#Clumsily learning to draw again

[warmer-hotcakes]

Ok so, I've got a transformation kink. Love that shit. I've always felt a little distant from alot of works in that space though considering alot of them focus on loss of humanity in a way where the person effectively *dies*.

I may just be looking in the wrong spaces, but I can never find stories about someone remaining who they are, either uplifted by or in spite of what they've become.

Like "oh no I'm a dragon now! But I don't want to abandon all my friends and loved ones, nor do I want to abandon my passions just so I can sleep in a cave and eat people."

I really like figuring stuff out post tf, still being able to live as you have, or at least close to it. I guess it just really ties into my beliefs that anyone can do anything, they may just need some help.

[hanasnx]

" THINK I NEED SOMEONE OLDER " — garrus vakarian.

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ WARNINGS: fem reader | sexual content | age gap | making out | grinding | size difference | overpowering.

DILF!GARRUS VAKARIAN who thought the basis of human attraction depended on youth. Imagine his surprise when you not only couldn't stop staring at his aging body like he was a fully equipped armory before a mission, but you showed genuine interest at the prospect of his superior amount of experience.

Here you are, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, fresh from hopping ship to ship serving with your parents until you were brave enough to go at it on your own. Now you follow him around like a lost puppy, constantly questioning his motives just to hear him talk, asking him to explain a calculation over and over again. He notices how you squirm when he talks down to you, so to speak. He's positive you're not incapable, but he's not going to refuse a request from so eager a learner. Even if you're not going to learn how to do advanced calculus, he tells himself it's still valuable to hear it. Even if you demonstrate how little you're listening when you chew on the end of your pen at him, and bat your long lashes. Nod slowly through hooded eyes, letting them generously trail down his figure in his suit.

It's enough to make him trail off, clear his throat, adjust his neckline as he glances away to break the tension he's inadvertently fanning. "Run along now." he sometimes tells you so you'll get away from him, so he'll have some room to breathe, so he's not constantly reminded of what a low-life he is when he's around you. Instead, that phrase sends you crazy, biting your lip at him over your shoulder as you sway out of the room.

"Bye-bye, Vakarian~" you purr, and scamper off.

Garrus feels shame when he lets you win. He's supposed to be older, know better, protect someone like you. But when you're clinging onto him, inclining him down to your soft lips, he can't imagine being anywhere else. Tucked away in some dark corner of the Normandy, you guide his hands to touch your young body through your clothes, riding up the material so his touch sets what little it grazes ablaze. After months of dancing around each other, finally you're granted a little relief. And his face burns hot from the contact however brief.

"I'm... I'm not... usually like this.." Garrus confesses, breathless, heart racing. The possibility of you two being caught together, tangled in embrace in a precarious location... there'd be no way to talk his way out of it. Everyone would think of him as some Turian predator, can't get a date unless it's with a girl half his age. And he's not beating the allegations as his claws dig into pliant flesh, drawing you closer to press your hips into his. As if gravitating towards your sex, heavenly bodies bump clumsily as you reconnect with his mouth. Apparently, you're not interested in hearing his protests, claiming he's not "usually" like anything, because right now he's showing you how much he very much is like this. His grip on you is not one of a Turian with doubts.

You've never kissed his species before, and at first his mandibles were hard to get used to—and it felt like he wasn't used to it either—but once you realized he's much more relaxed with his tongue, everything else fell into place. His lack of lips is an obstacle to kissing, but irrelevant when making out. Meeting in the middle, that tongue is long in reach and eager in attitude, coiling around yours in a way a human's would never be capable of. Reptilian in nature, his sulcus is defined, allowing his muscle to fold in on itself, elongating to the thinner apex.

Your palm that cups his face, draws down so your fingertips dance along the grooves of his scarring, coming to trace the line of his mandible. As long as you've known him, you've never gotten this close, and when he massages your tongue with his deft one, an embarrassing whimper emits from your parted lips. Instinctively, you rear your head to break the kiss—if you can even call it that. But Garrus is unyielding. A strong arm around your waist arches you into him, as if possessive over this act you've introducing him to. Confirming your suspicions with an annoyed growl and his tongue venturing further into your mouth, a wave of pleasant tingles washing up from core in response to such behavior. Your knees are weak, held up by his overpowering strength as he takes what he wants.

Playfully, you scold him by banging your fist against his chest piece. He retracts an inch, and you're allowed a second to breathe even if you're crushed against him. Panting through your grin, you nuzzle him with the tip of your nose, and he speaks against your lips. "You were trying to run away from me." he muses, curling his frame around you so it's truly inescapable. "I like that little sound you made." his mouth grazes yours as he talks into you, recycling air, "Make it again."

[ddandelionfluff]

moonlit recollections | viktor x reader

modern-ish? au; fluff; no relationship established; it's my first time posting pls forgive any mistakes; englishmajor!reader; inspired by Astrophil and Stella Sonnet 71

***

Who will in fairest book of nature know

You knock on his door at two in the morning, startling him out of the coffee-fueled haze he had been in for the past few days. Your voice carries through the thin door, asking if he was still awake. Joints creaking, Viktor pulls himself out of his desk, self-consciously smoothing out his too-wrinkled shirt and running his hands through his too-long hair as he opens the door, stopping quickly. The inside of his dorm is a mess, and if you saw it, you’d probably start trying to help him clean.  

He draws a breath as you look at him and laugh, the corners of your eyes crinkling as they trace his hair.

“You look rough.” An admonishment.

He shrugs.

“I have an exam tomorrow,” An apology.

“Which is why I’m here,” You say by way of explanation, which does not actually explain anything.

His brows furrow as he leans against the frame, taking some pressure off his leg. “I do not understand. We did not have a study session planned today.”

And even if you did, it wouldn’t have been at two in the morning.

You laugh again, a short, incredulous sound, and Viktor wishes he was funnier so he could be credited for it more often.

“No, genius, I’m here to get you to take a break. Also, you did miss our last session, so you owe me.”

How virtue may best lodged in beauty be

So here he was, following you through the dark university buildings as you, for the lack of a better word, broke into the arts lounge.

“It’s not breaking in if I’ve got the keys,” You justify, keys jingling in your hands. Viktor studies you as you fiddle with them, your face scrunched and tongue poking through your lips in concentration. You hadn’t taken off the lip oil you usually wore for moisture, and it glittered under the flashlight’s scrutiny.

“Hmm?” He says, realizing that you had said something, and that you were standing.

“Is the sleep deprivation getting to you, Viktor?” You tilt your head, eyes roving over his face, searching for the obvious signs of exhaustion painting his features. The purple under his eyes, drawing his face in even harsher lines, the line of tension between his brows. The way his features tended to draw into themselves like a plant unwatered. He watches you watch him, tracing your lips, touchless, trying to remember a word that wasn’t your name.

“I think it is,” He admits softly, afraid of letting you catch onto him.

You smile, hands finding the doorknob and twisting. You leaves the lights off, navigating through memory and the stray light of streetlamps streaming in. Viktor stumbles behind you, feeling his way through clumsily.

The doors to the balcony had been left open, a major oversight you grumble about as you slide them open. The air is chilly, making you shiver as it slithers past the warmth of your sweater. His sweater, Viktor notices. He had lent it to you a week ago, at your last session.

 Let him but learn of love to read in thee,

You had shown up to the library soaked through, the rain outside painting the world gray with its weeping. You tried to hide the shivering, but it was clear in the way you clenched your teeth, body drawn together with tension as you laughed off his concern.

“I don’t need my sweater, go change in the bathroom,” He had offered, both pitiful and exasperated at your lack of planning. With a sheepish smile, you had accepted the help, promising to return it as soon as possible.

Sunk into worn leather couches warmed by the nearby fireplace, you’d almost disappeared under the wool. As your hands danced across the page of the textbook in your lap, underlining and annotating the poem as you explained the basics of close-reading, Viktor couldn’t help but notice how you halted to push the sleeves up now and then as they got in the way.

It was supposed to be an easy class, but as of late, it had been taking up more time than his core courses. Not that Viktor could be bothered. You two had been in the library for hours now, on the couches near the fireplace—a frequent haunt. It was the best place to curl up with your anthologies in your laps, the lack of tables allowing  forcing Viktor to lean closer to see what you were pointing at, and—unbeknownst to him, for you to sit so your thigh would press up against his. Though he wasn’t aware of your design, he was plenty aware of the electricity firing up his nerves, even when the warmth of the fire threatened to drag him under.

He yawned, confused. Not only because he couldn’t make sense of your explanation or the sonnet itself, but also because he wasn’t used to the extreme bouts of fatigue that overtook him around you. It must be the literature, he had thought to himself, the words were literally putting him to sleep.

Stella, those fair lines which true goodness show.

“Tired?” You’d asked, sounding equally exhausted and perhaps a little hopeful. But Viktor had shaken his head—he’d needed to get through it that night, for the test was less than twenty-four hours away. The first one, his chance to set a standard for himself and to make an impression.

“Confused. I still do not understand what this last line adds to the poem. It is so…” Viktor had sighed, mouthing the line. “…random.”

“Well,” You’d started, tucking away a stray strand of hair. “If you look at the rest of the sonnet, Astrophil has been focusing on the virtuous parts of his love for Stella, basing it in admiration of her character and beauty from this very pure, respectful perspective. Almost like he was worshipping a deity rather than, I don’t know, loving a person. Keeping that in mind, what do you think the sudden interjection of desire might mean?”

Even half-asleep, you made the perfect teacher. Viktor wondered if he was making you question your decision to be an educator with his idiocy. Mulling over your words, he’d tried to formulate a response that would please you.

There shall he find all vices' overthrow,

That was the most difficult part of this subject—finding an appropriate answer. In his field, there was only ever one. But here? It felt like he was shooting in the dark, randomly putting together semblances of analysis in hopes of making the puzzle fit. It frustrated him.

“Hm,”—is what came out. Sighing, he’d tried again.

“Well, desire in this case would refer to a…carnal feeling, would it not?” The word was awkward against his tongue as he’d looked to you for approval, lighting up slightly when you nodded. Congratulations, you absolute genius, you remembered a basic definition, he thought sarcastically. It was a clear testament to his skills that even such a rudimentary recollection made you happy.

“Desire expresses, well, a desire for sustenance,” He’d continued. “So, it is being starved by the virtue of Astrophil’s love for Stella, then? Is that it?”

You smiled, teeth peeking out from behind your gloss-painted lips. “That is one interpretation, and a pretty good one at that.” Then, you’d paused, leaving Viktor confused again. A good interpretation did not mean the best one.

Not by rude force, but sweetest sovereignty

“Some might say that it’s a reminder that any true love can’t just be focused on virtue and purity, but also needs to encompass more carnal, ‘lowly’ aspects to be complete.” You explained, noticing his look. “But it really doesn’t matter what interpretation you argue for, as long as you have a strong argument.”

“But which is the better answer?” Viktor had asked incredulously, a hand threading through his hair.  

You laughed lightly. “There isn’t one, I suppose. Just whatever you can argue for.”

“That makes absolutely no sense.” He said with finality.

You shrugged as you scribbled down the analysis in his margins, leaning over so your hair was too close to Viktor’s face. He drew in a sharp breath, smelling the fresh scent of your shampoo.

“It’s just an exercise in close-reading, Viktor. The entire point is to discover the poem,”—you’d punctuated this statement with a flourish of your hand, rings glinting—"not to tie it up and beat it until it gives you the ‘right’ answer.”

Your voice had taken on that trademark gentleness, the tone it always took when you talked about anything you loved. Poetry, your favourite book, even a particularly good cup of coffee. It made Viktor’s chest ache, like it was pulling into itself, trying to shy away from you. He wondered if you could ever talk about him in that tone.

He’d been silent too long, eyes resting on your face absentmindedly. You laughed, snapping your fingers in front of him. He startled, sheepish. You’d been talking.

“Wanna call it a night?” You’d asked, shifting to face him properly, knees still tucked under your thighs.

Viktor had shaken his head. “No, I still do not feel entirely confident about this test,”

“Relax, Viktor, it’s only worth four points. Have fun with it,” You yawned, leaning your head against the couch, right beside his shoulder.

He’d mimicked you, leaning his head back to relieve the ache in his neck. “I would have thought that our semester-long acquaintance would have shown you how impossible that is.”

You had shrugged, blinking slowly. “Worth a try,”

Silence was a blanket over the two of you, your eyes shut lightly while Viktor tried to draw his away. He’d dreaded the end of this quiet, when you inevitably opened your eyes and sighed, a complaint about how you still had to go home and make dinner slipping from your lips. And Viktor had, once again, been too afraid to betray himself, to ask if you wanted to come over for dinner, to punctuate that question with the fact that his place was closer anyway. Instead, he’d stolen glances as you packed up, stopped you from returning his sweater, assuring you he’d just take it later.  

Of reason, from whose light those night-birds fly;

“Do you remember when we first met? You looked exactly like how you do right now,” On the balcony, you pull him out of his thoughts, leaning against the railing. He steps forward to join you, the cold metal a welcome shock compared to the nearly uncomfortable warmth your presence inspired in him.

“Are you trying to tell me I look horrible?” He replies flatly.

You shrug, smiling. “Maybe,”

He laughs, swallowing the faint bitter taste of self consciousness as he takes his place beside you.

That inward sun in thine eyes shineth so.

He’d been late on the first day, having to brace far too many stairs for his liking. The night before had been spent sleepless with pain in his leg, and the stairs that morning only made it worse. The only seat left was beside you, in the second row of all places. Cane thumping embarrassingly as the professor paused, Viktor had dropped beside you, trying his best not to disturb your arm as he settled in. The old hall, tucked away in the windowless basement of the Arts department, had creaky chairs and tiny pull-out desks, quite different from the state-of-the-art labs Viktor was used to. Despite his best efforts, his arm bumped against yours as he brought out his notebook.

You’d startled slightly, throwing him a small smile as he muttered a hasty apology. He began trying to decipher the page number by looking at your book, half-hidden by the arm you rested your head on. Unfortunately, you’d noticed that too. With another kind smile, you’d reached over and turned the book to the right page, pointing to the exact sonnet being discussed.

Though he thanked you, the lecture still flew over his head.

He could feel your eyes on him as you put your things away extra slowly, as if to match his pace in an attempt to not embarrass him further. If so, it didn’t work. He’d been painfully aware of the delay he was causing.

 “Are you in this faculty?” You’d asked as Viktor stood up. He was a deer caught in headlights as you swung your bag onto your shoulder.

“No, this class is, eh, a required option,” He’d said, feeling the paradox of the category.

“Really? The engineering students usually take the lower-level literature courses.”

“How do you know I’m in engineering?” Viktor had asked. Being easily discerned didn’t sound like a good thing.

You’d laughed. “Don’t worry, it’s only because I know most of the literature students, we’re a pretty small group.”

“Fair, but I could be in maths, or biology,” He’d titled his head. Around him, new students had started piling into the room. The two of you had been standing here for a while now.

“Well, you smell like motor oil and formaldehyde, so I think I got it half right.” You’d winked, stepping past him. You smelled like jasmine and books.  “I’ll see you around?”

And, not content to be perfection's heir,

And you had seen him around. The next lecture, you’d grabbed a seat closer to the entrance, saving the one beside you for him. He saw you as soon he entered, drawn to familiarity. Stopping just a step away, he noticed the bag, self-consciousness seeping in for a second as he wondered if he wasn’t as welcome as your last conversation had led him to believe. Perhaps that was just politeness, to help him save face? He had taken up a lot of your time.

Somewhere in the middle of his internal conflict, you had looked up from your book.

“Oh, hi, I saved you a seat!” You’d said cheerfully, a hint of tension in your smile. Later, you would tell him you were afraid to come off as too eager to be his friend. He found it unbelievable that someone could be embarrassed of wanting to be kind.

Viktor had never been so grateful for both his inability to decipher literature or his disability than the effect it had on his friendship with you. After the egregiously long reading list was distributed, you’d turned to him:

“I was thinking of going to get the books after class, do you want to come with? There’s quite a lot of them, so it would be easier for us to carry them together.”

Only when you were walking back to his dorm did he realize that in his eagerness to form an acquaintance, he had skipped over something quite obvious.

“You do not need help carrying these,” He said, slightly accusatory.  In one arm he carried a tower of half of the total required books, and, he realized again, only the thinnest ones.

 “Well, I didn’t want to come off as patronizing by asking you if you needed help,” You said, voice strained. From embarrassment or the effort, he could not tell. “Besides, my reasoning was so half-assed, I thought you saw through it.”

Viktor’s annoyance had only lasted a second before he noticed the breathlessness in your voice, no doubt from carrying almost double the weight you’d have to if you’d bought only your own books.

“Well then, I think I owe you for this,” He’d said, trying to keep his voice even. The truth was, even with you taking on so much of the burden, his arms and legs ached. There was no way he could’ve made it all the way back without your help. “Thank you.”

Now, you were definitely embarrassed. “You don’t have to thank me, any friend would do the same.”

Friend. He had other friends, but Viktor had still warmed at the fact that you’d decided his company was worth pursuing.

Thyself, dost strive all minds that way to move,

Now, here you were, a semester’s worth of study sessions and late-night talks later, still finding each other’s company worthy. Even as you stood silently, admiring the city’s skyline, basking in the presence of the other wordlessly.

“I must apologize,” Viktor begins suddenly. You shoot him a quizzical look but let him continue.

“For missing our last session,” He explains. Now your lips part, but Viktor continues. “No matter how busy I had been, I should’ve let you know I couldn’t make it. But I had just returned from an exam after two sleepless nights and fell asleep despite myself.”

You turn towards him, concern drawing your eyebrows together. “Viktor, why would you need to apologize for getting sleep? Speaking of which, why are you depriving yourself of rest?”

“I need to study, you know how it is,” He waves a dismissive hand, trying not to get anxious over the fact that he was currently wasting time.

“I must admit, I do not know how it is,” You reply. It was true, Viktor had noticed the delicate balance you struck in your own life, somehow always finding the time to socialize and keep yourself healthy without failing all your courses. Though you always said it was because your degree was easier, Viktor didn’t believe it.

“Unfortunately,” He sighs exaggeratedly, “we cannot all be gods of excellent time management.”

You laugh. “Not time management, just an easier program,”

Viktor shakes his head. “After taking just one of the courses that make up your schedule, I must disagree. I would have failed without you.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, sure, Vik.”

The nickname makes his heart stutter, even though you’d used it a thousand times. The lack of sleep truly was getting to him. In the silence that followed (because he couldn’t think of how to continue), you sigh.

“What’s the end for you, Vik?” You ask, looking at him sideways. “What’s the point of all this—the sleepless nights, the skipped meals, the self abandonment?”

The question was uncharacteristically heavy, and he wonders for a moment if he should inquire after you. But then again, it was half-past two and you were here, with him, instead of getting the minimum eight hours of rest you subscribed to, so perhaps that was a non-question.

Instead, he ponders the question you’d asked, mulling the words over in his mouth before speaking. He hadn’t really vocalized it before. “Well, I want to help people, I suppose. Help them and be remembered for it.”

You hum in understanding, expecting him to continue. And he does.

“I suppose I’ve felt…invisible. For most of my life, that is. Most people were embarrassed of looking at me, and the universe itself seemed to be telling me that I didn’t matter. So I made myself matter. Became the smartest in the room, the most accomplished, excelling intellectually so that no one had a chance to notice anything else.”

“Did it work?” You ask, barely above a whisper.

“I…do not know,” He admits, laughing slightly. “The recognition, the awards, the opportunities—they help, but the attention only lasts a few minutes, and it’s always…incomplete.”

“How so?”

He hesitates slightly, scared of the words about to leave him. “People don’t see all of you, I suppose. Just your mind, and your work. They still shy away from all the parts of you that don’t fit in,” He motions towards the cane still clutched in his hand, and the leg that now ached tenfold.

You hum in understanding, your eyes now finding his. “Like people only value you for what you can do, rather than who you are.”

“Exactly.” For a moment, Viktor is in awe of your ability to understand people, before he notices the tension in your shoulders and the tight way you’d said those words.

“What about you?” He asks. “What do you hope to achieve from all this?” 

Who mark in thee what is in thee most fair.

You take a breath, exhaling deeply as you look around. “Same as you, I suppose.”

“I was referring specifically to all this,” He waves a hand, gesticulating to your surroundings. “Taking care of so many people, in so many small ways. It must add up. It must take time away from studying, from actually working towards your goals.”

You laugh, but it’s more of a formality than genuine mirth. “I don’t really have big goals like you, a need to be remembered in history for doing something great. I don’t care about a classroom of kids studying history decades in the future, I care about my siblings remembering me the moment they’re, I don’t know, illegally drunk and have no ride. I want to love and be loved now, in the immediate. Screw legacy, or whatever,”

 Somewhere during your brief monologue, the fire behind your eyes had started blazing again. The traitorous ally that was the air in his lungs betrays him, as it usually does around you, but Viktor wouldn’t be surprised if he could just survive on the sight of you alone. Your shoulders tense, face taught, defenses raised, a vestige of having to defend your choices and your life from those who could never truly understand you. As much as he wished to reach out, ease the tension holding you tight, it was exhilarating to witness—the ferocity that inspired your love.

“What?” Your eyes meet his, finally, after roving everywhere else for the past few minutes. He realizes he’s been staring too long, too quietly. Licking his lips, coming up empty for words. Woops.

“Is there something on my face?”

A shake of the head. “No, no. You’re fine,”

“Alright,” You say, suspicious. “You don’t think I’m stupid, do you?”

“Of course not!” Viktor scrambles to correct you. “I was just…at a loss for words.”

“Whatever you say, Vikkie-boy,” You sigh, faking exasperation.

Viktor cringes at the nickname, which was novel.  “Please never use that term again.”

You pout, a teasing glint in your eye as you lean towards him. “Aw, you don’t like my new pet name?”

“Yes,” Viktor replies, deadpan. Partially because he cannot, with any self-respect, entertain such a monstrous butchering of his name, and because you were entirely too close to him. Close enough that he can see the pores in your skin and the pupils of your eyes, and the glittering liquid in your waterline.

So while thy beauty draws thy heart to love,

He catches the exact moment you notice it too, the proximity. Your gaze flits somewhere lower, and though he would like to flatter himself, Viktor resists the thought that comes. He hears your breath falter, tripping before correcting itself, your lips parted slightly.

Another thought, loud and overwhelming. Much harder to resist. Much harder to think past. So he doesn’t—think, that is. Doesn’t speak. Lets the silence and your confusion stretch on for a few more moments as he takes you in.

“You’re acting a bit strange,” You say, voice and eyes low. It sounds divine.  He could listen to it all night. “You wanna go to bed?”  

As fast thy virtue bends that love to good:

Viktor shakes his head. There’s never been anything he was surer of. Perhaps he should feel a bit guilty that through your profession of your morals, your defense of your values, he could only think of stepping closer to you. Of taking your breath away. Of, perhaps, taking care of you, for once. Repay you for all your favours. Perhaps he should feel guilty that instead of engaging with you intellectually, he could only think of softness, in your hair, your lips, your skin. But then again—

He recalls dimly the poem that started this all, its lines blurring past him to the beat of his own heart.

But "Ah," Desire still cries, "Give me some food!"

He could do it. Step closer, quiet the tidal waves in his mind that left him so mute. There was a ninety-five percent chance you wouldn’t mind, a similar chance you would enjoy it.

It wouldn’t feel like a forest fire, he could imagine that much. A hearth, perhaps. Steady and warm and comforting, the warm space between your lips where your breath mingles with his—peppermint and coffee, the taste of the chocolate you’d been nibbling before a palimpsest he could trace with his tongue.

He could do it.

Could he?

[demondwellersword]

hayakawa house + how they react to you reaching out to hold their hand

DENJI takes your hand and clumsily laces his fingers in yours, grinning like an idiot as he gives it a squeeze. if the two of you are walking together he’ll usually start swinging your arms for a bit until he gets bored of it, then he’ll just intermittently squeeze it to make sure you’re still there. the first time you ever held hands he stared at them for the entire bus ride, enamored by the look of how tiny your hand looked clasped in his. he’ll still do it from time to time, just marvel at the fact that someone really wants to hold his hand. he’s not beyond pressing a kiss or two into your knuckles, but only because himeno told him people think it’s romantic.

POWER just...leans down and bites your hand the first time you reach out to hold hers. she bites you hard enough to draw a bit of blood, and you’re just fast enough to yank your hand back before she gets any other ideas. this happens several more times before you finally learn your lesson, and you force her to learn hers. she insists that she doesn’t have any need for human displays of affection, and certainly nothing as dull as holding hands, but you’re pleased to note the feeling of her hand slipping into yours every now and again. she’ll always tell you how strange she finds it, but you’re not one to look a gift fiend in the mouth so you just go with it.

AKI is very hesitant when it comes to public displays of affection. he feels that it draws unnecessary attention to himself (and you, but that’s more of an afterthought), so he’s rarely ever affectionate outside of the privacy of your own homes. every once in a while, though, he’ll link your pinky with his while you walk, gradually working his way up to holding hands with you. you know better than to draw attention to it, instead choosing to focus on the fact that you treasure any bits of affection he gives you since you don’t know how many more of them you’ll get. 

[rin-fukuroi]

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐬 [𝐉𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐘𝐮𝐚𝐧]

Please do not translate or publish my works without my permission.

The originals of my works can be read here

Fandom: Honkai: Star Rail

Pairings: Jing Yuan x fem!reader

Warnings: just cute fluff

▶• ılıılıılıılıılıılı. Taemin - Pretty boy

Note: English is not my native language, so I apologize if there are errors in the text qq

Maybe the new year is already over, but it's never too late to just feel the warm and loving and caring atmosphere of the holiday

— Well, well, don't be naughty, I'm almost done! — you playfully scratch behind your big soft ear.

Mimi has been spinning around underfoot for several minutes, poking his big nose at your dangling heel in the air. No wonder, because his owner hasn't been home for several days, he misses him as much as you do. It's a pity that you can't explain to him that everything is fine, it's just that someone decided to postpone all work until the end of the year, so Mrs. Fu Xuan now doesn't let the General out of the office until there is not a single scroll left on his desk. Harsh, but Jing Yuan deserved it.

In any case, this is a good opportunity to finish the gift that you have been hiding with extreme care from your curious husband for several months. Let the General not appear at home as often as you would like, this man is as clingy as a person can imagine. Are you cooking something? He'll happily steal a couple of slices of vegetables from the chopping board and put his arm around your waist, resting his head on your shoulder until you shoo him to the table. Are you reading? It's time to take a nap on your lap — the softest and most comfortable pillow according to General Lofu Xianzhou. Going to bed? Great, he's just tired and will gladly squeeze you in his warm, almost suffocating embrace. And it's incredibly sweet, but not when there were only a few days left before the New Year so that you could finish his gift.

Leo raises his head with some puzzlement, watching you vigorously weave thick threads with knitting needles, periodically leaning back in an armchair opposite the fireplace to evaluate the preliminary result of your painstaking work. You're really bad at needlework. If someone had told you a few years ago that you would be sitting and knitting with a serious look, you would have laughed a lot at the person who voiced such a funny joke. The desire to step over yourself, learn something new, become better for another person is also part of the relationship that you got involved in as unexpectedly as you decided to make a gift with your own hands.

The firewood crackles softly in the fireplace, and the dancing flames cast a soft shadow on the carpet under your feet and a half-asleep Mimi threatening to crush your ankle when the lion settles his huge fluffy head on it. The same atmosphere, the same warmth and the same thrill as the day when Jing Yuan proposed to you so simply and casually in this very place. You've always been like this. Carefree, just enjoying each other's company. Perhaps, from the outside, your banter with each other, lightness and carelessness are seen by others as the relationship of two good friends, but isn't that the whole point? You always think that Jing Yuan is really your closest and irreplaceable friend, with a smile on your lips, inexpressibly happy that you are so lucky to have him.

Therefore, even what you are doing clumsily now, snorting irritably under your breath when the drawing slides to the side and the threads get tangled in your hands, in some way brings you pleasure. It is unlikely that Jing Yuan will wear this, as there is an extremely low probability that you will take up knitting needles again, but you pass all those warm feelings that have been lurking in your heart all these years through your fingers holding metal sticks in your hands in the hope that the General will be able to feel them on his own body.

— Oh, well, your owner will owe me when I give him this gift, — you chuckle softly, glancing at the lion, whose ear twitches as soon as it catches the sound of your voice.

A soft sigh leaves your chest as you lean back in your chair, reaching for a mug of cocoa with tiny marshmallows on the coffee table. The hot sweetness spreads in your mouth, and you calm down a little, once again looking at the sweater on your lap.

— Do you think it doesn't look too lame? — you "try on" a sweater by applying it to your chest, and you meet Mimi's sleepy gaze, snorting softly before turning away in the opposite direction from you. — Is it that bad?!

— What's wrong, dear? — the heavy weight of Jing Yuan's body abruptly falls on your shoulders, making you shudder when he suddenly sneaks up from behind, wrapping his big hands around your shoulders.

Mimi instantly takes her head off your leg and happily wags her tail, like a dog waiting for its owner. Perhaps Jing Yuan was right in calling him his pet cat.

— Aeons, you're going to give me a heart attack! — you put your hand to your chest in fright before realizing that the sweater you tied is still pressed against it, and you hurriedly crumple it up, stuffing it under your side. — Have you finished your work yet?

— Mmm, not really,— the General almost purrs, burying his nose in the curve of your neck.

— Not really?

— Aren't you glad to see me at all? It would be a shame to celebrate the New Year separately.

You roll your eyes, but gently wrap your arms around your husband's forearm, sighing in resignation.

— Okay, I'll set the table now.

You are about to get out of the warm embrace of Jing Yuan, when Mimi stops you, insistently poking his nose into your thigh, under which lies what you have been hiding from your husband for so long.

— What is it, Mimi? Did you find something? — The General's hands are leaving your shoulders, and you can almost feel cold sweat rolling down your forehead.

Jing Yuan strokes the lion's head, but he completely ignores the owner's touch, continuing to snort and try to seep between your hip and the chair.

— Y/N, are you hiding something from me? — The General squints, smiling playfully and leaning towards your face.

— N-no! I guess I just spilled some cocoa… HEY! — you scream when your husband silently crouches, grabbing your legs and throwing you over his shoulder. You squirm, frantically slapping him on the back when you feel Jing Yuan leaning into the chair. — STOP! Let me go, there's nothing interesting there!

— Really? Then why did you hide it? — The General chuckles softly, and you drop your hands in despair, noticing the sneaky lion sitting behind his master and wagging his tail contentedly. — This is…

— It's not finished yet, — you mutter unhappily, propping your chin with your fist behind your husband's back.

Jing Yuan gently holds you with one hand, with the other unfolding a soft sweater over the seat of the chair. The red threads are intertwined in neat chains, and in the center of the gift there is an embroidered lion, slightly uneven, but seemingly insanely charming to the General.

— Is that Mimi?

— Y-yes… Or what should have been him.

The man gently puts you down on the floor, and you awkwardly look away, feeling embarrassment tingle your cheeks.

— It looks ready, can I try it on?

— I told you… — you started to speak, but stopped, noticing with what trepidation Jing Yuan lifts the sweater from the chair, leaning it against his muscular chest. — Oh… All that remains is to cut the thread.

You take scissors from the table, carefully cutting the red thread, and take the sweater from Jing Yuan's hands while he hurriedly throws off his uniform, presenting himself half naked in front of you and forcing you to frantically squeeze your gift in your hand, checking whether it is too prickly to put it on a bare body.

— Y/N, — Jing Yuan smiles, holding out his hands.

— Okay, okay… — you sigh, finally giving the sweater back.

Your husband carefully pulls on his sweater, smoothing out the bound image of Mimi on his chest. He looks so happy when he looks at the thing that is bound with your own hands, and he can almost feel how your love, care and efforts are woven into these soft threads to see a smile on his face.

— Why only Mimi?" Where is my beloved wife? — The General grins, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you closer to his warm body.

— A sweater with me wouldn't be so cute, — you giggle, burrowing into Jing Yuan's chest. So softly.

— Who told you that? — your husband's fingertips are placed under your chin, forcing you to look at him. — You are the sweetest woman in the world.

The man's amber eyes sparkle in the soft light of the fireplace, and you can't help but smile, rising on tiptoe to leave a short kiss on the General's cheek.

— Flatterer, do you think this will save you from being punished for ruining the whole surprise?

— I hope so, — The General rubs the tip of his nose against yours, loosely closing his eyes and pressing you closer to his body. — Thank you, my love.

P.S. Mimi's credibility was undermined after this incident!

[sunjaesol]

soljae | one shot, parents, established relationship | prompt: kin

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

"No."

"Sol, please."

"No," Sol repeated, stern, arms crossed as though squaring up against her husband. "I don't care what your dad did, but we are not throwing Hye-young in the water and see if she can 'naturally' swim. She's not a goose."

"Goose!" Hye-young mimicked happily, followed by quaking sounds. The couple looked down at their daughter seated on the iron bench.

The public pool was expectedly busy on a Saturday afternoon. Elderly swimming laps in the Olympic bath, children chasing each other in the shallow end, tired parents relaxing their muscles in the hot tub.

It was the first time Sol and Sunjae brought their four-year-old to the pool. Last night, Sunjae adamantly stated he wanted her to swim before all the other kids in her class. Sol believed it had more to do with his pride as an ex-pro swimmer, but whatever.

Hye-young wore a bright red bathing suit and thick plastic floaties strapped around thin arms. Sunjae got more looks for using all his oxygen to blow them up than for the fact that he was a fairly popular drama actor at a public pool.

"We're not throwing her in," Sol said again. Her tone left no room for arguing—a skill she learned from her own mother.

Sunjae sighed. "Fine. You win, Sol-ah. I'll go in the pool with her."

Sol's frown dissipated in a snap for a brilliant grin. "Good. I'll take pictures!"

"Goose, goose! I'm a goose!" Hye-young squeaked. "I'm a goose, mom!"

"I can tell," Sol replied, earnest. "Do you want to go in the pool with father goose?"

Hye-young's face froze in horror at Sol's words, as though she hadn't realised they were at the pool to swim. Maybe she hadn't. But now her lower lip jutted out and her eyes widened in fear. Her hands dropped to the edge of the bench, chubby fingers clamping onto the metal.

The girl shook her head. "I don't want to."

Sunjae squatted before the toddler, squeezing her leg. "It's going to be just like the mermaids in that film you like. Or like... uh... Moana! The Moana movie!"

Hye-young eyed her father suspiciously. Somehow, despite her age, she could detect when someone was full of shit. Sol wondered who she inherited that trait from.

"It'll be fine, Hye-young-ie," he soothed. "I'll hold your hand and won't let go."

"Promise?" she pressed.

"Promise."

And that was that. Hye-young latched onto Sunjae and together they walked to the shallow end of the pool. Sol watched from the bench, armed with her phone, and prayed to whatever God was up there that Sunjae wasn't going to do something stupid.

Slowly, the two descended into the pool. So far, Hye-young probably felt like it would be like the kiddie pool from her friend's birthday party.

"Alright, Hye-young," Sunjae began. He was crouching, but most of his body was still dry. "I'll hold your hands, you start kicking your feet. Yeah? You'll start floating."

His daughter blinked at him as though he spoke a different language. He paused. Maybe throwing her in was the move. Nature over nurture and all that. But Sol was watching him like a hawk and he promised Hye-young to stick to her.

Maybe next time.

They went through a couple of easy drills—making frog-like moves with her legs, opening and closing her arms at the same time, keeping her chin above the surface—and within twenty minutes she was clumsily performing a breaststroke.

Sol was hooting and hollering from the sideline, filming every moment.

"I'm doing it, I'm doing it!" Hye-young screeched. Her voice echoed off the walls, but neither parent cared that they were drawing attention. Their toddler was freaking swimming. What a feat!

Sunjae smiled from ear to ear. "You're a natural!"

After a couple of meters, Hye-young got tired and Sunjae scooped her into his arms. Her cheeks were red from exertion, but she was beaming with pride. Sunjae didn't have the heart to tell her that in a couple weeks they'd ditch the floaties.

And that he would launch her into the pool.

[soliblomst]

A Very Drarry Christmas

or what are my various drarries doing for the holidays?

Thank you @smehur for the tag 🎄🎄 - The Boy from the Piano Shop "Thundering heartbeats. The creaking of the piano chair, the friction of fabric, a breath, and a kiss. Quick, sudden, almost stolen like a thief—a bad thief, for he had left evidence on Harry's lips that would last forever. Harry wished Malfoy had asked before kissing him, but he was so glad he hadn't. It sent fire through his bones and brought every part of his wounded soul to life—perhaps too much so, because, for a second, he thought his heart would explode. It was like a concentration of all sorts of emotions at once: fear, guilt, and shame, but also excitement and a singular sense of sadness drowned in extreme joy. That strange feeling of thinking it was wrong but not regretting it.

"I'm sorry," Malfoy stammered.

"Don't."

That was all that came out of Harry's mouth. They sat there for a moment, barely breathing.

"Um, maybe I should go," Harry eventually faltered.

He staggered to his feet, a sort of numbness spreading through his limbs as he moved towards the front door. At the doorstep, Harry stopped and turned, Malfoy following a few steps behind him.

"Happy Christmas, Draco."

Silence.

"Merry Christmas, Harry.” - When We Were Angels: After the age of five, the guardians no longer gave presents for Christmas or birthdays but encouraged the children to handcraft something special for one another. This could be a drawing, a poem, a painting done in class, or any other creative gift. Unsurprisingly, Draco never received anything from the other children, nor did he bother to make any gifts himself. Then, over the years, he developed the habit of drawing something for Harry and would beg Harry not to reciprocate. Instead, Harry opted to give him a compliment. Over time, as they learned to write, Harry replaced these compliments with little poems clumsily written on scraps of paper. His poems were objectively bad, sometimes even illegible due to Harry’s terrible handwriting and spelling mistakes. And, although they made him laugh a lot, Draco kept them all in the drawer of his bedside table, like treasures he would hold dear forever. - Je te reverrai: The air around him harbours a smell of skin, his skin. Honey and cinnamon and lust, and Harry says softly, “Embrasse moi.” 

It doesn’t take much French to understand what Harry has just said. Yet Draco wants to hear him say it again. So he asks, “What?”

“Embrasse-moi,” Harry repeats, leaning closer until their breaths mingle.

“Say it again?”

Harry’s grin against his lips sends an overwhelming rush of excitement from his throat down to his fully erect cock. Draco opens his mouth, sticking out his tongue and inviting himself into his delicious smile. For the first time, he leads the dance. His fingers nestle around Harry’s neck, tickled by unruly curls, and Harry responds with a similar enthusiasm. They kiss, moan, and devour each other’s faces as their hands travel up and down their slowly warming skin. Holding the back of Draco’s head with one hand, the other too busy cupping his buttocks, Harry leads him to the bed and gently pushes him so that he’s perched on the edge of the mattress, his cold arse meeting the delicate silk of the sheets. Arms outstretched to support his weight, Draco finally takes the time to study the body looming over him. He admires every line, every ripple of muscle and flesh, and Harry waits motionless, panting and staring at the naked young man sitting on his bed. The tidal wave of concupiscence within Draco grows stronger, faster, to the point where it becomes almost painful.  I tag @pl0tty @thecouchsofa @tripably 💕 No pressure!

[blradley]

intro powerpoint for that one whacky passion project of mine -

Do you enjoy unreliable narrators with a distinctive voice?

Do you like characters who have done genuinely bad things, and now have to Work Through All That while consciously choosing to be better?

Do you like characters who have redemption arcs dangled in front of them, and instead choose to be worse?

Then jump aboard a flying whale and set sail into no man's sky with

Voxalion Ilsair: Grave of Gods!

Cursed by a relic of their long-dead gods, Vox and Mavrik are bound to each other, life to life. If one dies, so shall the other – which is a problem, as Vox wants to eradicate humanity, Mavrik included; and Mavrik wants nothing more than to kill Vox, the lightning elemental who slaughtered her family. Their only hope of breaking the curse lies in the gods' tomb, located on a legendary lost island that rises above the endless Eversea. Mavrik and Vox embark on an expedition, braving skywaymen and sapient storms, so they can be free of each other – and commence their overdue duel to the death. But Mavrik and Vox aren't the only ones seeking the grave of the gods. When they cross a cult intent on claiming the gods’ powers for themselves, Vox and Mavrik learn that they have far worse enemies than each other.

Genre: adult solarpunk fantasy Suitable age range: 15+ (no explicit content but some swearing, violence, and creepy monsters) Status: with my wonderful agent for edits!

Image Descriptions:

Powerpoint slide with a blue sky background. Text reads: “HUMANITY HAD FALLEN. Unfortunately, they got back up again.” The quote is attributed to: Voxalion Ilsair, being a prat, as per the uzshe

Dark blue sky background, title of Worldbuilding Be Upon Ye. Text reads: Okay so hear me out. What if the gods created an amazing utopia where technology and magic were intertwined and humans and zstragi (fey forces of nature) lived side by side But then something went wrong. Their world ripped itself apart and the mountains crumbled and the seas rose and some monstrous force came and wiped out all the gods?? What if an approximate ten thousand humans survived in nine flying cities, situated across the drowned globe? And what if they began rebuilding their civilization – clumsily, desperately, devastated by the loss of 99% of their population? What if they were living in hollowed-out solarpunk temples to the dead gods, surrounded bydangerous artifacts that they didn’t understand, desperately scrabbling for survival on a hostile planet? What if, gradually, the tales of their past became warped by myth and conflicted retelling? What if the humans and zstragi were at war? And had been for centuries? Because, in their relentless struggle of survival, they began to consume each other? What if there were whispers that a treasure trove of ancient knowledge had survived the Cataclysm, hidden deep in zstragi territory: the lawless, storm-ravaged chaos of No Man’s Sky? A meme-drawing of a stick figure holding their head and looking perturbed while covered in sweat, is tucked in one corner of the slide. The caption reads 'okay that's enough world building'

Turquoise sky background. Text reads: TL; DR: In a world where land is a long-lost legend… Where whale carcass blimps, fat with helium, swim through an endless lightning-lashed sky… Where flying cities are beset by sentient storms… …an unlikely group of heroes embarks on an epic journey…

Pale blue sky background with a flying whale. Text reading: That's right! It's Voxalion Ilsiar: Grave of Gods by B. L. Radley

Piccrew of Vox, a blue-green skinned hairless inhuman being with pointed ears, sharp teeth, three eyes, and facial tattoos. Introductory text reads: Voxalion Ilisair, they/them Your humble narrator, providing you with a 100% trustworthy recollection of events ❤️ zero bias here. none whatsoever❤️❤️ (okay so maybe they’re a zstragi terrorist who wants to annihilate humanity) (what a shame it would be if, over the course of the story, they begin to question everything they’ve been taught hahahaaha) Ridiculously OP lightning zstragi who was raised to be a mass-murder weapon. Then they got nerfed by a little girl Now that little girl is all grown up. The divine artifact that tore away Vox’s powers also bound them to her soul – meaning, if she dies, Vox dies. Dammit. Tinkerbell-sized, with attitude to match. N#1 fear: becoming human

Piccrew of Mavrik, a white tan-skinned woman with short fluffy pale blonde hair, blue eyes, and half her face torn off, with lightning scars radiating out from the hole in her cheek that shows off her molars. Text reads: Mavrik Skarr, she/her Vox’s worst enemy. Their foresworn foe. Their nefarious nemesis… Okay, so maybe Vox killed her family and tore her face and (quite literally) broke her heart, and Mavrik swore she would have revenge First though, she’s gotta undo this stupid curse As a stormhunter, Mav is employed to slay zstragi like Vox Grumpy and stoic, she struggles to emote. prefers grunting to talking, and fighting to grunting Has suffered from heart problems since The Curse. Uses Vox as a defibrillator/pacemaker. Basically an unsocialized feral kitten who has 0 clue how to interact with anyone she isn’t battling to the death Juggling her desire for friends against her natural awkwardness, her lack of experience with other humans, and that dark, ugly inclination towards violence that whispers away in the back of her mind… N#1 fear: becoming a monster

Secondary characters slide. First piccrew is of Oliaris, a Black man with a delicate, pretty face, wearing expensive jewellery. Text reads: Oliaris, he/him Nice friendly guy who never did anything wrong in his entire life (I lie. there are atrocities.) (he is coming to terms with the atrocities. But it’ll take a while… 😉) Delicate pretty city-boy who prefers the finer things in life, but is living the Chronic Pain LifeTM instead Super-smart ex-scientist. why ‘ex’? haha don’t worry about that Gets dragged into helping Vox and Mavrik break their curse – but has an agenda of his own… Second picture is of Atticus, a white man with red-brown hair and freckles, in a labcoat. Text reads: Atticus, he/him SPEAKING OF EXES AND ATROCITIES - Has a somewhat turbulent past with Oliaris (they fucked. they absolutely fucked. they 100%, totally fucked.) Now he’s Oliaris’ bitter rival, racing to beat him to the grave of the gods and the treasure trove of ancient knowledge stashed therein Shy, awkward people-pleaser who just wants everyone to like him 😔 Don’t ask about the bloodstains. just. don’t. 🙂

Tertiary characters. First piccrew is of Sylvestra, a Black woman with similiar features to Oliaris. Text reads: Sylvestra, she/her Oliaris’s sister: a professional storm-hunter employed by Atticus who detests her brother. For reasons. Tries to be cold-hearted and unfeeling. isn’t very good at it. Deep down, she just wants her family back :c Next piccrew shows an Asian individual with long black hair and a tattoo on their throat. Text reads: Jagura, they/them Captain of a skywayman ship that terrorizes the vessels of No Man’s Sky Impulsive and friendly, but ruthless. Will rob you while chatting like you’re besties Here for a good time, not a long time xoxo Piccrew 3: a bulky purple inhuman creature with long pointed ears and tattoos. Text reads: Renzou, he/him Jagura’s loyal first mate Will rob you while apologizing profusely Protective and kind Humans are friends, not food! Fourth piccrew: a white boy with pale hair and very blue eyes. Text reads: ??? [no name or pronouns] Once upon a time, a boy crawled into the mouth of a dead whale. What crawled out was changed forever…

stormy grey background to the slide. text reads: One shared goal: To pilot their whale blimp safely through no man’s sky and find the lost grave of gods Conflicting ambitions: To undo a curse. to regain lost power to kill an old enemy. to restore reputation. To seek priceless treasure. To save the world – wait, what?

Quotes page, set against a blue sky background. Quotes are: ‘Zstragi ate humans, sure. But humans devoured us with equal impunity: crushing our heart-stones, shredding our life-force to add power to their grid and keep their impossible cities aloft.’ ‘As occurred approximately two dozen times a day, Mav got that look on her face that meant she was contemplating tossing me into the oceans and letting fate run its course. As also occurred approximately two dozen times a day, she decided against it. Grudgingly.She and I were trapped together. For better or worse, in sickness or health, till death did we part…’ “I spy with my three glowing eyes…” “Shut up, Vox.” and ‘The distant slurry of Mavrik’s thoughts slid against my own, lumpy with old memories. Dead parents, dead families. Dead-dead-dead; burnt from the inside out, eyeballs popped like squashed flies and tongues crisped to charcoal— Time was said to heal all wounds, but it couldn’t erase their scar. I awkwardly cleared my throat.’

Themes page, with a picture of several angel statues. Text reads: The way ahead is fraught with danger. Secrets abound, old  grudges flare, and hungry storms gather on the horizon… Themes: Humanity. What does it mean, to be human? Are some cruelties so great that the offender should never be redeemed? Equality. At what point do we decide that one life is worth more than another? Why? Family. How do you know when a bond is broken beyond repair?

Dark blue sky background, with text reading: What else have we got? #macguffins #unreliable narrator #enemies to…? #lovers to rivals #copious footnotes #corruption arcs #redemption arcs #multiple queer and disabled characters! #body horror #unique cultures #flying whales #solarpunk aesthetic #in-depth, innovative world building. A stick-figure meme sits in one corner, showing a character grabbing another person's shoulders and digging their nails in to hit blood, their face a grimace of pain. The text beneath reads: 'so much more world building'

[ask-the-critters-survival-au]

Okay first of all…

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR 200 FOLLOWERS!

Seriously, you guys mean the world to me and I absolutely love the fact that people are interested in learning about my silly little au!

So as a thank you present…why don’t we take a little peak into the mind of our favorite chicken?

Happy reading ;)

[Related post]

KickinChicken threw open the door to the councilor’s office, the utter force of the movement causing him to stumble and fall against the door frame. He clumsily broke his fall by clutching the door case just in time. He leaned against it, trying his hardest to breathe, but he just couldn’t. Someone had his throat clenched in a heavy grip, disabling him from taking full breaths, but there was nobody there. He was alone.

Playcare echoed with the sounds of his loud, choked sobs, each one more strangled than the last. The warm blood coating his fingers felt sticky and uncomfortable. He despised it. He wanted it gone. But when he tried to wipe it off, he felt the fur of the severed limb he was still holding rub against his feathers, painting his side in fresh crimson. He looked at it. The trademark dusty green color the long ear once held was now something you had to squint to recognize. Warm, wet, sticky blood coated the entire ear, dripping down from the torn half into small pools of blood on the floor. The strong scent of peppermint was now replaced with a sickly, rotting smell that made Kickin’s stomach flop.

His feathers felt too heavy. His bones felt too bulky and his mouth too wide. His talons felt unnaturally huge, too huge to be apart of his foot. His skin felt like it was boiling. He could feel sweat dripping off him, soaking his feathers. The taste of bile was slowly building up in the back of his throat.

He stumbled forward again, but before he was aware of it, tripped on the staircase. He let out an uncanny screech as he tumbled down, each sharp crevice digging into his body and leaving behind uncomfortable sparks of pain in its wake.

He rolled to a stop at the foot of the stairs and laid there, unmoving. His heart got louder with every beat, each boom ringing in his ears. The pain that was tingling all over his body, his head, his shoulders, his arms, his legs, his back, he wanted it gone. He wanted the sticky feeling gone. He wanted the disgust he felt with himself gone. Kickin could feel the bile raising again in his throat, and before he could swallow it back down, it came out. Kickin sat there on all fours, his shoulders shaking violently as he retched the first meal he had eaten in weeks.

After what seemed like a long, long time, he managed to get to his feet without his legs giving out on him. He wiped his mouth half heartedly with his wing, but he knew he’d have to take some form of a bath to clean himself up. Without running water in the factory, he’d have to make do with the water from the vending machines.

-

“Come on,” Kickin meekly hissed, dribbling water over his filthy feathers. The blood stains weren’t coming out. He let out a loud squawk of frustration and slammed his fist into the side of the broken vending machine he was sitting next to. He immediately regretted this decision, drawing his hand back at the prickling sharp pain. He cradled his palm in his other hand, wincing.

“Why are you wasting the only water we have left?” A gravely voice rang out from behind him. Kickin’s feathers bristled in recognition.

“What are you gonna do about it?” He taunted, trying (and failing) to keep his voice from wavering. “Take another big, juicy bite?”

“Kickin, I’m…” Picky Piggy trailed off, hugging herself. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t control-“

“Yeah yeah, I’ve heard that excuse so many times,” Kickin brushed her off, holding up a wing dismissively. Picky’s brow knit together in frustration, but she didn’t retort. Kickin popped open the cap to another water bottle and started pouring more water over himself. The water was messing up his hair, but he found that he couldn’t care less. He just wanted the muck off him. He didn’t want to think about the fact that Hoppy’s blood could end up permanently staining his hands. Or of the implications that the severed ear held.

Behind him, Picky continued to stare at him, unmoving. He glanced back at her, slowly growing irritated with her presence. But before he could snap anything, she was first.

“What happened to Hoppy?” She suddenly began to press. Kickin flinched. “You smell more like peppermint than ylang-ylang right now. And she’s been missing for a day. Same with Crafty and Bobby. Not to mention you’re covered in blood-“

“I didn’t do anything to her!” Kickin howled, whirling around to face her. The words rang hollow, and Kickin knew it. He had done something absolutely horrible to her. Tears began to well in the corner of his eyes, his hysteria controlling him with a tight leash. “She left! Crafty and Bobby did too! And CatNap just threw her severed fluffing ear at me! To eat! To eat, Picky! And I don’t-“ He cut himself off with a choked sob, burying his face in his hands.

“I just don’t know what to do,” The chicken quietly admitted.

“Wait,” Picky interjected, eyes wide. “Did you say they left?”

“Yes, I did!” Kickin snapped at her. “Hoppy invited me to come, but I said no because I knew they’d get killed! And they…I don’t even know if she’s alive.” He finished weakly. But Picky was barely paying attention to his distraught anymore.

“They never asked me to come,” Picky whispered. She took a small step backwards, staring at the ground. They never asked her. Was it because she got too hungry? Was it because she was too dangerous? Or was it because they just didn’t care? Was it all three? Was it for even more reasons? Did they hate her this entire time? Were they just waiting for a reason to leave her?

“Oh, boo hoo,” Kickin sneered. “You should know very well why Hoppy didn’t invite you, after what you’ve done. Hell, you should be glad that you weren’t invited! You would have…” He trailed off. The hand felt like it was back there again, squeezing his throat in an iron fist. Just getting words out was now something he had to fight for.

Picky was also dead silent. She stood there, watching him, expression unreadable. It was silent for a few minutes, both parties just staring at each other.

“You said,” Picky started with a wavering voice. She swallowed and started again. “You said CatNap gave you her ear. To eat.”

“Gosh, Picky, don’t remind me-“

“Where is it?”

Kickin let out a strangled noise of surprise, turning to stare at her. She stared back, gaze unwavering. He looked down, around him, and then realized the ear wasn’t with him. He must have dropped it without realizing it. It was probably still at the councilors office. He hesitated for a long moment, before slowly raising up a shaky finger and pointing towards the building. Picky turned around to eye what he was pointing at, and then stormed off in the same direction.

Kickin didn’t bother watching her leave. He glanced down at the empty water bottle in his hand. The blood still hadn’t come out.

“Stupid,” Kickin muttered, clenching the bottle harder. “Stupid, stupid, STUPID!” He shrieked, chucking the bottle as far as he could. It landed on the statue in the middle of Playcare with a loud clang.

His eyes were burning with tears that soaked into his feathers and left red circles under his eyes. Defeated, Kickin slid back against the vending machine he had broken. The shattered glass dug painfully into his back, and he was pretty sure he was bleeding somewhere, but all he could think about was how royally he screwed up.

He hugged his knees to his chest and let the tears fall. He was such a screw up. Now because of him, Hoppy was probably dead. He just wanted to protect her, and Crafty, and Bobby.

“It’s not your fault,” Kickin told himself, even though he knew that wasn’t true. He told CatNap they were going to escape. He put them in danger. “You couldn’t have known that he would react that way.” He should have known that he would react that way. CatNap was dangerous, and he knew it.

“You just wanted to protect your friends.” Hah, protect. Sure did a damn good job at that. Great job, KickinChicken. You deserve a gold star.

“It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault,” He repeated, trying to convince himself that it was true. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your-“

A loud, sickening crunch startled him into looking up. Standing in front of him was Picky, mouth and hands covered in blood. She was holding Hoppy’s bloody dismembered ear in her hands, which now had a large bite mark in the side. Picky looked Kickin dead in the eyes, and took another bite.

Kickin scrambled to his feet and shoved past her, running as fast as his feet could carry him. He spread his wings as he ran, and took off to the faux sky. He frantically flapped around, his drenched, heavy feathers making flying a task much harder than usual. He soared updraft until he landed atop a nest of blankets, pillows, and various knickknacks settled upon a small nook in the back of the dome. The second he landed, his knees gave out from underneath him and he fell face first onto the nest. Kickin fumbled awkwardly around until his hands grasped a pillow, and buried his beak into it.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Kickin hiccuped, tears staining the pillow. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault.” If he kept telling himself that, surely he’d begin to believe it eventually, right?

[firecracker-pup]

Not Quite Like Them -- 1

Fic -- Chapter 1

Firecracker's heart beat hard in the not-so-little slugcat's chest. They grew taller than most of the scavengers at the stronghold (even its father, Acid) and decided to set out to travel up the iterator.

Through pestering from an overseer, and repeated tales from elders. Firecracker eventually followed the observer where it pointed, waving its small blue pointers where it wanted Firecracker to go.

"This way again?" Firecracker grumbled, raising a brow at the small robot. It stared back blankly. The slugcat huffed, walking up to the thing, which darted away. "...Whatever."

It flashed a warning sign rapidly, causing Firecracker to squint. It had come to learn that was the creatures, 'warning sign' for danger. Which meant something was coming. Firecracker pricked their ears, drawing a spear from their sash.

A snapping noise, a long hissing sound, clumsily stomping over- alerted Firecracker, who darted up a pole, which the overseer closely followed. Green lizard. Before they turned, it aimed the weapon at the noise.

"...It's just me, Fire." A voice piped up. A friend. A slender, spiky elite within the stronghold- named Claw. They rode atop the lizard, the green lizard within the stronghold. It had found friendship and food with the tribe, becoming quite docile to scavengers. "Came to see you off."

With a small laugh, Firecracker lowered the spear, tucking it back into their sash of items. They stepped down from the pole, and up to Claw. "Sorry. Been a bit on edge with travelling alone."

"You don't have to. I could come with, Firecracker." Claw smiled, drawing down her carved mask. The lizard chuffed, maybe agreement, or disagreement.

"It's too dangerous, Claw. I don't want you to get hurt." Firecracker answered swiftly to the elite-Claw and looked disappointedly back at them. Firecracker knew she wanted to come. "I don't want you to get hurt."

"I don't want you to get hurt." Claw answered sternly with a sigh, jumping down from the lizard's side. She grabbed Firecracker's hands and wrapped her arms around their body, hugging it tightly.

Claw unraveled herself from the hug, putting her mask back on before handing Firecracker a small thing. It looked like a symbol from graffiti. "Have this for luck. It's something I found as a kit."

Claw stepped back, patting the green lizard's head and hopping back onto its back. The green lizard chuffed, shaking its head before turning.

Firecracker unraveled its fingers from the object its friend pressed into their palm. It was a small drone, a bit dusty and not working. Old. Nonetheless, they'd continue, only ending up feeling sorrow, missing a friend a bit more.

-- People who may be interested : @tbtimebomb , @angelofchaos001 , @cameroneatsdirt , @phoenix-drowning-ina-rainy-world , @kalivasquezart , and @theforgowolf

[crzyimp]

Another Sun Au: Tang Monk and Young Sun

Author's Note: Written for the discord JTTW server event! Ngl this is one of my guilty pleasures and one I often think about/daydream. This is a intro to hopefully more(when I have time to write) of my au. Also open for any questions(and requests if it sparks my mood) related to Journey to the west :3

Warnings: None

Words: Roughly 1.65k

Special thanks and shoutout to @sparrow-in-boots for being my beta reader! Check out their blog(s) and art!!

“Baldy monky! I'm here for the secret lesson!” A jovial voice shrieks, the voice bouncing and echoing in his cell. It wouldn't be a secret for long with how loud she's being, but then again, not a single adult yaoguai monkey stopped her yet, nor did the Great Sage make an appearance since that day. So much trust to allow her to roam free like this or how overconfident the ruler of the mountain seems to be, with no care that even children can come and go as they please.

He opens and closes his mouth, as if to say something, before calmly replying to her; “Young Sun,” he wants to keep his distance, at least emotional and personal, “Refrain from shouting, remember inside voices, less you draw six ears.” Especially when any day his head will be on a platter for the Great Sage and his sworn brothers as the grandest of grand feasts. “And please do not call me ‘Baldy Monky’, it's rude.”

Finally she comes into his view with a blank expression, but her eyes sparkle with innocent joy. “Sorry, shifu.” Young Sun whispers, crouching next to his bars. “I got excited about today's lessons.” Tripitaka sighs, tries his best to smile at her, only to falter when she flinches. “I'm really sorry for being loud. Please don't be mad at me.” He can only blink and look at her.

Mad at her? Sure, he was mad and frustrated, but at his situation rather than her; Tripitaka was meant to be journeying to the West to gather the scriptures to bring back to the Tang Empire, along with his small party. The travel was ruinously cut short after they were captured by yaoguai, with Tripitaka as the sole survivor who witnessed the others devoured. He would’ve met the same fate, but fate was crueler. The Heaven-Equaling Great Sage, the one who wreaked havoc in heaven and escaped from Budda’s imprisonment, happened to pay a visit to his lowly general's home. The look from those fiery eyes petrified his very soul that day, before the Great Sage declared that he will stay at the Flower Fruit Mountain for a celebration in the coming weeks, as the main course. “Dis….Young Sun, let us start with your lesson.” He shifts to face her, his beads - bless the Merciful Bodhisattva they didn't strip from him - cupped together in his hands.

“Okay, Shifu.” Young Sun mimics him, albeit clumsily, her thin and hairy arms shuffling her equally hairy legs to cross together like his. His lips twitches, as he fondly looks at her and reminded how at her age he did the very same thing: full of energy and wonderment for the world with a yearning to learn and to help; until the iron bars between them came back to his view and the bleak reminder of his future. Despite this, he begins the first teachings of Buddhism, blessed that at least this persistent, curious monkey wants to learn.

It wasn't even a day after his arrival that Young Sun met him for the first time.

“I am Sun Yángguāng, the youngest and first to be born in 500 years! Who are you, ape? And why are you bald?”

He was so terrified and shocked at their first, but short meeting together as the Great Sage and his four ape generals were there as well. Tripitaka can't recall if it was one of the generals or the Great Sage himself who whisked her away for a scolding. Not that it did much, as she found ways to visit him and learn much of the outside world and Buddhism through him.

“Um…shifu..” Her voice was quiet and unsure, something that must've been on her mind for some time.

“We're not meant to talk during meditation.” He replies.

“I know but…” Young Sun sighs and Tripitaka opens his eyes to look at her. “...I'm conflicted, each day draws nearer to the King's grand feast with the other sages and your…” She bites down at her lip, her eyes move to the ground when they meet his. Ah, this topic again. He remembers how jovial she was at the beginning of the feast and the special occasion until she realized what it meant for him. A topic that is that left her more somber and haunted by restless nights, though this never stopped her from visits and lessons.

“I cannot be biased and say I wish to die, Young Sun. I wish to live so that I continue my journey, but if I am fated to die here, then so be it.” He accepted this, it breaks his heart that he'll fail before he even began,but he'll atone in his next life. He just never expected this would also break her heart, someone who only knew him for a short time. Tripitaka watches as she bows her head and her knuckles turn white with her colorful hanfu bunched up between her fingers; her body shakes with a sharp inhale. He doesn't say a word, nor comforts or cries, he accepts his death and so must she.

No words were exchanged between them after that, Young Sun collects herself and leaves with her head high, but her eyes clouded. Tripitaka inhales deeply and returns to his meditation. That was the last time he saw her, never returning for lessons or visits again; the small ray of sunshine made his lonesome cell dark and alone with his thoughts.

Days or weeks have passed, and Tripitaka wasn't certain how long he's been trapped, but none of that matter as today was his final day in this life. The guards came and announced it before they escorted him from the dingy dungeon to the opulent stone palace. So many twists and turns that made his head spin. It was like a labyrinth and only the residents would know the exit. It was hopeless to even attempt an escape. Before the guards arrived in a room with a tray of food and wine. So the Great Sage had some compassion to allow him one final supper, even if it was back handed to him.

The guards toss him onto the stone floor, the rugs his only means to dampen his fall and the cold before they turn and slam the door with a laugh. He can still hear them through the thick wood as he dusts himself off. If he listens more closely, he can hear the chattering of servants as he sits with his eyes closed.

“Today's finally here!”

“All the Sages under one roof like before the Great War. This will be the perfect mend between our alliance!”

“I heard the Demon Bull King is bringing his son, but not his first wife. I wonder if one of his servants has juicy gossip about that.”

“Grandfather Sun has picked such a perfect day to celebrate, such an auspicious day!”

“Shifu.” A hush whisper against his ear and hands quickly press to stop any sounds of panic slipping through his mouth. “It's me, Young Sun.” Tripitaka finally relaxes and opens his eyes as her arms slip past his head. “I meditated and reflected before I finally found the answer.” He shuffles until he can see Young Sun and softly gasps at the sight. “I decided to fully dedicate myself to be your disciple and helping you on your journey.”

The candle's lights shine beautifully against her freshly shaven head and just beyond, over her shoulder from his view, a hidden passage. “We don't have much time Shifu, we have to hurry before they find ou-”

Just as Young Sun helps bring her master to his feet, a scream bounces and echoes off the walls, cutting through all else and sending the whole palace in a flurry. “Yángguāng! Someone took our Yángguāng!”

Sun Yángguāng wastes no time as she guides her master through the secret passage and closes it behind them. She has to be quick and clever for them to escape. She hoped Aunty RinRin wouldn't check up on her for another thirty minutes, but she should've expected today's excitement that Aunty Rinrin wanted her to look her best for the guests. Her hands reach for his, and she presses a finger to her lip before navigating the secret passage; crossing one room to reach a new one without notice. One day, Young Sun will apologize for the fright she given to Aunty RinRin over the mess of her room, but not today.

The two pause and stop whenever footsteps drawing near are heard, only to go a different direction. She leads downwards, deeper into the stone palace, “Trust me, Shifu.” As if she knew his doubts, and gave a squeeze to the monk's hand. Tripitaka says nothing, but squeezes her hand back.

The smell of a salty breeze, cracks of moonlight dances on the small craven dock. “This is how the elders survived the burning.” Young Sun helps Tripitaka into the small boat, barely enough room for the two of them between boxes and jars. “Forgive me for my absence. I was getting preparations ready, and it wasn't easy to go unnoticed. It's the downside of being the youngest and only mortal of my kingdom.”

He watches her untie the ropes and use the oar to push away from dry land. “I hope the king was drinking his fill before that scream, I don't think I can outsmart him when his mind isn't dull with wine. Hopefully there is mercy and we leave without his notice.”

Gently, the oar glides and swishes in the water as the boat exits the cave and into the open; neither of them dare light a lantern nor talk as the sounds of shouting and soon fighting rang out from the island. They keep their eyes forward as the sounds are slowly drowned by the waves splashing against the boat on their journey to the west.

[suzukiblu]

'Think About It' by American Authors makes me think of "feral Kon and liger pups"

Panthera colors her pictures carefully and Kato peeks at them and croons approvingly. Even if humans don’t understand “pretty”, it makes her happy that he likes them. She wonders if Kato could learn how to draw too. Humans are pretty clumsy, but still. Kato’s a really smart human, so maybe he could. 

“Do you want to try?” she suggests, holding out one of her pretty blue pastels and turning to a blank page. Kato . . . blinks, slowly, and takes the pastel. “Like this,” Panthera tells him, picking out the pink one and drawing a nice neat circle to show him. “Now you!” 

Kato blinks again, staring at her circle. Then he clumsily drags the blue pastel across the paper and traces Panthera’s circle with it. Panthera makes a delighted noise. It’s messy, but he did it! 

“Good boy!” she says excitedly. “That’s so good, Kato!” 

Kato stares at the paper for a moment, then drags the pastel across it again in awkward, uncertain circles, over and over. Panthera claps happily. He’s doing so good! She knew he was smart enough!

[asher-writes]

a lil bit of art as I try and clumsily navigate learning to draw. Again.

[misrepresentedmorallygrey]

PROPAGANDA

Rose Propaganda

"We saw her character arc in reverse!! We first saw all the good she did and then learned of her terrible actions in the past. If her story was told the other way around, it would have been a great redemption arc. Yes, she did some terrible things, but she had no choice. She did everything she could to stop the colonization of earth peacefully buy nothing worked. Blue and yellow diamond just didn't listen to her and when they did, THEY were the ones who made the zoo and shit. Rose wanted to free them but couldn't get to them after the war! And with the corruption, there's no way she could have known that'd happen. There's so many things she wanted to do but just couldn't. And with spinel, yes it was shitty to leave her alone for so long, but again, between running her court, running the rebellion, dealing with earth, she likely wasn't a very high priority and like with the zoo, there was no way to get to her after the war since the galaxy warp was destroyed. And don't forget, she was practically a child around this time. You're saying you didn't do any stupid, selfish, or harmful things as a kid? She learned from her experiences and grew, we just saw that growth in reverse, leaving us as viewers with a poor perception of her."

"Rose Quartz is Steven Universe’s dead mom. Initially, she’s set up as sort of an ethereal perfect figure who everyone misses and compares him to. Later we get to see more of her backstory and discover that she’s actually like, a person, with flaws, who has done some bad things, but she did those bad things largely in the course of trying to escape an abusive home life and save the people and planet that she fell in love with. It’s very clear that despite her flaws she was trying to do the right thing and that she deeply cared about others. Unfortunately, a woman who was not a Perfect Martyr was way too much for the Steven Universe fandom to handle. She pretty much set off the wave of SU crit blogs because these people were furious either that she had taken violent measures to solve her problems, that she hadn’t taken violent enough measures to solve her problems, or both somehow. Lots of “Why didn’t she just murder her abusive parental figures?” Lots of “She was evil for having a baby even though she knew she’d die in childbirth!” Lots of “She should’ve been able to protect everyone from a magic nuclear weapon with the power of love somehow.” Lots of “She shouldn’t have rebelled (even though not rebelling would’ve meant the destruction of Earth) because her abusers retaliated and that’s her fault.” LOTS of people drawing her as stick thin even though she was fat in the show. People treated her like she was on the same level or even worse than her abusive parental figures who were also the main villains of the show. It was unbearable to witness."

Kairi Propaganda

"The Kingdom Hearts game series is about Mickey Mouse battling the forces of Darkness with an alliance of fashionable anime boys. Kairi is a major character, and one of the few female characters. She is part of a trio of childhood best friends, with the protagonist Sora and their other friend Riku (who had a villain arc and then a redemption arc). Though Kairi is constantly and clumsily sidelined by the canon narrative, she arguably has more backstory going on than any other major characters. She is a refugee from another planet. She implicitly lost her beloved grandma at five years old in the traumatic destruction of their hometown. She was kidnapped and experimented on by an evil wizard-scientist—she escaped thanks to having a magic charm that basically teleported her to her soulmate(s). Then she had to adjust to living on a new planet and being adopted by a new family. In the very first game, when she's 14, she turns out her pure heart is one of 7 in the entire universe to be free of Darkness—she shows a full emotional spectrum of fear, sadness, frustration, defeat, but she isn't vulnerable to corruption. In KH2, she becomes one of the Chosen Ones who wield a magical weapon called a Keyblade. She loves her friends very much, and she has the unique talent to instantly recognize them even when they've been transformed into monsters. She has saved them several times with nothing but the Power Of Love in her heart randomly manifesting in, like, telepathy and teleportation and resurrection—she doesn't even consciously know that she has powers, her love is just so great that it's accepted as a tangible force of nature. She is frustrated and ashamed by her role as a damsel in distress, and she wishes to be stronger and combat-capable so that she join her male friends on their adventures instead of waiting around where it's safe. Also she was kidnapped by an evil assassin clown who's ten years older than her, and then they became friends. NOT ONLY does the fandom plug its ears and claim there is nothing interesting about this character and no potential in her story—Kairi has been demonized by the fandom for about 20 years. Somehow Kairi is useless and boring while also being a Mary Sue at the same time. She was called a bitch and a slut and a whore. She was hated for wearing too much pink and wielding a girly weapon with a floral design. She was criticized as a slut for wearing a short skirt, and for THE PLAYER being able to manipulate the camera into a contrived angle to look up her skirt to see her panties in the first edition of KH2. You can find nearly 20-year-old fanfiction and fanart of her being twisted into an evil schemer driving her friends apart, and of her being gleefully brutalized and insulted. Haters STILL comb for every crumb to make elaborate anti-canon theories about why she's an agent of evil, even though canon has FIRMLY ESTABLISHED for TWENTY YEARS since the very beginning that she's THE ONE CHARACTER incapable of growing Darkness in her heart. The theory is that she exists only as a puppet sent by the main villain to sabotage her friends (the plot for two out of the four main female characters) for all ten years of their friendship. The theory is that she's been using her powers to force her friends to love her—and their Power Of Friendship that is the EMOTIONAL BACKBONE OF THE STORY, and THE MAJOR FORCE OF GOOD IN THEIR UNIVERSE, and THE MOST CONSISTENT MOTIVATION FOR THE HEROES is all Just Misdirection LOL building up to a shitty Plot Twist. The theory is that she's secretly a custom-manufactured Chirithy (a cute talking animal companion that serves and guides humans)—and not a human girl with her own natural feelings and aspirations. AND THEN after stripping her of every important trait and role, these fans claim they're making Kairi more important and interesting than she is in canon. I don't know what causes the fandom to so desperately hate a sweet 14-year-old girl who literally canonically never did anything wrong."

Round 3 Propaganda:

"'m sorry that so many KH fans have missed the theme of "trio" always being the heart of the series for over twenty years since the very beginning. Yes, the girl character is friends with the two boy characters, and they all cherish each other deeply. I know, this is completely outrageous and shocking. People are like: "Sora cares about Kairi, but he never said it was romantic. Kairi is the one forcing her romantic intentions on Sora." Yet Kairi never explicitly said that her feelings for Sora are romantic! So by this logic, Sora and Kairi express the same amount of romantic feelings: none! They could both have friendly feelings for each other, without any romance! But some anti-Kairi people just go out of their way to believe that Sora is a pure angelic being without yucky mushy love-dovey feelings for Kairi, whereas Kairi is the pushy incel harlot forcing her squishy womanly marriage scheme on poor innocent Sora. Even though neither of them shows more or less romantic interest than the other! Don't even get me started on how many Sora/not-Kairi shippers will claim that Sora's canonically reality-warping love for Kairi could be friendly love without romantic love! BUT THEN they'll turn around and claim that Sora doesn't have romantic feelings for Kairi therefore Sora must have stronger and more important love for His One True Romantic Partner. So which is it?? Friendly love is lesser than romantic love? You want to break stereotypes about love, while also following the stereotype that glorifies one true romantic partner above all other love? No force of love exceeds Sora and Kairi's love in the entire series—friends or romance, it's just facts that their connection is equally strong or stronger compared to all bonds between other characters. You can say that Sora and Kairi don't have confirmed romantic feelings—but any claim that someone else is above Kairi in Sora's heart is a lie. (Riku could be on the same tier, but not above.) The girl character is important, and her feelings are powerful and beautiful—DEAL WITH IT, FANDOM!"

[procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics]

ch. 2 — mælan (to speak)

notes: content warning for religious imagery is getting real in this chapter :]

summary: Athelstan's soul cannot rest. Neither can Alethia's.

tagged: @levithestripper @demon-of-the-ancient-world (msg me to be added/removed!)

masterlist | chapter one

Athelstan

He set the quill down on paper, the soft scratching sound soothing his nerves. Nervously, Athelstan tried to swallow his fear. It was as if something was watching him, following his every step. The week of Alethia Stahl’s arrival had marked a month since he’d been taken to Ecbert’s court, and since then, Athelstan had not had a night of full rest.

Carefully, he started the new line on the parchment, writing a ‘D’. He paused when it turned red.

“What…?” He muttered under his breath. Athelstan shook his head, writing the next letter when the red ink began bleeding down the parchment, ruining the document. He cursed under his breath. Athelstan looked around the library, suddenly unable to find the door. His vision blurred in front of him, and shadows flitted past in the corner of his eye.

Cold fear ran down his spine, a sweat making him shiver. His throat tightened, and Athelstan took another step back. A hiss next to his ear made him whirl around, only for the creature that met his gaze to make him shake with fear. Again, Athelstan stumbled backwards, a silent scream lodged in his throat. There was no true, lawful explanation for any of this.

Blood dripped from his forehead into his eyes, blinding him against whatever demons haunted him. Athelstan stepped onto something, twisting his ankle and falling to the ground. A weight was on his chest, and Athelstan could finally see the creature that had been following him. Its claws dug into his tunic, sharp talons piercing his skin like thorns. It was going to kill him, he was going to-

“Athelstan?” 

The creature leaned forward, and Athelstan let out a shout for help. Then, someone else was by his side, helping him up.

“Are you… healthy?” Alethia asked him clumsily.

“Alright.” Athelstan corrected. “Yes, I am alright.”

His pupil eyed him suspiciously, her hand still stabilizing his back. In the past week, Athelstan had learned little about her. Usually, he was much better at observing people, but he did not see her much outside of his lessons. He had a feeling Alethia understood him far more than he her.

Not to mention that she.was beginning to grasp the fundamentals of his mother tongue and he… he did not know a single word of hers.

Athelstan looked away, avoiding her gaze and instead staring at her earrings. There were far more than usual, some of them high up on her ear. They looked like those some shieldmaidens wore, but if Athelstan had learned anything, it was that Alethia was not Norse. She did not speak the language, she did not keep their Gods. 

“I have bad dreams a lot.” Alethia continued, her voice careful as she tried to construct correct sentences. “I see… people. They do not live. My friends are in the sky.”

“In heaven. Your friends are dead?” Athelstan asked. Alethia tilted her head, looking down at him curiously. She made a motion drawing her thumb across her neck, and Athelstan nodded.

“They are dead.” she affirmed. “What of yours?”

“I’m not sure.” Athelstan replied.

“Is that why you… have bad dreams?”

“Hallucinations.” Athelstan said, making the confession for the first time. Alethia nodded again, thinking for a moment.

“I know. I understand. Who?”

“It is me.”

“You are not dead.” Alethia replied, gently pushing against his shoulder. It was meant to be playful, and Athelstan could have appreciated that at any other time. Instead, he said nothing, only looking at his scarred hands. Alethia’s arm left his back, withdrawing for a moment, and Athelstan was ashamed to find himself missing her support.

“What happened?”

“Jesus’ death was almost mine.”

Alethia’s face scrunched up in concentration as she translated his words. Then, her eyes widened, and she pulled Athelstan into her arms. He froze. No one but his younger sister, and then Gyda had hugged him like that. Both were dead.

“I apologize for your pain.” Alethia said sincerely when they broke apart. Once again, Athelstan found himself astonished at what she had learnt in little more than a week. Then again, she had no choice and spent half her day in lessons with him.

She seemed to notice how he was still in the same position as before, and her hands wrung in her lap like they always did when she was anxious. That, he knew of Alethia. “Am I… too close?”

“You are open.” Athelstan said. “Affectionate.”

“Affectionate?”

“You care.” he replied. “You take your time to speak with others.”

“Isn’t that what Christians are supposed to do?” Alethia laughed after a few moments. She pulled herself up from the floor, offering her hand to Athelstan. He shrugged.

“I think so. Many do not.”

“They are just [...] Christians.” she replied, throwing in a word that he did not understand.

“What did you mean by that?” Athelstan asked, letting her help him up. His joints felt stiff and he wondered how much time he had spent on the floor before Alethia had found him. The tips of her ears reddened as she heard his question.

“It is a bad word.” Alethia replied. “An adjective for… pooping?” 

Athelstan had to laugh. “You mean shitty?” 

Alethia nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, shitty! They are just shitty Christians!”

Athelstan shook his head at that, trying to suppress another wave of laughter. This woman, this shieldmaiden - there was nothing simple about her, and yet, she could be so unserious. Alethia had not acted piously when she had drawn up her dress to her knees to dip them into the bath, and Athelstan tried his best not to think of it – and yet, she behaved more kindly than other, well, for lack of better words, shitty Christians.

He pushed his hallucinations aside as best he could, and pulled a scroll from the shelves.

“New words?” Alethia asked.

“New grammar.” Athelstan replied, and Alethia let out a sigh. Athelstan continued anyway. “You will speak of the past, so you can tell us who you are.”

“What if I do not want that?” Alethia asked, her hands crossing in front of her chest. She stepped closer to Athelstan, looking around as if she was expecting someone to hear her. “I do not… what is the word? Ecbert makes me… uneasy.”

“Trust? To give someone your… secrets?” Athelstan tried to explain. Alethia nodded.

“I do not want to tell him… who I am.”

“You do not trust the man that saved you? The king?” Athelstan replied.

“Do you? He saved you. I do not think you… trust him. You look at him with… confusion?” Alethia tried, her tongue struggling to make the words sound right. Athelstan only stayed silent at that. He could not say that he mistrusted the king, not out loud. Alethia waited for a few beats, the silence between them stretching more than what was comfortable.

“I will tell you.” she said finally. “Promise?”

“Promise.” Athelstan nodded. “Do you trust me, Alethia?”

She paused for a moment. “No. But I think I will. Tomorrow.”

“In the future.”

“Yes, that.” Alethia continued. “I have need of time.”

Athelstan thought he understood that.

By the end of the lesson, Alethia was using the past tense somewhat comfortably, although Athelstan noted that she still stumbled over weak and strong verbs. As Athelstan stood from the table, he noticed that Alethia was nervously jerking her leg up and down.

“What is it?” He asked, and she paused, a hand going to her knee.

“Nothing. Bad - what is the word? For an activity you do a lot?”

“Habit.”

“It is a bad habit.” Alethia said, pushing her chair backwards. “What is it?”

“It is Sunday.” Athelstan replied. “Time for mass.”

Alethia seemed to almost recoil at that. “You go. I do not think I shall go.”

“To mass? Everyone goes.” Athelstan replied. “You must.”

“No.” Alethia replied, her lips suddenly pressed into a thin line. “Do not… force me to do something. I wish to stay away. You can go and attend that… ceremony.”

Athelstan wanted to say something to convince Alethia to come, and yet, deep down, he knew that he wanted to go just about as much as she, though probably for entirely different reasons.

Alethia

She roamed around in the empty villa as the court of King Ecbert confined itself into the church. At first, the venture seemed somewhat interesting. Alethia nosed around in King Ecbert’s belongings, and then those of the healer, but both were not particularly interesting.

Mentally, she made a note to go out and collect her own supplies as those of the healer were… less than ideal.

She slunk out of the room, and towards the church. It had been a religious education book she’d sworn her ‘vow’ to the Night’s Watch on, it had been a church she had first seen when she’d arrived here. It was those thoughts that drew her towards the church now, feet moving on their own accord as Alethia stared at the closed wooden doors.

Her stomach turned.

She could not run from this.

Alethia stood close to the door, waiting in the courtyard until the church doors opened and the people streamed outside. She watched as King Ecbert, Prince Aethelwulf and Princess Judith exited, none of them noticing her. Alethia guessed that her attendance had not been missed.

Athelstan left the church last. He was staring at the ground, avoiding coming to close to any of the other people around her. Alethia bit the inside of her cheek. From what she’d gathered, Athelstan was feeling the same way she had when Grenn and Pyp died. She’d been so utterly alone, and even then, she’d had Sam, Jon and Satin - who did Athelstan have?

She was not his friend, but neither was Ecbert, and certainly not Aethelwulf. 

He was pulling his leg behind him. It was not obvious, not like the one lame servant that worked in the villa, but Athelstan’s gait was definitely off. She wondered if it was because of his cruxificion. Alethia remembered being tied to a skinning cross - how the blood had slowly drained from her hands, how her limbs had become so horrendously heavy. She’d been pierced by an arrow, impaled by a spear - and yet, she could not imagine the pain of nails slowly being driven through your hands and feet.

Quickly, she looked to the ground, slinking into the church. Beneath her, the ground turned from trampled dirt to cobbled stone. When she looked up, she was alone in the church, the doors falling shut behind her. Alethia stared at the cross on the altar.

What had God done to save her?

Anger boiled up beneath her skin with a suddeness that Alethia almost stepped forward to do something rash. Instead, she kept her feet planted to the ground and took a few deep breaths. Only then did she allow herself to move.

She was not supposed to climb the stairs to the altar. Then again, Alethia was not supposed to do a whole lot of things. Keeping to the rules had done nothing for her, and neither had breaking them. There was very little in her own hands.

One, two, three, four - that was all it took to stand where the priest held mass. The golden cross was right in front of her, inlaid with gems and placed upon a disgustingly clean white tablecloth.

Alethia knew the cost of war, and how much of it would be fought in the name of God.

The Gods are cruel, that’s why they’re Gods, Cersei Lannister whispered in her ear.

Alethia raised her hand, fingers ready to curl around the cross and rip it from the altar. The religion of her ancestors, and yet, Alethia could not swallow the anger she felt each time she thought of a possible God.

The religion of her ancestors. She’d prayed to God when she was sure she was going to die, and then again when she could not find Jon. Once, her prayer had been heard.

Maybe religion was simpler than she thought. Maybe it was just a fifty-fifty chance. Athelstan still believed, right? Were she in his place, Alethia knew she would not. Maybe that was proof enough.

She drew back her hand quickly, still staring at the cross. Tears filled her eyes again, and Alethia had no idea why. Why was she always on the verge of tears? She walked back down the stairs backwards, almost missing the last. The cross seemed even larger, even more looming from the bottom of the stairs.

Kneeling was an automatic, not a habit. Alethia did not know why she did it. The cold stone under her bit her knees, but she’d felt much worse. Alethia found comfort in it.

“I wanted to go home.” She whispered. “That is all I wanted. Why couldn’t you let me go?”

She was not sure why she’d expected an answer, but the silence hurt her even more. Alethia tried to swallow her quiet sob, but instead, her palms found the ground as well, and she leaned forward.

“I wanted to go home! You’re keeping me here! Please, I want to- I want to-“ she gasped. “Why can I go anywhere I want, but not home? I wanted to keep my baby safe. I want my child to be safe. How will they be safe here? What if they’re a girl? What then? Please, please let me go home.”

Her hand curled into a fist on the cobbled stone, and Alethia let her tears fall there where no one would see. She felt stupid, stupid for what she’d just done.

Alethia stood from the floor, wiping the tears from her cheeks. She needed to get back to her room, there was still some cleaning she wanted to get done.

But when she turned, she saw that there was someone else was in the church, staring at her with wide eyes.

Athelstan.

Anger overtook Alethia with a suddenness that was all too natural. She crossed the distance between them, her hands grabbing the former monk by his shoulders and pushing him backwards.

“What the fuck are you doing here, huh?” She shouted, too caught up in the moment to remember that he could not understand her. Then, Alethia stumbled backwards, the regret already sinking in.

“What did you see?” She asked him, this time in his language. Her voice was shaking, and Alethia wondered where her strength had gone. 

“Most of it. You almost tore the cross from the altar like a-“ he began, before he stopped himself. It took Alethia a few moments to understand Athelstan, like always. That only served to frustrate her more. 

“Like a what?” She finally snapped.

“Like a Viking. Are you?”

“No.” Alethia replied.

“What are you?” He asked.

“I don’t… I won’t tell you. I already said that.”

Athelstan sighed. He shook his head where he stood, a tiny smile on his face. It was a sad one, and Alethia wished she could ask him properly, understand his language and his being in a way where she’d know what it meant. 

“I am sorry.” Athelstan replied finally. “For all the pain you feel.”

“There is nothing there.” Alethia said. “Only fear for my child. What if it is a girl? What then?”

“You believe in God.” Athelstan stated as if he knew it. “I saw it. If she is a girl, she shall be christened and protected.”

“I was christened!” Alethia replied, her voice rising steadily. She searched for the words before she continued. “I was christened, I was supposed to be protected. Look at me!”

Athelstan looked away.

“Look at me!” Alethia spat, her hand shooting out to grab him again. It halted right in front of his face. “Look at me. Do you think I was protected? Hmm?”

“The christening does not protect the body, but the soul.” Athelstan replied. He sounded as if he was repeating a sentence he knew by heart but did not mean.

“And has yours been protected? Has God made sure that you feel whole?” Alethia laughed, her lip quivering. “I should think not. I see you, Athelstan.”

The tears that dripped onto her cheeks made her feel stupid once more, and Alethia brushed them away so hastily that she felt the rough fabric of her sleeve tug on her skin painfully. 

“Fuck.” She hissed, going over the aggravated skin with her fingers. Athelstan reached out carefully, as if she was a wild animal, and stopped her wrist. Had he been anyone else, she’d have lashed out, but Athelstan was the only anchor she had in this villa, in this time.

She let him pull her hand away from her face.

“Why do you injure yourself like this? Why are you this hasty, this angry all the time?” Athelstan asked quietly. Alethia looked to the cross on the altar. Though she did not know if she believed, it felt wrong to lie here. 

That was what she wanted to tell herself. The truth was that Alethia wanted to have someone here who knew. Someone who understood her pain. Athelstan looked like, maybe, just maybe, he could.

“I lost him.” Alethia mumbled quietly.

“Him?” Athelstan asked. Alethia’s hand went to her stomach automatically.

“The father?” 

“His name was Jon, and he was good.” Alethia said. 

“That is a rare thing in a man.” 

“You are good, I think.” Alethia replied.

“I try.” Athelstan said. The distance between them was only a step, and yet, talking to him seemed so surreal. Still, Alethia wondered if she’d wake up back home in Winterfell.

“I do too. I don’t think it is enough.” Alethia confessed. Her heart hurt. Her head hurt. She was so awfully tired, her brain buzzing with a language she’d been forced to learn in mere days. 

She lied down on the floor, letting Athelstan eye her like a curiosity.

“What are you doing?” He asked.

“Taking a break.” Alethia replied.

He squatted next to her, shaking his head, before he followed her lead.

Alethia rolled her eyes at him. 

“What? I am taking a break?”

“From what?” Alethia snorted. 

“Teaching you.”

She let out a pretend-gasp, turning towards Athelstan. “I am not a bad student.”

“The best I ever had.” Athelstan replied.

“How many people have you taught?” Alethia said, proud of her use of the past tense. She did not spend her entire day with it for nothing.

“Two.” Athelstan admitted. She snorted.

“Then how do I give you such pains?”

“Figuring you out is… impossible.” Athelstan replied. Alethia quieted down, and turned onto her back again. She stared at the ceiling and pretended it was the sky. Her palms were pressed onto the cobblestone as they had been, finding stability into the stone.

“Who are you?” Athelstan asked after a while, his words echoing the hundred times he had asked the question before.

Alethia took a breath. Next to her, Athelstan tensed. No doubt he expected her to lash out again. The guilt of it rose in her throat like bile.

“A traveler.” She said finally. “A soldier. A healer, a librarian, a bride and a widow. A Christian and a Godless person. A sister, and a mother-to-be. But most of all, I am far from home, Athelstan. So far.”

“So am I.” He told her. “My home is gone. I think I understand.”

Alethia considered if she could tell him for a moment. She wanted to. He had no idea that she was from the future. That she’d been to another bloody world. All he knew was that she was a stranger. Dangerous, potentially.

She could not.

“Thank you.” She said instead. 

“Come,” Athelstan replied, offering his hand in a reflection of her earlier that day. “We are surely missed at lunch.”

[artist-issues]

Honsetly I totally agree about the remake. I don’t like how they put little effort on remakes to try to surpass the original or be as unique. every time they have speaking dialogue in the new one, they always seem monotone and robotic. It like they either have no or show emotion telling us what they feeling *that why I like the animated movie because you can get away of expressive character can get by their face or they’re voice*

The only remake I still love and will keep on watching is homeward bound and 101 Dalmatian with Glenn close *despite having a few changes, they still kept what made us love about the original. And Glenn close had way too much fun playing the role of the cruella. this was after the movie fatal attraction and I love how the meaner she was, the better the movie became*

The one thing I love about the old classic Disney movies is how Walt Disney made the movies came to life and given how limit technology they had in 1940’s. For example the movie Bambi. After the success of Snow White, Walt wanted to make a animated movie of a deer but he wanted a realistic drawings of animals, so he went and bought live animals so his employees can study the behavior of the animals

He had a subtle way of sending a psa message of preventing/how someone can recklessly start a Forrest fire *I know this because the vhs of the end of this movie had a behind the scene of how they made this movie and I love the process and learning the knowledge* and I love the music

And when I learn that they might remake, I was livid. It was one thing that we deal with Bambi mom death, we don’t need to see it live action again

Disney classic has a subtle way of sending the message, but the live action remake tend to hammer and shove the message down our throat.

I agree! I think it's important to note that, in general, the Live Action Remakes don't just "shove the message of the classics down our throats, though."

The worst thing is that they change the message of the classics, and then that new message is communicated so clumsily that it feels like they're shoving it down our throats.

Because it's like I've said before: a movie's message and a movie's characters go hand-in-hand. In fact, everything about the movie from the lighting to the music is meant to make the message clear, but still compelling.

So in a remake, if you change the message, the original characters won't fit. And if you change the characters and the message to try and match, the whole story starts to feel less compelling, less interesting, less seamless. You would've been better off making a brand-new story.

But that's the thing. They won't take the risk of making a new story. And they also won't take the risk of honoring the classic messages--and it would be a risk to do so, because the classic messages no longer fit what our current culture says about things like faith, self-sacrifice, race, love, duty, etc.

And what I mean by our current culture is, people who believe in girlbosses and self-actualization and power/agency-in-the-form-of-power, to the detriment of all the values I listed above.

Anyway. You're right! Thanks for the compliment.