and convince her they have a common goal—getting off this planet. She agrees to an alliance, and they begin planning a way to escape Svartalfheim, combining his knowledge of seiðrcraft and her ability to walk between worlds to escape.

But her goals are much deeper—and much more sinister—than Baylan and Shin could imagine...

to be continued

---

also here's a version without the blue tint. just because.

[peachym00]

It's fathers day in the uk today and it really got me thinking about Vegas and Macau and how they might have coped with the day growing up together.

I can imagine Vegas as a young boy, running down the stairs as soon as he wakes up that morning; he’s gripping a homemade card he’d made at school the previous day for his dad; maybe he’d had help wrapping something up that he’d made as well and it crinkles in his little hands as he tries to get down the steps without holding onto the bannister. Gun is sitting at the table eating breakfast, he’s stressed about something and in an awful mood, and Vegas bounds over to him, nearly tripping on his still-too-long trousers, and he proudly presents them over. Happy fathers day, Pa! Look, I wrote it myself, and I put Macau’s name in it because he can’t write yet, but I can!  And he beams up at Gun, who isn’t even looking at him; he’s still reading the paper, and someone comes over to take him away to eat his own breakfast, and they’re telling him what a good job you did, but your pa’s busy, you know not to interrupt him- And that night, as he goes to bed, he’s thinking about how he probably didn’t do a good enough job, and that’s why Pa didn’t want his card; he should have practised his writing better because it’s not very neat yet, and he should have written it in English too because he knows a lot of words now and Pa has been really pushy about him being good at English-  And it takes many more fathers days after and the realisation that he will never be good enough for his Pa before he stops trying. And then Macau is six and very nearly seven, and Vegas can see him getting excited to give him a card on fathers day because he can finally write in sentences now, but by this point, he knows what his dad is like. He knows he won’t like the crinkled, hand-written thing Macau has prepared because he’d already tried.  So he tells him to leave it on the table before he goes to sleep because then he’ll see it first thing in the morning but don’t be sad if he doesn’t mention anything, okay, Cau? Because he’s swamped, you know this, so you can’t bother him about it. And he puts on a brave face and convinces Macau that he will definitely love it because you’ve worked so hard; look at how good your hand-writing is getting- And that night, after he’s read Macau a story and waited until he fell asleep, he creeps down the stairs and picks up Macau’s hand-made card and replaces it with an expensive bottle of whisky with a fancy bow on it and a generic card that he’d made sure was written neatly, and with no sentiments written because,  Because. And he looks at the piece of paper Macau had made; he’d even added crudely drawn pictures of all three of them together, and he vows to be better and do better and never let his little brother’s heart get broken because of their dad like his broke all those years ago. And then Macau is 12, and Vegas has been learning everything about the minor family business for years. He’s been trying so hard to be better than Kinn in everything he does because he needs to keep Macau out of their dad’s radar, and he has to be the best because that’s what his dad wants, what he needs from Vegas and when Vegas fails he gets hit.  Which is what happens on fathers day.  And they’re older now, and their uncle had proposed they have a dinner together to celebrate. They sit in the main family mansion listening to Korn brag about all his sons for hours while Vegas sits and tries to avoid Gun’s glare and not think about how much his cheek hurts, and Macau looks devastated, so he tries to ignore it and smiles to let him know that everything is fine.  And when he’s finally in his bed that night and can let out a breath that this day is finally over, something gets shoved under his door.

When he looks at what it is, it’s a card with cool drawings on the front of it. He knows who they’re by because Macau has been really into manga and anime recently and has been obsessed with drawing little comic strips, and he gives them to Vegas, who keeps them in a box under his bed with all the other cards he’s made. He wonders if Macau’s finally figured out what he does with his cards each year and had decided to just give it straight to Vegas instead of leaving it on the dining room table for Vegas to inevitably swap, but then he looks, he really looks at what’s on the front- It’s him and Macau, just him and Macau, and Vegas’s pet hedgehog with happy fathers day! written underneath. When he opens it, it says Have a good day, Vegas! lots of love, Mac  He cries himself to sleep that night. But for once, it’s not out of fear or hatred of himself; this time, it’s a deep sadness that he doesn’t have anyone to rely on, doesn’t have an older brother to tell him they love him, to fix his problems or help him with his homework. But Macau does. Macau does, and he’s so glad he can do that for his little brother and be there for him that he cries himself to sleep out of sheer relief that Macau knows precisely how much Vegas loves him.

And then Macau’s nearly 18, and everything is horrible and scary, and Vegas has been shot, and he might die, and he can’t even think about fathers day anymore because there’s no room for frivolity when the mafia is concerned.

And then Vegas is awake, he’s awake, and he’s got Pete, and life is hard, but he’s alive. He’s alive, his dad is dead, and he finally has someone to rely on, lean on, and hold. And being loved by Pete is a feeling so encompassing that he can’t even put it into words.

And then it’s fathers day again, but this time their dad is dead, and Pete’s dad is dead, and there’s no reason for them to celebrate, so they don’t. And Macau has finally started university, but he skips class to hang out with his brother and Pete. They don’t do anything momentous; it’s raining, so they stay inside, occupying themselves with games, movies, and whatever else, until they go to bed.

None of them mentions that it’s fathers day.

Yet that night, when Vegas is in bed cuddled up to Pete, something is shoved under their door. Pete goes to have a look, looking confused, as he holds a piece of paper and climbs back into bed with Vegas. Its a card. A fathers day card. A well-done drawing of Macau, Vegas, Pete, and their newly adopted pet cat, with Happy Father’s Day! written underneath in familiar handwriting.

He hands it back to Pete and tells him to open it, too overwhelmed to read it himself. Inside the card, in much neater handwriting than either of them thought Macau was capable of, it says-

Have a good day, Vegas.

You may not be my real father, 

but you’re the only one I’ve ever had. 

Lots of love, Mac 

ps. I guess p’pete counts now too.

He cries again, and Pete is gracious enough not to mention it. He adds it to the box, with all the other things Macau has ever made him, closing it and placing it back underneath the bed.

And it's later, years later, that a revelation occurs to him. That even though he’s spent his whole life trying to be good enough for a father that genuinely despised his existence, that even though he spent so many years trying to be better than Kinn, than Korn, than everyone.

He has always been good enough for Macau.

And he will always be good enough for Pete.

And that, that, is enough.

[monsieuroverlord]

Obligatory tiny Akihiro cameo T-T

From Wolverine #42

Also, slight spoiler:

The Krakoan translates to "The Good Old Days"

So probably just implying a retelling of their long, sordid shared history.

[peaches2217]

The desire to make an angsty fic in which Luigi comforts an exhausted and deeply stressed Mario vs. The fact that my past several fics have been angsty enough and I should probably balance that out with some fluff first…

[cuteniarose]

Me: *creates an OC*

Me: *heavily implies OC will meet a bad fate*

OC: *meets bad fate*

Me:

(Alternatively, I may have started it, but @katkastrofa enabled me and now I’m losing my mind)

[brekitten]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Danny Phantom, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Characters: Danny Fenton, Original Characters, Peter Parker Additional Tags: Crossover Angst Week 2024, Human Experimentation, Needles, Guys in White | GIW Organization (Danny Phantom), Ambiguous/Open Ending Series: Part 1 of Bre's Crossover Angst Week 2024 Summary:

Peter has done some really dumb stuff over the course of his life, especially when he became Spider-Man.

Breaking into a government facility out in the middle of the woods when he's supposed to be camping with his aunt really takes the cake, though.

Surely this won't backfire on him too horribly, right?

Or,

Peter does a dumb and very quickly comes to regret it.

  GIW experimentation

So, I'm a tad bit late to the party, but tbf I did just find out about this today, and I'm pretty happy that I was able to get this out in just a few hours XD

Anyway, here's Day 1! I'm planning on writing something for every day of the event, including the days I missed, such as this one. Yall can look forward to more angst to come >:3

[corellianhounds]

Thanks for The tag buddy!

(And soon I will answer it, 'cause I need to organize my ideas :)

But, The Clone Action Movie Pitch actually got me.

I'm all ears 👀

YESSSS I’m so happy, I was hoping somebody asked about this one! This idea came to me two weeks ago and I’m STOKED (And also I am defo ready to see what you have cooking 👏)

So basically the thought started with the beginning to a familiar action movie setup of a group of guys having to reunite after over a decade because somebody has been coming after the members of their former squad and killing them off one by one, and now they have to get back together for one last job to find out why and put a stop to it. Despite the fact I started writing this with the express purpose of using all sorts of action movie tropes for the formula, there’s still new and fun twists on how they happen because we’ve set it within the world of Star Wars. It’s a good old fashioned action movie, babyyyyy!

It’s also all original characters, which I know may not be some people’s thing, but it means that this is unconstrained by most of canon, in terms of timeline consistency or connections to other properties’ stories. I have plenty of canonical Star Wars elements, but I wanted this to be a case of “Hey do you like Star Wars and don’t want to do any homework to understand what’s happening? Do you like action movies? Come on in!”

—

Taking place ~16 years after the end of the Clone Wars, the story opens with fifteen-year-old Rio and his father living simply in a city on an Outer Rim planet. Most people didn’t know what the clones looked like beyond their armor, and that— along with its owners— was phased out a long time ago. Rio doesn’t know much about his father’s past beyond his own life, but it doesn’t come up in conversation much and Rio doesn’t know of a life any different than the one they’ve always had.

There’s some suspicious activity and murmurings around town, us following Rio through what a normal day should be for him, but as the day draws to a close things start to get more suspicious. His dad, normally a genial and easygoing guy, is strangely quiet and serious, and there’s a moment Rio catches him having some furtive conversation over a comm in the hall; when his dad realizes he’s there he snaps at him to go back to bed.

When Rio’s noticeably caught off guard by his dad’s tone, his dad visibly softens and his shoulders slump, and he goes to him, gently pulling him in to press his forehead to his son’s as he apologizes, asking him more civilly to go upstairs. Rio accepts the gesture of affection and reluctantly does as he’s told. Though his dad outwardly seems much more like his calm self, there’s still something tense about him.

The next day it’s clear there is something going on, the kid seeing people closing up shops, arguments happening in the square, a squad of troopers questioning and harassing people. Rio’s nearly caught up in trouble with the troopers himself before his dad appears out of nowhere and intervenes, making quick work of them before telling him to stay calm and follow his lead, the two of them swiftly making a beeline for their home.

His dad tells him to pack a bag of necessities only, says they’re leaving and they won’t be coming back. Rio, understandably alarmed, desperately follows his dad around the house asking questions, asking what’s going on in town as his dad yanks cords from electrical panels in the walls and burns the databanks on his machines, and the kid’s alarm only heightens as he sees his dad pull burner comms, armor and gear, tools and equipment and weapons he’s never even seen before from hidden compartments all around the house.

His dad hated guns.

When Rio finally stops him and demands to know what’s going on, refusing to budge another inch until he has answers, his father sighs, visibly pained by the anger and distrust on his son’s face.

He takes Rio by the shoulders, gentle despite all that’s happened. “Do you trust me?”

Rio looks doubtful. “… Is the person you are still my father?”

“Yes,” his dad says without a moment of hesitation. “Yes, Rio.”

Rio wavers for a moment, but right now all he sees are the earnest, honest eyes of his dad, and he realizes… Yes. He does trust him.

“… Okay,” Rio says, beginning to help pack gear into a duffel bag. “Let’s go.”

—

The kid doesn’t ask any more questions as they head out of town on foot, not even when gunfire starts up several blocks behind them and people start panicking in the streets. They’re at the edge of town when they hear the first explosion and Rio sees his dad’s resolve harden to determination. An old friend of theirs takes them by speeder outside of town; Rio still doesn’t ask questions when his dad leads him to a ship that’s been hidden and well-maintained for over a decade, and eventually the two of them set out to escape off-planet.

They wait in a remote location for other ships and transports to arrive. Rio sees a number beings exit the ramps; there’s a Pantoran woman in a trench coat with a satchel over one shoulder. A mountain of a man in a motley assortment of layers follows her, wearing a visor and partial face mask, accompanied by a droid. Another pilot lands and immediately hops out from the cockpit, sliding down the ladder as a second man follows. The first looks like a stunt racer, dressed in speederbike leathers and boots. The second man looks like a regular lineman, though with a rifle slung across his and a mask covering his features. The pilot unbuckles the strap of his helmet as he joins them, and something about it looks familiar to Rio.

A real, honest-to-gods Mandalorian appears from behind Rio and his dad from the outcropping they’d met at, either having been there the whole time or somehow managing to creep up on them without notice.

The group convenes in a loose circle, and his father removes his hood.

“Lark,” he says, nodding to the woman. “Gentlemen,” he says to the men. “It’s been a while.”

They all look at each other, noticeably glancing at the kid before he says “Rio. My son.”

Slowly, one by one, all of them remove their helmets and masks, and Rio can’t help but look around the circle in astonishment.

Each man there, every one among them for no discernible reason why or how, shares his father’s face.

WIP Ask Game

[queenbread]

So mad my screen broke

so for those unaware I dropped my phone and the screen broke

The problem? I was in the middle of making an animation and a stupid little comic about Luciana (my character who is westernized angel, humanoid with 2 wings) meeting a biblically accurate angel BUT NOW IT'S GONNA TAKE ME SO MUCH LONGER TO FINISH EVERYTHING BECAUSE BROKEN GLASS IS NOT FUN TO DRAW ON

I blame whoever is reading this

[bizlybebo]

n e ways ☝️ should finally get around to ch15 being posted 2nite…. took me a million years cause of the Curse but we ball !!!!

[ghost-proofbaby]

wanna write but don’t know what to write

[littol-bun]

i love being an age regressor ૮ᴖﻌᴖა ♡⁠ tonight it feels very affirming and comforting. I've kind of always had to look out for myself and be my biggest supporter, and there are a lot of strange ways this feels like a second chilhood at times.

like i regress to being younger, but I'm also a girl now in a completely different place with completely different circumstances/social circles etc. yk?

but when i feel rly small and my reality feels so big, it makes me happy that older me is there for me to make the important decisions and guide us there :3 it's like i am holding my hand through this, i haven't had an adult rly look out for me like this and it's so nice to have one now!!

i don't have to be scared of big changes, I'm doing good and I'm here for me and i can take it easy. i have someone who is helping me ♡⁠ i have someone who is keeping me safe. they work hard so i can be little ^.^ thanks big sis hehe ✌🏾

ouggghh im not little anymore but (⁠｡⁠ﾉ⁠ω⁠＼⁠｡⁠) ♡⁠ yeah. when i am little i can still like.. function as an adult n talk to ppl n stuff. but it's also like, well like i said before ig 0:

like im smaller but different‚ subtly. still me‚ but someone else since I'm like.. a teen?? that i never was. my childhood was nothing like my adulthood so this rly is a whole new thing little me has needed to learn 2 navigate emotionally/mentally.

but as i become more aware of when I'm in a little headspace and not, the difference in perception stands out to me a lot more. i can't articulate it very well... oughh. this is giving me very specific questions, but on that note — i am happy to feel so safe and looked out for when I'm little 😌💕 i used to feel scared and helpless but it's different now. we're doing this together 👩🏽‍🤝‍👩🏾 i got ya lil sis

[radioactive-cloud]

pls give the people (me) what they want (Jance fluff and smut)

bold of you to assume i'm writing fluff