#I'm Here To Talk About The Tumblr Draft

[nostalgia-tblr]

Things The Tumblr Drafts Feature Is Currently Saving Me From Actually Posting About Where Other People Would See It:

America looks odd

We're harsh on Amsha and Richard Bashir but actually I can see why they did that in such an ableist society and it feels a bit unfair to hold them solely responsible

A fic snippet from a fic I am claiming not to be writing because it's fucked up and I feel guilty about that

Further complaints about U MUST REBLOGism

Me Godwinning the Mobius Discourse TWICE!! :O

"Sibling-coded" lol no

Migratory Het Fans: A Commentary

No I Shall Never Write Thorki Fic. Ever. But if I did...

A Barbie meme reblog everyone else already reblogged

LOKI CLASSISM WANK!!!

Mein Hobbys In The Tags

Columbo made people rate Boris Johnson (WTF????)

Some gay bit from M*A*S*H (a reblog)

The Funniest Disablity Discourse Is Person-First Language Except It's Not Actually That Funny But Also It Is (if u didnt laff u'd cry)

Everyone sounds like twats in Them Thor Films and for some reason I have Extensive Thoughts on why that is and also fandom is stupid (and maybe classist?)

BOYSLASH WANK: DR WHO EDITION

[cak31ssuperi04]

fun fact: Them

[2hoothoots]

i was having a chuckle to myself last night about Gristol, and how his plans are basically:

Restore Ford Cruller's memory

Find Maligula

???

Profit

but then... of course they are, right? this is Gristol we're talking about. Fatherland Follies drives home again and again that he's still operating on a child's logic, a warped and reductive version of the world that he never bothered to grow out of. both of his memory vaults center on the images of his childhood, this idealized version of the past that he clings to no matter what. and that's still how he remembers Maligula, too - as this saviour figure, who rushes in to help him when he's in trouble.

[ID: Two slides from Gristol's memory vault, Glory to Grulovia! Left: Gristol clings to Maligula's back as she summons waves to sweep away his assailants. Right: Gristol and Maligula waving from a balcony as the people cheer. Gzar Theodore brandishes a dagger in the background.]

like so much else, Maligula represents a return to this idyllic childhood - to the peace and simplicity of his youth, when he was free from worries and responsibilities. in his mind, he doesn't need to make any further plans - once Maligula's back, everything will go back to normal. Maligula will make everything better.

...is what i thought, but then i remembered this line:

[Screenshot source. ID: Gristol, in Truman's body, bows on his hands and knees in front of the newly-awaked Maligula. The caption reads: "Yes, High Priestess! I am here to correct the mistakes made by my father!"]

and that's kind of interesting, right?

to be clear: this happens directly after Maligula sees Helmut-in-Gristol's-body, and recognises him. her line before this is:

"Little Gzesaravich! Have you come to pay for your father's sins?"

my first thought was that Gristol hadn't expected to still be in Truman's body by the time he managed to find Maligula, and this was him trying to placate her and buy some time until he could explain the situation. but watching the cutscene back, that's clearly not what's happening here. Gristol is answering as himself, and his response of throwing himself to his knees before her is, as far as i can tell, genuine.

so what is going on here?

in Fatherland Follies, there's this line in the ride narration that stuck out to me:

"Why didn't the Gzar help Maligula in her time of need? No one knows, but historians agree - it is Gzar Theodore's biggest failure."

other lines mention Gzar Theodore's "mistake", and it's wording Gristol himself echoes in the screencap above. evidently, he believes that his father abandoned Maligula, leaving her to her fate at the hands of the Psychonauts, and it was that mistake that lead to them being driven out of the country - that mistake which he seeks to correct. maybe he even feels like he has a debt to repay to her for his family turning their backs on her all those years ago.

the 'High Priestess' thing, though - that's kinda weird, and threw me for a loop the first time i played the game. it took me until my second playthrough to connect the dots, and remember how the room in the Lady Luctopus - Gristol's room - was full of Delugionist scribblings and symbols.

[Screenshot source. ID: left, the walls of the hidden backroom in Gristol's hotel suite, covered in scrawlings of eyeballs and Maligula's name. Right, the pinboard from the hidden backroom. On its surface are photographs and newspaper clippings connected by pieces of string.]

i mean, look at this stuff! he had a whole conspiracy board and everything!

we learn very little about the Delugionists and their beliefs as a whole during the game, but i think drawing the connection here suggests two important things. one: that Gristol was in deep with this stuff. i don't know how he linked up with them - maybe via old family connections, or just good old-fashioned digging (we know he's skilled at worming his way into peoples' good graces, after all) - but it seems likely that he's begun to internalise their ideas, maybe even warping his own memories of events. and two: the Delugionists themselves are, if you'll pardon the pun, pretty far off the deep end.

like... i understand why PN2 didn't go heavy on the "mass-murderer cult worship" aspect of things, in the end, but man this is such a tantalising glimpse into the wider mythos around Maligula. Gristol is proud and haughty and thinks himself above everyone else; the fact that his first reaction seeing Maligula is to throw himself to the ground at her feet says so much about the way he's come to see her. he's not just trying to bring back Maligula, his childhood bodyguard. he's trying to bring back Maligula, the High Priestess of the deluge, the semi-mythical figure whose supporters believe even death couldn't stop. he doesn't even flinch at the way she confronts him, and maybe it's because he's bought in so completely to this deified figurehead, this idea of Maligula; more a living force of nature than a person. and it all comes back to the same place: an abdication of responsibility, not just to the person who protected him when he was little but to this avatar of floods and destruction. Maligula will make everything better.

i'd write more about my thoughts on the Delugionists but that'd be taking a hard turn into speculation, and this is already kind of long and rambling so i'd better end it here. but what an unexpected and evocative line, right? it's some of the only stuff we have to go off of regarding the Delugionists as a whole, but i think it does such a good job of hinting at the wider story - at teasing another layer to the mythos surrounding Maligula, one whose ripples we see throughout the game but which never quite breaches the surface.

[crisismoth]

paranoia about posting is so odd. "they're gonna know." know what?? i'm mentally ill? why is that bad. also its pretty freaking obvious. this is tumblr.com after all.

[soultek]

In Another Life - Bogard x Female!Reader (One Piece Live Action)

A/N: This actually started as much more based on the lyrics of this song than it ended up - I guess this wasn't exactly my intent! It was initially meant to be so much more angsty. But that's how you roll when you just let the characters point you in a direction when you're writing. Every point on my plan got covered - that's all that matters! 😁✌

ALSO this is the first work I've EVER had properly edited for me, so, thank you very much Josh! I appreciate you taking the time to read this! [You don't know what you've got yourself in for agreeing to do more... haha! 😈]

The format editing on Tumblr broke me. So you get what you get below and I'm very sorry but I just could NOT anymore... You'll see it because it is very SPECIFICALLY one sentence that Tumblr seems to find issue with - so now that's just a random paragraph by itself in the middle of a conversation.

Disclaimer: Only the reader character is mine. He's kinda pieced together using elements of his anime counterpart because hell yeah I went back and watched those episodes for further characterisation. Nothing I've used is spoilers. The origami thing is original - but that's only because I've seen a ton of [fan] art of him with birds and I was like "Is this a thing? I need to include it somehow!" Turns out the birds are just a Marine HQ thing - but I liked the idea so I've kept it!

The 'backstory' is also originally because we don't know a whole lot about him yet in either media... sooooo...

Warnings: innuendo, sexual connotations, mention of injury, smoking, mild swearing, mild plot-relevant OOC.

Premise: HQ 3 is back in town. And for you, that ship brings a lot more with it than just injured marines. You're prepared for the usual push and pull this 'situationship' brings. You might not be so prepared for the other news he has for you...

Word Count: 7906

Song Inspo: Another Life - Tenille Arts

Full Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/29SKzlmL31pHFk54BwnO7k

--- Cause I don't wanna kiss anybody else's lips I don't wanna feel anybody else's touch I just wanna be the old you and me We'd be married, have a house and kids by this time In another life

In another life I would get to kiss you goodnight Hold your hand, play with your hair, feel your arms around me Giving me the best hug Yeah, we'd be so in love

In another life

I wouldn't have to kiss anybody else's lips I wouldn't have to feel anybody else's touch We could just be the old you and me We'd be married, have a house and kids by this time And you'd be here tonight In another life

---

Nothing new. That was how you would describe the day. Sitting in your office working through the papers of every Marine coming in and out of your ward; you weren’t sure you knew what busy was anymore. It seemed to be the same all the time - with very little variation in the amount of work you had to do day-to-day - sometimes you just had to work on them faster. With more and more to do for the Marines on the front lines, and with seemingly every other person declaring themselves to be a 'Pirate' these days, at least things were never dull - that you could count on. Today, another ship arrived, apparently with a lot of injured Marines on board, given how many new papers you had stacked up on your desk. You sat back in your chair and blew out a breath. You were glad at least none of these new patients appeared to be in any serious condition. The most interesting thing to you was the newly docked ship's designation: HQ 3. You regarded the papers again, and began to rifle through them slowly. He hasn’t said anything, you thought. Figures. There could be a reason for that, of course… he could be in here. You dared not go through them too quickly to find out. These days he had no reason to tell you, either.

Marking another case as not urgent, you became aware of a sudden clamouring outside your office. Back and forth yelling that sounded more like panic. So much for hiding away... Pushing yourself up from your desk, you opened the door and leaned against the frame, poking your head out into the corridor. Several nurses and doctors were running between rooms, each and every one worked for you now. Which meant that when you called out to them, they stood to attention. "What's going on out here!?" "Nothing we can't handle." "Oh, I have no doubt - is everything okay?" "Some of the new inpatients have a flair for the dramatic is all M'am!" You chuckled, folding your arms, and touched your head to the doorframe too. "Sounds right. Maybe we should give them something to be dramatic about!" You cracked a grin. "If sedative is necessary, get that going - but nothing appears serious. I don't want anyone else on the ward panicking or getting distressed though. Try to get them to keep it down." You winked. "Else I’ll be forced to tell them to, and I'm pretty sure they won't want that."

The small group who had paused to listen to you nodded along, before almost shying away from you, and retreating into the rooms they had come from. You were about to ask why – unless they were scared you were about to force something more upon them yourself – before your question was answered for you. "Oh, I don't know about that." You couldn't have stopped the smile spreading across your face if you'd tried. Not at the sound of that voice. You turned your head to him slowly. HQ 3 meant Garp, and the Vice Admiral brought with him his right-hand man, who was now staring back at you with something of a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth.

Bogard was leaning against the wall right outside your door, letting it support his full weight, right arm held across his body, left hand raised to his chin. If you'd have bet on that stance, you might have won. He had a nasty habit of just appearing like this, but you would never be one to complain about that.   You let your eyes linger on him as you drew them up and down his body. You could pretend it was for your deduction, but you both knew better. "What are you doing here? You don’t look injured to me.” His dark eyes swept the ward, which now hosted a group of Marines from the ship he sailed on. “Where he goes, I follow.” He started. “And, if I leave the ship here, I get to see you. So, it’s not all bad. Guess we’ll be staying while we stock back up, do repairs,” he paused briefly. “The usual.” You bit back the words you really wanted to say. "Doesn't sound so bad. Guess you'll be wanting the recent discharge list?" "You read my mind." "I know you!" You let that statement linger before adding, "all business. Let me get you that list."

You withdrew back into your office, gathering the papers of cleared Marines now waiting to be assigned back onto any ships that were currently docked who were in need of recruits. Much to your surprise you found your hands were shaking. You took a deep breath to steady your nerves; maybe you were more excited about this encounter than you anticipated. To say your relationship with the man standing outside your door was complicated would be an understatement. Something along the lines of a long distance, long term situationship might sum it up best - but they were just a few words that meant nothing to the history of it.

You had been a cadet when you'd first met him. He was a few years older than you. Back when Bogard was just finding himself in the Marine's. It was obvious to you then how fast he was going to climb the ranks. You'd been friends since day one - well, almost. Once you'd graduated your cadet training and had chosen to be stationed as part of the medical division, you began to realise just how injury prone and stubborn he was. At least that was the way he always presented himself to you. The number of times early on you'd found yourself patching up his gashes and wounds with him insisting they were just scratches were innumerable. You found yourself very quickly worried about him in ways that went beyond mere friendship. And the next time he'd done it had been your final straw. You couldn't recall your confession exactly, but you did remember that it came out in the middle of a heated ramble. You had been in tears – you were mad at him for getting hurt, and you were crying because you didn’t want to lose him. Fixing him up that time quickly led to a first kiss, and soon after a relationship. But it didn’t last.

Although he would never tell the story that way, the truth was at that point Bogard had been just dumb enough to make sure he always got an injury, so he had an excuse to stop by and see you, but smart enough to make sure he was never in any real danger. He had mellowed out a lot since then - he was so much more serious and careful now - especially with the responsibilities he had. Man, the more you thought about it, the more you realised just how much time had passed... You carried just as many responsibilities yourself now, but could you say that you didn't still worry about him? No - but he was always so far away that you couldn't allow yourself to dwell on it too much. The 'see you when I see you' was fine if he was going to turn up at your door looking as pristine as he did today. Bogard knew what he was doing - he wouldn't be Garp's second in command if he didn't. You trusted that you had no reason to worry about him. Not even on the Grand Line. If he did ever come back injured - you didn't want to think too much about it - you knew you'd go above and beyond. If anyone had ever been curious about what you were, then that scenario would probably hold all the answers. Though while that wasn't happening, it was fine as a mystery.

He hadn't moved an inch when you returned with the stack. "Here you are, unless I should be giving these to the Vice Admiral?" Bogard took the papers in a way that suggested which was wisest; to him. You held your hands up to indicate that was well noted. "Just let me know who stays and who goes so I can update my records." He flipped through them quickly. "Of course. I suppose it will depend on how many we want that aren't cadets." "Cadets? I mean there might be some fresh faces there, but they will come with a little experience." "Might need that where we're going." This time it was his right hand held to his chin as he moved to answering your question quickly. "Yes, cadets. We're training them." "You're training cadets?" You could see it, actually. He'd be good at that - tough but fair. His captain too. "Lucky cadets." Bogard placed the papers in his pocket. His expression seemed to suggest that might not be the phrase he'd use. He looked up and passed you, studying the corridor and listening to the activity you'd just set in motion, before turning his attention fully back to you. "The whole ward, huh?" "It'll be the whole medical centre soon." "So I hear. Never in doubt when it comes to you." You looked away bashfully - voice quiet. "Thank you." "Still, you could be out on a ship as the main doctor. A HQ ship even. You're plenty good enough." You made a noise, but didn't want to look like you were laughing at his suggestion. "Despite being a Marine, I still prefer dry land. I'm comfortable here. I enjoy my work! I’m even about to be promoted. Where do you go once you're a ship doctor for a HQ vessel?" "It would be worth it for all the places you would see,” he continued. “The prestige." You knew where this was headed, and turned it back on him as quickly as you could. "And you, what about when they call you to World Government bureaucracy and pen-pushing, and you spend more time in a building than you do on the open ocean?" You asked. Bogard made a face like he was considering it, but you knew he wasn't. “Right now, I would probably decline such a position.” he huffed. “I think I have much to learn before I go there." “Uh huh." You knew that, how could you not? Just like he knew you didn't want to be out at sea. No matter how many times he would try to persuade you out there every time he saw you.

That was the point you had known it wouldn't work out. You wanted him safe with you, whereas he wanted you to go travelling the world with him. Neither would comprise. And so, every time you met, you would dance around this question again. Asking without saying 'why aren't we together, really?' in a different way every time. The reality was you'd both chosen your preferred lifestyles and your work over each other. But you weren’t about to admit that out loud, and Bogard wasn't either. So, here you stayed.

To make sure this didn't get too heavy immediately, you cleared your throat and changed the subject. "I heard you were in the East Blue?" He gave a short nod, but instead of offering any more information, he hit back with a rumour of his own. You couldn't say you was surprised that he would keep his official work a secret - such the man he was these days. You knew you'd get it out of him eventually. Though it might take something a little less... professional... "I heard you were with some captain." Try as he might to hide it, Bogard let his emotion seep into his voice. It was obvious who and what he was referring to, and he wasn't happy about it. You bit the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from teasing him about being jealous - that wouldn't end well. And what with where you were right now, you had to be very careful what you let slip, just in case of any prying eyes and ears. And you also knew that Bogard knew he had no right to be jealous - regardless of the truth. Still, this was one thing you wouldn’t tease him about. Reassurance was the only way forward. "Rumours fly.” You dismissed. “That was never a thing." Which was true, after all, you still only had eyes for the man in front of you. Despite the fact that there had never been a conversation about it between you. You could date someone else. You just weren’t sure if Bogard believed you, especially as you didn't know how long he had been holding onto that knowledge for. You knew how much he valued the truth though, so lying would have been unwise at best. “I’d never do that.” you continued. To you, you thought. But you left that part off. You were met with the same steady look he'd been regarding you with throughout this whole conversation so far. You sighed, glancing behind you back down the ward - all seemed calm right now. They knew how to reach you if they needed your help. Turning back to him, you offered a gentle smile. "Care to take a walk with me?" He pushed himself away from the wall with a smile. Turning across, he offered you his arm - ever the gentleman. You smiled back sweetly, wrapping yourself around him, and allowing yourself a moment to admit in your mind just how much you'd missed him.

For a while there was silence, but it was comfortable and more relaxed. You both knew you wouldn’t be able to stray very far. It'd be more like a walk around the block, but it was still away from unwanted attention. He watched you closely. You carried yourself and your rank well. You coped with the pressure of it all. You could handle yourself. You just wouldn't answer the call to open ocean. It seemed strange to him, but he admired how sure of yourself, and your convictions you were. He would not change your mind, no matter how much he wanted to. Still, there was something about the rumour that was bothering him. It wasn't that Bogard thought you were lying - of course you wouldn't. You knew how much he disapproved of it. It was the subject of the rumour that hurt Bogard most. Of all the people that rumours could fly about with you, not him, but someone else? Someone who must have seen you far less than Bogard did… at least he would hope so. People were aware you had been something once. Was it so hard to believe that you might be making it work again? Bogard put in the work even when he was so far away. There were more than enough reasons to conclude that he was still with you. In many ways, he wanted to be asked. Even if he went against his principles and denied it. Though, given you weren't technically a couple, it wasn’t technically lying. He hated how much it caused him to wonder if you had ever been with anyone else ever since you broke up. If Bogard couldn't even get a rumour going, but someone else could? It bothered him that he could get wrapped up in such a way. You weren’t his. But the exclusivity was an unwritten rule. It was expected that you would always be able to return to each other like this. That didn't mean if either of you fell in love with someone else… Surely you had both expected the other to have moved on by now. You both should have moved on by now! It hadn’t been months after all; it hadn’t even been a few years. It was closer to decades, and here you both were. Bogard just didn't want to hear it being discussed. He wasn't sure what heartbreak would feel like; but he didn't want to know either way. And he hated even more that, after all this time, if he lost you for good, he knew his heart would break.

The silence from him wasn't something that you thought was particularly unusual - Bogard was notoriously a man of very few words.  Though you often wondered what ran through that head of his; but someone had to keep Garp in check, so you knew his mind was sharp at least. They seemed like complete opposites - which, you thought, made them perfect for each other. Walking with him this close around the medical centre was enough for you right now. It was nice getting used to his presence again. Even if you knew you'd have to let him go soon. And too soon at that. Glancing over to him, you recognised Bogard’s look was a little further away than you had expected. Realising that you wanted those gorgeous brown eyes back on you, you broke the silence. If he was in his head about this stupid rumour - which you wouldn't be surprised if the Marine Captain had started and stoked himself - then you knew what he needed to hear. And if he felt the truth was so important, he was about to get some. "I have to say, I'm not entirely sure why you're so worried about that rumour. It's me who should be thinking about things like that. Why, I bet you have a girl in every port!" It was clearly a joke, but his look was a little too sharp - Bogard clearly took offence to the idea he was worried. Even if he was. Luckily, his expression quickly softened. "Guy on every ship." He quipped back. You gasped, ready to take full offence to that. "That's way worse than the rumour! Stop it! What do you take me for!? At least mine could happen!" You weren’t stupid - he was a good-looking man. Loyal, dedicated; an old-fashioned romantic. Work-driven sure, but you'd seen other women fall for him. All it would take was for him to find one who he could fall for too, who would share in his dream and actually want to travel the world on a ship with him as a Marine. It scared you a little how easy it was for you to imagine that he could be in a very happy relationship right now. Bogard raised an eyebrow. Surely you didn't believe that, he thought. And if you did, how wrong you were. Surely the ridiculousness of his own statement only highlighted the ludicrousness of your own? How untrue it was? For you though, it was clear you had a point. Besides, what did he have to be worried about? Who would you date anyway? It wasn't like you were about to pick up a guy at a bar or something. "Nearly all the men I see around here are either sick or injured." You protested. He shrugged, and when he doubled down, you were glad you could hear the jokey tone to his voice. "All the more time to get to know them then." "Please." You scoffed, pushing his arm a little. "Besides, you're the only one writing to me, and making me origami, so..." He stopped so abruptly, but you were ready for that. Halting to measure his reaction. He looked across to you curiously. You never wrote him back; he didn't expect you to. Bogard smiled - for once a little wider than usual. Possibly more of a smirk. "Like those, do you?" He teased. You allowed yourself to blush under the weight of his look. The bolstered confidence in him at your words, and then your admittance. "Maybe a little too much."

Despite the jokes you made, it was barely covering up what you really meant - bringing to light exactly what you were both most worried about. And the ego-boosting rush of hearing that it wasn't true. The real truth was no matter how nonchalantly either of you said goodbye - see you later - neither of you wanted to see the other with someone else. Neither of you would like it very much. The difference was you were quite prepared for the possibility of that eventuality. Bogard was not.

Once you had made the full circle and wandered back to your office, you resumed much the same positions as you had before. Although closer and more comfortable this time. Once the ice had thawed a little, you were now acting more as friends. (As if that was all you were.) Where you could get him to smile a little, and if you were very, very, very lucky, you might even get a huffed laugh out of him. Although he did have one last piece of official business to pass by you. He pulled some rolled-up papers out of his Marine coat. "You asked about the East Blue before." He started. "I did." You straightened your relaxed posture a little. Assuming you wouldn't have to do any work to get a candid answer this time. "We were there chasing around a new upstart young group of Pirates." He continued. "Another group?!" You very nearly rolled your eyes; you’d lost count of the crews popping up all over the place over the years. HQ 3 seemed a little overkill, though. "You guys? Really?!" Bogard shook his head. "Understandable reaction. But this crew has potential." He held the roll out to you. "May I request you put these up around the wards?" You looked from the roll to him and back and took it gently. "These upstarts already have bounties?" You asked. "Their captain does." He replied. You continued to stare at him questioningly, but when all he did was stare back, you knew the answer was on the paper itself. You unravelled them and almost let out a laugh.

'Monkey D. Luffy' - the name explained everything. You looked back at Bogard with an amused expression and raised eyebrow. Bogard merely shook his head, expression in understanding of your reaction. 'Let's not go there!' "Sure. I'll put these ones up! That's quite the bounty for the East Blue though! Who'd he piss off!?" You walked back into your office to put it with your unfinished pile of admission checks. This time Bogard followed you, standing in the doorway. "Nezumi.” He replied. “Oh, that weirdo? With the rat face?” You circled your head with your finger. “Rat would certainly be one way to put it.” You couldn’t help your perhaps overly loud reaction. “Oooh! Ooooh. Ooh! Would you like me to tell him that next time I see him?” Bogard placed his hands either side of your door frame, leaning in a little.  ‘Oh yeah you would badmouth me like that!,’ he thought - instant reaction - mouth opening before he changed his mind. Returning to a more relaxed lean, and crossing his arms. “I wouldn’t waste my breath.” You whistled. “Damn! You got a mouth on you.” Sharp as the blade he carried - when he wanted to be. But perhaps also a sign of how close you were, that he would speak as freely as this. Instead of responding, he opted to watch you with his eyes narrowed. You chuckled. “No, I know you. I know that you don’t waste your words.” Pausing for thought, you placed the papers down slowly. Raising your eyes to the window, you mused. “I guess I feel honoured that you share so many of them with me.” “Writing letters is completely different.” He replied. You looked across to him; voice sweet, and smile gentle. “That’s not what I meant.” Bogard bit his lips together, unsure of a comeback. Instead he wound the conversation back, nodding to the poster you just placed down. “Highest bounty on the East Blue now, actually. Doubt he'll stay there though." He said. "Ah. Grand Line bound!" You replied inquisitively. For a while the whimsy of it all had you smiling, until your smile dropped in realisation. If HQ 3 had been chasing them around the East Blue? You looked back to him slowly. Was Bogard going to follow them around the Grand Line? How long would that take? How long would it be until you saw him again? Even he knew he didn't have the answer to that. As he'd stated - where Garp went, he did. No questions asked. Still, Bogard couldn't leave it like that. He felt compelled to reassure you. "Of course, we might not follow them. We had investigations going on before they arrived on the scene." You remembered. "What now then? You really think you'll be back to 'Baroque Works'?" "We were heading that way anyway. I don't see why that would change now." He shrugged. "Doubtless you'll find out when I write to you!" You chuckled, running your fingertips over the picture in the wanted poster. A new kid on the block in a straw hat? Generations had seen this before.

Silence fell for a moment, which allowed him time to look around your office. Then he really couldn't help but smile. Lined up along the window frame, and just about every spare space on your shelves were collections of intricate origami. Bogard had sent you every single one of them. His preference was birds of different shapes, sizes, and colours. But they were all there. Every letter he had sent you came with one, and he'd sent you a letter every time he felt he had something worth saying. Writing back wasn't the point of it. He could guarantee that no one else knew where these came from. Whether you made them or they just appeared. But they weren't there for anyone else to know about - they were there for you. And every time Bogard saw them he wondered how the hell he could ever let himself get worried about any feelings you might have for anyone else. He looked back to you - having finished studying the picture of Luffy, you were now watching him - and Bogard knew he'd been caught with a rare smile on his face. He let it bleed into his words. "You kept them all." It wasn't a question, and his heart swelled. You giggled, pulling a box draw out from the top of your desk. "Honey, you have no idea!" From within it spilled forth letters upon letters, all wrapped up in Marine paper and blue ribbon. You had kept every single one of them too.

It was a little later in the day, as you were finishing up another round of administering medication, when you returned to your office and found that another Marine had made himself comfortable there. And not the one you would have expected. "V-Vice Admiral!" You stood to attention as he rose from your chair, "Sir! How can I help you?" "At ease, please!" His smile was warm, "In fact it's me that I think can help you!" He held out the stack of papers you'd given Bogard earlier. "I trust my second in command’s judgement on these." You took them gratefully. "Of course. I'll make sure everyone is prepped and ready to cast off when you're ready to set sail, Sir." "Better make it sooner rather than later, Lieutenant.” Garp placed his hands in his pockets, expression serious. "I don't want to be hanging around for too long. We have much to get started on." "Oh- I see." You knew you was failing at hiding your look of disappointment. Letting go was never easy, but if you had to do it sooner than you expected? You'd only just got Bogard back - you weren’t ready to let him go again just yet. Garp could see it on your face. It wasn't as if he hadn't seen Bogard interact with you before. They'd stopped off here plenty of times. He'd just never pried into the private life of his second in command before. But something was clearly going on this time. If he hadn't thought so before. He indicated to the origami on your shelves. "I always wondered where these went. Clearly, Y/N, they all come to you!" Your eyes widened. You didn't even know anyone else knew Bogard made them. "Y-yes, when he writes he always sends..." You gestured to the shelves, wondering if you'd said too much. Did Garp know that he... wrote to you? "Would have thought writing was his preferred method of communication. I know he’s a man that’s concise at best.” he continued. “Though he never seems to have that problem around you. Which is something in itself." You knew you was blushing by now, and you couldn't quite meet the Vice Admiral’s eyes. What he was saying was by no means untrue. "He's not always been like that." You were lying and you knew it. But you had to say something. You had no idea what Garp did or didn't know, or what Bogard would even want his superior to know! "Mhm." You weren’t sure that response was convincing enough. "Can't help but wonder exactly what's going on between you two." he enquired. Dammit! You were definitely turning redder now. "He-" You paused. Then took a deep breath, locking eyes with Garp this time. "We were once a couple, yes. But, we went our separate ways due to our own work preferences." You gave a shrug, realising how sad you suddenly felt as you smiled. "He wouldn't stay. I wouldn't go." "...Shame." Garp nodded. "From what I’ve heard, you have enormous potential. Definitely something we could use out there." You bowed deeply. "Those are kind words, Sir. Thank you. But it was never what I wanted. The front line isn't for me, and I would be outright useless in a fight. I'm no field medic." "We could change that." He interjected. You laughed. "I hear you're training cadets?" You weren’t sure you wanted to go back to that, weren’t sure how you would act being trained by them, honestly. "With all due respect Sir, many have tried and at this point I think I'm fine being a competent medic, and a pathetic fighter. I barely scraped through weapons training, and I decided that I would never want to handle one again! At least not by choice." "Competent would not be the word I'd use." He took a few steps forward, causing you to stiffen your posture. "Brilliant, maybe." He tilted his head. "Funny you should say that and be going off with a swordsman." You gaped for a minute. "We-Well I--" You tried to compose yourself. "That was always Bogard's thing." Your laugh was nervous. "Though I admit I can't help but be fascinated. I notice that people are intimidated by him without him even having to draw. So, once he does?" It was hot. It made you feel a little something something, and you'd never really seen him in action in a real fight.

Though of course you were not about to mention this to Garp.

"Well, there's always room on my ship. If you want this to be something more.” He paused for a brief second. “Intimate again." Garp's stare was intense. "I do hope you'll consider it, Y/N." You swallowed hard. Intimate? As if you weren't still--- "A HQ ship would be an incredible honour, Sir. I…” you paused. “Surely will consider it." "Glad to hear it." he replied enthusiastically. Garp swept past you, but stopped at the door. "I have no doubt you'll have the Marine's prepped and ready for our departure. I do suggest if you want to spend any more time with my second, you get as much of it in as possible." Even if you couldn't see him, you could hear the amusement and smirk in his voice. "Should I send him back up to your office, Y/N?" You opened your mouth, but found you couldn't answer before he walked away laughing.

Next thing you knew you was back in the arms of your situationship - under the sheets.

***

Despite what Bogard and Garp had said, it was nice for them to stick around for a little while. It reminded you that you shouldn’t get your hopes up that it would be permanent. But it gave you a taste you couldn’t help but crave. He really was all yours here. And you could pretend you were somewhere in the past, thinking about this as your far-off future. One where neither of you had ever put anything above the other. Breaks were rare when you had work to do, but right now, you also couldn’t afford to spend any free time anywhere else.

Bogard was sitting on the steps to the medical wing when you found him. Hunched over what could only have been a lighter, given the small smoke trail.

You sighed gently, folding your arms and shaking your head. Taking the steps slowly towards him - it wasn’t like you were about to sneak up on the swordsman, he knew your footfall well enough by now - it still didn’t cause him to extinguish his smoke. You stopped on the step above the one he was sitting on. Two heavy steps down, to let him know you were less than impressed, hands moving to your pockets as you bent slightly over him - feeling all at once like a doctor scolding your patient. (Well, it wasn’t like you hadn’t already had the opportunity to check his full physical health at this point.) “You know those aren’t good for your health, right?” You started. As if to mock you, he took a long deliberate drag. “Trust me, if you were on my ship, you would need these to relax too.” He replied. You narrowed your eyes. “Oh no, Mister. No using your captain as an excuse!” “He’s a damn good one.” He protested. Another drag, before he removed it from his lips, but he didn’t put it out. You leaned yourself a little closer to him, lowering your voice – positively saccharine. “Don’t worry, you can order me around!” Bogard raised a hand to his mouth slowly, and coughed. You waited with a smirk on your face for him to take the bait. “Don’t tempt me.” Bogard gave his voice the appropriate stern edge. You had the cheekiest little grin on your face, and hummed like you were a little too happy with yourself for that one. He gave you enough time to bask in it, before looking back to his smoke. “You’re going to ask me to stop, right?” You folded your arms, sighing. “At the risk of sounding like a broken record. You know my spiel by now.” Bogard gave a single nod of agreement. “You’ve never quite got me to quit yet. I think by now you’d know it wasn’t going to happen.” His eyeline had remained level until that moment, but he looked up at you now. “How’s work?” He asked. “Nothing changes…” You shrugged. “But I do have five minutes.” You took the next step down and sank to sit with him. Bogard’s smile was gentle, no matter how obvious it was that you would choose to spend your precious free time with him when he was around, it didn’t make it any less significant of an act.  “Smoke?” He held it out to you. “Ha!” You liked that he smiled at your sarcasm though, his eyes back on whatever he was watching before. “What are you-?” Bogard nodded forward, then pointed, you followed his fingertip down to the beach. Upon it were Garp, and two marines whom he looked like he was giving a stern talking to. “Oh! Your cadets?” “Mhm.” “And you’re up here because?” He scoffed. “Please, you think they’re ready to take me on yet?” You almost rolled your eyes as he took another drag, making sure to blow the smoke away from you. “I can take on both of them using only my less dominant hand. It’d be hardly worth their time either. What does it teach them? Something they aren’t ready for?” You couldn’t help the smirk that toyed with your lips. “Do you have one of those?” “One of what?” He enquired. “A less dominant hand?” You teased. You couldn’t look at him, because you knew you’d crack - but you knew the kind of stare he was giving you, before he jogged your shoulder. “Stop.” You couldn’t help the quick burst of laughter you let escape.

You continued to watch the two young men train with Garp for a while. And eventually you let yourself unwind enough to lean up against his shoulder. It was funny how much more you felt his body sink into relaxation below yours after that. And he put his smoke out too. He was content to sit with you like this. Yes. This was exactly what you dreamed of. Even if you couldn’t say you missed Bogard often (you were far too busy working here to do much of anything!), at least you didn’t let yourself and your thoughts linger on that feeling for too long. This physical contact was exactly what you needed. His letters could cover almost everything else, letting you know he was okay and that you didn’t have to worry. It was exactly what made this work without it having to be a relationship. But they couldn’t hold you. They couldn’t replace his touch. Your eyes lowered to his hands. It was weird for you to think just what they were capable of. He could be so gentle, but his swordsmanship? Just how many lives had Bogard taken with the exact same hands that held you the way he did? You sank your teeth into your lip as you frowned. You could think these things all you liked. Right now you just wanted to hold them - that’s what you knew for sure.

Bogard regarded your body language. Even when you weren’t looking at him, he knew what you desired. It didn’t matter how damn long you had been away from each other. At this point, it was simply muscle memory. You could both say whatever you wanted. Sometimes he wondered if being “single” really was the easiest option for you. It sure sounded like it. But he knew how it complicated things. How it twisted your feelings. Maybe you couldn’t make it work together. But you couldn’t make it work without each other either. Bogard knew you were thinking about how this could be your life. How could you not be? He was thinking it too – and by now he knew you better than you knew yourself.

He moved his hand from his knee, extending it towards yours - palm up - still watching your reaction. You hesitated; too shy to look at him now. Bogard knew, of course he knew. At this point he might as well have been a mind reader. Your movements were slow and deliberate. You took his hand gingerly; lacing your fingers together. Before moving your other to fit his hand between yours. He watched you do this with a smile, before pulling your hands gently back into his lap. You made a small noise before burying your face in his shoulder; surely blushing now. He focused back on the beach, running his thumb over the back of your hand. Yes - this was worth coming back for. Even if accepting the way you otherwise lived meant he sacrificed this to miss you the rest of the time. And if neither of you would move to give that up, you always would.

*** Seeing him off came all too quick. His return seemed but a fleeting moment - a heartbeat, and you were having to let him go again. The thing that stopped you from letting this be anything more than it was. But you were kidding yourself. You were in a relationship. The code; the unwritten rule, the exclusivity of it. There'd never been anyone else. Neither of you were calling it that, though. Neither of you referred to each other as ‘Partners', or ever enquired if it would be like that again. Everything but in name. Yet you would continue to tell yourself this was for the best - and that you wouldn't hurt for a little while as he sailed off into the distance.

Everyone around you on the dock was moving fast, getting final-final preparations done before they set sail. For the two of you, time was virtually standing still. Your hands were in his, and right now all you wanted was for them to stay there as long as possible. As tradition stated, you both had one more try in you - one more line of persuasion before the same conclusion would be reached, and you went your separate ways once again. Bogard leaned into you. That small near smile on his lips that reflected so much more brilliantly in his eyes. And in that moment the light was hitting them just right; illuminating that brown colour in a million beautiful shades. His voice was soft and sweet - as if this time he was really pulling out all the stops. "You should come with us.” he said. “We could always use a doctor." You chuckled, shaking your head. But you were grinning. You couldn't help but smile brilliantly at the way he was making you feel. Of course he was still trying to get you to go with him, despite already knowing your answer. You had to admire that spirit – every single time. "My place is here." You said firmly. You bit your tongue between your teeth cheekily for a moment, before teasing back with. "You could always stay." It was Bogard's turn to chuckle. "You know I can't do that." Your head tilted. 'Exactly'.

But he kept leaning, and you weren’t about to stop him. Now might have been the time to be professional. But it was also the exact time to be unprofessional. You pushed yourself up to meet him in a goodbye kiss. Both of you probably expected it to be short and sweet, but then again neither of you were pulling away - content to stay in it. You couldn't take it anymore, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer. He reciprocated, hands on your waist pulling you into his arms. At some point someone whistled. You felt him laugh, but he didn't pull back – Bogard just kept kissing you. Not even with the thought in his head that he was doing this in public. A little harder, edge a little more possessive of you. There was something in this kiss meant to completely destroy the idea that there was, or ever would be, anyone else, ever. Even when you were merely joking about it, even when he was too. You surrendered to it, and to him, completely.

Back on the ship, Helmeppo has spotted what was happening on the docks below. And if he was surprised by the kiss in the first place, the fact that it was going on - the stoic second in command swordsman that Bogard was? The guy who wore a perpetual frown most of the time! This wasn't happening - in fact it was beyond being seen to be believed! It was a ‘pinch me I must be dreaming’ moment. He smacked Coby - who was only oblivious because he was working - perhaps a little too hard. But he didn't care, and threw his other hand just to check that he wasn't the only one seeing this! The smaller cadet also couldn't help but stop and stare, almost gaping.

Garp watched the scene with a shake of his head, and a laugh. Sometimes it was good to be right!

Eventually you both had to pull back, if for nothing but a need to breathe. But you kept close. Your fingers gripped his Marine coat tight as you held him close to you. His head dipped to yours. Bogard kept his arms wrapped around you. You closed your eyes and tried your best to hold back your tears. "Stay safe." You whispered, emotion flooding your voice. "I don’t want to see you back here anything less than immaculate.” “Stay safe too." His voice was equally emotional, strained against the proper tone he was trying to emulate. "Don’t take any shit.” You pulled slightly back from him, laughing. “You come back to me.” "You know where we're going. I can't make any promises. But…" He relinquished your warmth none too fast, reassuring you. "I always do."

You stood for a moment like that, unsure where to go from here. You couldn't help it, pulling him back for one more kiss goodbye - and much shorter, to your own dismay. Before drawing your hands to the centre of his chest, fussing with his Marine coat for a second, and making certain to pull it straight, ensuring that the emblem presented itself dead centre. If you were going to tell him to be immaculate when he returned, you damn well weren’t sending him away if he was anything less! "You tell those other girls..." You laughed, unable to finish the joke. "Tell them what?" "They c- can't have—y-!” You kept laughing through it. “I can't even finish that thought." You grinned, putting it another way instead. "You're mine." He shook his head at you. "Always was." Before bowing low, "Until next time, Y/N." Bogard left you with a smile, and with that, began walking a few feet to the ship’s gangplank. You called after him, "I'm already looking forward to that letter!" He nearly laughed.

Upon boarding, Helmeppo and Coby still hadn't got over the scene. Staring at him almost in awe - definitely with a million questions for the man helping to train them. It took just one look, a single stare to swear both of them to eternal silence. Maybe they would get their answers one day. Maybe he would want to talk about it. Right now, Bogard wasn't sure. He did know he considered it private, no matter how passionate and public his goodbye was to you.

You stood back, listened to him shouting commands to get the ship running with a smile on your face. Just like that he was in his element again. He was working now. He was the second in command to a Vice Admiral. 'That's my man.' For a moment, you wondered if you should have asked. You’d still never had a concrete conversation around being officially together again. You supposed it was as unsaid as the exclusivity. The illusion that you would both still be single; until the time you met again. But what was more official than 'Always was.'?

Whatever you were, you were content.

As the ship pushed away from the dock, Bogard appeared at the starboard side railing, offering a hand up gesture as a wave goodbye. You waved back enthusiastically. Glad to see him one last time before he sailed into the sunset. And here you would be the next time he was able to visit you. Because you would wait for him. And maybe one day, you’d give in to him. Or he would settle down with you.

Whoever’s will won out in the end, right now you knew one thing for sure. You didn't care if it meant you were together.

---

Two swordsmen down one to go! 🖤💚💛

Other OPLA Fics: 'Late to the Party - Roronoa Zoro x Reader

[steakout-05]

i hate how everytime australia gets brought up ever everyone's always like "ouhhhg australia is so dangerous all the animals want to kill you!!! lol aren't these animals so weird and creepy and gross!? kill it with fire!!! did you know australia is mostly barren desert!?!?? (not even true) how do people even live there lol what the fuck??? this country is so weeiirrddd" like oh my god shut uppp. fuckin breaking news local american internet user finds out other country is different from theirs and physically can't comprehend it

[wherevenusholdssomeofficespace]

I think the Dwampyverse on some level is kind of a family affair. It's so cute how much the creators families grew into it.

Like on a purely in universe standpoint we have all the characters who are named for IRL family members of Dan and Swampy. Isabella is named for Dan's older daughter, Lil' Sparks Melissa, Melissa Chase (and probably Tia Meli) are named for his younger daughter Melissa. Django and Jenny Brown are named for Swampy's kids (their last name Brown could have come from Swampy's grandfather). Linda and Tiana are named after Dan's sisters. Ferb is named after a friend of Dan and Swampy's and based off of Swampy's uncle. Adyson Sweetwater is based on Swampy's granddaughter. Ferb and Lawrence being British comes from the time Swampy spent in England. The fact Phineas and Ferb are step siblings also comes from Swampy's own childhood. The Grant-Gomez family is inspired by Dan and his wife and being a half-Venezuelan family. The large age gap in the Grant Gomez family (and likely between Jeremy and Suzy) is due to Dan's own large age gap with his sister. The premise of enjoying summer vacation came from his mom. Perry's double life is inspired by a cat Dan had.

But then out of universe, their IRL family is involved too. Django has voiced Balthazar Horowitz, some of Ferb's cousins, and Chad Van Coff among other minor characters. Meli voices Gretel of course, and Alex/Isa Povenmire sings "I'm the Bomb" along with doing temp voices. Not to mention Olivia Olson, daughter of Phineas and Ferb writer and Songwriter Martin Olson voiced Vanessa, sang a lot of other songs for the show, and Olivia is now writing for the Phineas and Ferb revival, so that's basically come full circle.

This was sort of inspired by Gretel, voiced by Meli Povenmire, quoting a memed Doofensmirtz line, who is voiced by her father Dan Povenmire. I don't think she was even born when Phineas and Ferb first came out. And now she and her sister are now teenagers, which Olivia was when she first got involved on Phineas and Ferb. And now Olivia's writing. That's kind of crazy.

[x-pair-o-dice-x]

about the craft au, why do cbench stay in the facility instead of leaving? Do they ever split up and if so why?

they want to leave, trust me, they do! but, you see– they've fallen down, henry-batim style. perhaps they investigate some weird door in the proper workshop, and end up falling down into the pocket dimension or whatever the place is. so, they're searching for an exit, a way to escape– and hoping the monsters don't catch them before they find it.

i imagine the trio don't like splitting up– they prefer staying together, easier to defend themselves. and if they really do need to split, it's only for a short time.

...there is one time one of them splits off from the rest for a little too long, though. :3c

[dallonwrites]

doing this sort of deep and detailed worldbuilding that doesn't really happen in my litfic works (well worldbuilding is still there, but even when i write litfic in a fictional setting it's not the same as this speculative project where there's lots of specific lore) has felt really nice because it's something to hold onto and familiarise myself with before i jump into the draft, but also because i'm not trying to outline the story alongside that i'll still get all the ways that discovery writing benefits me. making me think about how whether you're plotting a story ahead of drafting or not these sort of pre drafting rituals are really helpful and can take so many different forms depending on the story + writer

[endercasts]

red blue light

this outfit, picked out by drakos:

combined with this:

turns into this drakos/ender fic: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48033475 (rated Mature for sexual content)

[you-are-my-neverland]

[id: a graphic with a series of three images: a girl with her eyes cast in shadow, a statue of a saint dripping gold, and two hands with light between them. the text overlaid reads ‘the metamorphosis of the lost’ / end id]

THE METAMORPHOSIS OF THE LOST → A ROUND UP

“Kevla is rotten to the core,” June continued. She was as close to impassioned as India thought she would ever visibly be, reminding India of the times June had opened up before, the anger burning like a bright, cold, distant star in her eyes. “You can’t fix Kevla. All you can do is remove some of the damage.”

after roughly fourteen months of writing, i am proud to announce that the first draft of the metamorphosis of the lost is officially done. at the start of the summer last year (2022), i had only 120k words, and the end seemed unreachable. now, i’ve wrapped up the first draft at a rounded up value of 310k. it’s crazy to think that i’ve actually reached this point. i started tracking my writing progress during my summer goal of 200k, and continued to do so during the fall semester, of which i only failed to write one day. in retrospect, all those days where i was too tired to write more than a few sentences, with word counts under 100, and the months where i struggled to hit my goal of 500 a day - all those days piled up to the completion i achieved right on time for 2023 to hit. 

will i definitely do more work on this novel? who knows. i can’t say for certain that i’ll ever go back to it, or that a second draft will occur. but i hope i will. i always planned for tmotl to have a companion piece, for this to be the first part of a duology. do i have nothing but a few scattered ideas tying the two together? yes. i do need to actually tackle the plot of that rumored companion novel soon.

“What did you ever do for me?” she asked bleakly. “I’m dead because of you. If you had cared at all, the Black Saint would have died long before I came back to find him still alive.” If he had been dead then, I might have come back to you, she didn’t say, because it was something that she would never be able to take back if she did.

i’ve posted a lot of (unpolished) excerpts on here before, so in honor of finishing the first draft, i figured i would let myself talk about the writing process and all the little things i haven’t shared yet! if you were ever interested in finding out more about this wip, or read the posts i’ve made and thought ‘idk what this is about but this is cool’ (as i never did post those character profiles or setting notes or anything informative beyond the wip intro...), read on.

(fair warning: it’s long.)

Kevla itself might be larger than life, but India didn’t believe in the city either. She just knew it existed, because she couldn’t ignore its presence in her life. 

Maybe Kevla was God.

we’ll start with the city itself. kevla, a city set somewhere on the coast, estranged from the rest of the world that it can’t really be imagined somewhere on a map. kevla is, at it’s heart, a gritty thing to behold: it is a city that is trying to kill you, and the only thing that will save you. 

there have been many times when i’ve looked at a wip and said, this wip is just going to be normal. there will be no magical realism in this wip.’ this was not the case for tmotl - when i was first visualizing the story, i knew that i wanted the city the vigilantes occupy to be alive in a very magical realism way. therefore, kevla is a sentient being, though it is never explicitly called that. it is only understood by the characters throughout the story, by anele and india and vin and june. it is talked about as something that acts on its own. in this, kevla becomes both the setting and a character. 

kevla itself is neatly divided into districts. i live in the suburbs, and have not lived in any big metropolises, but i have visited nyc, and d.c.  is kevla not exactly designed as a realistic city would be? yes. but i think it fits into the rest of the novel - kevla has to be small for logistical reasons, but it also has to be larger than life. it has to be a peninsula, with a raging coastline, and it has to have a living forest cutting it off from everything else. the people who live in kevla understand the uncanny nature of their city, but it is not unusual to them - it’s just the place they live.

He didn’t say anything. India drew in a shuddering breath and felt his chest expand slightly, in the barest way, ribs rigid through his costume. She could draw a knife right now, stab him fatally, slide it into the spot between the ribs, drive it in through his skin and break through his back. If not that, then a bullet at close range. The possibilities were endless. At this point, she could see the seams in his body armor. Everything and anything could be destroyed at this close.

india, india, india. tmotl definitely doesn’t have a single main character - june and india both share that title, and many other characters have a substantial amount of povs - but tmotl is also very much india’s story, because she’s the girl i wanted to write about first. an angry girl. an outcast. someone who is overflowing with all the wrong emotions. someone who bares her rage on her teeth.

india as indigo is directionless. she’s stuck in place, and she doesn’t know where she’s going. it’s only after she’s killed by the black saint and returns as the red saint that she finally has a purpose - to kill the black saint, and to prove the world (the vigilantes) wrong. to show them. where she had just been following other people’s paths, and rules, now she forges her own. still, even, she’s torn in her heart - does she really want burned bridges? does she want death? apologies? for all that india claims, she doesn’t really know, herself, but it takes her a long time before she can admit that to herself.

india is, at her core, unpredictable. she’s a series of contradictions, which is intended. no matter how much drive you have, it doesn’t amount to anything if you don’t know where you’re going, or why you’re going at all. she’s a treasure trove of trust issues, impulses, and sharp edged defenses. she doesn’t trust anyone, because she was abandoned from birth - there was never anyone in her corner until she met anele and vin. even then, even with a found family, she put up the walls; she wants to be understand, while believing so strongly in the fundamental divide between them all - that they will never understand what it’s like to be her.

india is a mouthpiece for something that often echoed throughout my thoughts, especially when first brainstorming for tmotl. who gets to decide who the good guys are in vigilantism? are you the good guys, india asks, because you didn’t let your trauma affect you? because you dealt with it ‘neatly?’ am i the bad guy for not being able to?

“I didn’t die easily,” June said ferociously. “None of us died easily. People like you didn’t let us die easily. Our death, to you, was nothing but a chance, but for us it was hell, over and over again. Why do you expect compassion from me when you never had any for any of us? You didn’t change anything. You didn’t save anyone. You took a legacy and let it live on.”

She swallowed back her anger and lividity, fingers curling around the knife handle.

“Complacency is a crime.”

june, our other leading lady. summer 2021, when i was first having the beginnings of an idea of what this story would become, june’s description was ‘a revenge driven victim of nonconsensual body modification/experimentation.’ she was always designed to be the perfect experiment, in a way. she’s the timepiece, not a cog, of the weaponization of children.

june’s story is one of agency. of irony. she’s dissociated from her body - it is just a thing she lives in. it was something that was made by other people. she uses that body to kill the people that made her, as if saying, ‘look what the body you made can you do. look what the thing you made is capable of.’ she is the sword that turns on its owner, the weapon that fights back instead of fleeing. where does the weapon end and the girl begin? she doesn’t even know herself.

june is the ice to india’s fire. they complement each other like that. she’s the level headed one, the executioner. india’s all impulsivity and anger, emotions spilling out over the edges as june keeps everything she feels close. she doesn’t even know how much she’s feeling at any time; june keeps everything muted, a further dissociation from the self.

her revenge is not really revenge so much as it is vengeance. it’s the only way she can even begin to reclaim her agency, and while she acknowledges that at some level, outwardly the reason for what she does is simple: so that it never happens to anyone else. not for herself, but for everyone else. or so she tells herself.

“We’re here,” Vail said. “If you ever want to talk more about any of it, we’re here.”

“But you’re not,” Emrys said, hating the way her voice cracked on the last word. “All of you are here, but you’re not there.”

They were alone. She felt terrible and peculiar, as if they were pins on a map, standing in the same city but far away from each other. As if walking in parallel lines, but heading in different directions. When India had been there, things had been different. When Aerin had been there, Emrys had thought she would at least have the comfort of knowing she wasn’t alone, but she was alone. They all were.

emrys wasn’t supposed to be that main of a character, but she ended up badgering her way into the story anyways, snatching up a large percentage of povs. she became very close to my heart, maybe because, out of all of the characters, she was the most like me in her mind (and i spent a lot of time in her mind). kind of like my embodiment of girlhood - she’s in her nebulous coming of age, in the background: confronting hard truths and hard feelings alongside grief, as she steps into new shoes all on her own. she didn’t quite end up following the ideas i had in mind for her, but i’m pretty satisfied with the emrys i have left.

emrys was supposed to be the hope of the group. in every story (at least for me), there must be someone who represents the new when it comes to the old (pain, trauma, tradition, etc). in a twist of irony, emrys herself became aware of this - she herself thinks that she doesn’t want to be hope, or in pandora’s box at all.

for a character that was supposed to be the happy, bright one, the emrys we meet in tmotl is living out an aftermath. that happy, bright girl is who she used to be. the girl she is now is one transforming, becoming a darker shadow to her brighter body. many of the things she does throughout the story would be considered uncharacteristic from those who know her, and even though the readers are not aware of who this girl used to be (and only catch glimpses of her), the reactions of other characters tell us this.

“You know why I saved you,” Catrin said. 

“I do,” Vin agreed. He could never forget the life debt he carried so heavily on his heart, which had stayed his hand a hundred times over. It was the reason he was loyal to her after all; their relationship was built on mutual debt, with which came a degree of shared trust. Vin had always known that one day she might aim him at someone with intent to kill, and he would do it. If only to keep the balance.

onto vin, one of the older members of this vigilante group at 25, but no less important. he is supposed to come off as almost inhuman - flexible beyond measure, moving like a shadow, so quiet that he makes no noise at all, as if he was a ghost. vin is a mystery, and a private person, who is frustratingly hard to understand to his younger counterparts, such as india and emrys, and still an enigma to his older partners, such as anele. he has one of the most thought out characterizations (because i had so much to work out when it came to his character), but you probably learn the least about him throughout the story.

vin bears the brunt of india’s anger and emrys’ frustration in the story, partially because he’s so hard to communicate with (in a way), and partially because he’s the one they want to prove themselves to. he’s aloof and talented; he never messes up, or calls the wrong shot. he was built for the job, it seems. of course, this is what it looks like on the surface - underneath tells a story, the dark side of june’s moon. human experimentation to the point of dehumanization. on the surface, he looks ordinary. inside, who knows what he has become.

vin operates by a strict moral code. he’s brutal, and capable of extreme cruelty, but he never kills. in a fight, he says, the only thing that matters is the people you want to protect. one rule, but it’s the only thing that matters. this is where he and india clash - she wants the black saint dead, but vin will never kill (for reasons relating to backstory info that can’t be shared at this moment lol).

a fun fact, though, which i don’t think i actually mentioned in the first draft even though it’s so clever, is that vin is short for corvin. corvin derives from corvinus, which derives from the latin word corvus in turn. corvus literally means raven, but it also refers to the genus of birds including crows, ravens, etc. his vigilante name is crow btw.

Angry was too close to being a bomb herself, and for all her sermons on understanding bombs, Anele had already died in the face of one. She did not want to become one herself.

When bombs exploded, they left no survivors. Even the ones who lived were not untouched. 

The ones who died, too, even.

anele!! the wisest of the bunch, maybe, if wisdom equals years. she’s not the mother figure, but more like an older sister to many of the vigilantes. someone you would go to for advice. where everyone else came from empty and hard childhoods, anele grew up loved with a single father, in a suburban neighborhood. she has memories she can look back on with fondness, instead of ones tainted by death or grief.

although anele is always moving forwards, she, too, is mired in the past. she grieves for herself. she visits her father as a ghost, leaving him things without ever knocking on the door, because she is afraid she wouldn’t be welcomed back as one of the living. so much of her current life is trapped in the half second before she died the first time. she might not have believed in the system, but she participated in it, until dying. then, she realized it was always going to fail her. despite being straight laced, she believes in the gray line between black and white, the area outside of laws and all that.

anele steps into the role of x-le with ease, but at the heart of the matter, she doesn’t trust catrin, especially since she never asked to be saved, or to be brought back to life with metal in her veins. she doesn’t allow this to color her professional relationships, but on a personal level, she doesn’t hide her scrutiny.

anele and vin have by far one of my most favorite relationships in the novel, mostly because she is, at least, deeply in love with him in a way that can’t even be described as love. it’s subtle, but interwoven in all their interactions. feelings where there shouldn’t be. emotion where it can’t exist. makes me go insane, honestly.

You didn’t have to answer, Diem thought, but couldn’t make herself say it, because a part of her had always been waiting. Ever since her childhood, when she had first heard the whispered rumors about her father, when she had realized that there would always be questions about her birthright and place following her, she had been waiting for a father to claim. For a father to destroy.

Her mother’s hand on her own, helping her slide the knife into skin, wiping the blood spray for her face gently, showing her how to clean the blade. 

diem is, out of all the vigilantes (our heroes and heroines), the most antagonistic one by design. she is one of the characters that was meant to stay the truest to their original designs (of an old wip also called tmotl i half planned back in 2019-2020, of which several characters were taken off the shelf and dusted off for this story). the diem i created then was cutthroat and hard to the bone, the kind of person who used people and threw them away when she was done. here, her personality is a bit toned down, if only because she has to take the back burner - she’s not the leader, but now a ‘lackey.’ a team member. however, although diem might be one with the team, she very much chafes against the idea, an independent contractor.

daughter of the infamous bowman, a criminal overlord, and an unnamed man, diem grew up in a life of elite crime. she might have died since then, but it only made her harder. out of all of them, diem is the one who focuses the most on impartiality, of cutting things off before they drag her down. she cuts her losses before they can cut her. sentimentality has no place in her - she is a brutal machine, always pushing herself forward. the only soft spot she has is for vail, and even then, she’s hard pressed to show it. to diem, all her weaknesses became her strengths, including her death.

to india, diem is someone she wants to destroy. prior to death, they were always at each other’s throats, and after it, it’s no surprise that diem is the main voice preaching that india can’t be saved. their similarities only cause their differences to be more abrasive.

Kevla already had one saint. It didn’t need another. The audacity they had to call themselves Saints when all they did was contribute to the hell so many people were trapped in made Vail vengeful—he didn’t believe in Saints, and even if he did, they wouldn’t be the ones who walked the streets. Saint wasn’t a title one gave themselves; it had to be earned.

vail is the quiet one. where everyone else is brimming with opinion and emotion, vail is in the backdrop, a muted color against all the vivid, dark ones competing for space. he is kind and compassionate in comparison to diem’s hard headed ruthlessness, but he’s also the only one who can meet her head on without getting emotionally involved - maybe that is why he is the only one who can temper her.

vail is a man of family and faith, but he keeps both those things close to his heart. although he is a sentimental person, he is always hiding that part of himself, because it got him hurt, over and over again. family and faith hurt him, killed him, but he doesn’t know how to let it go. can’t. 

all the characters pay homage to some sort of divine presence at least once or twice throughout tmotl, but vail is the only one who believes in a specific god, instead of an entity-that-might-be-a-god, or kevla-as-a-god-or-divine-being. kevla is a city that kills organized religion, but vail’s faith is too great to be killed.

He’d thought that he had gotten over it. That the past had stopped chasing him. That, when the past finally found him, Mika would be ready for it. That he would fight it. That he would kill it. 

How many times had he dreamed of that night? How many times had he dreamed of another dreary Kevlan landscape, where this time he was the victor?

mika, son of the mockingbird. like diem, he believes in absolute strength, not allowing himself any sign of weakness. he’s very independent, and though he seems unwavering, he’s actually insecure in his identity, if only because of the immeasurable shadow his parents - a chemist and famous vigilante, respectively - left behind.

mika’s story is one of legacy. like his mother before him, he traverses the city in the guise of night, as phantom. he’s cynical, the pessimistic voice among those who believe in the best, and deals with everything that bothers him with coldness, putting up high walls. although he seems closed off, inside he carries a bone deep determination to survive, to defeat ‘evil’ and triumph. his thoughts on justice are often unclear, as is his morality, but he approaches the title of vigilante with a ruthless efficiency.

catrin flint, emrys’ aunt, is mika’s guardian, through a series of loosely explained events - often because it is not clear to mika or emrys themselves how catrin knew his mother, and what led her to take him in. mika never wanted another family, and that much is clear to both flints, but he is also the one who ends up being the most in emrys’ corner as she goes through grief and changes. he doesn’t agree with her on most things, but he stays by her side all the same.

mika was originally supposed to have a touch of magical realism to him as well - and he should still, if the necessary revisions are done and hints portrayed. mika was supposed to be someone who walked the shadowy line of the veil, seeing/communicating with the dead, or hand in hand with death (with nebulous connections to his own death or near-death experience). 

Suicidal, Drakov had called him back then, when he had spared him and Jericho had thrown it away in favor of not taking the hint, trailing him because he had seen a lifeline in the other man, one he wanted to grasp, like flailing in the ocean and chancing upon a buoyancy device. It was coming out of a haze, like a dying man who had been living life with the expectation of it ending only to realize that he wanted to live. 

But Jericho wasn’t fifteen. He was Jailbird, had been for years. He’d trained under Drakov, the only person he knew who had had the honor. He’d managed to survive in this shitty city, had gotten out of the trap where thousands of others had died, and had carved out a living without paying penance to anyone but himself.

jericho’s the only vigilante without a team, but he makes up for it by having plenty of connections. he’s india’s friend, before and after. he becomes mika’s and emrys’ connection in the grimy city, and potential ally. he communicates with the dragon, the only person who can reveal information on the assassin on a personal, instead of professional, level (with the exception of a few). 

a vigilante who is more like a mercenary, jericho goes by the pseudonym jailbird, and mostly keeps to himself. he’s shrewd, witty, and plays the game as smart as he can as a kid on his own - and it’s worked; he’s managed to avoid any major trouble. out of all the cast, jericho is one of the few who avoids a near death experience. 

still, he deals with a fair amount of imposter syndrome and guilt, most of which is only alluded to, as he only gets the rare pov. i can’t speak much on him because several big facts about him are technically plot relevant info that gets revealed in the novel itself.

June wondered if that was before or after he had died for the first time, before or after the first time he had tried to kill himself. With Rhys, the first time had never been the last. She thought of what he had said the last time they had talked so closely. I don’t care about life or death, June. I don’t care about the people I kill. I don’t care if it gets me killed. 

She held the blade up to him. The pale light glinted on the edges, showing the smooth, glossy sheen of it all. 

if winter were a person, it would be personified through rhys. aptly enough, his last name is winters, although this never gets mentioned in-text (i don’t believe). surprisingly, rhys doesn’t get a single pov throughout tmotl, even when most of the characters mentioned here get at least one (like mika). still, he has a presence, if only because he is june’s partner in crime. they come from the same history, cut from the same cloth. 

rhys is the apathetic type of person who doesn’t believe in anything. he’s suicidal (to a lesser degree in the present, but this is still an explicit textual fact). he likes to weaponize his discomfort and acidic personality to make other people (namely kit) uncomfortable. human misery on the downlow, though this could also be attributed to the fact that he lives a miserable existence - as if his history wasn’t bad enough, in death he was saved and made alive only through the fact that he is literally toxic, consigning him to a life wearing a gas mask, as his breathe could kill people if it is not filtered.

in tmotl, rhys is in many ways an abettor. does he care for june’s revenge? not really, but he helps her with it anyways, because what he feels for june is complicated, but he would follow her anywhere, if only because she gives him something to do. does he care about kit? does he care about human life? who knows. sometimes he says things just to be contradictory. 

rhys was also from the original wip, and he stays much the same, if a little more fleshed out. so does his and kit’s antagonistic relationship.

Flames were dancing in the fever bright blue of Kit’s eyes, his arm running red as he carelessly studied the tracker, letting it catch the light. She could see the thin displeasure set in Rhys’ mouth, even behind the gas mask, which snaked around his ears, the rebreathers fitted like a glove to the lower half of his face. He passed her a strip of cloth wordlessly, his own arm bound. She in turn took Kit’s hand, nodding at the tracker as she cinched a quick tourniquet. 

“I know,” Kit murmured, and then threw the tracker back towards the warehouse. His skin beneath June’s cool, blood stained fingers was burning. She could feel the thud of his heartbeat beneath the thin skin of his wrist, beating a wild rhythm, but when she looked at him more carefully, he still stood unwavering, which was good enough.

this excerpt is actually from page number one. kit, our final ‘main’ character (besides the villains and adults of the story, which are not quite as interesting, and also don’t have much i can reveal about them without spoiling things), is part of june’s team of three. he doesn’t go out in costume like basically every single other character; he doesn’t even have a code name. he’s the technology behind june’s operation, the one who runs things behind the scenes for her and rhys.

kit is important because he’s who june wants to protect. he’s one of the reasons she keeps moving forward at all. he’s a failure, at least to the organization - they saved him, but they couldn’t make him something better. sometimes, when you fix something broken, it doesn’t turn out as it was. for kit, this means a slow, aching death sentence, fighting the deterioration of his own body.

still, kit tries to stay brave in the face of it all. he’s light hearted, especially in comparison to rhys and june’s dark moods. he’s a light - something june follows, and rhys abhors. much of kit is a mix of appearance and projection; it is as it looks, but it also isn’t. sometimes, you’ve barely scratched the surface, because as much as kit is the open one, he also has a history of lying and conning that mark him as as much of a street kid as india, or june was.

he’s destined for death. the only question - one that is revisited throughout tmotl in scenes - is how long it will take before he gets there.

That last day in the Fold had never stopped being a blade lodged in his sternum. Vin could still feel it, the wound it covered. If he ever pulled the knife free, he would bleed out, but the longer he kept it in, the more damage would be done in the long run. 

He kept the blade in. It was the risk he could take, for now.

that’s it for now. i could go on and on, but i think i’ve written enough for now. if you have any questions about this work on the characters, or just want to know something, please reach out via my ask box or messages! i hope this piqued your interest - that being said, if you would like to be added to this specific taglist, or my general taglist, let me know in some way shape or form!

taglist: @cannivalisms @sunshineomeara @thepixiediaries @muddshadow

[nostalgia-tblr]

overly-long self-indulgent fic wip that caters to my own niche interests, my beloved

[aptericia]

Not proud to be here.

--

Ok, here goes draft like 5 of this fucking post. I spent 4 hours tossing and turning in bed last night thinking about this, and then this morning I found a tumblr post that really helped me understand what I was trying to say.

The post talks about how aromantic "advocates" claim that "aros don't take up resources, so there's no reason not to include them!" And if that's actually what people believe, I think I can finally articulate why it is that I feel so alienated in queer spaces.

It's because aspecs in general aren't "welcomed" by much of the queer community. We're tolerated. We perhaps get the luxury of not being contradicted on our own identities, or not being specifically kicked out of LGBTQ-only spaces, but that's the whole point: what we get out of the queer "community" is people NOT doing things, not actually doing things FOR us. And that, frankly, is not enough. We deserve conversations about us. We deserve to have others consider our feelings, even when making lighthearted jokes. We deserve varied, respectful representation in media. We deserve the active deconstruction of amatonormativity in society. We deserve to have space made for us, rather than at most being told we should "go take up more space!" ourselves.

Of course, the reality is that my being aspec is a personal matter that does not inherently affect anyone else. But the same can be said for literally any queer identity. Your being gay doesn't say anything about me, so of course I shouldn't hurt you for it, but why should I help you either? Because your happiness and comfort are important. The same goes for aspecs.

And most of the time, I don't even need anyone to make space for or expend resources on me; I can live fine in everyday, non-queer-specific places without mentioning my identity at all. But it's the queer community that claims it will make that space for me, doesn't, and then acts defensive and morally pure if I call out the hypocrisy because "we're queer too, you can't erase our identities to advocate for yours!!!!"

Again, this post isn't about specifics. I have queer friends who are incredibly thoughtful and supportive about my identity, just as I have non-queer friends who are. I find more solidarity in aspec-only communities, as well as trans/genderqueer ones, although there are still many exceptions. This post is also not about amatonormative ideology, which is extremely common from queer and non-queer people alike. This post is about the reason I've felt so betrayed by the queer community.

--

On a personal note, I remember being so excited when I started identifying as aromantic (and later asexual). Fitting myself into labels has been a lifelong struggle for me; to this day I still can't confidently say if I'm White or PoC, neurotypical or neurodivergent, abled or disabled, cisgender or not cisgender. I continue to struggle making friends because I don't fall into social cliques. To discover that I officially, certainly, was LGBTQ+ lifted a huge weight off my shoulders. And now I'm just so sad to find that despite that, I'm still stuck in the middle. I didn't get rewarded with a community. I still feel alienated from both queer and non-queer people. I know it was silly to get my hopes up when there's such vast diversity in both groups, but it really was a disappointment. Going to my first Pride parade last year was really the moment where I realized this.

[jetii]

Home is a Place on Coruscant

Pairing: Captain Rex x fem!Reader

Words: 10,705

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! angst, hurt/comfort, discussion of grief/death, some description of blood/injuries, mutual pining, friends to lovers, smut, dirty talk, a little brat taming, oral sex (m and f receiving), penetration, unprotected sex, light exhibitionism but not really

Summary: You've always been there for Rex, and when he shows up at your door in the middle of the night after a devastating mission, you do what you do best: take care of him.

A/N: The start of this fic has been sitting in my notes app since the TCW season finale many moons ago, and it wasn't until I read this drabble by @djarrex that I felt compelled to actually finish it. Rex is my fav and he deserves to be taken care of.

It's been about a decade since I've published a fic and about a decade since I've been active on tumblr, so I decided to start from scratch with this blog. Feedback is very much appreciated! I have a few more drafts in the works for Echo, Howzer, Kix, Tech, and Hunter that I'm planning to publish depending on the reception to this one.

Previous Work | Next Work | Masterlist

Rain on Coruscant was rare. But when it came, it came in torrents, and it came all at once.

In the early hours of morning, while the planet was still sleeping, the sky opened up and let loose a downpour that threatened to flood the lower levels. It was so heavy, it even drowned out the traffic noise coming from the speeders that were still flying over the city at the early hour. The noise was soothing, almost like a lullaby, and the sound of it woke you.

You were used to this sound. You were used to it, because you were used to not being able to sleep for more than an hour or two at a time. It was one of the many things about living in the Jewel of the Core Worlds that was taking you longer than you would have liked to adjust to.

The traffic noise, the bustle, the crowds—it all made your homeworld of Rion seem very far away. You could never hear anything over the speeder traffic here, and you likely would've gone mad long ago if not for the trickling of the fountain you kept in the main room. It had been your mother's. You were glad it had come with you when you moved.

The rain was heavy enough that you could hear it inside the apartment, a pleasant hum against the transparisteel. You sat in the window seat, arms folded around your knees, watching the rain fall. The view from your window was not the best in the Galactic City, but it was still quite good, and at night it was beautiful, all the lights of the skyscrapers blurring together in the rain.

The rain would be good for the plants.

You had a garden, a modest one. Some of the plants were native to your world. A few were native to Coruscant. Most were from other worlds. They were your pride and joy. Caring for them had given you something to do when you were adjusting to your new life here. You watered and pruned and tended to them all, and in the spring you were rewarded for your efforts.

Rex had been baffled, at first, by the sight of you out in the courtyard behind the complex, on your knees in the dirt, digging and weeding. It was a little piece of nature on a planet that didn't have much, and Rex was amazed that someone could take so much joy in something so… natural. It was nothing like what he'd been raised to appreciate, which was a good vantage point, a well-maintained blaster, and a plan.

When he'd told you as much, you had invited him to kneel down beside you, and, hesitantly, he'd done so. You handed him a spade and pointed to a patch of soil.

"See that little green leaf poking up?" you asked, and Rex followed your gaze. "See it?"

"I see it."

"Plant the spade right under it. When you pull it up, the root will come with it."

"Like this?" Rex had pulled the spade up, and a plant had come with it. He examined it, then tossed it aside, into the compost.

"That's perfect. That's just how you're supposed to do it. See, you're a natural."

Rex smiled, pleased with the praise. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Now, let's get the rest of these weeds."

You'd worked in the garden until the sun was setting. Your hands had been dirty, and you had been smiling, and Rex had thought you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

He would probably never tell you as much. He'd been trying to think of ways to tell you, and nothing seemed good enough. There was nothing good enough for you. So instead he told you about the missions he went on. And you listened. You always listened.

You wondered if Rex had heard the rain start. You wondered if it was keeping him awake, too. You wanted him to sleep. He was always so tired, and the last thing you wanted was for him to be exhausted when he came home from his mission.

If he came home.

It was an irrational thought. The missions were dangerous, yes, but the 501st had some of the best soldiers in the galaxy. And Rex was a good captain. A good leader.

But there was always the possibility. The risk.

You were intimately acquainted with the feeling of waiting for someone, and the way it tore you apart. It was a risk, being this close to Rex and the other clones of the 501st. It was a risk, feeling the way you did.

It was a risk, but you did anyway.

You look out at the rain, and the speeders that still flew through it. You wonder how they could fly through the storm, and not be afraid.

You're just about to turn away from the window when a noise behind you makes you jump. There, underneath the sound of the rain battering against the transparisteel, the sound of a knock at your door. You almost don’t think it is real, that it's simply a part of the soundscape of the rainy morning, but it comes again, three short raps.

You slide out of bed, fumbling to grab the clothes you tossed on the floor the night before. You don't bother to put on pants, but pull a long shirt over your head and tiptoe to the door, peering through the peephole.

The rain is heavier now, and the clouds are dark, almost black. The white shape in the hall is familiar, though, and it makes your heart race. You open the door, filling the small entryway with the scent of fresh rainwater and humidity.

"Rex," you say. "What are you doing here?”

He’s stoic, still and silent under your gaze, but you can see the tremble in his hands at his sides. The downpour seems to have washed the majority of dirt and debris from his armor, but bits of red still run through the cracks. An hour ago, he was likely covered with whatever the substance was — Umbaran dust or something more sinister — but the rain did well enough to wash it off.

He must’ve walked here, you realize, eyes widening. Your bottom lip pulls to worry between your teeth as you notice the new dents and marks on him. Carbon scoring on his shoulder plate, a tear in his kama, and what seems to be a blaster hole in his chest plate.

"I… I don’t know," he says after a moment. His voice is quiet, rough through the modulation of his helmet. It's as if the words are being dragged up from his lungs.

"I shouldn’t have. I… I should have called. I just… I had to see you.”

The words hang between you, suspended like the raindrops in the air. You feel tears prickle at the corner of your eyes. You can't believe he's here. He's here, and he's alive. You'd known he would be, but to see him with your own eyes, to have him in front of you, fills you with an immense sense of relief.

But something is clearly wrong. He's not saying what's bothering him, and you're almost too afraid to ask.

“Rex, what happened?”

You reach for him, only to have your hand meet nothing but humid air as he pulls back.

“It’s late, sorry for disturbing you—“

He turns to go, and this time you’re faster. Your hand encloses around his wrist and pulls him to a stop before he can take another step.

“Wait, Rex— please, just… stay. Just for a moment. Come in, you're getting soaked."

He lets out a slow breath and then, after a moment, he jerks a stiff nod. He allows you to drag him inside your apartment and, as the door slides shut behind him, he lifts his hands to the seal of his helmet. You watch him closely as he pulls it free and reveals the face beneath.

There are smudges of grime on his golden skin, and a deep furrow has formed between his eyebrows. He looks haunted, as if the shadows from the battlefield have followed him home. You want to smooth that line out with your thumb, but you aren’t sure he will let you.

You don't ask if you can touch him, but he notices the way your fingers twitch, and he knows you well enough to know that you're thinking about it.

"It's fine," he murmurs. He's never said no to you. "Go ahead."

He doesn't say please, and that hurts a little, but you're not surprised. Rex has been holding you at arm's length ever since he kissed you a few months back, and you know why. You just wish you knew how to help him.

So, you touch him. You brush your fingers across his cheek, wiping away the grime. You know that he doesn't need to be cleaned, but the motions are soothing. Your gentle touch is a balm, and you can feel his tension ease ever so slightly as you brush your fingers over his face.

"What happened?" you ask again, voice barely above a whisper.

"A lot." He lets out a slow breath and leans a little into your touch. He's exhausted, and he's relieved to see you, and the two warring emotions are pulling him in different directions. Rex opens his mouth to say more, but the words die on his tongue. He shakes his head, unable to continue, and closes his eyes.

"Come sit down."

You take him by the hand and lead him over to the couch. You sit first, and he follows suit, sitting a respectable distance from you. The distance doesn't seem right. When you'd met him, Rex had been so full of confidence, even when he'd been a little bit awkward, a little bit unsure. But the war had changed him. He was still the same man, still confident and brave and intelligent, but the weight of responsibility had settled on his shoulders, and the burden was crushing him.

You want to tell him it's going to be okay. You want to say it, but the words sound hollow in your mind.

You shift, moving closer, and Rex moves, too. The distance between you shrinks, and the tension eases. You don’t much care that he’s wearing armor, or that the rainwater is leaving damp spots on the upholstery.

Rex reaches for you, and his hands tremble. His gloves are damp, and his armor is cold, and the chill sends a shiver up your spine when he touches your knee. His eyes are distant, and he doesn't quite meet yours, and his expression is so, so sad.

“Hardcase is gone,” he closes his eyes to avoid seeing the look on your face. You can’t help but gasp at the admission, and a soft sob slips past your lips.

You had met Hardcase once, very briefly. He had been charming and charismatic and kind, if a little wild, and you had liked him immediately. He had flirted with you, and Rex had rolled his eyes and tried to hide a smile behind his cup. Hardcase had been fun, and loud, and a little bit reckless.

You had not known him as well as some of the others on his squad, but the pain in Rex's eyes, the grief in his voice, was enough to make it hurt.

"Oh, Rex, I'm so sorry," you murmur.

Rex nods, and his jaw tightens. You can tell that he's trying not to cry, and you can't imagine how hard it must be, to carry such a heavy weight all by himself.

When he speaks again, your blood runs cold.

“We were betrayed. One of our own— one of the Jedi, he—" his breath hitches. “Oz, Ringo — Dozens of them, my brothers. They’re all gone.

"Betrayed?"

You feel like the bottom has dropped out from beneath you.

You knew the war was dangerous, and that Rex's job was dangerous, but the idea that it could go wrong in such a fundamental way?

The Jedi had always seemed so wise, and so strong, and so just. It had always seemed like there was nothing they couldn't do. To know that one of them could betray their men — could betray the Republic, and the innocent people of the galaxy — was too terrible to contemplate.

Your hand finds his cheek again, and this time, his eyes find yours.

They're shining, but his tears don't fall. He's a soldier, and he knows better than to show weakness, even here. You wish he would let himself break. You wish he would let you hold him, and let his tears fall, and let you help him put the pieces back together.

"Rex," you murmur, "I'm so, so sorry."

He leans into your touch, closing his eyes, and your thumb wipes away some of the wetness that has gathered there.

He pulls back for a moment, and you think he’s pulling away completely before he leans closer. His arms slide around your waist, pulling you tight to him as he buries his head in your shoulder. You immediately return the embrace, one arm over his shoulders while your other hand lifts to hold the back of his head.

You’re not sure how long they stay like that or how many tears are shed between you. After some time, he begins to speak, and you listen while running a soothing hand over his head, trying desperately to keep from sobbing outright as he tells you about the traitorous Jedi Pong Krell.

It’s by far the greatest atrocity you’ve ever heard, and to know that Rex has to put his helmet back on and get back to work in a matter of days makes you sick to your stomach.

He doesn’t deserve this, you think as you pull him into another embrace. None of them do.

Something about the motion causes him to wince, and you immediately release him to grab hold of both his shoulders.

“Are you hurt?” You ask, eyebrows knitting together in concern.

His hesitation is answer enough, and you can feel a wave of anger rise in your chest. How could they let him come back, in the state that he's in? How could they ask this of him, after all he's already done?

“I’m fine, cyare. Armor took most of it.”

If it weren’t for the way he avoided your gaze, you’d believe him, but instead you just feel yourself grow more upset. “What did Kix say?”

“Uh, he didn’t—“

“Rex, you were shot, and you didn’t think to get medical attention?”

His expression darkens, and you can see him withdrawing again. His shoulders pull back, and he pulls his chin up, and the distance between you grows again.

“I didn’t think much of anything, to be honest.” He mutters. It breaks your heart, but it also throws more coals on the anger burning inside of you. Not anger at him, you know, even though you can’t help but let out a sigh of exasperation. “I’ll be alright.”

“Like hell you will be,” you bite out before taking a step back to help him stand. “C’mon. Let’s get you patched up.”

You're angry. You're so, so angry. How could he let himself get hurt? How could he come here and not tell you about it? How could they send him home, to you, after all he's been through, knowing that he was injured?

But there's nothing you can do about any of that now, and being angry at him isn't going to help.

“You don’t have to—“ He protests through words only, allowing you to drag him through the living room and into the refresher.

“Yes, I do.” You shut him down quickly as you flick the light on and turn to rummage underneath your sink.

He’s still standing in the center of the room when you stand back up to full height, looking uncomfortable at your fussing. It’s not the first time you’ve had to patch him up, but so far it’s just been cuts and bruises. It’s unknown territory for you both, and he holds himself like he’s waiting for you to give up and shoo him out.

Your hands find his shoulders, and you gently push him down to sit at the edge of your bathtub. He’s pliant in your hold, but he meets your eyes with the worried pinch between his brows he gets whenever he thinks he’s upset you.

“Rex, let me take care of you,” you plead softly, and the furrow deepens.

He can hear the way your voice breaks. He can see the worry in your eyes. You're scared, and he hates that he's done that to you.

He should have known better. He should have taken a moment, to collect himself, before coming to see you. He shouldn't have let his emotions overwhelm him. He should have kept it together.

You were always there for him, and you listened, and he could tell you anything. He should have told you that he was okay. That would have been the responsible thing to do.

But he didn't. He couldn't.

And now, he can't seem to do the one thing you ask him.

But, after a moment, Rex relaxes. He’s never been able to say no to you before, and it is no different now. His shoulders slump a little, and the furrow smoothes, and you can't help but think that his face looks much nicer like this. You wish he wouldn't be so hard on himself.

"Okay," he murmurs.

It's all the encouragement you need. You lift his hand, cradling it gently, and begin to remove his gloves and armor piece by piece. You set the pieces aside, careful to keep them in order, and you know he appreciates that. It's a little thing, but it helps. You make a note to clean it for him before he leaves, the sight of the red smeared across its surface churning your stomach.

It's quiet between the two of you. The only sounds in the room are the rain and the gentle clink of plastoid against the floor as the last piece is removed.

You're grateful for the silence, though. You're not sure what you would say, and you know that he needs this, needs the moment to breathe.

"Where does it hurt?" You ask.

He hesitates. There's a lot of pain, all over his body. But you can't do anything about the pain that aches in his bones, or the ache in his chest. He doesn't know how to tell you about that.

"Chest," he finally admits. "Took a hit in the vest. Knocked the wind outta me."

That was an understatement, but you didn't need to know that. He could barely breathe, when it had happened, but the rest of his brothers needed him, and he didn't have the time to worry about his own injuries.

"Can you get it off?" You ask.

He gives a slight nod and reaches his arm up to grab the neck of his blacks, slowly pulling it overhead to reveal the skin underneath. Your eyes widen slightly at the sight of him, and you feel a flush rising up your neck and onto your cheeks.

The only light in the room is the faint glow from the bulb above the mirror. It casts shadows across the planes of his muscles, and you can't help but drink in the sight of him. His chest is strong and broad, and a line of hair disappears beneath the waistband of his blacks.

There's a blaster mark on his sternum, just above his right pec, not far off from the scar in the center of his chest he’d earned on Salucemi. It’s weeping blood slowly, trickling down the curve of his muscle, and you can see the red, puffy skin surrounding the injury.

It isn't terrible. A few inches to the left, and it could have been fatal. A few inches to the right, and the armor could have deflected the bolt entirely.

Still, you know that he's in pain, and the knowledge is enough to make the tears prickle at the corners of your eyes again. You force yourself to swallow them back and, instead, you reach for a damp cloth to wipe the wound clean.

He hisses at the contact, and you can see him grit his teeth against the pain. His hand moves to grasp the edge of the tub, and you can't help but feel guilty. You want to tell him to relax, to try and ease his suffering, but you know he wouldn't listen. He never listens, not when it comes to his own wellbeing.

"Sorry," you murmur, but the cloth keeps moving. You have to clean the wound, so you can treat it properly.

“Where’d you learn this, anyways?"

"What, first aid?" You're surprised by the question.

"Mhm."

“My dad was a swoop racer, believe it or not,” you say softly. You don't talk about him very often. It still hurts. But this feels like the right moment.

Rex tilts his head curiously, watching your face. You can see his expression soften, and you know he can tell how difficult it is for you to speak about this.

"Really?"

You nod, your eyes focused on your work. “My mom was always patching him up, and I’d sit on the counter and help out where I could. When she passed, I took over.”

“Isn’t swoop racing illegal?”

“Hm, not on Rion, it’s not.” You finish cleaning the wound and move to grab the bacta bandages. “Maybe if it was, he wouldn't have gotten himself killed."

You're not sure what possessed you to be so blunt, but the words are out, and there's no taking them back. Rex blinks, shocked by your honesty. You feel embarrassment creeping up the back of your neck.

"Sorry," you murmur, keeping your eyes low. "That was… I shouldn't have said that."

Rex says nothing. He knows better than to try and coddle you, and besides, you've always been the one doing the comforting, not the other way around. But it doesn’t sit well with him to see you like this, and before he knows what he’s doing, he reaches out to you.

His hand lifts, and he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. You can't help but lean into his touch. He's so warm, and his hand is calloused and gentle. He cups the back of your head, guiding you forward, and his lips press against your forehead.

You can feel the tears welling up in your eyes as the cloth slips from your fingers, and you cling to him. You feel terrible, for complaining about the loss of your father when Rex has lost so much.

"I’m sorry," he murmurs, and you're not sure if he means for asking or for Hardcase or for the war or for everything, and you can't bring yourself to ask.

“It’s alright,” you whisper back. He lets you pull away from him to busy yourself with sorting bacta patches, but you can feel his eyes on you.

"Is that why you came to Coruscant?” He asks softly, his tone careful and gentle.

Part of you wants to lie. You're tired, and you're hurting, and you're not sure you have the strength to have this conversation right now.

But the truth is already out, and if this will help him, you'll tell him anything.

You nod.

“He was actually really good at it,” you chuckle, and Rex can hear the bitterness in your voice. “But eventually he pissed off some powerful people who were placing the wrong bets. One day he left for a big race, and the next morning I found a box with his helmet at our doorstep. Or what was left of it.”

Rex sucks in a breath, and you can see his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He knew about the helmet, he’s seen it on the shelf in your living room. But he hadn't known the full story.

You look back up at him. There are tears in your eyes, but they don't fall. You're smiling, and your eyes are sad, and his heart breaks.

“I tried to get the police involved, the racing league, anyone I could get to listen to me, but no one would investigate. I was so angry. Then I started getting threats. I couldn’t…” You shake your head, trying to rid the memories. "I couldn’t stay. So I moved here. And then the war started, and then I met you.”

It seems like a lifetime ago. The days before Rex felt like someone else's life, and you wonder how you ever managed without him. You'd been so lost, and so alone, and you'd felt like the universe was crashing down on you, and he'd pulled you out from underneath the rubble just by being there.

"I'm so sorry, cyar'ika," Rex murmurs.

You reach forward and gently lay a hand on his chest, pressing the bacta patch into place. His skin is soft beneath your touch, and you can't help but think, not for the first time, about how beautiful he is.

"I'm glad that you're here," you tell him softly. "That you made it back, I mean. I'm glad you came home."

Home. Rex swallows thickly.

He's never had a home before, not really. Home had been a word for people with families and futures. Home had been a word for normal, everyday people, not clones.

Home had always seemed like such a far away concept, something he'd never get to experience.

But, suddenly, the idea isn't quite so foreign. Home. With you.

"I'm glad I came back too," he finally murmurs, and his hand lifts to hold yours.

You're quiet, your eyes tracing the lines of his face, and his gaze finds yours.

There's something different between the two of you, something charged and heavy. You know you need to pull away. He needs to rest. You're both exhausted.

But you can't. You can't stop looking at him. He's beautiful, and he's kind, and he's the bravest person you've ever known. You've never loved anyone the way that you love him.

"Cyare," he whispers, and the word makes your heart stutter, even if you don’t know what it means.

He's not sure what comes over him. Maybe it's the way you're looking at him. Maybe it's the fact that, after the past couple of weeks, he thought he'd never see you again. Maybe it's that, for once, you're letting him take care of you. Maybe it's because you're so beautiful and you're so close and he loves you, he's so in love with you, and he doesn't know how much longer he can stand to go without saying something.

Whatever it is, he knows he needs to say something, and he knows he needs to do it now.

"I'm so glad I met you," he whispers, and it's the best he can do, but he hopes it's enough.

He reaches forward, and his hand finds the curve of your cheek, and the touch is enough to send a spark through your skin. You can feel the heat building inside of you, the desire pooling in your core, and the air in the room is electric.

"Me too," you manage.

His lips find yours.

You gasp against his mouth, and your arms wrap around his shoulders, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. You're pulling each other closer, as close as you can possibly get, and it's not close enough.

Rex moans softly against your lips, and you can't help the way your hips twitch, or the way you whimper into his mouth. You're both desperate, and eager, and it's the sweetest relief.

He stands and turns, lifting you up and sitting you on the edge of the counter, and his body presses against yours. Your legs part, welcoming him, and his hips slot perfectly between them. His hands are on your thighs, gripping and pulling and massaging the flesh.

"Rex," you gasp, breaking away from his lips.

He takes the opportunity to press his lips against your throat, his tongue and teeth working the delicate skin. He sucks at your pulse point, and you whine. You know that there will be marks in the morning, but you can't bring yourself to care.

"Rex," you whine again, and you're not sure why, not exactly, because all you want is for him to keep doing what he's doing, to let him claim you and mark you and make you his. But you're overwhelmed, and you need to catch your breath, and his name is the only word your brain can think.

His fingers tighten, and his lips lift from your skin. He’s watching you with dark eyes and swollen lips, chest heaving.

"I need…" he trails off, and he doesn't finish the sentence, but you understand.

He's holding himself back. He doesn't want to push you, doesn't want to assume, but you can feel the need rolling off of him.

He's desperate.

You are too.

“Let me take care of you,” you whisper.

Rex sucks in a breath. There are a lot of things that he could say, but the only thing he can manage is your name, soft and needy, and you can hear the way his voice breaks.

The sound makes you ache.

Your hand finds his jaw, and your thumb runs along his bottom lip. He's looking at you with the most adoring eyes, and your heart feels like it's about to burst.

"Please," he breathes.

It's all the encouragement you need. Your lips find his, and his hands find your hips. He lifts you off of the counter and into his arms, and your legs wrap tightly around his waist. His fingers dig into the backs of your thighs, grabbing and holding and massaging the flesh. You're not sure how the two of you make it into the bedroom. All you can think about is Rex's lips, his teeth and tongue and hands, and the way he's carrying you like you weigh nothing, his hardness digging into your hip.

It's a miracle he doesn’t trip over the pile of dirty laundry on the floor.

His knees hit the mattress, and he leans down to lay you gently on the bed, his eyes never leaving yours. There's a tenderness to his actions, a sweetness in the way he handles you, that makes you shiver. His thumbs trace the lines of your hipbones underneath your shirt, and he smiles at the sound of your breath catching in your throat.

"Are you sure?" He whispers, and the words are enough to make you ache.

His hands are so gentle, his face so earnest. He's always been so careful with you, and it makes you feel like the most important thing in the world.

"Yeah," you whisper, your hand coming up to rest against the side of his face.

Rex's smile is so beautiful, and it's so full of joy, and you can't help but return it. He turns his head and presses a kiss into the center of your palm.

His lips move, tracing the lines on your palm. His teeth nip gently at the tips of your fingers, and he watches as your breath catches.

He wants to take his time, to learn every inch of you, to map out the places that make you moan and the ones that make you scream, and the ones that make you laugh. He wants to kiss the scars and worship the stretchmarks and the freckles, and the dimples in your skin, and the wrinkles in the corners of your eyes, and the birthmark on your shoulder, and he wants to show you how beautiful you are, how perfect, how special, how loved.

He'll do it, eventually. But not tonight.

Tonight, he just needs you.

His fingers dip underneath the hem of your shirt, drawing it up slowly, and he can't help the groan that falls from his lips at the sight of you. You're suddenly, painfully aware of the fact that you'd never put on pants when you answered the door, let alone a bra, and you're almost embarrassed.

But the way Rex is looking at you after your shirt is tossed aside makes your stomach flutter, and the words die on your tongue.

"Mesh'la," he breathes, his eyes wide.

He can't seem to decide where to look, where to touch first, so you grab his hands and guide them. They slide across the planes of your stomach and over your ribs, and his fingers ghost the underside of your breasts, and your head falls back onto the pillows.

"Rex," you beg. "Please."

The sound of your plea is enough to spur him into action. His lips find the side of your neck, and his hand cups your breast, thumb finding your nipple and swiping over it.

You gasp, your back arching and hips bucking into his, and Rex moans softly. His teeth graze the line of your pulse, and he moves lower, and he pulls a nipple into his mouth.

"Fuck," you whimper, your nails scratching at the back of his neck.

You can feel the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He likes having this effect on you.

The hand on your other breast is kneading the flesh, and his lips are sucking at your nipple, his tongue tracing patterns on the delicate skin. His fingers pinch and pull, and you can feel the heat building between your legs.

"So sensitive," he hums, and the vibrations from his words send a tingle down your spine.

"Only for you," you breathe.

The words make his hips stutter, and the hardness of his cock presses into the wetness of your core. You can feel the outline of him against you, the heat and the thickness, and your breath catches.

You roll your hips into his, and Rex releases a groan, his teeth sinking into the soft skin of your breast.

"Kriff," he hisses, and the sound sends a shock of pleasure through you. Suddenly, you remember your promise.

"Lay back," you whisper, and his head lifts.

"What?"

You push at his shoulders, mindful of his bandages as you urge him backwards, and Rex follows your command. You move quickly, kneeling between his legs and grabbing the waistband of his blacks. You can see the outline of his hardness straining against the fabric, and you can't help but lick your lips.

"Can I?"

Rex's chest is heaving, his eyes blown black, and you can tell he's trying to process your question.

"Cyar'ika," he breathes, and the endearment makes your heart flutter. "You don't have to."

"I know," you tell him, your hand moving slowly up and down his thigh. Your head tilts thoughtfully. "Can I be honest?"

"Always," he replies.

"I've wanted to for a while."

You can feel the blush creeping up the back of your neck, and your eyes dart away from his. You don't know why, it's not like you've been hiding your attraction, but something about telling him is making you nervous.

"You have?"

His voice is soft, and his hand finds the back of your head. His touch is so gentle, and the surprise and happiness in his tone makes you bold.

"Yeah," you murmur, looking back up at him.

He looks stunned, but there's a light in his eyes, a warmth that you can feel spreading inside you too. "Why didn't you say anything?"

You shrug. "I didn't want to push."

It's his turn to blush. It's cute, the way his cheeks flush, and his eyes dart away. He almost looks embarrassed.

"Since we're being honest…" He starts.

"What?"

"Me too."

Your heart stutters, and a wide grin stretches across your face. The happiness building inside your chest is competing with the desire that courses through you at the knowledge that he's thought about this, about you, and the idea is almost too much. You're sure you must look like a fool smiling this much, but you can't bring yourself to care.

"You've thought about it?" You tease.

"Yeah," he breathes. "All the time."

"Tell me."

He groans, his fingers tangling in your hair, and you can see the way his cock twitches at your words. "I… Kriff, I've imagined it so many times. How good you'd look on your knees, with my cock in your mouth, or bent over, with my hands on your hips, or straddling me, riding me."

"What else?"

You've moved closer to him, and his fingers tighten in your hair, and you can feel the wetness between your thighs. You've never felt so desperate, so needy, and all you want is him, any part of him.

"I think about it all the time. What it would be like to have you in the barracks, in the 'fresher, in the hangar. You on your knees in my office. Fuck, everywhere. It's all I can think about sometimes."

You can feel the wetness growing between your thighs, and you can't stop the whine that falls from your lips. It's almost too much, hearing the things he's imagined, the ways he's wanted you, the times and places, and the need and desperation behind his words.

"Then will you let me?" You ask, and you hope the answer is yes, because you can't imagine stopping.

"Please," he breathes.

"What was that?"

Rex's grip on your hair tightens, his gaze locked on yours as he speaks again, his voice is low.

"Please, cyare."

That's all the encouragement you need. Your eyes don't leave his as your hands pull at the fabric, slowly revealing his length. He's bigger than you dared to imagine, and thicker, and the sight of him is enough to make your mouth water.

His eyes are wide, his pupils blown, and his mouth is hanging open slightly. The blush on his cheeks is spreading down his chest, and the muscles in his arms are tensed.

"So perfect," you hum, and you're not sure if you're talking to him or his cock.

You wrap your hand around him, and Rex's hips stutter. Your thumb swipes over the head, spreading the bead of precum, and his eyes fall shut.

"So sensitive," you tease.

"Cyare," he warns. There's an edge to his voice, and it makes you grin.

Your head dips down, and you press a kiss to the underside of his cock, and his hips jerk. You keep pressing kisses along his length, your fingers wrapping around the base. Rex is struggling to breathe. He's not even inside of you yet, and it already feels better than anything he's ever experienced before.

He opens his eyes to look down at you, and the sight of you on your knees in front of him is almost too much. He's dreamed about this moment, and fantasized, and he never, not in his wildest dreams, imagined that it would feel like this.

Your lips wrap around him, and Rex can't stop the way his hips thrust up. His cock brushes the back of your throat, and you gag, pulling back slightly with tears in your eyes.

"Sorry," he gasps, his cheeks flushing.

You shake your head as much as you can with his length in your mouth, and your eyes flash up to his.

You like this, he realizes with a start. You like being used, you like the feeling of him fucking into you, and the realization sends a shock of pleasure through him.

You bob your head slowly, and Rex watches, transfixed, as his cock disappears between your lips. Your tongue runs along the underside, and his eyes fall shut again.

"Maker," he moans.

Your hand is stroking what doesn't fit into your mouth, and your other is tracing the lines of his thighs, and his abs, and his V-lines. You can feel the muscles tensing and relaxing under your fingertips, and you can see the way his hips are straining, the effort he's making to keep still.

Your name falls from his lips like a prayer, and you hum softly in response. His fingers tighten in your hair, pulling gently, and his other hand comes to rest on the back of your head.

"Fuck, mesh'la," he moans, and the praise makes you preen.

You pull back, until only the head is between your lips, and swirl your tongue around him. He tastes sweet and salty and just the right amount of bitter, and you can't get enough.

"So good," he gasps. "So perfect, so beautiful."

He's babbling now, the words falling from his lips without him thinking about them, and you can't stop the grin. You'd always wondered if he was a talker.

"So perfect, cyar'ika, taking me so well." His voice is wrecked, and his breath is coming in ragged pants. "Feel so good. I could fuck your mouth all night."

His words make you shiver. He could. He could do anything he wanted with you, and you'd let him.

You move your head down, taking him as far as you can, and Rex's eyes open to watch you. You hold his gaze as his cock slides along the back of your tongue and hits the back of your throat, and you suppress the urge to gag.

"So pretty," he hums, his voice strained. "Such a good girl."

Your pussy throbs at the words, and the moan you release vibrates his length.

"That's it," he gasps.

You can feel the tears pooling at the corners of your eyes, but you keep moving, keep taking him, and his grip on your hair tightens.

"So good, mesh'la, so, so good."

He's repeating the words, and you're not sure if he knows he's saying them. Your jaw is starting to ache, your lips are sore, and there's drool dripping down your chin, but you can't stop the soft whimpers and moans.

The sounds are enough to drive him mad.

His hand moves to cup your cheek, and his thumb runs along your bottom lip, stretched around him. The gesture is so tender and loving, it's almost too much.

"Look at you," he breathes. "Kriff, I've wanted this for so long. So beautiful. So perfect. My perfect girl. You take me so well."

You hum again, and his head falls back, the movement pushing his cock deeper. You gag around him, and his hips stutter, a litany of Mando'a spilling from his lips. You're not sure what he's saying, but the words are making your cunt clench, the pleasure building inside of you overwhelming.

"I'm close, mesh'la," he gasps. "If you want to stop, you'd better— ah, kriff!"

You've pulled back, and the suction of your lips is incredible. Rex's hips are stuttering, his hands are tugging on your hair, and the sounds falling from his lips are enough to make your core throb.

"Mesh'la, please, I can't—"

His words die in his throat as you reach between his legs and roll his balls in your hand. The action sends him hurtling over the edge, and his hips thrust up one last time, pushing his cock down your throat as he comes.

Your throat works to swallow every drop. It's so much, more than you were expecting, and you struggle not to choke. His grip on your hair is borderline painful, but you don't mind. You can feel his whole body trembling, his breathing labored and his chest heaving.

You release him with a wet pop, and he shudders. You press one last kiss to the underside of his softening length, and he twitches, his body still sensitive.

"You're gonna kill me" he breathes.

"Hopefully not." You wipe your mouth, thumb catching a stray drop of cum and sucking it into your mouth, and you watch as his eyes darken.

He pulls you to him, and you climb back into his lap, his lips on yours. The kiss is slow and lazy, his hands running up and down your back, his body still shuddering from the force of his orgasm.

"Mesh'la," he sighs against your lips, his breath hot and heavy. "So beautiful."

His fingers trail down the side of your neck and between your breasts. They ghost the skin of your stomach and dip underneath the hem of your panties, and you can't help the whimper that escapes.

"Still want me?" You ask.

"Always."

His lips are on your neck, and his fingers find the wetness between your thighs, and you gasp. The noise that falls from his lips is filthy.

"Fuck, cyar'ika," he groans. "You're soaked."

"That's your fault," you manage.

His teeth graze your pulse, and his fingers brush against your clit, making your hips buck.

"Can't help it," you gasp.

You can't stop the cry of pleasure as his thumb presses down. His touch is gentle, almost hesitant, and you're not sure why. You've made it perfectly clear that you want this.

"Rex," you whimper. "Please."

He presses another kiss to your lips, and the hand not between your thighs wraps around your back, holding you steady. He teases your entrance, and your breath catches, and then his fingers are slipping inside.

"Ah, fuck," you hiss.

You're so wet, so slick, and his fingers slide in easily. Just two fingers already feel so thick, and you can feel your walls stretching around him. There's a dull ache, but it feels so good.

"Cyar'ika," he groans. "Fuck, so tight."

His fingers pump in and out slowly, and your head falls onto his shoulder.

"Faster," you gasp. "Please, Rex."

"Shh," he coos. "Patience, mesh'la."

"Please."

"Be a good girl and be patient for me."

You whine, the sound muffled by his shoulder. He's being cruel, teasing you like this. You've already had him once, and now he's drawing it out. "Rex, I need you."

He hums softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. His fingers are still pumping in and out, slowly, agonizingly, and you know he's doing it on purpose.

"I need you," you whimper.

"I'm here," he whispers.

"No, I— ah! I need you inside me."

You can feel his breath catch, and his fingers stutter, and then his lips are at your ear.

"How do you want me, mesh'la?"

"Like this," you breathe. "I want to ride you."

His breath hisses through his teeth, and his fingers speed up. The change in pace is enough to make your head spin, and the noises coming from your mouth are embarrassing. You sound desperate, and you are.

"Fuck, Rex."

"So good," he hums. "Such a good girl."

A third finger slides in beside the other two, and the stretch makes your back arch. You're not sure when he had the chance to slick his fingers with your wetness, but he must have. He's not hurting you, and the feeling is incredible.

"Rex, I'm gonna—"

"Not yet," he cuts you off.

"Please, I need to—"

"You'll wait," he growls, and the command is enough to make your toes curl.

"Please," you beg. "I'll be good, I promise, just—oh!"

Your plea is cut off by a sharp cry of pleasure, and your walls flutter around his fingers, your hips rocking back and forth.

"I said not yet."

"I'm sorry," you gasp, and the words come out strangled. "I couldn't help it, you feel so good."

He hums, his thumb finding your clit, and the stimulation is almost too much. His lips find yours, and his free hand holds you steady as his fingers move inside of you.

You writhe on top of him, your legs shaking, and you can feel the pleasure building in the pit of your stomach, and it's all too much.

"Please," you beg, and you're not even sure what you're asking for.

"What do you need?"

"Please," you gasp.

"Use your words, cyar'ika. What do you need?"

"I need— ah! I need you. I need more. Please."

He's torturing you, you realize. He's doing it on purpose, making you beg, punishing you for how you teased him earlier, and the thought of it makes your cunt throb.

"You've been so good for me, mesh'la. You think you've earned it?"

"Yes," you hiss. "I'll be good. Please, Rex, I'll be a good girl."

He can't say no, not when you're looking at him like that. Not when your lips are parted and your cheeks are flushed, and the look in your eyes is so desperate.

"Okay," he concedes.

You let out a sound of relief, and his fingers are slipping out of you. He brings his fingers to his lips and sucks them into his mouth, and the action is enough to make you groan. You rise off of him, legs trembling, and hurriedly push your panties down and toss them aside.

He looks up at you, and there's awe in his eyes, a reverence, as his hands settle on your hips to guide you back to him. Your hand wraps around his cock, lining him up, and the two of you gasp as his head breaches your entrance.

"Take your time," he whispers. “You don’t have to—fuck!”

You sink down, taking him fully in one smooth motion, and Rex can't stop the low, guttural moan that escapes.

"You said to take my time," you say, and there's a cheeky lilt to your voice. He opens his mouth to argue, but the words die in his throat. "So I took my time."

You can't stop the grin. The look on his face is almost too much. His cheeks are flushed, and his chest is heaving. His lips are swollen from the kisses, his eyes wide and his pupils blown. He looks good like this, you think, and you've never seen him so undone.

"Cyar'ika," he finally manages.

You hum, circling your hips, and his grip on you tightens. Your pace is slow, savoring this feeling unlike anything you've ever experienced. He's bigger than anything you've ever had inside of you before, filling you in ways you didn't even know were possible. You're still adjusting to him, and your movements are slow, but they're steady, and you can't help the soft whimpers and gasps.

Rex is struggling to breathe. Your heat is so warm and so wet, your walls are clenching around him, and the sight of you is almost too much. The way your head is tipped back, your eyes closed and your mouth open, the sounds you’re making, and the way his cock is disappearing inside of you over and over again, it's all so much. He can't believe this is happening.

He leans forward to press a kiss to your throat, his teeth grazing your pulse. You gasp before pushing on his shoulders, and his back hits the mattress. You lean over him, your hands reaching to grasp the headboard, and the new angle makes the both of you exhale. It also makes your breasts hang tantalizingly in his face.

Rex is not one to waste an opportunity.

He leans up and closes his lips around one of your nipples, and the sensation is enough to make your hips buck. Your pace speeds up, and his hands grip your hips tightly, helping to guide you.

"Oh, kriff," you gasp.

He releases your nipple with a pop and moves his attention to the other, and the sound you make is almost enough to make him come right then. He can’t help but shift his hips, moving them up and down in time with your thrusts, and you pull away from him to give him a look of warning.

"Stay still," you order.

"Or what?"

You raise an eyebrow, and Rex shivers. You're not sure what makes him react like that, but it sends a rush of heat straight to your core.

"I'll stop."

His jaw drops, and his eyes widen. "You wouldn't," he says.

"That’s an order, Captain," you say, and his cock twitches inside of you. You can't help the wicked smile. You’re learning a lot about him today.

"You're the worst."

"You love it," you retort.

His hands move to your waist, and he pulls you closer.

"I love you," he breathes.

You can feel yourself clench around him at his words, and he hisses through his teeth.

"Say it again."

"I love you."

Your lips meet his, and his tongue slides into your mouth as his hands roam your body. You can feel his heart beating wildly in his chest, his lips are warm, and his breath is hot, and his body is so close to yours, the feeling is overwhelming.

He's everything.

"I love you," he says again, his voice hoarse.

"I love you, Rex."

"I never thought I'd hear you say that."

"It's true," you gasp.

His hips stutter, and you pull away, giving him a look of warning, and his jaw clenches.

"Sorry, cyar'ika. I couldn't help it."

"I know."

"Let me make it up to you."

"Wh— ah!"

You cry out as his fingers find your clit, and your walls flutter. The movement sends pleasure shooting through you, and your legs shake, the pace of your hips unsteady.

"That's it," he coos. "Come for me."

"Not yet," you gasp. "Need you to— oh, fuck, Rex."

His hips snap up, meeting your thrusts, and the new pace is relentless. He's chasing his own release, and you're right there with him. You can't take it anymore.

"Please, please, I can't—"

"Go ahead," he urges.

You can't stop the cry that tumbles from your lips. You can feel the orgasm building, and your hips are bucking wildly.

"I can't—I can't," you sob.

"Come for me, cyar'ika. Come on my cock."

The words are enough to send you over the edge, and he swallows your cries of pleasure. You're trembling above him, your nails are digging into his skin, and the pressure of his fingers against your clit is enough to make your hips jerk.

"Kriff, I can feel you," he breathes. "Your little pussy is squeezing me so tightly."

"Please," you beg. You're not even sure what you're begging him for.

All you know is that he feels so good, and you're so sensitive, and the sensations are too much and not enough.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Good girl."

"I can't, I can't, I can't-"

"Shh, shh, it's okay."

He's so gentle even as he sets a brutal pace, his hips snapping up to meet yours. You can feel the head of his cock hitting the end of your channel, and his fingers are rubbing frantic circles around your clit.

The pressure is almost painful, but it feels so good.

"Oh, fuck, Rex," you cry out.

"Come again," he demands.

"I can't," you protest. "It's too much."

"You can," he counters. "Do it for me."

The words send a thrill through you, and you can feel the pleasure building. Your walls are fluttering around him, your hips are bucking, and you can't control the noises coming from your lips.

"That's it," he growls.

Your orgasm washes over you, and this time it's stronger, tears spilling over as his name falls from your lips over and over again. You can feel your release gushing out of you, coating his cock and the sheets below.

The sight is so filthy, but it only seems to spur him on. Rex grips your hips tight enough that you know you’ll bruise, and the thought sends another thrill through you. You want him to leave his mark. He fucks up into you with a force that has the headboard slamming against the wall, and his thrusts are losing their rhythm.

"I'm so close," he breathes.

You're barely coherent, but you can't help but latch on, his words sending another rush of heat through you. "You gonna come for me, Captain?"

He shudders, and his eyes flutter shut, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. He can't find the words.

"You've been so good for me," you purr breathlessly. "Let go."

You can see the tension leaving his shoulders, his jaw slack. His breath is coming in shallow gasps, and his thrusts are unsteady. He's teetering on the edge, and all it takes is a few more words from you.

"Fill me up."

"Cyar'ika," he warns.

"Do it," you order.

"Fuck, cyar'ika," he breathes. "Oh, fuck, I'm coming, I'm—"

He curses, his head falling back against the pillow, and his cock pulses as he spills inside of you, his hands tight on your hips to hold you down. You can feel the warmth of his seed filling you, and the sensation is enough to make the corners of your vision darken.

"I can feel it," you murmur. "I can feel you, kriff, Rex."

He groans, his arms pulling you down, and you collapse against his chest. You're not sure how long you stay like that, just holding each other. You can't feel anything except him, his hands running up and down your spine, and his lips pressed to the top of your head.

“So,” you say after a while, and he can hear the smugness in your voice.

You tilt your head, and the look he gives you is withering.

"Don't start," he warns.

"Captain, huh? I didn't know that was your thing"

"That's not—"

"What? You don't want to talk about the fact that your cock gets hard when I call you Captain?"

On cue, the appendage in question twitches, and Rex closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's not— ugh, kriff," he mutters.

You can't stop the laughter that bubbles up.

"You're cute when you're embarrassed," you coo.

"Don't patronize me," he says, but the words have no heat behind them.

"I'd never dream of it, sir."

You can see the blush rising in his cheeks, and his eyes darken.

"That's an order," he grumbles.

You lean up, brushing your lips against his, and the touch is soft and gentle. He melts into it, his hands resting on your waist.

"Yes, Captain," you say.

"I can't—kriff. You can't say things like that, mesh'la." His expression is pained, and the sound that escapes him is almost a whine.

"You're right," you agree. "I can do better."

He raises an eyebrow, and his jaw drops as your fingers wrap around his wrist. His eyes follow the motion as you pull his hand between your thighs. You let out a satisfied moan as his fingers dip between your folds, and he can't tear his gaze away from the sight of his seed dripping from your cunt when his softening cock slides out of you.

"You're a mess," he says reverently.

"I'm a mess because of you."

He hums, his fingers gathering some of his spend and sliding it back into you.

"Is this what you were imagining, Captain?"

He shudders at the title, and his hips cant, his cock stirring to life.

You can't help the grin. "It is, isn't it?"

"You're terrible," he growls.

"Oh, I'm not terrible. I'm the best you've ever had."

He lets out a breathless laugh. "You're the only one I've ever had," he admits.

You pull back, staring at him in surprise, and the look on his face is unreadable.

"Are you— are you serious?"

"Of course I'm serious," he says, brow raised.

"But--"

"Cyare, I've only ever wanted you." His words are simple, and they're said with a conviction that steals the breath from your lungs.

"Oh."

You're speechless. You're not sure what you'd imagined the past few months. You're not even sure if you'd ever given much thought to it, but the idea that you're the only person who has ever made him feel like this is dizzying.

"I've loved you for a very long time," he confesses, and the words make your heart ache. "I never thought—kriff, I never thought you'd feel the same."

"I love you," you say firmly. "So much."

He grins, and the smile is so wide that his cheeks are dimpling. You can't resist. You lean down to kiss him again, and the way he holds you, like you're the most precious thing in the world, makes the feeling in your chest bloom.

"I'll say it every day for the rest of our lives, if that's what you need," you say.

"Don't make promises you can't keep," he murmurs.

"I wouldn't," you promise.

He stares at you for a moment, his gaze intense, and his grip tightens. You can see him steeling himself, and the words he speaks make you shiver.

"Good, because I intend to marry you someday."

"Someday," you echo. You're not sure if you believe him, if that's even possible for you, but you believe that he believes it.

"When the war is over," he confirms. "When the fighting is done, and we've finally got a chance at peace, I'll give you the galaxy, cyare. And a family, if you want one."

"Rex, I—" You swallow thickly, and he can see the emotions flickering across your face. His fingers are drawing shapes on your hip, and his eyes are locked with yours.

"I'm not asking for an answer now," he says gently. "I just— I want you to know how serious I am."

You nod, and the silence that stretches between you is heavy.

"You really mean it," you finally say.

"Of course I do."

"What happens if—"

"There is no 'if.'" His tone leaves no room for argument, and he shifts, sitting up. The new position brings you into his lap, and your knees are straddling his waist. He rests his forehead against yours, and his breath fans across your face.

"Whatever happens, we'll face it together."

"Together," you murmur.

"I'm with you. Always."

You close the distance, kissing him softly. It's nice, holding him like this. The feeling of his arms around you is enough to drive the fears from your mind, pushing them to the furthest corners. You can feel yourself relaxing, the tension leaving your shoulders, and his hands roam your body, exploring every inch.

"You know," you begin, your voice quiet, and your lips brush against his with every word. "I'm still waiting for a tour of the barracks, Captain. Oh, the hangar too."

His breath hitches, and you can feel him starting to harden again under you.

"Cyare," he breathes.

"I'd love to see your office," you continue, and his eyes darken. "You can give me a private tour, just the two of us. I'll wear a skirt, and you can bend me over your desk."

His cock is fully erect now, and he can't stop the groan.

"And the showers," you purr, gently rotating your hips. "I bet they're big. Just big enough for the two of us. We could get the water nice and hot, and I could drop to my knees..."

"Kriff," he swears.

"Or…"

He's breathing heavily, his fingers digging into your skin.

"We could do that now," you offer.

"Cyare." His tone is pleading, and the sound sends a thrill through you. You can feel the ache building between your legs, and your thighs are sticky.

"I'm already dripping wet," you whisper.

"That's it."

He moves so fast that it makes you yelp, and the next thing you know, he's on his feet, carrying you, and your legs are wrapped around his waist. He walks swiftly towards the 'fresher, and the feeling of him sliding against your core makes you shudder.

"You're going to be the death of me, cyare," he murmurs.

"Maybe," you concede. "But I think we can agree that it'll be a great way to go."

The door slides shut behind him, and the sound of his laughter is enough to make you melt.

"A great way to go," he echoes.

You know the path ahead of you is treacherous. You know there will be more battles, and more losses, and more nights where you're unable to sleep. You know there will be pain, and fear, and sorrow.

But there will be hope too, and joy, and happiness. A home, and a family, and a future.

It will be worth it.

[ineffable-romantics]

Some thoughts on why and how I believe Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship would incorporate sex/why I do not read them as wholly asexual:

This is something I've seen the most discourse about in this fandom, and I've had a few thoughts of my own that I really wanted to expand upon in a full meta/character analysis post. I do understand that this can be a contentious topic, so first, let me clarify a few things:

First of all, this is going to be long. Tbh it probably won't be that organized either. I ramble and I'm not very good at editing, so just... you know. Be warned. (*Hi, it's me from 2 days after writing this; I'm really not kidding, it's LONG)

These are all my own thoughts. They might not be hot takes, because recently I've seen more than a few people come to the same conclusions on a lot of these points as I have. But I've also had these notes in my drafts for about a week and a half now, and have been continuously adding to it as things have occurred to me. This post is essentially just somewhere for me to collect the separate but related meta I've been kicking around in my head.

I fully respect anyone who does see and prefer an asexual reading of this relationship. These are my own thoughts and interpretations as someone who is not asexual. I am in the LGBT+ community, so while I do know a few things about the asexuality spectrum, I am by no means an expert.

This is NOT something I expect, need, or even necessarily want the show (or, God forbid, Neil's tumblr ask box) to address. Tonally, it's just not that kind of show. Newt and Anathema's sex scene was very much played for laughs, and it worked for that reason. If the show found a way to address it in a way that was both appropriate for the tone of the show and ultimately satisfying, then great! But there is so much more to this relationship than sex, and I didn't need a kiss to confirm their love, so I certainly don't need a sex scene. As immortal beings (as I assume they'll stay) there is so much of the rest of their lives we'll never get to see. You can headcanon them as asexual and potentially be right. I can headcanon them as not and be equally potentially right. Again, these are just a collection of my own thoughts, because I think the question of sexuality (or lack thereof) is just as interesting a facet of these characters as any other.

Note: Tbh I've been second-guessing this whole post and debated deleting the whole thing several times for being silly or unnecessary, bc I don't want anyone to think that this is the only thing I care about when it comes to this story/characters. But if nothing else, it's inspired me to write in a way that nothing has in a very long time, so I've decided it's worth continuing, if for no other reason than that.

This is going to be a mixed bag of textual reading, subtextual reading, and a full-on reach or two. It's been a while since I've been in an English class, but if my teachers expected me to find a deeper meaning behind blue curtains, you can expect me to read too deeply into the symbolism of a loaded rifle or an ox rib. (This is probably not what my professors had in mind when grading my literary analysis papers but oh well) My point is, if it feels like a reach, I'm as aware of it as you are. I am in no way saying that all (or even any) of my points made were deliberate on the part of Neil or the actors or the writers or the directors. I am no longer the delulu Apple Tree Yard child of my youth, I promise.

If anything said here is in any way offensive or hurtful to anyone in the asexual community, please do not hesitate to message me or comment and let me know exactly what it was. I promise you it is not my intention to do so, and am happy to clarify or outright edit anything that reads that way.

With all that being said, let's talk about why I think Crowley and Aziraphale would absolutely fuck nasty incorporate sex into their relationship.

Note: I am out of practice with essay writing, so I think I'll just go down the bullet points of notes I have been making, and expand on each as best I can

Food

Where better to start than with Aziraphale's introduction to Pleasures Of The Flesh? (Just a heads up, this entire post may feel very Aziraphale-heavy, and with good reason).

This might be the least hot take here. We've all seen the Job minisode. We've all seen That Scene.

Whether this was intentional or not, the symbolism here is off the charts. Eve was tempted by an apple. So why not go a similar route and tempt Aziraphale with another fruit, or cheese, or bread, or literally anything else for his first experience with food? Instead, we go with a huge, glistening slab of fresh meat that he proceeds to absolutely go feral upon, moaning and gasping into his meal while Crowley watches with what definitely doesn't look to be disgust or even satisfaction with a good temptation. There's surprise at the ferocity of Aziraphale's appetite, certainly. But ultimately he looks to be intensely fascinated by it, while the thunder crashes, the music crescendos, and the earth literally shakes around them.

(It's also interesting to note how very little it takes for Crowley to tempt him with the ox rib. One murmured suggestion, a bit of unwavering eye contact, and vavoom Aziraphale immediately meets him in the middle.)

Cut to Aziraphale devouring the rest of the meat with Crowley splayed back on a makeshift bed, drinking wine and continuing to watch him indulge through half-lidded eyes. Outside a thunderstorm rages while they're learning secrets about each other in warm flickering firelight. It's cosy, it's intimate, and if they'd thrown in a bearskin throw blanket, it might as well be a post-coital scene straight out of Game of Thrones.

The next time (chronologically) we see them discuss food is when Aziraphale "tempts" Crowley with oysters in Rome. So Crowley first tempts Aziraphale with meat and then Aziraphale tempts Crowley with what is widely regarded to be an aphrodisiac. Interesting.

And then chronologically after that, the Arrangement begins to form, which has always reeked of a friends with benefits situation. Just to throw that in there.

It's What Humans Do

In the very first episode, we're shown Gabriel's obvious disgust and bewilderment towards Aziraphale eating sushi, calling it "gross matter" and being proud of the fact that he does not sully his body with it. Aziraphale initially tries to defend his own enjoyment in it, before passing it off as something that humans do, as something he simply has to do in order to blend in (which we know very well is not the case).

He does this again in season 2, passing off Nina and Maggie being in love as "something humans do". But it isn't, is it? Angels are beings of love, and can sense it, and understand very well what it is... up to a point. Even romantic love is obviously within their wheelhouse, given what we now know happened between Gabriel and Beelzebub (we'll come back to them).

What the "humans do" that angels wouldn't understand is messy, physical forms of love.

But here's the thing: Aziraphale and Crowley love doing what the humans do. They love drinking, they (or at least Aziraphale) love eating. They love music. Crowley loves driving and sleeping and watching rom-coms and sitcoms. Aziraphale loves reading and doing magic and earning little licenses and certificates for achievement in his various hobbies. They love to playact at being human so much that they've stopped playacting and started building a genuinely human lifestyle for themselves and with each other.

Once together in an unambiguously romantic sense, why do we think they wouldn't also want to explore one of the most prominent, intimate, powerful human expressions of love and desire with each other?

Angels, Demons, & Asexuality

Here's where I really want to clarify that in no way do I mean that sex is necessary for a healthy, fulfilling, and loving romantic relationship, or that the lack of desire for sex makes you any less human. Asexuality is a sexuality as valid and human as any. What I would say is that it is definitely in the human minority compared to allosexuality.

Angels and demons, on the other hand, are predominately asexual. Sexless/genderless unless Making An Effort. (Which, btw, is a concept introduced as early as the original book; why even bring it up as a possibility? Why not keep angels/demons being sexless/asexual as a hard and fast rule, if not to open up the potential for later use? Chekhov's Effort, if you will. And isn't that something that Aziraphale in particular is shown to do time and time again? He makes an effort in French and driving and magic, doesn't he?)

And this is why I don't believe Aziraphale and Crowley necessarily need to be asexual, narratively. There is already a huge amount of ace rep within the angels and demons (and no, not just the horrible ones. Muriel also doesn't "drink the tea" and has no reason or desire thus far to Make An Effort, and there are certainly other angels and demons who aren't horrible like the archangels seem to be who likely wouldn't Make An Effort either).

The central conflict for Aziraphale and Crowley is that they are on their own side, the ones who went native, the ones who are so different in so many ways from their respective hives. It would make sense for them to also break away from traditional angel/demon asexuality.

I say "traditional angel/demon asexuality", because I would also like to note that I would absolutely not rule out demisexuality for either of them. This post is being written to as a response to people who specifically believe that they (like the rest of the angels/demons seem to be) would be sex-averse in a relationship, and that it wouldn't be a factor in their relationship. I could easily read them as demisexual, but I do think there would be no real way of verifying this, because they've never been able to form as close an emotional relationship with anyone else but each other. Certainly not in heaven, and I can't imagine they would be able to form that kind of attachment with any of the humans, who they love and emulate but ultimately regard as the separate species they are. So yes, they could either be allosexual or demisexual, in my opinion.

Then again, now that I think about it, Making An Effort itself could be a great metaphor for demisexuality, since they would be entirely sexless/asexual until they have enough of an emotional connection with someone to consciously manifest otherwise. Since the other angels and demons don't generally form those types of emotional connections with anyone, there hasn't been a precedent for it.

Except...

Brielzebub

We do have a precedent for it now, don't we? Gabriel and Beelzebub fell in love. They are a direct foil for Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship, speedrunning right through their courtship and finding their happily ever after on the other side of things.

For being such a 1 to 1 comparison, it feels deliberate that they did not kiss. They held hands, they were gooey with each other, but they did not kiss. That feels like such a deliberate thing to omit when you know what's to come at the end of the episode between Crowley and Aziraphale.

And going back to the food = sex metaphor for a moment, let's notice how even as they fell in love over the years, even when pints and crisps were there on the table in front of them, they never felt the desire to reach out for them. They didn't need to. It's a date (love story) even if you aren't eating dinner (sleeping together).

Yes, I know Jim liked hot chocolate. No, I am not counting it because I don't consider Jim and Gabriel to be the same person with the same proclivities, and Jim was highly suggestible at the time anyway.

Gabriel and Brielzebub's big happily ever after moment (as of now) was one between two asexual supernatural beings. They did not need to kiss to drive the point home. They showed what Crowley and Aziraphale could have, if they would only acknowledge it.

Crowley & Aziraphale's Dissatisfaction

But they do have that already, don't they? If you really think about it, what do Gabriel and Beelzebub do with each other that Crowley and Aziraphale don't already? They hold hands, they spend time together, they create little rituals, they give gifts, they're visibly and verbally affectionate with each other, etc. They are more or less already in a romantic asexual marriage relationship with each other, aren't they?

And it doesn't seem to be enough for either of them.

At the beginning of the season, Crowley is immediately shown to be unsatisfied with the way things are. Obviously part of it comes from living in his car, but it seems to be more than that (especially since Aziraphale makes it clear that the bookshop is just as much Crowley's as his, implying that he could have been living there the whole time and is choosing not to, for some reason?). You could argue he's feeling unmoored without Hell telling him what to do, but isn't that what he wanted? Isn't that what he still wants, by the end of the season? All season long, he's never indicated the desire for a new job, or a new project. He stopped the apocalypse because he wanted the freedom to openly spend time with Aziraphale, to spend his time on Earth however he sees fit. Until Gabriel arrives, he has exactly that (minus a flat).

So where does the dissatisfaction come from? And if it represents anything to do with his relationship, what does he want out of it that he isn't getting already?

I think Crowley only really comes to the realisation of what he's missing when Nina names it for him, not only putting them in the category of romantic, but physical (outright asking if they are sleeping together). These two posts [1], [2] go into more detail about what I mean, but I think it really pushes him into acknowledging that their relationship is more human than either of them have stopped to consider, and what that might mean as far as everything a human relationship can entail.

After all, Nina and Maggie only advised that he should talk to Aziraphale, make clear his feelings. The decision to kiss him, to tip them over the edge from nonphysical to physical, that was all him. And no, kissing isn't sex, but I wonder how taboo even that might be in the kind of all-encompassing asexuality most angels seem to identify with. (If they're disgusted by food and drink, I can only imagine what they think of snogging, much less sex.)

Aziraphale doesn't have this moment of someone observing their relationship from the outside. He loves Crowley, and as of 1941 probably even knows he's in love with him in a way that Crowley doesn't understand yet. Which makes sense, since love is technically his job, he'd be more likely to recognise it for what it is.

However, Aziraphale's reference for romance and relationships is Jane Austen. It's chaste. It's dancing and dinner and doing sweet things for each other and roses and candles and handholding. He contextualises his love for Crowley in that soft fantasy sort of way, where it's there, it's obviously there, but it's neat and easy and unspoken. Not to quote Glee in this, the year of our lord 2023, but it's all very "the touch of the fingertips is as sexy as it gets".

Someone should tell that to Aziraphale's face, then.

I'm not going to pretend I know what Michael Sheen's script notes were, but there were definitely some Choices™ made. Because yes, there were plenty of moments in both seasons with Aziraphale looking at Crowley in a sweet, loving, smitten way. And then there were moments that were yearning.

But yearning for what, exactly? All of those sappy Jane Austen tropes already apply to the two of them. So why are there moments where Aziraphale is looking Crowley up and down like the last eclair in the window and licking his lips and visibly exhaling like he's trying to get in control of himself (see: Bastille scene + Crowley telling Muriel to ask him if they have any other questions about love)? Why is Aziraphale not only unconcerned when Crowley shoves him bodily up against a wall in s1, but staring at his lips and a beat too late in noticing Sister Mary's arrival? Why are some of his lines so suggestive? I'm sorry, but the car ride after the church explosion might as well have been the beginning of a Pizza Man porn with a really weird Blitz theme. If even my mother picked up on that vibe, I can't imagine it wasn't intentional on part of both the dialogue and the delivery.

(This section may feel like more of a reach/joke, but I'm really only 20% joking. These are writers and actors who are EXTREMELY good at their jobs; they know what they were doing here.)

More importantly, I don't think Aziraphale is even aware that there is more to what he wants. He lives in the Jane Austen fantasy and it never even occurs to him that he might be interested in anything further. It never even occurs to him that, as an angel, there is anything further to be interested in in the first place. Until Crowley forces it to occur to him. Just like I believe Nina forced Crowley to confront the idea that romantic love is what he's been feeling all along, I believe Crowley forced Aziraphale to confront the idea that physical intimacy is something he's been wanting, without even realising.

Aziraphale's Hedonism

Expanding on Aziraphale for a moment. We talked about his relationship with food, but we all know that Aziraphale is defined by his love of things that Feel Good.

It isn't just that he and Crowley love human things. Aziraphale loves the best of the best, or at least his version of it. He doesn't just love food, he loves going to fancy restaurants. He doesn't just love clothes, he loves soft, cosy, warm, plush clothes, or shiny, flashy, bougie fashion. He loves the warmth of tea and cocoa, loves getting drunk, and sitting in a comfy chair in the sunlight. He doesn't just experience, he indulges.

Given the emphasis put on things that Aziraphale loves just because they Feel Good, it feels narratively strange to assume that he wouldn't enjoy the feeling of being touched, or that he wouldn't be willing to try it, at least once, with someone he cared very deeply for. And just like the ox rib, I think that once he gets the first taste of things, he would absolutely tip over into complete and utter self-indulgence.

Dancing

I also think that dancing could be construed as a huge metaphor here. After all, we're told flat-out that angels don't Dance. Except one.

I would argue that Aziraphale, in fact, Made An Effort to learn how to Dance. He threw himself into the gavotte with delight (at a Victorian gay club; noted) and worked hard to be good at it. He's chomping at the bit to Dance with Crowley, working up the nerve to ask him with undeniably romantic intent and eagerness. So, angels don't Dance... unless they Make An Effort to do so.

We are told that demons, on the other hand, do Dance, but not well. Makes sense, since they're the ones who would want to encourage a deadly sin like lust, but have as little understanding of human love and physical intimacy as the angels. Crowley, however, is shown to be an excellent dancer at the ball, especially in his compatibility with Aziraphale.

(But Aziraphale WandaVisioned the ball so everyone knew how to dance! Yes, he did. However, the rest of the brainwashing doesn't seem to affect Crowley in any way, and they did actually live through the time period where this sort of dancing was a social norm; I'd be surprised if he never needed to learn. After all, the demons can't spell either, and Crowley is at least functionally literate, as far as we know.)

As of today, it's also been confirmed that when Aziraphale asked Crowley to dance, Crowley replied with "you don't dance." Not "WE don't dance". So going along with the metaphor, Crowley is just now discovering that Dancing is something Aziraphale is interested in at all, much less with him, and not denying that he himself is interested in Dancing. In his defense, I believe he was asleep for a few years while Aziraphale was learning the gavotte, so he wasn't exactly aware of Aziraphale's hot girl summer.

Love Languages

I want to expand on that; Crowley and Aziraphale's compatibility. Specifically in regards to their individual love languages.

We all know Crowley's love language is Acts of Service. I don't think there's any debate there. He loves it, Aziraphale loves it, they're both aware of it, we're all aware of it, God and Satan are aware of it, no surprise there.

You may disagree with me, but I believe Aziraphale's love language is Physical Touch, for a number of reasons. One of which being his aforementioned hedonism. Aziraphale likes things that Feel Good, remember? He likes soft clothes, and well-worn books. Neil himself has said that they like holding hands. And any time he is taken by surprise (Brielzebub getting together, the wave of love in Tadfield, etc.) what is the first thing he does? Reaches out for Crowley. He stops him with a hand to the chest in the pub. He leads him by the hand to the dance floor. He guides him by the waist in the graveyard. He reaches out during the entire Brielzebub scene, whether he can reach Crowley or not. Despite his own turmoil, he grasps at Crowley's back during the kiss.

The one time Crowley reaches out for him (not counting the kiss yet; we'll get there), he is aggressively pushed against a wall (by someone he loves and trusts) with a complete and utter lack of concern (and perhaps some interest, depending on how you read it).

And when he isn't reaching out for anyone, or there isn't anyone to reach out to? Well, he's wringing his own hands together, squeezing his own fingers, as if to find that physical comfort in himself.

So. With that theory in mind, we have Aziraphale (Physical Touch) + Crowley (Acts of Service). Throw in 6000+ years of deep love, cherished companionship, and forcibly repressed longing, and there is a very real potential of this combination resulting in fierce sexual compatibility. Where Aziraphale would want to touch and be touched, to indulge in physical pleasure with someone he adores, in the same the way he indulges in every other fine thing in his life. And where Crowley would want to indulge him in return, to give him everything he wants, and to take pleasure in Aziraphale's pleasure, in the same way he enjoys watching him take joy in food everything else.

So Aziraphale is an angel who is insecure about his own less-than-holy desires, who would want to treat Crowley like a luxury to be touched and cherished and adored. And Crowley is a demon who has, over the millennia, been unhappy about how they've been forced to deny even their friendship with each other, who would want Aziraphale to feel comfortable and safe and encouraged to indulge in earthly delights. That sounds like a stunning recipe for sexual compatibility to me.

"You said 'trust me'" / "And you did"

Just like the Job minisode, the Blitz is RIFE with symbolism (intentional or otherwise). This one will be quick, but I did want to touch on it because I thought it was interesting. Maybe I'm reaching at this point, but I'm assuming you read the tin.

First of all, Crowley not wanting to admit to never firing a gun before; comes off as someone who very much does not want to admit to their crush that they're a virgin ("You must have done this lots of times!" / "Umm.... yyyyyeah.")

(You could make the argument that Aziraphale having a firearms license and a Derringer in a hollowed-out book is symbolic of him not being a virgin while Crowley is. I disagree, for reasons I'll go into later, but it's a valid reading. However, I see it more like keeping a condom in your wallet; it's there in case you need it, but the opportunity has not yet risen no pun intended.)

More importantly, the theme of this entire minisode is trust. We already know they trust each other with their lives against the rest of Heaven, Hell, and the world. But specifically, this is about the importance of having complete trust in your partner in a charged, physically vulnerable, intimate moment, where the only danger is between the two of you.

Aziraphale needs to believe Crowley would never hurt him if he can help it. Crowley needs to trust Aziraphale's unwavering blind faith in him. Frankly, it all feels very symbolic of two people deeply in love losing their respective virginities with each other.

The trick is a success, and they share an intimate candlelit dinner in which they reaffirm their faith in each other. Aziraphale also begins to voice his agreement with Crowley, that maybe Heaven's rules shouldn't have to be as black and white as they are, and that there are benefits to... blurring the lines, shades of grey, wink wink (at which point even my mom was like, whoa guys, this is a family show).

Btw also: Can we all agree how much it looked like Crowley was getting ready to get a lapdance in that one scene? You know the one.

Also also: "Aim for my mouth"? Come on.

The Birds & The Bees

Now that I think of it, there's also something to be said for the fact that Crowley and Aziraphale are both obviously familiar with where babies come from (how they're made and how they're born) while the other angels aren't.

Something something Aziraphale and Crowley fundamentally understand sex and reproduction in a way the other angels (and probably demons) very much do not, nor have any desire to.

Probably not important. Just thought it was worth mentioning.

The Kiss™ & Religious Trauma

The Kiss. Where to even begin?

This has definitely been the hardest one to start, because there is so much going on here that I definitely won't be able to cover it all, and will certainly miss a few things here and there.

Aziraphale's reaction to the kiss afterwards is the most interesting to me. And I don't mean directly after, I don't mean the "I forgive you" part. I mean the way he touches his lips when Crowley is no longer in the room and he no longer needs to save face, when he is completely alone. Had it been directly after the kiss, it would have been rightfully read as horror, or disgust, a shield to discourage further action.

It's not. It isn't just a touch, it's a press. As desperate and angry and unexpected and imperfect as the kiss had been, Aziraphale is pressing it into himself, recreating the feeling as best he can. Beneath all the poor timing and shock and hurt from their fight and fallout, I think it's fair to say that it was something he enjoyed. Something he doesn't think he should enjoy, something that Feels Good that he only allows himself to indulge in when completely alone.

Remember, Aziraphale's idea of love is Jane Austen and gentleness and courtship and fantasy. If he'd ever even considered kissing an option, it might have been gentle pecks, cheek kisses, forehead kiss, hand kisses. Soft, safe, chaste affection.

Crowley's kiss turns all of that on its head. He introduces physical intimacy in a very real, very messy, very human way that I don't think Aziraphale ever even considered could apply to them. Considering what other angels are like and what they look down on, even Aziraphale's Jane Austen fantasies probably would have been considered taboo.

So for their first kiss to be rough and desperate and passionate in the way it was, of course he was confused and in shock. It was deeply physical, and as overwhelming and awful as it was in the moment, it Felt Good. Enough that he grasped at Crowley and kissed back, if only just for a moment, before stopping himself. Enough that he actively pressed it into his lips afterwards, in private, to remember.

I adore how Neil has decided to evolve these characters past the first book/season. More so in this season, Aziraphale and Crowley have both become such interesting allegories for queer people on either side of the spectrum of toxic religion. Aziraphale in particular obviously, because he is the side that so desperately wants to believe, to make a difference, and to unlearn all of the propaganda he's been fed over such a long time. Just like so much of organised religion, there is so much that he is told, time and time again, that he should not want, that he is silly or stupid or outright wrong for wanting. It reminds me so much of the severe Catholic guilt one might feel for wanting/engaging in sex for the first time, and the stigma of being queer layered on top of that.

What is so critical to Aziraphale's character is that he goes on wanting, and more than that, actively pursues. He was convinced to go up against Heaven and Hell and stop all of Armageddon because he wanted to go on listening to music and eating lunch and reading books and enjoying the simple company of the person he cares most deeply for, even if that person is supposed to be the enemy.

All this to say that if angels are as generally asexual/sex-averse as I believe them to be, narratively speaking, it would make sense for Aziraphale to be singular in that regard as well. Mirroring his first experience with food, it would make sense for Crowley to be the one to first introduce this new messy, physical, human dynamic between them, for Aziraphale to hesitate (obviously we are at the Hesitation phase at the moment), and then (eventually) for him to dive in wholeheartedly, to absolutely glut himself on this new thing that Feels Good. It would make sense for his character development to show him overcoming his metaphorical Catholic guilt and pursuing the sexual intimacy most (if not all) of the other angels would scorn.

(I can't help but remember that plot idea Neil described from the unwritten sequel, with Aziraphale in a hotel room trying to watch a full porno by way of the free 2-minute teaser clips so he wasn't technically sinning by paying for it. I so hope this is used in season 3, because gosh, I wonder why Aziraphale would suddenly be so interested in observing human physical intimacy after 6,000 years. Lonely and doing a little surreptitious research there, angel?)

Crowley, on the other hand, is the queer person who has broken free from his toxic religion. He prides himself on being his own person, on their his own side. He doesn't have the hang-ups Aziraphale does. He doesn't worry that he's going to be judged or cast aside for wanting things he's not supposed to. So it only makes sense for him to be the first one to suggest/initiate physical intimacy. It makes sense for him to be the one who "goes too fast" (another fantastic example of this dynamic beginning as early as s1; what is that conversation in the car meant to represent, if not Aziraphale being overwhelmed by the intensity of their relationship, and his fear of succumbing to it when he believes he shouldn't? It's also interesting that this is the first conversation to take place in Soho, just after watching Aziraphale realise he's caught feelings for a demon, with the red glow of lust serving as the backdrop).

Do I think the kiss in and of itself was sexual? No. I think it was a passionate and devastating last-ditch effort on Crowley's part to convey the way he feels for Aziraphale. Not just that he loves him, but that he loves him in the most human way possible. But I do think that the kiss represents how they can move forward from here, and what they might want to explore with each other once they feel free enough to do so.

In Conclusion

I am sure, deep in my bones (unless we are explicitly told otherwise), that this was both of their first kisses no, I'm not counting the gavotte, and that neither of them have ever thought to do anything else physical with the humans while they have been on Earth. Like I said before, they adore the human race and lifestyle in general, but ultimately view them as a separate species altogether, and they seem mostly happy to keep to themselves and each other, unless otherwise necessary. I just can't see either of them being drawn enough to a human to pursue anything close to sex. If Crowley in particular has had anything to do with sex in the context of temptations, I'm positive he would be inciting lust amongst the humans themselves, not involving himself directly. At least not that directly.

So, like every other human experience they've had on Earth, sex is something new that they could explore together, just the two of them, on their own side. A deeply intimate, tangible declaration of their love and everything they've gone through to earn it. A visceral finger to give both Heaven and Hell. A renewed appreciation for their corporations and for each other's. A enjoyable method for immortal beings to simply pass the time in each other's company. A new and exciting way to Feel Good, and all the variations that come with it.

You might agree with this post, or you might not. Whether this is something that is ever addressed or not, it doesn't matter to me. This is a brilliant love story either way, and I genuinely feel so privileged to witness it.

But I just can't find it in myself to imagine, given everything we know about these two characters, that sex isn't an experience they would both consume with wholehearted enthusiasm, curiosity, and profound, ineffable adoration.

___________________________________

Bonus feature: the very silly notes I made to myself that inspired this post

[moonsaver]

Iris family!reader back at it again! Here's part 2 of this, which was VERY incomplete because tumblr decided to bust on me and upload it while i was still drafting!! I think this part might be more confusing, so feel free to ask about it right away!

Taglist is at the end of the fic hehe

-

Aventurine has an eye for craftsmanship. And very good ears.

You recall vividly. That's the first thing he mentioned about himself when he first introduced himself to you.

You know it's not a coincidence he's reaching out to you. Especially after a meeting with Mr. Sunday, which is his direct, formal contact with the Oak Family. You, on the other hand, were a direct, informal contact. The fact you were barely a notable singer in the plethora of talents Penacony held wasn't what mattered to Aventurine. Neither did it matter that you were from the Iris Family. Because to him, you were a one-way ticket to Sunday's mind. 

It's also no coincidence he's decided to drop by after he sees the wide open door of your room.

“I've heard well about your station, friend.”

He makes himself comfortable on the stiff couch of the hotel room, the fabric wrinkling and the frame creaking from the shift in weight.

“I.. don't need your help. I’m fine.”

“Can't hurt to always have connections, keeps you afloat, birdie.”

“Don't tell me that. I don't need any more. I've had enough.”

Aventurine smiles, and leans back into the couch, one of his arms lazily resting on the couch's and the finger of his hand tapping the top of his knee.

“Your earrings are the talk of the town, y'know?”

Your hand instinctively shoots up, and your fingers ghost the lobe of your ear. You're not wearing any at the moment.

“Is that so..?”

Your body language is jittery. Your hands keep fidgeting. Your lips hurt from the constant chewing, your finger rubs your earlobe.

Aventurine fiddles with his own, and gets up. He walks over to you with slow, easing steps.

“There's a cute little section in a few tabloids about those earrings. There's also a little fact that your ears burn red when you lie.”

Aventurine stands in front of you.

“That can't be right. It's totally bullshit.”

He chuckles at your response. He leans in, slowly, his breath ghosts the shell of your ears. The oddly sweet scent of expensive, exotic wine line his cool breath over your skin.

“There's also been that whole buzz about The Watchmaker's Legacy.”

The close proximity renders you paralyzed – many thoughts run through your head; should you push him away? Should you step away instead? Snap back at him?

You feel his gloved finger busy itself with your ear. A snap resounds loudly through your ear, and his hand retracts. So does he.

Your agitated gaze lingers on his smug face, and wanders over to his ears. They're red.

“I'll give you some advice – you should try and take advantage of chaos.”

His hand raises slightly, and his fingers barely kiss the skin of your elbows. It snaps something in you, and you immediately move to step back.

His other hand shoots up and grabs your arm in response.

“We can help each other, can't we, little sparrow? A glimpse of that man's mind is enough for me. I'll help you keep your family all safe and sound.”

“I– don't care what you have to offer. I am not taking that risk! This crap about The Watchmaker, I'm not having it! Find someone else to bother!”

Aventurine's smile widens, his eyes stare down at you. The concentric colours are almost hypnotising.

“Relax. The game's only started, I'm sure there's enough time for you to analyse the situation and pick a side. And things will fall into place all in due time.”

A knock.

Both you and Aventurine snap your heads to the source. The door creaks open.

Sunday stands, composed. His knuckles linger on the polished wood of the door for a few more seconds, before his hand falls to his side. His other hand holds a black, velvet bag.

You forgot to take that back.

“It seems we meet again.”

Aventurine hums.

‐

“Are you perhaps.. unhappy with your current circumstances?”

“No, I'm.. quite pleased with it. Please, don't take anything to heart. I was fervently denying all of his offers.”

Sunday chuckles softly.

“I understand. Please, be at ease.”

-

Sunday knew what lied in store for him when he became a part of the Family.

As their long-burdened history, all of them were to join and form an impenetrable force, decorating the Dreamscape lavishly for those who had the privilege to deny reality. 

Which was ironic.

It was comically ironic.

Such was their torment.

As eagles rip and gnaw the liver of human emotion, such was the painful symbolization of human strive. And this was a neverending story. A neverending performance of a traitor, prisoners and a false dream. A Death that surely extracts the price for all that has been done. A price that grows thick over the bones of each generation, for daring to dream together, for daring to yearn for freedom.

Some knew of this history. Most were not privy to it.

Sunday tells you in passing, as his gloved fingers gently drop the velvet bag in your hand. You suppose it was simple small talk.

A beat of silence passes.

“Ah, I may have fed a false fact to that Tabloid.”

You look up at Sunday.

“Im sorry?”

“I wasn't aware of whether or not your ears turn red. They were eager for a harmless fact, and I conjured up something on the spot.”

“Oh, they.. approached you directly?”

“They first approached Robin, to be exact. I arrived just in time to answer a small question. My apologies for making a hasty decision at a presented opportunity.”

You blink a few times.

“Ah, well.. not like it can be helped now but.. please be careful. One thing tends to lead to another.”

“I've taken note of that.” his eyes focus on the lobe of your ear.

What's he looking at..?

Your hand cautiously reaches up to your ear. Aventurine's earring?

“Oh, um.”

You break out in a sweat, and your shaky hands immediately remove it. You look at the flashy, teal accessory. Then you look at Sunday, gauging his reaction.

He smiles. Perhaps that fact wasn't false.

“I suggest not striking a deal with Aventurine. I can assure your family's security.”

“Oh, I know I just–”

“The Family does not take dealings with the IPC lightly.”

You stay silent.

He sighs, and his gaze seems to soften for a moment. His gloved hand reaches out and tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear.

“Apologies. The Charmony festival is coming soon. Extra measures have been established. Please, approach me instead.”

His voice softens at the end.

“I.. understand.”

‐

Sunday thinks a change of your career is in order.

A brand new start, a better title, a better colleague.

Somewhere along the way, most of Penacony's more enthusiastic visitors were in the know about you. Your popularity settled comfortably on event lists, and Sunday was steadfast in his promise.

However, there's now an increase in work. Particularly, working late at night with Sunday.

Your job now had strict parameters you didn't have in your former station. Deadlines, reports, even hearsay playing an important role. Although, for once your rusty luck has come into play, and Sunday is much more fair to you than any other manager that you could have been working under, if it weren't for your decision to become a singer.

That being said, the public now saw less of you, which instead soared rumours about you and increased your popularity more. You aren't sure how to thank Sunday – he only gives you a closed eye smile whenever you decide to at least verbalise your gratitude.

‐

“Ah, you should take a look at this.”

Sunday beckons you to come closer, pointing and curling his index finger towards you. You oblige wordlessly, and with a few swift clicks of your shoes, you stand right beside Sunday, leaning a bit to take a better look.

His finger points to several figures in the document, and you hum, eyes scanning through the neatly organised words.

“Does this mean I'll get significantly busier?”

“You best prepare, as per my suggestion.”

You sigh, a bit dramatically, and Sunday chuckles.

“My apologies. I know I've already asked for a lot from your end. I shall support you equally.”

“That's.. well, alright. I was just worried about something else.”

You avoid his eyes, discomfort creeping up on you, as those rumours swirl in your head. 

“Be at ease, tell me.”

“It's.. the rumours surrounding me. They're not serious but, recently they've taken a strange turn of events.”

Sunday hums. He gets up, and walks towards a bookshelf, his fingers slide over their spines, and stop at a specific book. You continue,

“It's– um.. quite strange.”

Sunday pulls out the book, and opens it, sifting through the pages with familiarity.

“It was just about the earrings at first but they took a bit of a bizarre turn.. they–”

Sunday snaps the book shut,

“About us. Yes. I've heard.”

You blink a few times.

“They're..”

His fingers trace over the book's cover, before sliding it back into its place.

“Rumoured relationships between us, the debate about work ethics, and the whole lot. Yes, I'm well-informed.”

He turns to you. His all too familiar smile still on his face. His golden eyes seem much more intimidating than they used to.

“They'll die down. I can assure you they are of no importance. However, it helps with your exposure doesn't it?”

He turns his back to you, continuing to look at you over his shoulder.

“They will fizzle out in due time.”

You suppose Sunday is familiar with rumours. But this time, it is only particularly because he created them.

‐

The robin chirps and twits inside its golden cage.

“What's this?”

You smile, a finger gently tapping a bar of the delicate cage,

“It's a robin. I hoped it would guide you during practice.”

You chuckle, and Sunday smiles, both of your eyes fixated on the bird that's chirping and curiously tilting its head at you.

Sunday's encouraged you to practice singing more often inside the office. You've gotten off of your formal duties very late, and as of recent you've scarcely had time to practice. Sunday's insistence led to you often humming and practicing in front of your dressing table. It took a while, but you eased into it fairly well. 

Sunday, on the other hand, enjoys your singing more than he lets on. He finds himself humming to your tune every so often, once you've left and no other ambience fills the room. Perhaps that's also one of the reasons he's brought a robin bird to you.

You sing a simple tune, and the robin follows. It chirps happily, and you giggle at its strange antics. And thus, whenever you aren't present, the bird sings in your stead.

It's not soon before the robin loses its vitality, however. A gilded cage is a cage nonetheless.

Your voice was dampened that day. But Sunday had a plethora of ideas rush to his head.

‐

Something's been wrong with your voice as of recent.

You've avoided any strange drinks, even foregoing any kinds of juices, only opting for water. You avoid even spicy foods, settling for blander dishes. Sunday assures you it's nothing to worry about – even Robin faces challenges with her voice sometimes.

You're at your best, only in Sunday's office.

Everytime you sing, your voice flows smoothly, and you hit every note perfectly. It's wonderful, if it weren't for the fact your voice didn't seem to hold this effect outside of his office. You came to this realisation late at night when you tried singing in the bathroom to yourself, your voice kept tapering, and even stopped at some points. The doctors all assured you things were fine, and at best only prescribed some throat medicine. You wonder what's been going wrong.

Sunday isn't ignorant of your recent concerns, either. He seems to be taking it in stride.

The golden cage is on your dressing table, empty. You stare at it, thoughts swirling in your head. What went wrong? Where? Why? What did you do? 

Sunday's familiar gloved hands place themselves upon your shoulders again. It's a shame. He says. What is a robin without its voice? He says. It echoes in your mind for days. 

“Take a break.” one of his gloved hands make it's way to yours, folded in your lap. He brings your knuckles up to his lips, whispering assurances into it.

“It'll be fine. I'll take care of it.” He kisses between the valley of your knuckles,

“Don't worry. Help me out with the rest of the documents, and we can take a look at your voice after.”

You don't say anything. Maybe because you can't.

-

“Hmm.. your voice tapers too much at the chorus.”

You sigh. You've lost count of how many times you've had to repeat this song, your voice simply cannot seem to hold true to the chorus that's planned. Sunday flips another page of a long-winded document, and sets it down gently on the table, looking up at you when you sigh and only hold onto the mic with disappointment glazing your eyes.

“Have a seat. Perhaps a break may help you.”

You hesitantly oblige, but sigh again, deeply, as the muscles of your throat ache with the strain and relaxation. You sit down at the makeshift dressing table Sunday managed to prepare for you. His courtesy, of course.

You shuffle around it – your dressing table isn't actually much different than Sunday's office desk. It's littered with event planners, schedules, and all sorts of graphs and figures. Your hands lazily pick up a sheet and scan over it, choosing to at least distract yourself while you give your raw throat a rest.

You hear a muffled creak behind you, followed by a few, small footsteps. Sunday stands behind you in the reflection. His hands gently come up to your hair, fingers running through it and fixing it.

“Some members of the Family – particularly the Nightingale Family, wanted to extend their gratitude to you. You've been arduously managing the crowd and shifting their gazes away from the construction work.”

You hum slightly, your eyes unfocused on the words. Sunday's touch seems to leave you dazed, or rather conflicted, these days. 

His fingers leave your hair, and rest on your shoulders. He leans down, his lips graze the shell of your ear. His soft breath tickles your skin, and forms goosebumps.

“And I am.. personally grateful to have you working alongside me.”

Your eyes wander on your table. They avoid his gaze through the mirror's reflection.

“I also.. intend to help you, further than before.”

His voice grows softer and lower, descending into a whisper. One of his hands move from your should to the middle of your collarbone, a lone finger drags up to the middle of your neck. Your breath hitches.

“Mr. Sunday..?”

“It's alright. We needn't be so formal.”

Suddenly, a splotch of colours blur your vision from the corners. You hiss, and groan, immediately burying your head into your hands, striking pain pulses through your head. You close your eyes in efforts to relieve yourself, but it doesn't cease.

“Perfect Harmony.. Order.. it doesn't come easily. Allow me to assist you in reaching that.”

You breathe heavily, the pulsing ache in your head slowly subsides, but the colours remain persistent.

“Sunday..?”

“My dear, let us rejoice. A new chapter of your life has begun. Your family can find ease. We- no, I, can take care of them. Of you.”

You swallow thickly, dread pooling in your stomach. The finger on your neck trails up your neck and pushes your chin upwards, forcing you to face your reflection. The side of Sunday's face is pressed to yours, your eyes are dazed, but his have never been so clear, and bright.

“Just do as you've always done. This is simply to bolt your loyalty, my dear.”

Sunday kisses your cheek, his wings gently flutter on the other side of your face. You close your eyes. The pain subsides into something more blissful, calming. Your body relaxes almost against your will.

‐

Your voice has been perfect as of late. As long as you don't sing for anyone.

Which is to say – you're rendered useless in the grand scheme of Penacony. This terrifies you.

Your family has never been more vulnerable.

What is a robin without her voice? It echoes irrevocably in your mind, the question awaiting an answer. Nothing responds. Nothing, responds.

Empty ballads accompany the marble walls of the hallway leading to Sunday's office. His back is turned to you, his fingers sifting through the spines of familiar books on his shelf. His wings slightly flutter every time your voice hits a high note. Your voice was pitch perfect whenever you sang in his office. Anywhere else? It was a bust. Robin also tried her hand at comforting you, but the tapering edge of her voice only concerned you. An emanator of harmony relied completely on just that to sustain her voice. She'd lost it completely otherwise.

Your lips are raw from the constant biting. Your family tries assuring you they can also pull together scraps and bits to keep themselves afloat; that you've worked hard enough, and you need your rest. Sunday assures their security as always. He's stopped commenting on your concerns with your voice.

“Sunday, my voice..”

“Perfect, my dear.”

He's grown more familiar with using pet names instead of your name. You don't remember exactly when the transition took place.

“No, it's.. I can't sing anymore. I can't perform.”

“Ah, is that so?”

Sunday's deft fingers write something down on a scrap of paper, holding the book open in another hand.

“Not to fret, darling. The public awaits your performance in due time. Take a break for now, and focus on paperwork.”

It does more to discourage you, really.

“I don't know.”

“I know.”

Sunday places the book down gently on his table. He looks at your seated figure, illuminated by the warm light of his office.

Sunday wanted the best for Penacony. But when it came to you, he couldn't help but be greedy. Your voice was beautiful to him. He feels bad, raining on your parade like this. But there's endless amounts of performers who can take your place. There's only one of you who can catch his eye, however.

An empty cage is reminiscent of a happy bird. But a chirping robin is reminiscent of a happy man. Your lost voice still echoes well through the halls, resounding through the marble structures.

A gilded cage is a cage nonetheless. A happier bird is one that does not realise its cage. Sing to your heart's desire in it, he thinks. 

Your head falls to your hands again, blurring splotches of colour blaze through your vision and head again – a familiar, aching pulse resonates in your head. Your voice feels trapped. Sunday walks to you, and places a hand on your back, rubbing gently to soothe you. The colours disappear, leaving you in a daze. Sunday leans down to kiss your forehead, relaxing your furrowed brows.

It's true. You've proven it. A bird that does not realise it's true confines. You may be unhappy, but you sing your throat raw, and Sunday is your only audience. Parameters will only get stricter, but it's for your own good. He assures you endlessly, leaving out that one piece of information.

A robin without a voice is nothing but a dull bird. You, without yours, are just his.

-

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