#deity writes

@lavenderjellies3 created the ATLA AU fanart as seen above and I wrote the Flower Husbands fanfiction inspired by/based off of it ^^

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Tango saw red.

He did! Promise!

And Tango didn’t mean that he saw red in the metaphorical way, like people often claim to when they are very angry, though, well– he supposed that interpretation wasn’t necessarily wrong either, but still! He was furious and stressed, and he was having to pierce his tongue with his fanged teeth to bite back the long string of swears threatening to escape his lips. 

Ugh, why did Grian insist that they attempt to stay PG while playing a death game?

He knew the answer, but that didn’t mean he cared for it, but Tango tried his best to not argue and abide by them anyway. It was a small price to pay to be included.

Tango was a blazeborn, and because of his heritage, his vision literally became tinted with red the more extreme his emotions became. Doc theorized that it was something related to how red his eyes were, but seeing how very few blazeborns even attempted to live a full life away from the nether and their birth Pyre, there was little information on them in the overworld, and the goat-creeper hybrid hadn’t gotten around to attempting in-depth research on blazeborn anatomy or culture before getting to know Tango.

Anger simmered violently in his stomach, threatening to boil over as he tried (and failed) to manage his stress and frustration. Everything seemed to be going wrong for him, and it was all piling up, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could tolerate it all! His hair grew in both size and temperature as he stalked away from his murder snail and complained about the actions of others. Even while actively moving and talking, it was difficult to think clearly, difficult to focus!

The extra energy and adrenaline that pumped through his veins were the result of territorial instincts every blaze had ingrained in their code, aiding them as they protected whatever they thought of as theirs. If Tango lived his life like most other blazeborns have the last who-knows-how-long, then perhaps he could have cultivated his fury to be a mighty asset to his Pyre, likely tasked to guard a nether fortress from invaders, but that life wasn’t for him. Tango knew that for a fact, and even if he wasn’t as sure, he doubted his old Pyre would welcome him back with open arms after functionally deserting them. 

Even if they would accept his return, Tango didn’t plan to crawl back to his old Pyre and prove them right, that he would regret leaving his home. There were times where he grew uncomfortably needy, desperate for a Pyre’s connection, but he’s learned to soothe himself by seeking out his friends. They were his Pyre now, even if he hadn’t expressed such a concept to them yet. They didn’t need to know the exact reason why he was suddenly clinging to anyone who would let him after emerging from working on redstone the past two weeks.

If the involuntary response had any uses for the life he led now, he didn’t know them. All Tango could see were downsides, his genetic coding maladapted to the world he was currently living in. Whenever his emotions got the best of him, he attempted to control himself, he really did, but it wasn’t like the fragility of the overworld could handle any margin of error like the nether could. Tango struggled often to tame the fire and bloodlust within him when every fiber of his being itched– screamed– to destroy, destroy, destroy!

Such an instinct may have been a strength to his ancestors, but it wasn’t to Tango, and he learned to despise this part of himself over the years. The willpower he had to gather in order to hold himself back– to prevent himself from becoming as hot as a dying star– was astronomical, and maintaining it was sickening. 

When Tango’s vision went red, he would make senseless choices and take irrational risks, but there wasn’t much he could do. It wasn’t like he had a say in the coding of his genetics! It wasn’t his fault that he was hardwired for a much warmer climate, one where he could let off steam when it got this bad without causing irreparable damage! It wasn’t–

Do it, a voice in the back of his mind tempted. Burn bright and fierce. Show them how dangerous you really are. Make them fear you, Tango! Don’t let them view you as weak.

Tango shook his head as if to physically dismiss the thought, trying to bring himself back into the moment. If his friends were speaking to him, he wasn’t registering a thing they said. He knew that he needed to calm down, but the quickest way was to burn off steam, but it was too risky, it was too much! Too much, too much, too much–

He could accidentally hurt someone, which may have been fine if he was permitted to kill, but he wasn’t a red name yet, and he couldn’t break the rules like that without consequences, and he didn’t want the others to hate him or kick him out of the game... Tango didn’t want to lose his friends, his Pyre! He had worked too hard to get to where he was just to let it all slip through his fingers like grains of sand!

Smoke and fumes billowed off of him, unable to prevent their existence any longer. The rational part of his mind ordered him to jump into the water, to extinguish himself before this whole section of the map looked more like a meteor landing site than a base, but his body refused to obey. His body seemed to move without him consciously aware of what he was doing, and he could hear himself talking, but he couldn’t make out what he or his friends were saying. Focus, Tek! Focus!

Tango had to stay calm– try to stay calm– the normal way, even as his body was trembling with the effort. Even as he jumped around the base he hadn’t even managed to finish before someone (cough, Scar) took a flint and steel to it, attempting to outrun Tangastrapod, his snailificatior of death! Even as various snarls, growls, and irritated cries spilled out of him…

Everything was just building, building, building, and he braced for his will and spirit to finally Snap! under the pressure, and, and– it never came. 

Instead, something pleasantly cold took Tango’s hand in their hold. The contrasting sensation seemed to snap Tango out of whatever funk he had entered, the red that flooded his senses clearing up as his consciousness was fully returned to his body. Tango blinked rapidly, encouraging his eyes to focus on the owner of the cold.

“It’s okay, Tango, just breathe,” Scott instructed serenely, tone even and touch soothing. “Big breath in, deep breath out, just like that. Good job, firefly, you’re doing great. Just like that, keep going, keep focusing on breathing and the sound of my voice.”

Tango did his best to match Scott’s exaggerated breathing, though he couldn't bring himself to maintain eye contact. As the blinding irritation eased, shame and self-consciousness took its place. Tango’s gaze fell to his right palm, the hand Scott was cradling gingerly.

Using his ice abilities, Scott traced designs made of ice on his up and down Tango’s arm. Because of Tango’s abnormally high body temperature, the ice designs didn’t last long, melting and then promptly turning into steam, but Scott didn’t complain. Instead, Scott simply acted as if the evaporated ice just gave him more of a canvas, replacing the designs as soon as the previous ones dissipated.

As Tango surrendered to the tranquil and pacifying nature of his boyfriend’s chilly touch, his emotions settled and his body temperature lowered enough for the flame on his head to shrink. Tango’s code prevented his fire from charring anyone or anything under a certain degree, which is part of what made his raging emotions so hazardous to those around him. 

The ice designs Scott created began to last longer, Scott’s magic able to hold itself together against Tango’s typical range of heat. This meant that Scott’s canvas wasn’t renewing itself as fast, but that didn’t deter him. Instead, Scott expanded his canvas, trailing the artistry from Tango’s arm over his shoulder to spread the ice to his chest and then down his other arm. 

Tango may have described it like a warm hug, but, well, it was quite the opposite, and it was fantabular, just so everyone was aware of that fact. He cracked a weak smile at the silliness of his mind, but it dropped after only a heartbeat of time as embarrassment took over as his primary emotion.

He slumped forward into his boyfriend, resting his forehead against Scott’s shoulder and sighing heavily. Scott wrapped his arms around him, pulling him closer to his chest. His boyfriend was so pleasantly cold that Tango wanted nothing more than to curl up in a comfortable bed and allow Scott to small spoon him, but that wasn’t an option right now… It wouldn’t be until the games were over. They were a part of different factions, and the session was still running, meaning they couldn’t stay still much longer or those stupid jerks would catch up, even though they seemed to have moved a decent bit away from their snails.

“Thank you,” Tango murmured, breaking the quiet peace sooner than he wanted, but he had already taken enough of Scott’s time. He knew it was important to Scott to play these games fair and by the rules, and the rules instructed against outside-the-game-earned favoritism, and Tango hadn’t done anything to earn Scott’s favor since Wild Life started. With how things have been going for him and his team, Tango was sure he’s done the opposite and he doubted that would change anytime soon.

“Of course, lovebug. It’s the least I could do.” Scott continued to rub gentle circles on Tango’s back as he pressed a chaste kiss against his forehead. Void, Tango loved him. “Feeling any better?”

Tango raised his head so he could look up at his boyfriend, forever grateful that Scott loved him back. Instead of a verbal answer, Tango reached up to cup Scott’s face with both his hands, gently guiding him down a few inches so Tango could kiss him. Scott allowed Tango to take the lead with the kiss, though he pulled away before it became too deep.

“I would love to stay here and kiss you breathless,” Scott started, sneaking in the flirt with a teasing gleam in his beautiful blue eyes, “but I don’t think our snails will leave us alone for much longer. I don’t know about you, but I would love not to go down a life when I could have prevented it.”

Tango’s tail straightened in alarm, spinning on his heel to look at where Scott had glanced. As expected, Tangastropod and whatever Scott’s snail was named were crawling dangerously close to them. 

Scott interlocked Tango’s fingers with his before breaking into a mild run, pulling Tango behind him. “Come on! If they get too close, they will leap forward!”

Tango squeaked in surprise as he stumbled after his boyfriend, struggling to gain his footing at first, but he refused to let go of Scott’s hold, not yet. An amused laugh escaped Tango’s lips as he and his boyfriend ran away from their snails of death together, the humor not lost on him now that he was feeling better, and Scott joined in on his laughter, which was always music to Tango’s ears. 

Summary Alternative (fic below image):

There were many things Scott had wondered about when Grian proposed Wild Life to them, but this certainly wasn’t one of them. Not that it was bad, by any means, but he could feel his face heating up with each passing moment. Scott attempted to joke enough with his friends to laugh suspicion off of him, not wanting the teasing to shift to a personal attack against him, and it seemed to work for the most part!

Hold on, wait– let’s back up for a moment.

The first wild card of the game altered their heights, making them taller every time they jumped and shorter every time they crouched. The height-change toggles made everything much more difficult to complete, especially when trying to crouch near ledges– he would know, he almost died because of it– but it wasn’t too bad, all things considered.

Scott was positive that future wild cards would be much, much worse than gaining the ability to change their size at will, but that was for Future Scott to worry about. Present Scott was too busy to be worrying about those right now. He was having a blast as he messed around with his friends, laughing and cracking jokes with whoever happened to join in. 

He wasn’t exactly sure why a handful of them decided to take a boat and row around within the wide river, but these early days were filled to the brim with supply gathering and lighthearted shenanigans such as this. Almost everyone was on dark green, made obvious by their eyes, making the only threat to their lives the typical mobs and their own negligence. People weren’t as hesitant to engage with one another for fears of being stabbed in the back just yet.

Moments of joy and bliss such as these were a significant reason why Scott continued to accept Grian’s invitation to these games of death, despite how heightened (ha!) his anxiety could get the longer he spent on the server. That, and he was good at it! He even had a win, maybe two under his belt! The rush of winning– of getting far– was a thrill so addicting he didn’t foresee himself escaping anytime soon. 

Besides, increased anxiety was expected for everyone who grew more fidgety and paranoid the more lives were lost, bloodlust festering and pumping extra adrenaline through their veins. He didn’t have to think that far ahead just yet, so he ignored the nagging within his brain in favor of the situation at hand.

Scott hopped into a boat with Etho first, so tiny he compared himself to a bug. He couldn’t even see over the edge of the boat’s rim unless he went on his tippy toes, but the novelty of it all entertained him more than the actual boat ride. Scott spent the next however long taking turns with the others, altering his own size whenever he switched off and got back onto land.

So why was Scott’s face flushing pink?

No, it wasn’t because of how hard he was laughing, though he would definitely allow others to come to that conclusion. It wasn’t like Scott could come up with a better misdirect if someone decided to call him out on the blush that painted his cheeks. The coloring was so undeniably vibrant against his freckles and fair complexion. 

Scott couldn’t help it though; his mind fixated on just how close Etho was to him. 

Boats tended to force Players fairly close together to start with, but with the wild card this session altering their sizes, it eventually managed to bring them even closer than Scott had ever guessed Etho would allow or feel comfortable doing. Scott had half the mind to not cross those boundaries and pull away himself, but Etho never pushed Scott away from him nor had he tried to flee the spot where he sat, so Scott didn’t dare punish himself if Etho was content.

Scott stood at a fairly average height; he wasn’t particularly short, but he also wasn’t  particularly tall either. Etho, on the other hand, would be labeled as tall. He had a good few inches on Scott, making it clear that there was a height difference, but it wasn’t anything drastic enough for Scott to achieve within his brain as a thing.  

The wild card had other plans, however. 

Etho grew and Scott shrunk, exaggerating the height difference they already had, so the present circumstance wouldn’t have changed much even if Scott were at his typical size. Due to their altered bodies and the boat’s space restriction, Scott was practically forced to sit in Etho’s lap… not that he minded that too much. 

The other man’s legs rested alongside Scott’s legs as his back laid flush against Etho’s torso. Etho interlocked his fingers and rested them on top of Scott’s head, using himself as a pillow and Scott as a vertical bed. Etho wasn’t known to be the most physically affectionate person, so Scott assured he was doing this to put on a bit of a show because of the wild card, but Scott couldn’t help but feel honored that he had chosen him for that task.

His heartbeat quickened its past as Scott started to daydream of Etho’s long, nimble fingers tangling themselves in his blue waves instead of with each other. If they didn’t have a potential audience around, perhaps Etho would wander Scott’s body, brushing gentle touches against sensitive skin and various curves. Or, if Scott was really lucky, Etho would curl his arms around Scott’s torso and bury his face into Scott’s hair or against his neck. 

Oh, how Scott longed to be encompassed so thoroughly, surrounded by love, affection, and a comforting touch… though these thoughts were likely a result of Scott’s neediness. Touch was extremely important to him, especially casual signs of affection. They were a way to display care without words, and they helped ease the sick, fragile ache of being touch starved.

Perhaps that was why sitting on Etho caused flowers of all kinds of colors to grow in his hair and on the surface of the water around them, brought into life without conscious thought. They were his specialty, after all, so it was no wonder why their creation came so naturally. It was concerning that they had arrived without him realizing at first, however. Flowers often appeared around him as a physical indicator of strong emotions, meaning the flusteredness wasn’t just some baseline infatuation. 

Maybe the flowers were brought on less because of Etho and more because of the comfortable touch. It has been a while since Scott managed to secure a chunk of time with any of his friends with everything going on. He hadn’t wanted to bother them when they weren’t open to it, so none of them have helped fulfill that desire in such a long time now. That longing only fueled the fire that raged under his skin as his mind focused on their points of contact and more flowers sprouted up around them. If Etho noticed, which Scott was sure he must have, Etho didn’t comment.

In a way, flowers were an extension of himself, so it felt incredibly cruel and unfair for them to act against him like this. It was some sort of cruel trick from the universe to expose his true emotions in such a colorful and obvious way, especially because he couldn’t lie because of his fae heritage! Half-truths tended to be sufficient enough, for Scott knew how to use them when he needed to, but his annoyance still stood.

Or maybe it didn’t.

Void, it was hard to be annoyed when Etho was so close, his face so close Scott sensed his presence even if his mask blocked most of the breath that would otherwise hit his neck.

Passively, Scott wondered if Etho could feel the rapid beating of his heart or the way his breathing hitched, but he didn’t dare ask. Scott didn’t want to risk breaking this tender moment, a blimp in the game that Etho would likely forget even if Scott didn’t. Scott wanted to enjoy every second of contact for as long as he could, for he knew it was unlikely he would find the chance to indulge himself, unless his teammates offered their services.

One thing no one told Skizz about having a netherborn husband before they got together or even became best friends was the juxtaposition of a netherborn’s sleeping tendencies.

The two laid together in their shared bed, Impulse’s arms wrapped around Skizz’s torso with his face buried against Skizz’s left pec. Their legs were intertwined, so much so that Skizz barely knew which were his own and which were Impulse’s. Granted, he was still half-unconscious for he had just blinked awake, but still! The limbs must have lost some circulation while they slept, and any attempts to move them risked waking Impulse, and obviously he couldn’t have that.

Besides, waking sleeping limbs tended to lead to blood rushing to heat the affected skin while pins and needles attacked his muscles in the most annoyingly agonizing way it could think of. It wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, to put it lightly, and Skizz would rather walk barefoot in snow. At least his feet go numb when exposed to the frigid Overworld powder.

Impulse had a few layers of fuzzy blankets draped overtop of him to help insulate the heat his body did produce, but he had also insisted on Skizz’s wing wrapping around him too. He had confessed to liking it when he was completely surrounded by Skizz, and, well… who was Skizz to deny his amazing husband of that? 

Plus, Skizz rather enjoyed being able to hold Impulse close with the white feathers if not his arms themselves, even if it meant someone laying down on the occasionally-sensitive feathers. It wasn’t too bad as long as he kept up with preening, and Impulse never let him go more than a week before confronting Skizz’s avoidance and procrastination.

See, Dipple-Dop’s preferred sleeping environment wouldn’t be too bad if he were a typical Player, but Skizz had always run on the warmer side when it came to his internal temperature. This meant that he didn’t get as cold as his mortal counterparts and his code wasn’t as developed in terms of natural regulation for it hadn’t needed to when he was up in the Heavens. 

While his friends of Overworld origin bundled up in the dead of winter, Skizz would walk around comfortably in shorts and a sleeveless top. When he first fell from the Heavens and gained Player status, it had taken him a bit to get used to the fact that most other beings required external warmth to avoid freezing to death.

Back then, back when Skizz met Impulse, he had assumed that, being from the warmest dimension known to Players, Impulse would be similar to him. Impulse could take a dip into lava with no issue, and, on first glance, anyone would guess that he simply radiated heat. Was it that big of a leap in logic to think he would also run warm? Especially when Tango Top– a blazeborn also from the Nether– was practically a living furnace, especially with the flame on his head?

Apparently so because Skizz had assumed wrong. Crazy, right?

Impulse’s internal temperature was quite cold, his code adapted to accept the constant boiling temperatures of the Nether without consequence to his body. Since he became a Player in his own right, entering the Overworld full-time to join the rest of their friends, the function that had once been an asset became maladapted. Skizz supposed it made more sense why Impulse often opted for more layers than Skizz ever did when they changed their skins to suit whatever server they were messing around with at the time.

The soft hum of a redstone fan’s blades whirling filled the room, accompanied by Impulse’s gentle snores. Most Players couldn’t even hear it, but Skizz’s ears have always worked better than his peers’. Skizz wouldn’t dare complain, though. He quite liked the background noise paired with the little sleepy sounds Impulse made unknowingly.

The fan was directed so its breeze brushed against the bare skin of his face and neck to avoid his fallen angel body from overheating as badly as it once had. That was a rough period of fevers and previously unexplained exhaustion that Skizz would rather forget. Impulse made the redstone device for Skizz far before they were married, as the two had always been a cuddly duo even when they were simply platonic. Gemstone– one of their friends– had always teased them about it, only growing more smug when she was proven right.

Skizz hadn’t meant to confess his discomfort, but Impulse overheard Skizz offhandedly mention the issue to a fellow Player one day, claiming that he hadn’t been sleeping well when they cuddled due to the extra heat Impulse required. Impulse didn’t grow upset or complain about Skizz’s comments to another Player instead of him, and, instead, he went to fix the issue! That moment was one of many that aided in Skizz’s realization that he was lucky to have such a great homie buddy. Skizz more than appreciated the effort and care Impulse infused into the device a lot, understanding that the action was much more than simply the tangible fan itself.

The unfortunate thing was that, even with the fan, he still tended to overheat some nights, especially when the general outside temperature was warmer than usual. The heat would then cause Skizz to wake up with his clothes just a little sticker with sweat than before. Still, he didn’t complain, simply using the half-conscious time in the middle of the night to smile gratefully down at his husband’s sleeping face. Skizz didn’t know where he would be without him. Impulse was the first to help him when he first fell.

Dipple-Dop looked so peaceful as he slept, even with his face squished against Skizz’s chest and a little drool trickling out the corner of his lips. His brown hair was a mess and the curled posture in which he slept was honestly atrocious, but Skizz couldn’t help but find any “fault” of his absolutely endearing.

Skizz gingerly brushed a few stray pieces of hair out of Impulse’s face, not wanting anything to obscure his view until his lover shifted in his sleep again. He bit down on his tongue in an attempt to be quiet, knowing that cooing over his husband may wake him, which isn’t what Skizz wanted. Instead, Skizz redirected the surge of adoration that demanded action within him by leaning toward Impulse to press a chaste kiss against the top of his forehead, a spot just below his hairline and right between his horns.

Impulse squirmed a little when Skizz’s cheek accidentally brushed a horn. He froze, watching Impulse’s face carefully to see if he would open his eyes. Fortunately, he didn’t. Instead, his nose scrunched as if mildly peeved for a moment as he twisted to bury his face against Skizz’s chest again. Impulse muffled a snore against Skizz’s torso, and he couldn’t resist giggling at how cute he was. Void, how Skizz loved him.

A large yawn forced itself out of Skizz’s mouth, leading Skizz to squeeze his eyelids together as he pushed his shoulders backward to stretch his upper back. He smacked his lips together a few times before using his free hand to rub crusties or whatever that gunk was from his eyes. 

During these quiet moments, these little bubbles stuck in time, Skizz would occasionally forget that it was indeed the middle of the night and that he needed rest as much as Impulse did. He couldn’t just stay awake until the sun started to rise peering down at his lover!

Skizz tried not to move too quickly as he reoriented himself, not wanting to risk waking Impulse with him. He even held his breath for maximum efficiency, the thought making him feel better even if it didn’t actually work that way. Skizz allowed his eyelashes to flutter shut for the last time that early morning as he tugged his heat absorbent of a husband closer to his chest. He idly scratched his fingers in Impulse’s hair as he silently commanded his limbs to relax.

Was he a little hotter than he would like to be, hotter than he would be if he were sleeping by himself?

Sure, yeah, of course. 

Would he rather be alone then? 

No way, dude! 

Skizz would much rather sleep beside Impulse any day, even if it meant no actual sleep for him– even if it gave him a fever! Not that that had happened in a very long time–

Cough, anyway– 

Skizz would much rather sleep beside his husband every day than sleep by himself, no matter what the outcome may be.

Impulse’s unconscious form was just as stinking cute as awake Impulse was, and Skizz was never one to pass up an excuse to gaze lovingly at husband nor trace his features with his eyes, if not, his finger. They’d been together for forever, and Skizz was more than content to spend an eternity more by his side, however long that would be for them.