#actually he didn’t look unhealthy but he vexes me.

[cadykeus-clay]

Would you mind sharing your thoughts about vex and Beau being cross campaign foils?

so!!!! first things first: apologies for taking weeks to answer this, finals + having adhd sometimes makes my brain turn to mush and forget every ask ive ever recieved. second of all, i’m assuming you sent me this bc of what i said in my vm vs. m9 how they view the world meta. and i’ll be real with you. i have exactly 0 memory of what was going through my head when i wrote that line, so i am simply going to type out a bunch of thoughts that i have on the similarities and differences between beau and vex and i hope that lives up to what you were expecting jsdflksjdksld

I'll detail some specifics in a moment, but overall, I think beau and vex share a very similar kind of trauma of exclusion in their formative years, that's caused them to have a lot of similar traits that manifest in different ways - for vex, she maintains control through her material posessions and beau finds an emotional control in her asshole-ness. I've broken this down into 5 points on which I think comparing the two really emphasizes that claim:

1. daddy issues: both beau and vex have awful no good terrible very bad dads. both syldor and thoreau can suck my ass. they both raised their kids with little love and impossible-to-meet expectations, alientating them and leaving them with lifelong feelings of inferiority and unbelonging. If beau and vex were to meet, i think they would have a very friendly toast to shitty dads, and then have a good drunk vent about it an hour later.

but, at the same time, the actual minutae of their trauma and the ways it manifests are nearly polar opposites. syldor wanted nothing to do with vex, or else wanted her to somehow become a full elf. her issue was that she would never be able to belong, despite her desire to, and as she grew up it lead to her being overly protective and even possessive of the people she found who DID accept her as she was. 

With beau, rather than exclusion, her father created an environment of toxic inclusion. He created a role for beau to belong in, disregarding her distate for actually fulfilling it. And, as such, she ended up making herself into someone who could have no expectations and pushed away anyone who tried to set them up for her. In the end, they both came to love themselves by abandoning the woman their father wanted them to be but for vex it was the laying down of an impossible dream and for beau it was the picking up of a mantle she had feared to wear.

2. brothers: now, on the topic of family, I also think its really interesting how their interactions with their brothers play out. We've got vex and vax, tied at the hip til the very end and then some; and then we've got beau and TJ - decades apart and with beau barely acknolwedging TJ's existence. But, even that distance between beau and TJ didn't stop her caring for him when they actually met. She gave him lucky Jade, and she entertained the idea of kidnapping him to get him away from her stinko dad. 

And I'd espeically like to talk about what she said outside the hag's hut - "I think Luc and TJ could be best friends", in comparison to the way Vex reacted when Vax told her was going to Zephrah with Keyleth for the year break. There's an aspect to the way they interact with their brothers that lets them slip back into those bad habits they formed growing up (NOT that i'm claiming vex and vax were like toxic for each other. but even good relationships can have unhealthy moments). 

With Beau, when she offers to give her happiness so TJ can grow up safe, she's trying to take on the role she's ""supposed"" to fill - the big sister, the protector - because she failed to fill the one her father set out. And with Vex, when she grows jealous of Vax, it's because she's afraid that his leaving with keyleth is a sign that she no longer belongs in his inner circle, and she falls back on that childish, desperate desire to do anything to be accepted unconditionally. 

3. romance: spoilers for 5 or so most recent m9 eps (115-120)  if you haven't watched them ahead!!!! at this point, both vex and beau have an endgame romance - percy and yasha respectively. Obviously as the m9's campaign is still playing out, that could change, but like. yasha wrote her a love letter and they're officially going on a date so i'm counting that as at least endgame-track rather than just random flirting. What's interesting to me is that they both seem to flip between the SAME roles between their (in-game) general perception and their actual pursual of romance. 

Vex gets characterized as a pretty big flirt, right? She's got the winks, the casual "darling". She's flashed grog her boobs on multiple instances with little prompting. Beau, similarly, has easily the most game out of anyone in the m9. She's slept with two guest characters and at least one more npc in the events of the game. Caleb made her a fuck mirror in her room in the mansion. And yet, in both of their actual romantic endeavors, they became the shy, uncertain type. 

Vex only confessed her feelings when Percy was laying dead before her, and not an hour of game play before percy kissed her in the woods, she had a talk with vax about how she was pretty sure he didn't like her that way and she didn't want to pursue it. Beau, similarly, spent a very long time convinced that yasha wasn't looking for love after zuala, especially not in anyone like her, asked everyone in the party if they thought yasha ACTUALLY liked her, just to be safe, and then still terrified to ask her out after recieving a literal love letter. I'd argue this shift comes from that same sense of unbelonging - they're very good at pretending they fit a role but doubt their actual right to take it when the opportunity is presented. This time, the role is the lover rather than the daughter.

4. authority: Both vex and beau grew up shunned by the upper crust of society, and grew to mistrust those kinds of people. And yet, both of their arcs result in them assuming such a position. Vex, thrown out of high society gets her place as a baronness, and Beau, running from leadership of her father's business ends up a top member of the Cobalt Soul. There's not a lot here, but I find it interesting how both of their stories involve them shedding their baggage regarding authority and power and assuming it in a way that they feel comfortable in - invitation by someone she trusts for vex, and a promise of freedom of will and control for beau.

5. their deadliest sins: this is the point at which their similarities culminate and transform to a fundamental difference. despite everything they share - shitty childhoods, the small piece of family that's still good, flirtiness masking shy love, and a mistrust of those in power - vex and beau are such different characters because of their biggest vices. Vex, both in game and out, is "the greedy one". She's stingy with money, she haggles for everything, she mourns the loss of physical objects. Beau is "the mean one". She cares little for people's feelings if they're not in her immediate circle, she focuses on her tough guy image, she laughs at things she knows she shouldn't. 

And, over the course of the campaign, as they find unconditional acceptance, they grow away from these traits (I won't say they grow out of them) because they heal from the things causing these vices to begin with. I've always been vocal about vex's greed being a manifestation of her class insecurity, and beau's asshole-ness stemming from her fear of being forced back into another position of complacency. And I stand by that now - all the similarities in their backstories are what tally up to these different women.

Despite her careful tally of party funds and her reflexive bargaining, vex is not cruel. she is not angry on her own behalf. She saves two boys from the market in the city of brass at great personal cost, she relinquishes an entire dragon's hoard to the devastated city of Westruun, she took the time to save a baby bear from a cage when she could have just cut and run after escaping her own. She's the first one most people go to when they need a shoulder to cry on, and she's devastated when they don't (thinkin about when Scanlan left). She carved "forgiveness" into the bow she stole from a man after killing him by proclaiming how much she loved someone, because she knew anger had no place in her heart.

And Beau, Beau is a bitch and she's harsh, but she doesn't hoard or protect like vex did. she spends her money without much of a second thought. She pitches in to help her friends buy a ton of glowsticks, and she loves to indulge in material desires like drink and good food and the nicer inn room. She's a member of an organization that's about making knowledge public rather than guarding it. And, though this may be controversial, I think her position with bowlgate of "its not our problem what cali wants to do with it", her long-standing mistrust of their alliance with the bright queen and  and more recently with the tomb takers of "i want to go in and talk, rather than assuming they're antagonistic, even if it puts us at a disadvantage" are both examples of this non-possessiveness too - she has no need or desire to get involved in controlling what other people are doing.

so, i guess the general conclusion here is: vex struggles to let go of things, of money, of people. beau struggles to let herself be known in case she gets wrongly interpreted again. they both fight feelings of inadequacy, they both fight the feelings of not belonging, of 'doing it wrong', they fight the perception of them as shitty people because of the shells they hide in despite their absolute hearts of gold.  but at the end of the day, vex's story is one of having to lay down what could never be hers so she can carry what is, and beau's story is one of allowing herself to be known so a place can be made for her.

[maria-scribbles]

glitter + crimson (let’s start a riot)//part four

summary: carmen actually steps foot inside her own house after discovering her daughter isn’t the only teenager living there. the hurricane hurtling toward the island matches the tempest in sailor’s heart as she finally gets some long-overdue words off her chest that her mom isn’t very happy to hear and two friends inch closer and closer to crossing that metaphorical line.

word count: 6.6k+ (oops, i did it again 😅)

ship: jj maybank x oc (sailor flynn)

warnings n stuff: mentions of abuse/neglect, gambling addiction, child abandonment, being kicked out of home, fluff, swearing, underage drinking, flirting, having shitty dads, mentions of weed, star wars, and sailor’s unhealthy addiction to nutella, mention and direct quote of the percy jackson and the olympians series (again), subtle nod to new girl (i love seeing how many references i can make lmao)

a/n: first off, i just want to thank each and every one of you for your likes, reblogs, and especially your wonderful comments! they mean to world to me, seriously ❤ now, here comes the dramaaaaa! we get to dive into sailor’s complicated, turbulent relationship with her mother (sailor, like john b, has a very big, very real fear of being abandoned by people she loves because of her dad) before heading toward the canon timeline of the show. the quote about the sea near the beginning is from jaques cousteau, legendary french naval officer, marine explorer and filmmaker who co-created the aqua-lung and paved the way for modern scuba diving. he also pioneered marine conservation and discovered the wreck of the hmhs britannic, sister ship of the rms titanic! so overall, he was a pretty cool dude and i feel that he’d be a personal hero to ocean-loving sailor (maybe even kiara as well, considering her love of the environment/conservation).

unbetaed as usual so all mistakes are my b.

gif credit to @toesure (who has the most beautiful gifs, ngl)

~Masterlist~

part four: high tide

The sun’s just peeking its rays over the horizon, painting the deep blue sky the softest shades of pink and orange. Calm, steady waves lap against the shore and over Sailor’s bare feet as she stands alone on an empty and desolate beach, the only signs of life coming from the seagulls squawking overhead. The air is thick and sticky with early morning humidity, the type that makes it hard to breathe and frizzes the hell out of her wavy hair, and she can already feel moisture starting to collect on her skin.

Why’s she here again? She can’t remember a reason and come to think of it, she can’t remember exactly how she got here, either. Did she drive? She turns her back to the ocean and its entrancing pull to look for her truck but finds the surf shop is the only thing she can see clearly, the world surrounding it blurred in an incomprehensible mess of color; the sight should’ve caused anxiety to take root in her chest but somehow she finds herself unbothered, relaxed. Somehow, she feels at home.

“The sea, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever.”

Sailor’s head snaps to the left at the sound of a painfully familiar voice. A tall, redheaded man now stands in what was only a few seconds ago an empty space, smiling out over the water with the brilliant colors of the sky reflecting in his green eyes.

“Dad?”

Ryan doesn’t seem to hear the incredulous tone in her voice or even the fact that she spoke at all as he turns to face her and asks a question of his own, “It’s true, don’t you think?”

Of course she does. The sea has had her under its captivating, magnetic spell ever since she first laid eyes on it when she was a toddler, a baby, even. Her parents always said she wanted to spend every waking moment at the beach, combing the sand for shells and staring out at the water, imagining what new discoveries were waiting for her in its depths. Her mouth moves on it’s own as she replies, “You know I do.”

It’s not what she wants to say at all. She wants so badly to yell at him, let out her frustrations and hurt and pain ‘how dare you leave us’ ‘what did I do wrong’ ‘why haven’t you come back yet’ but finds that she can’t form the words. It’s like she’s watching a video, or maybe reliving a memory -oh. It feels like a memory because it is one, she recognizes with a start, of the week before he took off and abandoned them for the very first time, leaving behind a gaping, bleeding wound that neither Sailor nor her mother ever managed to properly stitch back together.

Ryan’s smile widens. “Always got your eyes on the horizon, Starfish. Just like your old man.”

Her heart clenches at the old, familiar nickname that she hasn’t heard in years, like she’s looking at a favorite pair of childhood shoes or an old t-shirt from a family vacation long past and realizing she doesn’t fit in them anymore, that she’s moved on, and surprisingly, it doesn’t sting as much as she thought it would.

“Come on,” Her father says and when he reaches out to her, Sailor finds herself reaching back with a much smaller, eight-year old sized hand that’s swallowed by Ryan’s larger, calloused palm. “Think you can go fifteen feet today?”

“Fifteen? I’m gonna go twenty!” She declares confidently in her most grown-up voice, giggling when her dad beams and hoists her little body up into his arms, the stubble on his face tickling her skin as he plants a kiss on her cheek.

“That’s my girl.”

He runs into the surf, tossing a laughing Sailor into the ocean when it’s waist deep before they wade out, further and further until the sandy floor drops away from their feet and they’re left treading water.

“Ready, Starfish?”

“Ready!”

The sun breaks over the horizon and casts its golden light on the pair, turning their hair an identical shade of fiery red just as they dive below. She has to work harder to keep up with her father’s longer strokes but she does it and reaches the bottom the same time he does; he smiles widely and reaches out to quickly cup her cheek, pride shining clearly in his eyes and she beams back before turning away to scan the floor for any worthy shells. Finding a knobbed whelk a few feet away, she swims over to grab it before pushing off toward the surface, Ryan following close behind. The sun becomes brighter and brighter the closer she gets and just when her head breaks through the waves-

Sailor wakes.

The early morning sun shines across her eyes through the curtains as she stares up at the surfboard above her bed, the very shelf were the whelk from that day still sits, proudly displayed with her other finds. Yawning, she runs her hands over her face and blinks away the last threads of sleep still clinging to her lashes, along with the memory of her dream. Moments like that with her father were rare. Ryan was a blast to be around when he was happy doing something he wanted to do, like diving for shells, hitting up the bowling alley for a few games, or taking his old, beat up boat out into the marsh to fish for hours on end (never something mundane as doing the dishes or folding the laundry, no, those were children’s jobs and being an only kid, those responsibilities fell to Sailor.). Moments like that were when she felt that -naively, foolishly- her dad was actually proud of her, that he wasn’t horribly inconvenienced by her having the audacity to be his daughter, to be born, that maybe he loved her as much as she loved him.

Cold from a sudden shiver that runs through her body, she rolls onto her side to seek out the best human space heater she knows but her arm only finds empty sheets lacking warmth, her hand reaching for someone who’s no longer there. She frowns and sits up, fingers automatically running through her sleep mussed waves in a semi-futile attempt to fix them into something less resembling a bird’s nest. A quick check of the phone she doesn’t remember plugging in to charge reveals its just before 7 in the morning and her confusion over her missing bedmate only grows; JJ’s rarely ever conscious before 9 AM at the absolute earliest and almost never by his own volition unless surfing’s involved. Even Binx is gone from his usual spot at the end of the bed, leaving her truly alone in the tiny room.

On the floor alongside his boots, the backpack she never noticed him having yesterday is still where he dropped it with its zipper open wide, while his phone rests next to hers on the bedside table and Sailor feels an almost embarrassing wave of relief wash over her knowing he’s still here, that he didn’t just up and disappear in the middle of the night, that he stayed (of all the times he’s come to her before, only once did he leave before dawn and, after she’d frantically tracked him down at John B’s place, tears in her eyes and streaming down her face at the thought of him returning to the lion’s den that he called home, he held her close and promised to never do it again.). She pulls herself out of bed and crosses the room to pull on a random hoodie from the closet before pocketing her phone and padding into the hall, the wooden floor cool under her bare feet.

A demanding meow comes from the kitchen followed immediately by a vexed, “Binx, my dude. For the last time, you can’t have this.” JJ’s bright laugh echoes throughout the room when Binx meows again, this one more insistent than the last and the redhead smiles, quietly shuffling forward to lean against the wall. He doesn’t notice, instead holding a finger to his lips as he shushes the cat sitting on the counter beside him, then turns back to whatever he’s doing. “Be quiet, dumbass! You don’t wanna wake your mom up, do you?”

“I don’t know, sounds to me like he might need my help.”

He startles at her teasing voice, nearly dropping the butter knife in his hand as she steps forward and scoops Binx into her arms, pressing a kiss to his fuzzy cheek. “Is mean old J not feeding you, Binxy? That just won’t do!”

He rolls his eyes but the grin tugging the corners of his mouth upward betrays his amusement as he says sarcastically, “Yeah, I’m the bad guy for not giving the brat Nutella. Great.”

With a laugh, Sailor gives the cat another loving scratch behind the ears before gently setting him on the floor and hoisting herself onto the counter beside JJ, her legs swinging back and forth and lightly brushing against his side. “So...you’re up early.” She says, watching him scrape the last bit of Nutella out of the jar and smear it on some toast, another piece already made on the plate at his elbow.

“Yeah, I woke up and couldn’t go back to bed.” He shrugs, tossing the knife in the sink and the empty container into the trash; her stomach does a little flip when he brings his hand to his mouth and licks away the chocolate left behind on his thumb, then continues, “Sorry if I woke you up. I tried to be quiet but that shithead over there wouldn’t shut up.”

He nods his chin in the direction of a lounging Binx, stretched out on the back of the couch in the sun and she shakes her head. “Don’t worry, you didn’t. I-” She shrugs, too, and meets his blue-eyed gaze. “I guess I couldn’t sleep, either.”

“Bad dream?” JJ asks, holding the plate of toast out to her and she takes a piece with a grateful smile as she replies, “I’d call it more of a bittersweet memory.”

They both fall into a comfortable silence while they eat until he suddenly asks another question around a mouthful of breakfast, “About your dad?”

Sailor freezes mid-chew, her father’s green eyes flicking away from her best friend’s face toward the floor as she swallows thickly, her free hand anxiously clenching the fabric of her shorts. After a long, pregnant pause in which they finish their food and he puts the dirty plate in the sink, she finally says softly, “I’m sorry.”

“Huh?”

She apologizes again, staring down at the floor and swinging her legs back and forth, her bare feet hitting the cabinet with dull thuds.

“For what?” His brow furrows in confusion while he takes a step forward to stand between her legs, one hand reaching to hook a finger under her chin and lift her head so he can look her in the eye, the other resting on her knee. “Seriously, help me out here ‘cause I’m confused as fuck.”

“Because I feel guilty, okay?” She starts, eyelids briefly closing as she takes a deep breath before snapping open again and continuing before he can interrupt, “Here I am, getting upset over a stupid dream I had about my gambling addict dad that ditched me when your dad does that,” -she points to his bruised ribs- “and this,” -her palm rests on his cheek, thumb skimming over his scabbed lip- “and God, I just-”

“Whoa, hold up there, Sail.” JJ cuts her off, his free hand joining the other in cupping her face, “Just because your dad never hit you doesn’t mean you don’t have something to be pissed about. He abandoned you, stole your mom’s money, and made you feel like shit! You have a right to be mad as fuck about it.”

“But-”

“But nothing! We’re not having a fucking competition about who has the shittiest dad,” -He smirks devilishly, brushing a wayward red curl off her forehead- “because they both suck major dick. End of story.”

In spite of herself, Sailor snickers as she winds her arms around his neck and pulls him close, resting her head in the crook of his shoulder while his own arms slide around her waist. “We should start a club.” She jokes lightly and feels his snort of laughter against her ear in response.

“‘Shitty Dad Society,’” He declares proudly, “I call being president.”

“Well, I’m your VP! Binx’s our secretary- shit, I’ll be treasurer, too ‘cause I don’t trust you with any type of financial situation at all.”

He laughs again, hand tightening its grip on her waist and she smiles into his neck as he says, “That’s fair. We should make shirts.”

They settle into another comfortable silence after that, both more than happy to relax in the other’s arms and just be. It’s one of her favorite things about..whatever they are, the ease, the contentment, the familiarity felt when they’re together are sentiments she never, ever wants to lose and a thought, an exciting, dangerous thought pops into her head: what if he never has to leave?

“Come live with me.”

“...what?”

Oh, fuck, she just said that out loud, didn’t she? Brain, enter panic mode. The redhead abruptly pulls out of his embrace and buries her already blushing face into shaking hands, closing her eyes tight for good measure, stammering between her fingers, “Nothing, nothing! I said nothing!”

“Pretty sure you said something,” His hands encircle her wrists and gently pull them down to her lap. “And it wasn’t ‘nothing.’”

She stares down at their entwined fingers resting on her thighs, the backs of his hands deliriously warm against her exposed skin and grounding her to this (scary, exciting, vulnerable) moment, and blurts out in a rush, “I said, come live here. With me.”

JJ doesn’t speak, but the way his hands almost imperceptibly tighten their hold on hers -she would’ve missed it if she hadn’t already been looking- compels her to raise her head and meet his eyes; the indescribable depth of the ocean is behind his gaze, as well as the barest hint of pure, brazen hope, and it says everything his mouth won’t.

“Remember yesterday, when you said you don’t know how much more you can take?” She asks. At his tight nod, she weaves her fingers even more intricately with his and admits softly, “Well, I’m not sure how much more I can take, either.”

Sailor’s eyes sweep over the cuts on his face with all the gentleness of a lover, his lip first, followed by the one on his cheekbone before meeting his again. “I can’t...I can’t see you hurt like this anymore.”

Blue stares into green for an insurmountable stretch of time, long enough that she starts to think that she should’ve just kept her big mouth shut, until he finally whispers, “Seriously?”

“J, I’ve never been more serious about something in my entire life. I can’t let him do this to you anymore.” She finishes with a shrug, “My mom’s never here, anyway. It’d be, uh, really nice to not be alone all the time ‘cause as much as I love him, Binx doesn’t count.”

His eyes become stormy at that casual admission of loneliness for just a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment before brightening into their natural blue, the same color of the sky on a clear day as he says simply, “Okay.”

“Seriously?” It’s her turn to ask it now and the smile that breaks over her face when he nods is one of unabashed relief; without thinking, she leans closer and presses her forehead to his. “Good.”

He smiles, too, and briefly lets his eyes fall shut at the contact as he jokes, “Just so you know, Flynn, I’m probably not gonna be the best roommate.”

“Please,” She giggles, freeing one of her hands to playfully push at his shoulder, “I live with the most spoiled, demanding cat in the world. I think I can handle you, Maybank.”

The teasing smirk on his face makes her heart beat a little faster. “We’ll see about that.”

Sailor decides to pretend she didn’t hear his loaded comment (she’s not quite ready to open up that particular can of worms just yet), instead pulling her phone from her hoodie pocket to check the time. “Alright, here’s the deal: in one,” -she glances at the time again because holy shit does she have the short-term memory of a fucking chimp- “two hours, we’re going shopping and, hey, don’t give me that look!” She laughs at the pained expression that crosses his face, “If you’re gonna live here, get ready to put in the work.”

JJ offers her a lazy salute with his free hand and she rolls her eyes, trying her best to ignore the butterflies in her stomach as he says coyly (again, damn him!), “Yes, ma’am.”

“Until then, though,” The redhead continues, hopping off the counter to grab his hand and starts pulling him toward the hall to her room, “We have a book to read and you have some Greek to mispronounce.”

“Fuck, you’re bossy.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”

-

It goes like this: for nearly three weeks, life for the pair is pretty damn good. The summer days pass the same as they had been, either spent lazing around with the rest of the pogues or working their variety of jobs -Sailor at the ice cream parlor, along with her weekly shell dives and the beginner surf classes she teaches for The Sandbar, JJ at the country club and doing whatever odd jobs he can find around the island- as June slowly bleeds into July. They find themselves doing everything together: shopping, cooking dinner, sharing her tiny room, and it’s so painfully domestic, so natural and so right that it hurts to wrap her head around it.

If their friends notice, none of them comment on it, even though she sees the looks sent their way whenever they both hop out of Sailor’s truck together (most are curtesy of eagle-eyed Kiara, but Pope and even the ever oblivious John B raise their eyebrows a few times). At night they continue to read through the Percy Jackson series, taking turns reading aloud each evening and for a short, blissful time, they let go of the burdens weighing heavy on their shoulders. For a while, everything is close to perfect.

Typically, predictably, it doesn’t last and when shit finally hits the fan, it happens in epic fashion because nothing is ever easy when they’re involved.

It happens a few days after the Fourth of July. It’s late-afternoon, Hurricane Agatha brewing off the coast causing the clouds to streak faster through the sky and, with the rest of their friends working or otherwise occupied, the two teenagers decide to spend a day lounging at home, getting in a few more chapters of The Battle of the Labyrinth and drinking the beer left over from a night of partying at John B’s house.

“’Jumping out a window five hundred feet above ground is not usually my idea of fun,’“ Sailor reads as she relaxes on the couch, book in one hand and can of PBR in the other, the wind blowing in through the open window ruffling her hair, “‘Especially when I’m wearing bronze wings and flapping my arms like a duck.’“

“I’ll drink to that,” JJ says, briefly lifting his head from her lap to chug the rest of his beer before settling back down, feet propped up on the couch’s arm. They’re both a little buzzed, having lost count of how many drinks they’ve downed but she’s had enough to make her start giggling at his comment as she struggles to keep reading while Binx, fed up with the noise, jumps down from his spot behind her and slinks down the hall to find some peace and quiet.

“Damn you, stop it!” She laughs harder as he pulls a ridiculous face at her pronunciation of Daedalus, then shoots her an impish grin and she responds by ‘accidentally’ dropping the paperback on his face. Both are so caught up in hysterics that they don’t notice the sound of a car pulling into the driveway or a key unlocking the front door.

“Sailor!”

The girl freezes at her name, green eyes widening at the sharp tone of her mother’s voice. Slowly, she turns her head to look over her shoulder where she stands, arms crossed, and she’s so shocked Carmen’s actually looking her in the eye that nothing comes out of her open mouth but an oh so eloquent “huh?”

“What the hell is going on here?” The older woman demands, moving around the couch before either teenager can react, and her eyes narrow when she catches sight of JJ’s head on her daughter’s thigh and the empty beer cans on the end table. “Are you two drunk? Get up, now.”

He hastily does as she asks, eyes downcast to the floor and shaking hands clenched at his sides; ignoring her mother’s glare, Sailor deliberately reaches over and rests one palm on top of his as she says tightly, “Nice to see you home for once, I’m surprised you remembered where it is.”

It’s a low blow and she knows it but she can’t find it in her fuzzy, alcohol-numbed brain to care when Carmen reels back like she’s been slapped before she seems to compose herself, mouth pressing into a thin line. “Sailor Giselle, don’t you dare talk to your mother like that!”

The redhead feels something inside her snap and she glares up at the only parent she has left, all but spitting her next words, “Then start acting like my mother! This is the first time I’ve seen you here in four months!”

“I had to come home after Rachel told me you were shacking up with some boy! Do you have any idea-”

“Rachel?!” Sailor explodes at the mention of their obnoxiously invasive old biddy of a neighbor whose sole mission in life is knowing everyone’s business, “God, that hag just can’t keep her nose out of anything can she?”

Carmen crosses her arms once again and glowers at her daughter. “You know how hard it is for me to be in here, Sailor. I asked her to keep an eye on you for me and I’m glad I did.”

The teenager stares at her in disbelief before barking a loud, humorless laugh. “Let me get this straight: you asked our neighbor to spy on me so you didn’t have to come home...so you didn’t have to actually put in some effort?” Carmen opens her mouth to defend herself but before any words can come out, Sailor continues, throwing her free hand in the air, “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

“This is my house!” Her mother thunders, not noticing the way the silent blond boy flinches at her yell and how her daughter tightens her grip on his hand. “This is my house and I can do whatever I damn well please, including having someone look out for you when I can’t.”

“When you won’t, you mean.” She scoffs, shaking her head in thinly-veiled disgust, “I’m doing just fine on my own, no thanks to you, Mom.”

“Does ‘doing just fine’ mean living alone with this kid?” Carmen spits and when she glances at JJ like he’s gum on the bottom of her shoe, Sailor’s finally had enough and takes a step toward the older woman with a furious glare.

“Will you just let that go? God! He’s my best friend and he needed somewhere to stay, that’s it!”

“I don’t care.” Turning to JJ, she demands coldly, “Go pack your shit and get out.”

“No.” Green eyes hardening into chips of emerald, the redhead grabs his other hand as he goes to leave the room and steps in front of him protectively. “He’s not going anywhere.”

Carmen pinches the bridge of her nose, her voice low as she threatens, “I swear to God, Sailor, either he leaves or I’ll make him leave.”

When she feels his whole body go rigid behind her, she knows her mom’s won this particular battle and before she can even turn to face him he’s disappeared down the hall to her room without a word. Sailor whirls to face her like the wind outside, red hair flying over her shoulder like a whip as she seethes, “How dare you.”

The older woman sighs like she’s the one hurting and crosses to the window before closing it with a firm hand. “Drop it, I’m done arguing.”

“I care about him, Mom, you can’t just kick him out!”

“I said drop it! I don’t give a shit how you feel about him, I’m not having your homeless boyfriend mooching-”

“Jesus Christ -his dad beats the shit out of him!”

The words ring out like a bell, loud and clear and impossible to ignore. Carmen freezes in the middle of picking up a discarded can, tan skin turning pale as she stares, mouth slightly agape, at her daughter; the girl stares back unflinching, and despite her heart’s rapid staccato in her chest, her next words cut like a knife.

“He’s not homeless, okay? But his dad hits him, all the damn time. You’re not gonna stand by and let that happen, are you?”

Her mother’s eyes soften -for a fleeting moment, she looks like her old, caring self again- before they harden to steel, the open expression on her face slamming closed with all the force of a screen door in a hurricane.

“I’m sorry -really, I am- but that’s not my problem.”

Sailor flinches at the icy edge in her voice and looks down at the floor, jaw clenched tight as she tries to blink away the sudden burning behind her eyes. “I...I don’t know you anymore. My mother would never say that.”

She hears Carmen heave another deep sigh as her footsteps slowly head toward the front entry, “You and I have a lot to talk about when I get back from work, Sailor.” She says, followed by the snatching of keys and the door handle turning. “And that boy had better be gone when I do.”

The redhead looks up from her feet, watching the door slam behind her mother’s retreating form before hastily making her way down the hall to her room and like that morning, the wave of relief that she feels when she sees JJ still sitting on her bed, realizing he’s still here, is downright embarrassing but she’s well past the point of caring. In a flash, Sailor’s in his arms, face pressed against his neck as she cries, “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.”

“Sail, you’ve gotta stop apologizing for things you can’t control.” He whispers when she eventually falls silent and she can’t stop the rough laughter bubbling in her chest, even as her whole world feels like it’s falling apart around her.

“Sorry.”

His own laugh is short and low in her ear, and then he’s pulling her closer as his hand draws soothing circles on her back. She lets herself relax for a brief moment, eyelids fluttering closed at his touch, before she takes a deep breath and pulls back to look him in the eye, hands carelessly wiping away the tears on her cheeks, “Help me pack.”

“...what?”

“When she kicked you out, she kicked me out, too.” She says matter-of-factly at JJ’s confused look while she abruptly kneels, pulling her old suitcase from under the bed and heaving it up onto the mattress.

“Okay, so she didn’t actually kick me out but she might as well have!” The redhead strides to her closet and starts picking out her favorite clothes, tossing them haphazardly onto the bed as she fumes, “God, I even told her about your dad -I’m sorry, shit I did it again- and she said she didn’t care! Not to mention she had our neighbor spy-”

“Sail!” She’s so caught up in her rant that she doesn’t notice when JJ moves to stand beside her, and only when he puts his hands on her shoulders does she stop short, a Kildare County High School sweatshirt dangling from her fingers; she can feel him watching her and when she flicks her gaze up to meet his, she’s not at all prepared for the tempest of emotions -admiration, pride, empathy, something else she can’t name- all crashing like the surf behind his eyes.

Blue. Oh so blue. It’s been her favorite color ever since she knew what colors were and she thinks her favorite shade has to be the one she finds in his eyes: bright, clear, and ever easy to drown in if she’s not careful.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” He says it in such a casual way that it’s impossible to think it’s not as intentional as the fingers that slowly tuck a stray curl behind her ear and the thumb that brushes along her flushed cheek.

She just shakes her head with a tiny, bashful smile and her words are an echo of a quiet, rainy night all those weeks ago, “I’m just doing what feels right.”

They fall into an easy rhythm after that, one that helps them both sober up as they fill her suitcase to the brim with everything Sailor thinks she’ll need for a long stay, wherever she ends up. The Chateau makes the most sense of course, but with the DCS breathing down John B’s neck recently, she’s not sure how viable of an option that is but there’s one thing she knows for sure: there’s no way in hell she’s coming back here any time soon. It hurts to leave her shell collection behind -for a brief, dark moment she toys with the idea of tearing the shelf down and smashing them all until they’re turned to dust but she pushes that thought away- so she takes her favorite, the lightning whelk that reminds her of JJ and that day on the beach, and gently tucks it away in her backpack to ease the sting, as a promise to one day return for the rest.

“Jackpot!” JJ exclaims and she looks up to find him on the floor by her chair, pulling up the loose wood board that hides her secret stash of booze and money and reaching in to snag a nearly full bottle of Jack Daniels, holding it above his head with a triumphant smile.

“Shit, I forgot that was even in there,” She replies as she kneels beside him and snatches the whiskey from his hand before he can take a swig, slipping it into her backpack, “Not yet.”

“Oh, come on,” He laughs when she rolls her eyes at his pout and reaches into the dark space to pull out an old plastic lunchbox, along with a small flask that gets thrown in her bag without a second glance. “Boooo.”

“Patience,” She teases, opening the cracked lid to take all of the cash inside and stuffs it into the ziploc bag that doubles as a purse (“it’s cheap and waterproof, what more do I need?” was her argument when Kiara asked her why she didn’t have an actual handbag), which she then stuffs in her backpack. “We can get drunk after we get out of here.”

“You had me at ‘drunk,’“ He slides the floorboard back into place after Sailor tosses the empty lunchbox inside and then stands, pulling her up alongside him with his hand in hers, the other reaching out to grab the handle of her suitcase. “Ready when you are.”

The redhead takes one last look around her room, from the assortment of shells and pictures on one wall to her poster of Bethany Hamilton on the other and everything in between -her sanctuary for the longest time- before turning away from the familiar comfort of the old to face the enticing uncertainty of the new. “Let’s go.”

After a quick stop in the bathroom to grab her shampoo, conditioner, and toothbrush -no way in hell is she gonna share any of those with the boys- then the kitchen to grab some food for Binx and the cat himself from the back of the couch (surprisingly, he doesn’t put up much of a fight), they head outside and throw her suitcase and their backpacks in the bed of the truck along with her surfboard.

“John B’s probably gonna be pissed about the cat,” JJ says, leaning against the passenger door with his arms crossed, smirking as she gives him a flat look and unceremoniously dumps Binx onto the bench seat through the driver’s side window.

“Well, John B’s just gonna -stay, Binxy!- have to get used to it. I’m not leaving him behind.”

Across the street, Rachel perches on her porch as she watches the two teenagers with her beady little eyes and Sailor, feeling particularly defiant, grins wickedly. “J, watch this.” Waving to the woman to catch her attention she calls over the wind, “Hey, Rachel!” before slowly extending both middle fingers toward her, one at a time. “That one’s for my mom and this one’s for you, you nosy bitch!”

He instantly joins in and both hold their hands high, cackling with laughter, until the old crone scowls and slithers back into her house like the snake she is. “Good riddance,” the redhead says, opening the truck’s door and sliding behind the wheel, “Let’s blow this joint.”

“Joint?” JJ asks, climbing into the passenger seat and slamming the door behind him, Binx instantly curling up on his lap, “Did you say joint?”

“You and weed, I swear...” She laughs and goes to start the engine before she realizes she’s grasping at an empty ignition and lets her head fall against the steering wheel with a thunk, “Son of a bitch, I forgot my keys. I’ll be right back.”

Going back inside isn’t as hard as Sailor thought it would be, but leaving is a whole other ball game. She snatches her keys from the bathroom sink where she left them and heads back toward the front door; she’s just passing by their family portrait when it hits her: this is it, the last time in who knows how long she’ll be here. It’s now or never. She thinks of it as a weight on her shoulders, one that’s been dragging her down for far too long, like Atlas holding up the sky, but unlike him, she’s going to break the chains and set herself free.

In one final, sudden burst of years of anger and hurt and frustration, she rips the picture from the hook and smashes it to the floor, sending pieces of glass and wood skittering down the hall before striding from the house and all its memories without a backwards glance, slamming the door behind her with a resolute bang.

-

Surprisingly, John B doesn’t give a shit about the cat when they show up at the Chateau but he does give a shit about Sailor and her well-being after they give him a quick rundown of the afternoon’s happenings.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Sail?” He asks as he and JJ carry her bags into the house and deposit them in the spare room, the redhead trailing behind with Binx in her arms.

“That’s the age old question, bro,” She deflects with a shrug, taking a seat on the bed and setting the cat down beside her; he instantly takes off to explore his new home as she continues, “Who actually knows if they’re okay? What’s okay to one person can be completely different to another-”

“Sailor, seriously.”

She glances back and forth between the two boys -two sweet, caring boys- watching her with twin looks of understanding and relents. “Look, I’m still kind of...processing everything, alright? I’m not exactly sure what I’m feeling and I don’t know how long it’s gonna take for me to find out but I promise you,” She says softly, looking them both in the eye, “I’ll let you know if I’m not okay. Deal?”

JJ shoots her an enthusiastic thumbs up while John B opts for a simple nod and she grins before pulling the bottle of Jack Daniels from her backpack with a flourish. “Good. Now, I think we could all use a drink.”

The trio (and Binx, house thoroughly explored) bums around the living room while the afternoon slowly turns to evening, the wind outside getting worse with each passing hour the storm moves closer, passing the bottle back and forth until none of them are anywhere close to sober. What started as a game of truth or dare quickly dissolves into straight up truth as they get remarkably philosophical about what animal they’d want to be (an eagle for John B, a wolf for JJ, and to absolutely no one’s surprise, a dolphin for Sailor) and then have a deep, animated discussion about the best Star Wars movie and why it’s The Empire Strikes Back. Later, when the whiskey’s down to a few sips left and their collective demons have retreated to the very back of their minds, JJ drunkenly suggests playing strip poker and both Sailor and John B have to remind him that none of them a.) know how to play poker or b.) even own a deck of cards.

“Damn it!” The sly grin falls from his face when he realizes they’re right and he dejectedly sinks back into the couch, head coming to rest on the redhead’s shoulder. “I wanna see you take your clothes off, Flynn.”

She laughs loudly and grabs the bottle from his hand before taking a big sip and passing it to John B. “You’re gonna have to try harder than that, Maybank.” Whiskey, she found out few months ago, hits her hard: her filter? Gone. Blushing? Aside from the flush in her cheeks from the alcohol, gone. Self-consciousness? As long gone as her father. She’ll flirt her heart out without giving a single shit and it’s both a blessing and a curse, as well as an endless source of secondhand embarrassment in the morning.

“That’s okay, you know I like a challenge.” He declares with a wink, cracking up when she plants her hand directly on his face and pushes him off her shoulder as John B snorts and downs the last of the liquor without either of them noticing.

“Jesus, get a room,” He uses the empty bottle to point down the hall, then sets it on the side table with a hollow thunk as he leans back and stretches his arms above his head. “There’s one right there.”

Sailor gives him a swift kick in the shin with her bare foot for that, plus the shit-eating grin on his face. The trio lounges around for a little while longer, relaxing in a whiskey-induced haze; the redhead finds herself nodding off every so often, slipping back further and further until her head finds a place to rest on JJ’s lap and her legs end up on John B’s. The feel of fingers running through her hair is so feather light that she can barely keep her eyes open and before she knows it, she’s down for the count.

When she wakes some indefinite amount of time later the room is dark, the only light coming from the moon shining through the windows and John B’s gone from his spot by her feet, Binx curled up in a ball on the cushion instead. JJ’s dead asleep, hand stalled in her curls and the sight of his head tipped back against the couch with his mouth slightly open is so damn endearing that she can’t help but smile, even as she reaches a hand up to gently shake his shoulder.

“J, wake up.”

“Five more minutes.” He groans, free hand sluggishly pushing her arm away. Sailor sits up and swivels to face him before shaking him again, giggling quietly at the way his head lolls from side to side.

“Come on, the bed’s way comfier than this.”

Sleepy blue eyes open to give her a heavy look that screams both gratification and longing and so much hope as he quips, “You just want me in your bed again, don’t you?”

She reverently rolls her eyes but reaches to grab his hands anyway and pulls him to his feet, both swaying in place before they find their balance. “And if I do?”

The corner of his mouth rises in a small, adorable smile as his fingers entwine with hers. “I’d say that’s right where I want to be.”

“Well, you’re in luck ‘cause that’s where I want you to be, too.” Still a little bit tipsy, her words are honest, sincere, and as she leads him down the hall, she realizes that old saying is true: drunk words are sober thoughts. After three weeks sharing a home, a room, a bed, she just doesn’t think she can sleep without him anymore and that belief doesn’t quite scare her as much as she thought it would.

Lying wrapped up in his arms in the dark, Sailor finds herself dreaming of a future -as much of a future an impoverished, quasi-homeless, not-quite alright, not-quite-seventeen year old can dream of- with the damaged boy that holds oceans in his eyes.

-

A few miles away, Carmen Flynn sits on her daughter’s bed with a broken picture frame in her hands as she cries, all alone in an empty house with no idea how to make things okay again.

-

let me know what you think! also, fun fact: sailor compares her short-term memory to a chimp because studies have shown that chimpanzees are the absolute worst at remembering things, not goldfish as we previously thought (they can remember things for at least five months, compared to chimps who, despite their similarities to humans, forget things in about twenty seconds). sailor, being a zoology nerd, would definitely find that fascinating and make it her mission to educate the masses that goldfish aren’t that stupid jj finds it both adorable and kind of hot

taglist ❤: @sinkbeneathwaves​ @jiaraendgame​ @hmsjiara​ @obxsummer​ @maysbanks​ @alexa-playafricabytoto​ @sunflowerbecca​ @obxlife​ @obx-adventures​ @sexualparkour​ @coltonparayyko​ @miawantsapuppy​ @jjmaybanky​ @ethereallust​

[consummate-deviant]

Why I Think Entrapdak is Pretty Neat

Hello!  How’s the family?  Cat treating you okay?  Isn’t autumn just...like… the best?  Anyway, so, my Hordak thing turned out to be kinda popular.  I’m flattered, really!  If there are people out there willing to reward me writing stuff with positive attention, then I’ll just have to write more stuff.  I mentioned back then that I had a similar write-up about Entrapdak, as a ship… and there seemed to be a little bit of interest in hearing my thoughts on the subject. So, here ya go!  I’m Lancer, by the by.  Not a lot to me.  I’m a guy who likes things, and who enjoys articulating why I like things.  I don’t really do it for any particular reason. I’m not trying to pwn haters or convert nonbelievers…  As you may recall, though you might have missed it (I tend to be very lowkey and subtle about it), I’m not your dad and have no interest in the position… unless it pays.  I just feel like the internet doesn’t have enough positivity, and the best way to remedy that is to produce some of my own.  

As fate would have it, I like Entrapdak.  A lot.  I don’t ship often... a relationship has to really sync with me on a profound level to make me invested enough in it to want to write about it, but this one did it.  Now, I’m not really promising originality here.  As someone who explores the tag frequently, I know that plenty have expressed feelings I’m going to share with you here, many of whom did so better than I ever could, but sometimes you want to share your perspective, even if others whose opinions mirror yours have done so in the past, y’know? It’s a human thing! The relationship is a little… polarizing with people, though, I’ve noticed.  A lot of people hate it, and have various reasons for doing so.  Again, I ain’t here to convert you if you feel that way, but I did feel like the best way to kick things off would be to look at some of the major reasons other people tend to react to the ship like it were horseradish on a hotdog, and why those reasons don’t really bother me.  A part that I, in my infinite wit and adorned in my clever pants, have dubbed:

Part 1: Entrapdak- Why I don’t hate it

***EXAMPLE THE FIRST: “HORDAK, THE AGED”***

By now it’s fairly well known that Entrapta is somewhere in the range of her late 20s to her early 30s.  Now a few people refuse to accept this, citing her behavior as childish and accusing the creators of lying.    I’m not really going to engage with that perspective.  Hordak and Entrapta have appeared together in creator works and concept art dating back to 2017.  Their interactions were intended to be a part of the show from the early stages of its creation.  If you have so little faith in Noelle that you believe she planned for her story to have a romantic-coded relationship between an adult and a minor… I don’t know what I can even tell you.

Rather, the perspective that interests me comes from people who accept Entrapta being in the stated age range, but who still find themselves repulsed by the relationship on grounds of age.  ‘She’s an adult, sure, but how old is Hordak?  He could be in his fifties or sixties, or even be hundreds of years old.’  This point of view is at least interesting to think about, so I reckon I can share why this deal-breaker for some doesn’t really bother me.  

To begin,  assigning human ages, and the stigmas thereof, to an alien bat clone just feels strange to me.  The Horde doesn’t seem like the type of place to want to waste resources on alien bat clone daycare... was Hordak born as an infant, or was he artificially developed to his current age?  If it’s the later, do we consider him 0 years old at the moment of his birth, or already an adult?  We don’t have a timescale provided to accurately determine his age, so investing too heavily in trying to learn it seems somewhat tedious and a lotofwhat pointless.

If we do, though, my next question is: what is the element of an age gap that makes it inappropriate?  Now, that’s a personal question, of course. Morality isn’t something that really lends itself to objective declarations, but there are a few answers you can offer.  ‘Morality’ isn’t really the operative word here anyway... since it has more to do with taste, though this particular taste does come from what you believe…  Y’know, it just occurred to me, but…  People who believe that their taste in ships makes them morally superior, and that ships they dislike are supported by moral degenerates, seem like people who just aren’t a lot of fun to be around or think about… but that’s a digression, I’ll refocus my thought-lazer.

For me, with age gaps, it comes down to two things:

1.) Both parties being on the same side of the child/adult divide- I should hope this one sounds reasonable, right?  The ships that really powdered sugar my poptart are the ones that feel like equal partnerships, and relationships that try to cross this line tend to not be especially equal.  

2.) What stage in their lives they’re at-  It’s difficult for even a wizard of self expression like myself to state plainly, so let me give an example: If I saw a 25 year old dating a 50 year old, the 25-year age difference isn’t so much what makes it off-putting, but rather what those 25 years represent in this circumstance.  At age 25, people are still struggling to find themselves.  They’re adjusting to independence, gaining an identity, maybe finally finding an entryway into a career path that suits them.  By 50, a person is already established.  They likely have a career, they have a firm grasp on who they are as a person and what they want to be, and they almost certainly have a greater degree of financial stability.  Thus, if they enter a relationship, which is supposed to be equal, it doesn’t feel that way.  One side has a stronger position than the other, and over time that could become power they use to sway and control the other.

I don’t see Hordak as being in a more advanced stage of his life than Entrapta.  They seem to be at about the same place when it comes to self actualization.  In fact, Hordak is a bit more arrested in his development than Entrapta is, simply because he’s never really thought to question what would make him happy or why.  Hordak rules the Horde, which Entrapta is a part of… which could lead to an imbalance, if Entrapta, like, could be bothered to give even the slightest toss of a salad about status or promotion, but she doesn’t.  Neither of them holds higher ground over the other in a way that’s significant to the two of them.  In terms of life stage, they’re perfectly equal. The fact that Hordak might be physically older than her by some unspecified amount is, by itself, completely arbitrary and meaningless.  

*** EXAMPLE THE SECOND: ‘ENTRAPTA, THE MANIPULATED’***

A second, rarer discussion point for those who are unfond of the ship is that it’s unhealthy, on the grounds that Hordak is manipulating Entrapta.  Taking advantage of her naivete to coerce her into aiding the forces of darkness despite not caring for her at all.  Now, as I mentioned above, I ain’t writing this to change anyone’s mind.  If you’re reading this, and this is a viewpoint you hold as valid, do what makes you happy, homie.  That said, the issue I ran into when I tried to think of why this perspective didn’t bother me was a vexing one. See, I like to fancy myself an empathetic dude.  I try really hard to consider other people’s perspectives when I have a disagreement, and avoid judging anyone too harshly if I don’t know their full circumstance… but even with all that alleged empathy at my disposal… this hot take about Entrapdak is… kinda completely incomprehensible to me? Like, I have no idea how anyone could have seen the interactions between the two and draw this conclusion?

Part of it has to do with how Entrapta is written.  She’s both ADHD-coded and Autistic-coded, and there’s a tendency to perceive the behaviors of both those groups of people as childish.  People who see that ‘childishness’ extrapolate it further to a general innocence/stupidity, and assume the character in question lacks the faculties to engage with other people evenly.

Look, I don’t have ADHD, but I am super, duper autistic.  Having lived with myself for a lifetime, let me just say, I kind of get why this happens.  We get extremely focused on our hobbies, we’re bad at reading social nuance, we have very simplistic body language, we tend to express our emotions in a very blunt and straightforward manner… I get that, for most neurotypical people, the only other group they ever encounter who shares these traits are children, and thus they tend to subconsciously connect the two.  I understand why it happens, even if I do find it awkward and condescending.

…but y’all are underestimating Entrapta.  She’s not helping the horde because she’s helpless and being manipulated. She’s helping them because she has no moral compass to speak of, and will eagerly assist with any scientific endeavor she finds interesting, without care for its ultimate application.  In season 1, she knew well in advance the damage her actions would have on the world, and followed through with them anyway.  In season 2, she happily assisted in the creation of a portal, knowing full-well that its opening would invite a colonialist military force into the vicinity of her home, and only withdrew her support for the project… hesitantly… when it became clearly evident that activating it would eradicate all life on the planet.   At no point is she ever acting while the applications of her actions are being hidden from her by Hordak.  She’s not an innocent child.  

The thing is, though, I agree that Entrapta would be incredibly easy to manipulate… if someone knew what buttons to push. She is very self conscious of how difficult it is for her to form lasting emotional bonds with other people.  She tends to blame herself when she feels she’s been abandoned by others, and feels that her inability make friends is a sign that she’s a defective failure. If someone wanted to manipulate her into doing something she didn’t want to do, they would probably find success if they offered her friendship and then fed into that self loathing, emotionally abusing her by implying that she was indeed a failure, and would be abandoned again if she didn’t obey.  That is totally something someone could do to her, and I would absolutely not enjoy any ship between her and such a person.  Good thing Hordak… y’know… did literally the opposite of that.

***EXAMPLE THE THIRD- “ENTRAPDAK, THE PLATONIC”***

A nice short one to balance out the longer examples above.  Quite a few people just deny that there are romantic implications behind their interactions, and see them as a friendship instead.  I do disagree with this assessment, but honestly, even if it were true, this would still be my favorite relationship in the show.  

Something that has always boggled me about people on the internet is their tendency to treat friendship like some ‘equal but opposite’ force to romance… a status independent of a romantic relationship rather than literally the foundation upon which all successful romantic relationships are built.  Genuine friendship is a beautiful, underrated thing, and acting as though the bond of friendship is inherently less worthy of appreciation than romance is silly.

So… yeah…  platonic Entrapdak… I disagree, but even if you’re right and I’m wrong in the end… I’ll be pretty okay with that, too.  Movin’ on.

***EXAMPLE THE FOURTH: ‘HORDAK, THE IRREDEEMABLE’***

For the last dealbreaker I want to consider today, I figured I’d bring one up that’s a lot like the platonic argument, in my eyes: that an evil guy like Hordak can’t change his ways, even with the power of love.  Thus, the relationship is bust, because what’s the point of of a villain x heroine ship, if not to redeem the villain?

...

So, recently I wrote this whole big thing about Hordak, where I argued in favor of his redemption, and why I felt like that was where the story is going… I stand by the opinions expressed there, but I’d like to ask any who read that to push it out of their mind for now.  Hordak’s redemptive potential is largely irrelevant to my feelings about this ship.  When it comes to entrapdak, when confronted by the possibility that Hordak may remain a villain, my reaction is the most intense and passionate of shrugs.

...I just don’t care.

There’s a tendency to assume that redemption is the aim of a villain ship, and I suppose I can see why that is.  There’s a bit of a stereotype for female fantasies where they fix a broken man with the power of their love, and when people ship villains, that’s probably the first assumption an outsider will make as to why.  I cannot speak for others, but that’s just not a factor in the appeal of their relationship for me.

When you allow yourself to be vulnerable in front of another person, you open yourself up to the risk of being completely devastated by them.  When you show vulnerability to another person, and they accept that side of you, and express vulnerability of their own, you establish a genuine connection with that person, and those connections are kiiiinda one of the most important elements of the human experience.

That Hordak was a villain who did terrible things was always kinda aside from the point of what really makes Entrapta and Hordak such a bewitching pairing for me.  It was always the serendipity of two people who privately believe they’re alone in the world realizing they resonate with one another in a meaningful way.  Resonance is the appeal of Entrapdak, not redemption.

I tend to hope for Hordak’s redemption, I won’t lie, and I do think it’s likely, but I don’t think it’ll be love that redeems him, nor would I want it to be… not entirely.  I like seeing flawed, morally dark/gray characters overcome the obstacles that deny them self actualization, and watching them grow as a result.

That’s got nothing to do with him and Entrapta, though.  Whether the story ends with the pair of them riding into the sunset to collect data and invent shit, or with the pair of them leading the Horde in the name of galactic conquest and terror… I’m down with it either way, dude.   In the context of the ship, I care that Hordak is an evil overlord… about as much as Entrapta does.

However, pseudo-responding to naysayers is a bit negative for my tastes.  I prefer to focus on the positive in life, like the smell of soil and rain on a crisp autumn morning.  I… I’m in a very fall mood, okay?  Sue me.  Y’know what else I like, though?  Entrapdak.  Lemme wax poetic for a bit longer, and I’ll tell ya why this ship is, like, the peanut butter on my blueberry pancakes.

Part 2: Entrapdak- Why I love it

So, uh… If brevity is the soul of wit, I may be something of an idiot.  I’ve made my peace with that, of course, I’m just sayin’: I’m many things, but I’m not pithy.  If someone were to put a gun to my head, though, and demand that I describe the shipping aesthetic I love the most in life in a single sentence… I would probably respond with this:

My favorite ships are ones in which awkward, lonely people bond over a shared fondness of nerdy hobbies.

Now, that sounds super narrow, and it totally is… I don’t get new OTPs very often… but hearing that, I imagine you can see why Entrapta and Hordak immediately appealed to me.  It goes a bit deeper, though.  

The bonds between people are a major part of the story of She-ra.  We see how characters are changed, positively or negatively, by the connection they share with other characters.  Just like in real life, these connections are a mixed bag; some of them are positive, and some are negative.  Some characters, like Hordak and Catra, resonate strongly with one another, but the resonance is a negative force in their lives, which draws them deeper into darkness, and for many of the characters in the show, their character journeys are about breaking free of such toxic relationships and forming healthy bonds.

The bond between Entrapta and Hordak is unique among all bonds in the show though, in that it is the only one that isn’t mixed.  It is an unambiguous positive influence on both of them. Let’s break it down a little bit.

***ENTRAPTA***

Entrapta, at first, seems like the kind of person who isn’t super connected to other people.  At the princess prom, she mentions that she finds observing the relationships of others far more fascinating than forging relationships of her own, and she spends much of the early seasons working alone with her robots, buried in whichever task happens to have her interest in that particular moment.  

Later seasons gradually tear this facade away, though, and reveal a fairly tragic truth hidden behind it.  I mentioned above that she internalizes her failures to form lasting bonds with other people, and is genuinely distraught about it.  When she’s exiled to Beast Island, her frustration at her inability to make friends was the driving force that chained her there, even more so than her love of technology and invention.  It becomes clear that, to some degree, she buries herself in her work to escape her feelings of inadequacy.

This is a relatable and sad thing to realize about a character, but it also has the unpleasant effect of making events that were played for laughs earlier in the show somewhat tragic in hindsight.  Seeing the way she interacted with the Princess Alliance, you could see how she would have come to a very soul-crushing misunderstanding:  That, among other people, she was someone whose presence was… tolerated- at times even appreciated- but never seemed to be enjoyed by anyone. She was the friend everyone sought out when they needed her help, then forgot about.  

This wasn’t the case, of course, and clarifying her value to the group was what ultimately helped her escape the vines in season four, but from her perspective that was how it appeared, and likely how all her previous interactions with other people had gone before that. Some people complained about how easily Entrapta was able to believe that the princesses had left her behind, but it’s the same reason Hordak was so easily able to believe that Entrapta had betrayed him: In the eyes of someone who hates themselves, it’s only a matter of time before others abandon them.  

That said, it also goes to show why Hordak became so special to her.  For the first time in her life, she had a friend who joined her in her workspace, instead of leaving her to a task after giving it to her.  Someone able to converse equally with her about subjects she was interested in.  The elements of herself that made it so difficult to draw closer to others were the very same elements that caused her to get so close to him.  Her intelligence and hyper-focus upon science made her the intellectual peer of a space-faring alien, her lack of awareness of social subtext helped her to see beyond the barriers he put up to keep other people away, and her past experience with failure and rejection helped her to empathize with his pain.

It’s perfectly pleasant to find someone who accepts you and enjoys your company despite not understanding the idiosyncratic elements of your personality, but that pales in comparison to how it feels to find someone who accepts you precisely because they understand those elements.

***Hordak***

Hordak didn’t really have ‘peers’, per se, for most of his life.  We don’t know the level of autonomy the average clone has in the Horde… but I feel comfortable assuming that the level isn’t very high.  Thus, his circumstance differs quite a bit from Entrapta, in that, rather than trying to form bonds with others, and feeling like he failed, for much of his life he never had the chance to try to form them in the first place.

He is, at first, deeply dismissive of the people of Etheria, whom he regards as primitives who are beneath his acknowledgment.  Much of this, as with much of everything that dictates how he treats others, is born of projection… dude has some pretty major self-loathing issues… but regardless of cause, it results in a kind of self-imposed isolation.

Unlike Entrapta, who knew, on some level, that her lack of ability to bond with others troubled her, Hordak kept most of his emotions bottled up... Locked so deeply inside him that not even he really bothered to try to understand them.  That was where her disposition and his meshed perfectly for him.  Because Entrapta was defined by her curiosity, and her lackluster awareness of his attempts to keep her at bay, she was able to metaphorically crack him open, forcing him to vocalize and confront his own motivations.

Sometimes you need someone to just… like... grab you with their hair, push you up against a vat, and demand you tell them everything, man.

I’ve already discussed Hordak fairly extensively in my first blog blurb thingy, and while I repeat myself by accident quite frequently, I’m loathe to repeat myself on purpose.  I just wanted to take the opportunity to marvel at how well their personalities fit together.  Perhaps I’m just high on this feeling: I’ve never actually shipped something a creator so clearly intended to be there, before!

*** In Conclusion***

We’re all born imperfect, and we’ll all die imperfect.  Our imperfections are similar, but never uniform.  Each of us bears jagged cuts and missing sections of many shapes and sizes.  Humans are social creatures, and it’s in our nature to constantly seek one another out.  We keep trying to find people who are strong where we are weak; someone whose missing sections happen to lie in a pattern compatible with our own.

We’ll resonate with many in our lifetime.  Sometimes, the melody will be harmonious, and guide all involved higher and higher into the light of self actualization. Other times the sound will be discordant, and pull us down into self destruction.  Sadly, from our perspective in the middle, it will always be difficult to tell which is which.

I love the relationship between Entrapta and Hordak because it’s a dynamic that elevates both of them.  Not in a moral sense, but in a personal one.  In a series defined by toxic and uneven relationships that wear others down and tear them apart, these two have a dynamic that shelters and reinforces them.  Giving them an opportunity to be glad they were born the way they were, instead of cursing their misfortune.

It’s the kind of relationship that makes me muse about how imperfection really is beautiful.  It’s because we’re imperfect that we never stop trying to harmonize with other people, and if there’s one theme I can’t help but feel that the show itself is building toward, it’s this: Two in harmony surpass one in perfection.  

*** So hey!  Thanks for reading all of that!  Sorry if it was a bit of a mess.  Saying nothing with a great deal of words is a talent of mine, but I really do love these guys, and if you love ‘em too, don’t let anyone grind you down over it!

Let me know if you enjoyed my work, though!  If so, I’ll be happy to share my thoughts on other things, since I’ll be stuck with this series on my brain until I see how my new obsession plays out.  In the meantime take care of yourselves! If you do heavy lifting, make sure to do so with your knees, not your back.  Tell someone who makes your day a little brighter how much you appreciate them.  Then, take some time to savor the greatest of all winter beverages: hot apple cider.

[donnerpartyofone]

Whats your take on missing 411?

like what do i think happened to the missing people? or how did i like the movies? i enjoyed the first movie a lot; it has a foggy, anxious atmosphere that perfectly accompanies the unresolved mysteries that it describes, and i liked how it invited speculation on various explanations, from the mundane to the supernatural, without pushing any specific agenda. there’s a kind of poetry to it. the second movie, THE HUNTED, didn’t do as much for me; it felt like a long episode of America’s Most Wanted or something, I actually wound up looking it up to see if it was in fact compiled from a TV show. it’s still worth watching, if you enjoy that sort of thing. it does push the creator’s obsession with bigfoot more openly, which is kind of interesting in its own way.

personally, i don’t have a theory about what happened to the missing people. i have a complicated relationship with the paranormal. i mean, principally, i’m just obsessed with any and all bizarre mysteries--but that’s part of the problem. as a depressed little kid, i bought in with the deepest sincerity, in no small part because i desperately wanted to believe that the world i was forced to live in was not as boring, oppressive, humiliating, and barren as it very much seemed to be. at various points in my life, one person or another picked up on my devout desire to believe, and used it against me in ways that i will never, ever discuss. so that planted the seeds of a certain amount of skepticism in me. then later on, in my 20s, i knew a lot of people who formally subscribed to like, psychic powers, benevolent spirits, their own abilities as “witches”, the idea that the Universe sends you messages that are aimed at your personal success, etc. i mean, i WAS one of those people. but after a fashion, i started to notice that not only was my own life not improving, but it seemed like everyone i knew who held these beliefs was always in hot water, dealing with cheating boyfriends, backstabbing friends, financial setbacks, and all types of other shit that the Universe had inexplicably failed to protect them from. i realized the whole racket ran no deeper than blowing out the candles on a birthday cake and hoping for whatever selfish thing you can think of--and often, all this ideology was just employed to help convince you that whatever unhealthy thing you’re obsessed with is something the Universe wants you to have. i went cold turkey on everything, including newspaper horoscopes; the whole experience had just been really delusional and damaging.

eventually, like pretty recently in fact, i began to realize that in spite of the bad experiences i’ve had, a fundamental inclination toward the unknown is just part of my soul. i have a really different attitude toward it than i used to, which i’m very grateful for; i don’t buy into any wish fulfillment type of stuff that doesn’t come with the cost of doing work on yourself, and i’m highly skeptical of anything that smacks of ego gratification, like that you or anyone you know has ~powers~ or receives the focused attention of demons or deities or whatever. but i think it is intellectually sound to believe that we simply don’t have the wisdom or technology to detect and measure every single worldly phenomenon. i tend believe that many--maybe even all!--of the missing 411 fell victim to anomalous accidents or animal attacks that took place in a way that appears statistically improbably, but is apparently not impossible. like i was riding my bike near a construction site once and caught a flat; when i looked, i found that a nail had shot sideways right through my tire, like the old arrow through the head prank. i couldn’t even visualize how that happened--it was “impossible”!--but it was clear that the one extremely unlikely condition that could cause that to happen, through a series of ricochets or something, had indeed happened. but, at the same time, i also believe in ideas like, “ghosts” are the residue of extreme episodes that occurred in a certain location, or that poltergeitic activity is the result of energetic disturbances caused by troubled youths ala Carrie White. there’s a certain kind of logic in those concepts, that appeals to me. two examples i think about are (excuse me, I appear to be changing cases in my text and i’m too lazy to keep up with it):

1) i read about a guy who was conducting some sort of study of an ancient monastery somewhere. (I don’t remember all the details now) One night while sitting in the chapel, he perceived the apparition of a hooded dwarf, drifting up the aisle toward him. He ran away, naturally, and then dug into the monastery’s records to see if he could identity a former occupant who was a little person. He didn’t find any such monk, but he did learn that at one point decades ago, the chapel was renovated and the floor had been rebuilt about a foot or so higher than its original location--so plausibly, the guy had witnessed the ghost of a monk, treading the floorboards that existed when he was alive, not so different from a film projection.

2) I once had this terrible friend who turned out to be a pathological liar and a dangerous freak of the highest order. One year, her family moved into a place in these row houses that originally accommodated the mill workers who once labored at the enormous ruin across the street. Naturally, rumors of ghosts abounded, especially while my friend’s uncle was digging a hundred years’ worth of detritus out of their creepy basement. One afternoon we were there by ourselves--a sunny, still day--and my friend was being extra annoying about all the supernatural goings-on around the house, which I began to suspect were all made-up for attention. just to vex her, i opened the basement door and left it that way, a few feet from where we sat in her dining room. she begged me to close it, but did nothing herself. then her dog came over and started growling into the darkness, with its hackles on end. then, out of absolutely nowhere, a bottle of aspirin that had been sitting in the middle of the table rose up into the air between us, and flung itself across the house, into the living room, landing somewhere near the front door. there’s simply no way for there to have been any kind of physical intervention with this thing; it happened in plain sight, in the middle of a sunlit room, right in the middle of my field of vision. looking back, i tend to think that my awful friend was so full of disturbed energy that it just shot out into the room, even freaking out her dog. most days, she lied about any number of falsifiable things; sometimes, it felt like she was such a freak that she could just make a lie HAPPEN.

so, uh, yeah, i don’t have a unified theory of what���s going on with the missing 411, and to be honest, i think it’s better if i don’t. mysteries are better off as mysteries, without a lot of cumbersome unprovable “explanations”--i mean, doesn’t the paranormal become less and less interesting the more people bog it down with highly specific pseudo-scientific theories about it?--and it just adds more color to my life, to allow things to be mysterious.

[mollymauk-teafleak]

Black Coffee (chapter two)

Thank you so much for your response to this fic, I’m so glad people like it. Special thanks to @minky-for-short and @spiky-lesbian

If you enjoyed this, lease consider leaving a comment on Ao3 or donating to my ko-fi page! It really means a lot. 

Chapters: 1

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Percy hadn’t dressed for a date in a very long time.

In fact, when he thought about it, he didn’t think he ever had. He’d only ever had one relationship, back at boarding school, and he’d only had two outfit choices back then. School uniform or rugby kit. Somehow he didn’t think he’d still be able to pull that off at thirty.

He rifled through his wardrobe one more time, metal clacking reproachfully with each poor offering. Too boring…too stuffy…oil stains…oil stains…ripped…

With a noise of frustration he hiked his bath towel further up his hips, it had started to slip. The only clothes he seemed to own were either designed for a mansion’s ballroom or not fit to be seen outside his workshop. Maybe he had time to go into town and pick something new but even then, what sort of thing should he get?

Percy ran a hand through his hair. He probably wasn’t supposed to be thinking like this. This wasn’t a real date, it was a service. Why was he so concerned with looking good for Vax’ildan, when the half elf likely thought of this as work rather than anything recreational?

“This whole thing was supposed to help you relax a little,” he grumbled at his reflection, half visible in the full length mirror that hung on the back of the door, “Not stress you out more.”

His reflection didn’t seem to have an answer for that. It just stared back at him, eyes large and owlish without his glasses, hair sticking up after the shower. Living off takeaway food whenever he actually remembered he needed to eat clearly wasn’t doing him a lot of favours; where he wasn’t rail thin he was more round than he wanted to be. He was a very unhealthy kind of pale, everywhere except the very ill thought out tattoos he’d gotten when he was younger.

In short, he looked like no one’s dream date.

Part of Percy wanted so desperately to turn off the lights and crawl back under his blankets. Or maybe go to his workshop- the larger room in his penthouse that was really supposed to be the master bedroom- and lose himself in cogs and wires and screws. There would always be an answer there. There was always a way to make things fit, a solution he understood. He’d find no such certainty out there, stumbling awkwardly through a facsimile of a relationship.

That part of him was dangerously close to winning when he turned and saw his laptop, a sleek and black machine on his sleek and black sheets, still open, it’s glow reproving and impatient. Percy’s email was still open, the cursor blinking away on the still stubbornly blank message.

Cassandra had emailed him two days ago now. A short and to the point email, appearing cold to anyone who didn’t know his sister but Percy knew how to read the concern in those few words, asking how her brother was, what he was up to. He knew the words that weren’t written as plainly but were there nonetheless. I’m worried about you. Please tell me you’re at least a little bit okay.

She was halfway across the country now, studying at a good university though Percy could picture the horror on his father’s face if he ever heard his only remaining daughter had wandered outside of the Ivy League. But Cassandra hadn’t been concerned about prestige. She’d wanted distance.

She’d run from their parent’s city as quickly as Percy had become welded to it.

He hadn’t replied yet, hence the empty page. Because what the fuck was he supposed to say?

Hi Cassie, glad to hear you’re doing well and achieving all your dreams and making me so proud even though I’m too much of an emotionally constipated arse to show it. I’ve done absolutely nothing since you left, short of skipping counselling, talking to screwdrivers more than living things, moving like a robot through the activities I think our parents would want me to do and haunting our father’s penthouse like some depraved Phantom of the Opera. Keyleth’s still around though, I continue to be a shitty friend to her. Lots of love, your worthless brother.

Percy groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose, where there were always two perfect red indentations from his glasses.

Admittedly, hiring someone to have sex and play romance with you wasn’t the sort of thing that he was going to put in an email to his sister. But he’d be able to say he’d left the house. He was meeting new people. He was doing things.

He’d be able to say he was getting a little closer to being okay.

Decisively, Percy closed his laptop but reached for his phone, lying on the nightstand where it had woken him up a full five hours before his date. It took less than two minutes to send a text to Keyleth.

Want to go shopping with me? Need a date outfit.

Vax woke up, as he often did, with a mouthful of fur.

“Urgh,” he groaned, shoving against the great weight on his chest, “Trinket, get off, you’re disgusting.”

Of course it didn’t come out as coherent as that, seeing as his brain wasn’t fully awake. But that was what he’d intended to say.

The large dog whined, not enjoying being evicted from the nice warm bed, landing on the floor with a thump after a dedicated shove from Vax. Neither of them were sure what kind of dog the enormous, dark brown ball of fluff was but all he knew was that he was a hell of a lot bigger than the shelter and his sister had promised he’d be.

“Don’t be mean to my dog!” his sister yelled from the next room, hearing the thump.

“Then tell your horse to stop smothering me in my sleep! If you’re going to try and assassinate me, be a little more creative,” Vax shot back, though he was frowning. His sister was still here? What time was it?

He clawed around for his phone, eventually plucking it from his many blankets, though not until he’d come up with a lipstick, a sock and a chewed up tennis ball. According to the screen, still perfectly functioning even with the hairline crack through it, it was nearly eleven.  

Not bad for Vax’ildan. He’d been averaging noon the last few weeks.

Still on his screen were the messages he’d been exchanging with Percy last night. Though it didn’t say Percy on the text windows, he’d decided to keep the name Orthax in a fit of romanticism and intrigue, with an emoji of a red flower beside it. It was very much a tulip and not a carnation but it was the closest he could get.

They’d been texting quite comfortably in the day since they’d first met up and had set their first proper date for that afternoon. Which, shit the bed, Vax now only had an hour and a half to get ready for.

Cursing, he jumped up, staggering a little when his legs momentarily forgot they were legs, surging forward into the room that was half their kitchen, half their living room and too small to be either. His sister was sitting on the sofa, not even dressed for work, reading a book while petting Trinket’s ear. The dog was whining and making himself look very hard done by, probably to get Vax even further in trouble.

“Why aren’t you at work?” Vax paused, “Did you burn the bakery down?”

Vex worked half a hundred odd jobs around the city, often going straight from one to the other, changing her uniforms in the subway bathrooms. But on Tuesdays and Thursdays she worked the early shifts at a bakery a few blocks away, putting in the morning bread and folding croissants. Often she’d come home with some misshapen goodies for supper, making that Vax’s favourite of her jobs.

Not that he really enjoyed seeing his sister run herself ragged, coming in at ridiculous hours to snatch what sleep she could and still struggling to make rent, rarely having the time to do the one thing she really enjoyed- volunteering at the animal shelter.

Though maybe if she did spend more time there, she’d come home with more dogs. Vax could live without that.

Vex wrinkled her nose and swatted at him, “They’re installing new ovens. I’m not the one who put a fork in the microwave last week.”

Vax tried to look offended as only someone entirely guilty of what they were being accused of could, “It was a rare lapse in judgement…”

After a very pointed eye roll, Vex jerked her thumb in the direction of the kitchen counter, “A package came for you, by the way.”

Knowing he still had very little time to get ready but curiosity piqued, Vax wandered over to see a small, brown paper package with his address inked in a very neat hand. He unwrapped it, thinking how he hadn’t had any post for so long, feeling that nostalgic rush of excitement like a little kid with a birthday present.

Inside he found a bag of coffee. The kind Caduceus made and sold at his café. And written on a little post it, right on the front was the same handwriting as the address and suddenly the neatness of the hand seemed so perfect, fitting the voice that accompanied it.

Good morning! See you soon xx P

“What are you doing, you goof?”

Vax had been grinning ridiculously wide for a long time before he even realised he was doing it and his sister’s remark made him suddenly grasp what an idiot he must seem. And how he definitely hadn’t been planning on explaining his new situation this soon. Or with foggy, just-woke-up brain.

“Uh…” he looked up, “Just…a present. From a friend.”

Vex narrowed her eyes, “A friend? What kind of friend?”

“The kind that sends me coffee,” Vax tried to look haughty, “Do you want some or not?”

“That seems very…niche.”

“And?” Vax could feel his voice getting higher and more defensive and entirely less convincing, “Look, no time, I have to get ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“Gods above, what’s with the third degree this morning? Tie me down and shine a line in my eyes, why don’t you?”

Vex’ahlia watched her brother storm off into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him as if he had anything to be incensed about. She sighed and turned back to Trinket as he heavily put his head in his mama’s lap.

“As long as it’s nothing illegal…” she murmured to him.

The dog blinked large brown eyes at her.

“You’re right, it probably is,” Vex groaned.  

Vax reappeared a little while later, he never stayed in the shower for long. He marched past, towel cinched under his arms, going in front of the sofa so his sister couldn’t miss how he tossed his dripping wet hair and sniffed huffily. He slammed the door of his bedroom, leaving behind a scent that was unmistakably Vex’s favourite, treat day only shampoo.

She resolved to steal some of his coffee as soon as he was gone.

Vax had decided early on to meet always Percy somewhere other than his apartment.

There were a good long list of reasons for this. It would save Percy from being crushed to death under 250 pounds of affection starved dog. It would avoid him coming into contact with Vex, which would only lead to awkward questions and maybe Percy having an arrow fired at him if he startled her on her way to her archery class.

And, most importantly, Vax didn’t want him seeing his place. Not that he was ashamed or anything, he just didn’t want to feel like he had to defend it from someone who clearly lived in penthouses and country mansions. He and his sister had worked so hard to get the life they had now, earning their independence and freedom with tears and sleepless nights. It would always be sweet to them, even if it was poky, cluttered and had a damp problem they couldn’t get rid of.

Vax didn’t want to see everything they’d won look shabby and insignificant through someone else’s eyes; it would taste too much of Syldor. He didn’t think he’d be able to hold back his anger if that happened.

He’d never heard of the restaurant Percy offered to take him to, but he managed to find it and seated himself nice and obviously on the railings across the street. After two minutes of watching the place, Vax realised why he’d never been there. It was so far out of his price range, it may as well have been in a neighbouring galaxy.

He looked down at himself, his large boots and artfully ripped jeans (done by Vex after he put one of the knees through) and loose striped jumper in black and grey. His heart sank as he realised he really wasn’t dressed for this kind of place.

“Vax’ildan!”

His voice was full of warmth, he sounded genuinely delighted to see him. That alone would have caused the delicate, rosy blush on the tips of his pointed ears, if he hadn’t also looked drop dead gorgeous.

Their last meeting, there had definitely been handsomeness lurking under the exhaustion and nerves but this time Percy wasn’t hiding it, he was wearing it plain on his face. His hair was trimmed and smoothed over one side, everything underneath a white buzz that looked almost silver in the afternoon sun. His jaw was clean shaven however, taking years off him in an instant.

And he was wearing a suit. Vax suddenly realised he liked men in suits.

“Percy,” he stood, smiling, accepting the embrace that came his way. Gods, he even smelled expensive.

“I feared I’d imagined how handsome you were last time,” Percy dropped his voice to a more intimate volume as he pulled away, a smile pulling one side of his mouth up, “Apparently not.”

Vax’s ears coloured even more and he was suddenly glad he always styled his hair to cover them.

That’s how they were doing things, huh?

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” he smirked, resting a hand on Percy’s hip, “You look lovely, by the way.”

Percy’s confidence suddenly slipped and he gave a bashful smile, “My friend helped me choose it. She’s way better at that sort of stuff than me.”

Vax’s smile became warmer. He found he liked self-assured Percy and awkward nerd Percy. They were less two sides of a coin and more a changeable day of weather in the same sky.

“Well my compliments to her for choosing it and you for looking so good in it,” he grinned, sliding his arm through Percy’s, “Though you’re going to look even better next to me. I forgot who I was going to lunch with…”

Percy stopped, dismay crashing over his expression, “Oh…Vax, I’m so sorry, I didn’t…I didn’t think, I’m sorry if I made you feel like that…”

Vax grimaced, “Percy, no…bad joke, sorry. It’s fine. Though…if there’s a dress code, we might not be getting in…”

“I, um…” Percy coloured a little, “I don’t get turned away from places.”

“Of course not,” Vax looked down at his boots, drawing away from him.  

“And…well,” Percy looked through the windows, into the warm exterior of the restaurant, “All those people in there are very well dressed. And I’d much rather spend an evening with you than any one of them. Funny, isn’t it?”

Vax lifted his eyes, so startled it took a few seconds for laughter kicked in, sudden and bright.

“Gods and I thought you were flattering me before…”

“There’s flattery and then there’s truth,” Percy smiled and for a moment, both kinds of weather could be seen in the sky like sun shining through drizzle. It was fairly beautiful.

Once enveloped in the warm, rustic Italian ambiance of the restaurant, the two of them began to talk, each of them surprised by how much they were sharing.

Vax learned that Percy also had a sister, though he didn’t live with her, younger than he was. Neither of them said a word about parents and both were happy with that arrangement. He learned Percy was thirty, had played rugby at his all boys school and would still like to but he didn’t know any teams nearby. He learned he had a mild addiction to video games, was allergic to shellfish and was kind to waitstaff.

Percy learned Vax’ildan preferred red wine to white, partly for the aesthetic which he happily confessed. He learned he’d been out as trans for three years, had been dancing since he was ten and thought tap was a criminally underrated art medium. He had just about every possible ear piercing going, which he shyly showed Percy after a little cajoling, always preferred the second act of a musical to the first and was a very fast eater.

“So…” Percy eventually broached, once he’d finished the last of his affogato, “What would you say to going back to my place after this?”

Vax stopped wondering if there was a subtle way to lick the last smears of chocolate off his plate and looked up, smiling easily, “Of course. Sounds lovely.”

He did a little internal check and found no lingering reservations. Have some probably average at best sex with a handsome, affable guy? He’d heard of worse ways to make rent.

As they walked to Percy’s car, Vax felt his phone buzz in his pocket, a message from his sister.

Are you okay? What do you want to do for dinner?

Vax felt a rush of guilt. He probably should have made sure there were leftovers to take home for her. That was the usual policy when one of them went on a date. The arancini had just tasted so damn good, he’d forgotten.

Sorry, I just ate with a friend. Don’t worry about me.

Less than two minutes later, a reply.

The same friend you mentioned this morning?

Vax narrowed his eyes.

None of your beeswax.

And yes.

“Okay, this is me.”

Vax knew nothing about cars but he could read luxury in the sleek lines of black metal, the silvered wink of axel and ridiculous hood ornament, “Woah…”

“Cars are kind of the one thing I let myself get a little crazy over,” Percy admitted, opening the passenger door for him, “Benefits of having money and being a bit of a nerd for engineering.”

“Yeah well,” Vax shrugged, “You should see my Metro card. It’s pretty swish.”

Percy laughed, sliding in behind the wheel and bringing the engine to life. Vax wondered quietly when the last time someone drove him somewhere was, when he wasn’t left to get wherever he wanted to go on his own two feet.

Of course it was impossible to get to any kind of speed, driving in a city as dense as this, though there was enough power in just the purr of the engine to make Vax anxious if Percy wasn’t such a methodical driver. His hands rarely left the wheel, flitting from here to there when they had to but always returning, blue eyes aware and fixed ahead.

He went to turn on the radio…though drew his hand back after a pause, “Actually…we should probably have a talk about this.”

“About what?” Vax tilted his head.

“Well…about what kind of things we like? About what we don’t like?” Percy bit his lip, “You know. In bed.”

“Oh right,” Vax waited for Percy to say more though none came and he assumed it was his turn first. Clearly Percy’s poised manner of speaking was struggling with talking about sex.

He thought for a moment, deciding to be a little more honest than he was anticipating, a little surer in getting a good reaction, “I don’t usually like being penetrated. Some days I’m down for it but they’re few and far between. Mouth down there is fine but if you’re careful about, you know, the words you use, nothing too specific…I’d appreciate that.”

Percy nodded, still watching the road carefully though he was clearly listening intently, “Okay. Well, that makes what I was going to ask you a lot simpler.”

Vax hummed curiously, prompting him with a look.

Cheeks now fully red, Percy managed to force out in a rush, “I was going to ask if you fancied fucking me?”

Vax gave a bark of delighted laughter, “Atta boy, that wasn’t so hard, huh?”

“Shut up,” Percy was still the colour of Vax’s wine but laughter was bubbling up, “Take this as a warning for the level of inexperience you’re dealing with. In fact, that’s part of the reason why I got in contact with you. Your job is to help me introduce a little bit of…variety into my bedroom. How does that sound?”

Vax grinned, tucking one leg up to his chest, “That sounds like something we can definitely do.”

Vax knew he should be impressed. How could he not be, after seeing the sheer size of the apartment block, a dizzying behemoth of glass and steel that warped perspective in a sickening way, and the opulence of the foyer, everything modern and styled with an effortless hand.

And he was, for a very brief moment. When the elevator doors slid open, right into Percy’s living room and he was shocked by the vista from the wrap around windows, the city wreathed in dusk like a watercolour painting that needed two glances to see was really real, he was too awestruck to speak.

And then all he could think was that this didn’t feel like a home. It felt unlived in. It was like an Ikea showroom, fun to imagine lounging around in but it was sterile and barren. Like a hotel room, like somewhere kept exclusively by a businessman for when he was in the city. Nowhere to really live.

And, as he took him on a tour that didn’t take very long because there was very little in the apartment, Percy looked so lonely. Everything around him seemed too big, making him look like a little kid playing at being his father. Vax watched him rattle around in the black leather, polished silver, exposed brickwork rooms, feeling a strange sense of pity that he couldn’t pin down.

“And this is the bedroom…” Percy pushed back the door, holding it for Vax.

Not my room. The bedroom.  

It did have a little more life to it, a good amount of mess that had clearly been hurriedly tidied away that morning. Books, a small TV clearly only there for the benefit of the games console resting against it, half-finished projects of cogs and soldered pipes, blue prints tacked up on the walls that were so detailed and covered in scribbled notes they were incomprehensible to Vax. There was even something living, a plant on the windowsill with brilliant white blooms that were jug shaped and gave off a wonderful smell, kind of like a lily.

“What’s this?” Vax asked, stroking one of its wide, shiny green leaves.

“Oh,” Percy took off his suit jacket, hanging it idly on the door, “A present from my friend, Keyleth. She’s a druid, spends all her time minding the wildlife in the national park outside the city, breeds her own new strains when the mood takes her. She named that one after me as a bit of a joke.”

“What’s the joke?” Vax’s ears picked up with interest.

Percy stopped in the middle of taking off his tie, looking like he wished he hadn’t said anything, “Oh, it’s, um…kind of an inside thing…”

“You are not getting away with that, absolutely no chance,” Vax raised an eyebrow, folding his arms determinedly.

“Gods, I wanted to wait as long as possible before I had to tell you this,” Percy pinched the bridge of his nose, knocking his glasses askew, “We haven’t even had sex yet…”

“I promise I’ll still have sex with you!” Vax wheedled, kneeling on the bed, leaning towards him eagerly, “Tell me!”

“It’s…I’m going to murder Keyleth…it’s called the Percival Fredrickstein von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III Lilium…I mean, the lilium part isn’t in my name obviously…that’s the plant…”

Vax paused, carefully controlling his expression, “Oh…”

Percy winced, “Are you still willing to have sex with me?”

“You said you’d pay my rent, right?”

“Yes.”

“We can still have sex.”

Percy looked abashed for a moment until Vax couldn’t maintain his composure and burst out laughing, soon catching his riotous cackling in spite of himself.

Once they’d caught their breath, Percy found himself down to his shirt and pants, the next step in undressing rather a major one, “Mind if I…?”

Vax gave an encouraging gesture, perching on the sheets, eyes interested. The being watched, the sudden irrefutable presence of another heartbeat in the room, another set of eyes on him that hadn’t been there before, had something inside him stirring.

He couldn’t say any more than that yet. Just something. But he wanted to chase after it.

He took his shirt off slowly, methodically, not yanking it off and tossing it to one side like he normally would. He was suddenly so aware of everything, every single movement he made, every inch of newly revealed skin.

“Nice ink,” was the only comment Vax made as he abandoned shirt and trousers. But there was a spark of hunger in his almost black eyes and his pupils were widening by the second.

“Thank you,” Percy smirked, hooking his thumbs under the band of his boxer shorts, “I hate them. Relic of my misspent early twenties.”

“You’ll have to tell me about them one day,” the half elf returned easily, somehow the epicentre of the charged, wanton tension in the room despite being fully clothed down to the boots, “Now the underwear. Please.”

Percy swallowed hard, feeling something not unlike fireworks in his chest. He slid down the last bit of fabric preventing him from being completely and utterly naked (though he wasn’t sure if glasses counted) in front of another person in years.

“Well well…” Vax’s voice was a murmur though it hit Percy like electricity, “You’re a very handsome man, Percival.”

Percy didn’t want to admit how good those words made him feel, his body responding in kind, electricity gathering low in his stomach and between his legs, “Now you, please?”

Vax hopped up happily. Whereas Percy had been shy, methodical, aware of every move he made, his partner was haphazard and eager as if this was all very commonplace.

Though he stopped when Percy blurted, “That’s a little small, isn’t it?”

Vax froze, looking down at himself, only wearing his flesh coloured binder and his boxers. He didn’t enjoy this transition period and stopping still during it was jarring, “What?”

“Your…sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Percy bit his lip, “Your binder. It’s a little too small for you?”

“Well…” Vax shifted, “Yeah, I could do with the next size up but…this one still does the job, I guess. How do you even know that?”

“My boyfriend at boarding school was trans,” Percy explained quickly, “I did my research back then.”

“Oh,” Vax’s defensiveness drained away and he relaxed into the unfamiliar but welcome luxury of not feeling like a novelty, “Well remembered, then.”

It came off shortly after, anyway, along with his underwear. The look on Percy’s face was flattering to say the very least.

Oh yeah, both men had the exact same thought at the exact same time, unbeknownst to each other, I chose well.

“I ordered it on kind of a whim so I hope it’ll fit…”

Vax gave himself a long, indulgent look in the mirror. The harness was real leather and steel, the metal excitingly cold against his flesh, all of it cradling his hips perfectly. The toy itself was black, as if to match the straps that held it in place and married it to his body, black as Vax’s hair.

There was a lovely synergy to the whole look.

“Wicked,” he grinned, not really having heard a word Percy was saying.

He turned and gently pushed him back onto the bed, stopping his anxious muttering, turning it into soft gasp, so soft for such an angular man. Percy looked lovely against the black silk of his expansive bed, so startlingly pale, like he was negative space in the middle of the world.

Vax personally thought the best angle to view a lover from was while pinning them to the surface you were about to fuck them on. And Percy certainly didn’t disappoint, pupils as dilated as an excited cat, red flush spreading down from his cheeks across his chest like ink dropped in milk. Vax could watch as the breath caught in his throat.

A perfect time for a first kiss. And so that’s what he did.

He tasted of wine, white wine, but Vax thought he could learn to bear that t when it came from someone else’s lips. Percy’s hand came up and held him just right, resting right there on the nape of his neck, thumb close enough to feel his racing pulse. His own hand moved down and Percy’s long legs parted so easily for him, letting him feel that softer, warmer skin, the more tender parts of him.

The sweet man was hard enough to be steadily leaking pre already. It must have been a while since he’d had someone. Vax gave him a teasing squeeze but continued down, he had a job to do right now and was determined to do it well.

“Easy, sweetling, I just need to…” Vax gasped, their kiss having left his lungs burning around the edges. He snatched up the bottle of lube helpfully left on the nightstand, though with the immense size of the bed it was a bit of a reach. It was cool against his fingers, thick, the oddly scentless scent of it catapulting him back to other places, other bodies, other faces. To realising sex could be a lot of fun, to rediscovering himself under the hands of others.

He would always love it.

“Just get you good and ready…” he murmured, voice breathy and soft. All Percy could do was moan.

Turns out Percy was tight in more than just personality. But Vax’s fingers knew their business well and carefully, so carefully, he made the man underneath him yield. Percy whimpered as Vax’s fingers breached him, slick and cold, igniting everything inside him that had been waiting anxiously for the spark it needed.

“Vax’ildan…” he gasped, fingers tightening in the sheets and the tightly curled hair at the nape of his lover’s neck.

“It’s okay,” the whisper came in return, “Relax, deep breaths…”

Percy followed his instructions, feeling the thrill of giving himself over to someone else’s control. Evening had stolen away when neither of them were looking and the room had quickly become dark so everything was down to just shapes, devoid of detail.

He felt, rather than saw, Vax’s heart beat faster, teasing his own, beckoning for it to follow. He felt their skin pressed together, growing hot. He heard the smile in Vax’s voice, he felt the creeping cold of more lube running between his cheeks, he smelt sex and sweat and something amber sweet in Vax’s hair. He felt his muscles loosen, melting, becoming Vax’s to reshape as he chose.

“Ready for me?” the half elf whispered in his ear, the hand that wasn’t half buried in Percy resting delicately on his chest, almost chastely in bizarre contrast to the fingers that still rocked inside him, coming achingly close to his prostate but very deliberately not getting there.

“I need you,” Percy moaned, nerves prickling at the neediness in his own voice, the pleading.

Vax caught it too, teeth flashing in the gloom as he grinned, “Good boy.”

Not finishing in that moment took all of Percy’s brainpower, leaving him only enough to whimper, hoping that brought across how much he really, really liked that.

Vex shifted, pressing the rounded tip of the toy a breath into Percy, giving a feather soft groan as the pressure brought the other end of the toy flush against where he needed it. Percy himself swallowed back another whine, feeling the sweet stretch of his entrance. Obediently, he hooked his hands behind his knees and brought them to his chest, leaving himself even more open and exposed, offering himself completely.

He got exactly what he wanted. Vax moved further into him, hips finding a comfortable depth then rocking back and forth.

“Gods, that feels good…” Percy’s eyelids fluttered, his voice a smoky rasp, “Deeper…”

“I’m getting there,” Vax sounded delighted, “Let’s not walk before we can run or you’re not going to be able to do either tomorrow.”

But his thrusts were getting deeper, more deliberate, hitting both of their sweet spots at the same time. Percy began to keen at the apex of each one and soon Vax was grunting and gasping along with him, arms starting to shake and fingers starting to claw at the sheets.

“Can you come just from this? Just from having me in your ass?” Vax panted, whole body taut as a drawn bow.

Percy nodded, fingers leaving white marks in his own legs, “Yes, gods, I’m there, I’m coming…”

Vax grinned, timing it perfectly as he leaned in and kissed him deeply, hitting his prostate directly, swallowing Percy’s loud, shaky moan of release as he shuddered through his own.

It was a while before either of them could marshal words but Vax got there first, “And how was that, Percival Frankenstein von Whatever Lilypants?”

Percy made a sound that probably would have managed to be a laugh if he had any breath, “Damn that fucking plant…”

Giggling, Vax drew out of him and rolled onto his back, the whole room tipping around him and settling a little lopsided but he didn’t care.

“So…” Percy rolled over, lying on his stomach, probably getting the sheets filthy but that was already done, “I think this is going to work out?”

“Me too,” Vax smiled, “That was good.”

“I did set up the bank transfer, of course,” he added quickly, “I haven’t forgotten. Before the 15th, right?”

Vax hadn’t realised how heavy the stress of making that month’s rent had been, not until it disappeared in that moment.

“Thanks Percy. And the coffee was really sweet of you, by the way.”

Percy smiled and shrugged, though clearly pleased, “I thought it would be a nice way to start, at least until I get a few more ideas.”

Vax thought for a moment, letting himself actually want, trying to remember how that felt, “I like…oh, I like knives!”

As soon as it was out of his mouth he realised how that sounded and he clamped his jaw shut.

Percy looked at him, “Wait…what?”

“Are you absolutely, positively sure?” Vax asked for what must have been the fiftieth time, “It’s going to leave a hole, you know that?”

Sat on the couch in a loosely cinched blue robe, Percy waved a dismissive hand, “I’ll repair any damage. Go ahead.”

“You might have to wave goodbye to your security deposit…” Vax warned, tossing the kitchen knife lightly from hand to hand, getting a better feel for its weight. Not a throwing knife by any means, a lot heavier and clunkier than his own set, but it would do for a demonstration.

“Vax’ildan, my sweet, if I’d ever had one of those it would have been gone years ago,” Percy arched an eyebrow, “But the company owns the building. Let fly.”

Vax laughed, taking aim at the square white pillar, part of the partition between the kitchen and the living space, immaculately painted and polished. And ideal to plant a knife in. He focused, drew in a long slow breath and then released it as his hand flashed forward.

Half a heartbeat later, the knife was buried half to the hilt in the plaster, a disapproving puff of dust and the ghost of a loud thud settling around it.

“Holy shit,” Percy sounded awed and when Vax turned to look at him, he couldn’t help but notice a now familiar blush in his cheeks.

He’d already texted his sister, giving her a heads up that he was sleeping out at a friend’s. It was only half a lie, Percy could probably be considered a friend at this point.

They just wouldn’t be doing a lot of sleeping.

[holycalum]

vex c.h. 

word count: 3.8k+

warnings: mentions of pregnancy, swearing, drugs refs, but it’s actaully not bad at all

summary: the one where calum’s the most™ annoying but it’s cus he’s in looooove (is tht enough??)

a/n: HI yeah i know i haven’t posted in years because um (: i’ve been the most busy ever. i have so many things i wanna post i have like million half written things and ideas i just don’t have the energy to finish or start i know its bad i miss writing. anyways i hope ya like it i know i suck at writing the good ending parts where the stuff happens but i’m trying. send me requests pls it might take a while but ill defo get to them! love yall the most!

“can you please shut the fuck up and stop chewing ice for like, five seconds?” “first of all, i have an iron deficiency, calum.” you sneer, “you know i’m sensitive about it.” “you know i don’t care about your blood iron content, right (y/n)?” calum glares at you, angrily sipping his drink. “maybe you’re pregnant.” you almost scream, “stop don’t say that,” you pat your stomach, “i don’t want to be pregnant.” “cal, it’s your turn to bowl,” ashton says, flopping down next to calum on the couch opposite you. “i don’t wanna fuckin’ bowl,” calum grumbles, crossing his arms and sinking back into the couch. ashton scrunches his eyebrows, “cal, it was your idea-“ “(y/n) should take my turn, maybe it’ll help her unborn child be a champion bowler.” he mused, making ashton do a double take. “honestly,” ashton squeaks, “i don’t wanna know, (y/n), are you pregnant?” “thought you didn’t wanna know?” you joked, placing two hands on your stomach. “no, i’m not, calum’s just being a bitch.” “m’ not.” he counters, “it’s just your pregnant lady hormones are rubbing off on me, i’m surprised we’re all not crying.” ashton just sits up slowly, backing away from the couch. “it’s just, fuck you calum.” you roll your eyes, leaning back into the couch. you turn your body away from calum, focusing your attention on the scoreboard. “you’re doing really badly.” “can’t show up your bowling prodigy child,” calum hardly misses a beat, as annoying as he was being, he was on fire tonight. “wonder who the dad is.” you pull at your hair, “oh my fucking god,” you want to throw a bowling ball at his head, “it’s like you want me to be pregnant, you’re insinuating i’m getting dicked down enough to be pregnant.” “big word, gotta set a good example for the baby...” calum trails off, trying not to laugh at his constant pestering. “are you?” “wouldn’t be your business if i was, or if i wasn’t.” “then who am i to believe you’re not pregnant,” calum shrugs, finishing his drink. calum’s neck looked like prime real-estate for your fists, you had never been so annoyed with him in your time knowing him. for a while you two were actually friends, but as of lately, he seemed to seize any opportunity to push your buttons. michael slid into the spot next to you, “yanno, boys are usually mean to girls when they like them.” he whispers in your ear, “doesn’t that promote an unhealthy association or something?” you roll your eyes, burning holes into the side of calum’s head. “i’m sure someone who likes you wouldn’t claim you’re pregnant every chance they got.” “calum’s not just someone,” michael sing-songed, “i honestly don’t know what sticks up his ass.” “apparently it’s not a stick, it’s my fake baby.” you crossed your arms, still glaring at calum. “ashton,” you piped up, gripping the back of the drivers seat. “can we please stop at mcdonald’s, i have to pee.” “no.” calum answered for ashton, “i recall asking ashton,” you snapped your head towards him, “but go off i guess.” “yeah.” ashton said quietly, switching lanes to get off at the next exit. “no,” calum grabbed the steering wheel, “you peed like 20 minutes ago.” “jesus fucking ch-calum please,” ashton threw his hand off the wheel, “don’t kill us please.” “wouldn’t wanna kill the baby,” calum grinned at you, sarcasm leaking from his dimples. jesus, you think, here we fucking go. “since when are you the dictator of my bladder?” you asked, face red. “peeing a lot is a sign of pregnancy, you know?” calum said, ignoring your question. “so, you’re an ob-gyn now too?” “i’ve taken up many practices since you conceived your baby,” calum insisted, eyes glued to his phone. you desperately wanted calum to turn his head towards you, to give you his full attention. this half assed argument wasn’t cutting it. “i’m honestly so uncomfortable, we’re almost at McDonald's.” ashton announces, “i am not fucking pregnant!” you shout, slinking into the back seat, “why do i even hang out with you?” “hey, (y/n), how you feeling?” luke asks, face grainy on your phone screen. “like ass,” you croak, you’d been throwing up all morning. you thought you were on the come up, and tested the waters with a piece of toast, but you were unsuccessful. “-is that (y/n)?” you hear calum ask, and your stomach lurches, you didn’t need to deal with him right now. “yeah-she’s sick,” “with what?” “i dunno, she’s throwing up-“ suddenly the phone screen shakes and calum’s face takes up the whole thing. his face holds an evil smile and you’re far too familiar with his jokes and you know what you’re in for. “you’re having morning sickness, (y/n).” he says matter-of-factly. you feel the last of your toast threatening to inch up your throat. “it’s cus’ you’re pregnant.” you empty your stomach into the toilet, “fuck you, calum.” you manage in between deep breaths. “i have food poising.” “if that’s what we’re calling pregnancy these days.” “i’m hanging up.” you throw your phone across the tile of your bathroom, leaning your head against the cool toilet bowl. you felt so gross, and calum’s comments were not helping in the slightest. you felt like crying really, he was being such a jerk to you, for no reason. a few fever naps later, you’re woken up by a knock at your front door. you drag yourself to the door, opening it to find a bag from the drug store, with a note reading ‘pregnancy kit!’ you immediately toss the pregnancy tests to the side, digging out the gatorade. you call calum, “thanks for the gatorade, but i don’t need the tests, wanna give them to your groupies?” you say as soon as he picks up. “ah,” he breathes, “of course, how could i be so silly, you don’t need to test something you’re already sure of.” “fuck off.” “i don’t need them,” he continues, “that’s not me anymore.” “ok, bye calum.” you throw your phone back onto your couch, dropping the bag next to you. if he wasn’t such an asshole, you’d think him going out of his way to bring you things would be sweet, but you’re sure it’s just an extra step he took to tease you. if he were anyone else you might smile and blush at the thought, but thinking of calum’s devilish smile while picking things out only made your skin crawl with heat. “(y/n)...” calum pushes the drink out of your hands, “you can’t drink while pregnant.” you nearly break the bottle over his skull, “are you like deprived of sex or something? is that why you’re so edgy?” “i just care about the well being of your baby,” he rests a hand on your stomach, “seeing that it-speaking if we should find out the gender soon. seeing that its father is absent.” you flick his hand off of you and ignore the way your heart speeds up when he touches you. “let’s find you someone, that sound good?” you ask, dropping his calloused hand from your grip, and scanning the bar for anyone that may peak calum’s interest. if you were being honest, the conflict between you and calum, that you dread, lit something within you. whether it was a match under your ass that kept you on your toes, or something warmer in the pit of your stomach, you found yourself red in the face and tingly every time you went back and forth with each other. calum was pissing you off and he knew it, he had wiggled his way under your skin, and you didn’t know how you felt about it. you spot a blonde girl across the room, and you set out to approach her. “no one that’ll take away from my ob-gyn practice,” he shouts as you walk away, stomping loudly. it almost hurts how ok he was with it. you return only a few minutes later, finding it very easy to convince a random chick to talk to someone in a band. “calum,” you stand in front of him, and he glares down at your smaller frame. “this is ally-allison-um, this is allison.” you introduce her, and she giggled loudly. “oh my god,” he drops his jaw, “you reincarnated michael jackson? for me? you’re too sweet, (y/n).” something inside you relaxes at his dislike for the stranger. “what?” allison cocks her head to the side, looking calum up and down. you catch yourself thinking, me too girl. “never mind,” you mutter, “allison said she likes music, you like that too!” “yeah, i go to a lot of raves.” she assures us, “have you guys ever done molly?” “no.” calum is short, “well, i have a few in my bag-“ “nice,” he responds, “we can do a couple,” “yeah for sure,” his eyes are in slits as soon as he looks at you, you shrink under his gaze. “let’s do molly, in some bar, with ally.” “allison.” she corrects, and calum already has your bicep in his hand, dragging you in the opposite direction of allison. your brain is split between wanting to punch him for being so rough, and letting him drag you along. you go with the latter. “we’ll be right back, ally, just need to converse with my colleague.” calum has no intention of ever speaking to her again, anyone named allison, he decides. soon, you’re standing outside the bar, shooting daggers out of your eyes at calum. if looks could kill, he would’ve been dead hours ago, and you’d be beating the dead horse. your feelings were all jumbled up, in a hot, flaming, pile of trash. “it’s cold,” you complain, rubbing your bare arms. “ok well, i can’t control the weather.” he snapped, making your stomach drop, he was being so mean. “what the hell is your problem?” “i don’t need you to meddle in my love life, (y/n).” he uttered, pulling out a cigarette from his back pocket. you snatch it away from him, and he’s left empty-handed. “not good for you,” you explain, “i’m not the pregnant one...” “no one is pregnant!” you shout, throwing the unlit cigarette on the ground. “sounds like something a pregnant lady would say,” calum hasn’t missed an opportunity yet. “i literally need you to stop,” you beg, shaking his shoulders. he lets out a quiet ‘woah’ but doesn’t do anything to stop you from violently shaking him around. “i don’t know what your problem is, but like, you’ve been at this since before i tried helping you out, so what gives?” calum only shrugs in response, eyes drifting to the people flowing out of the bar. his mind sails elsewhere, wondering if the guys would wonder where you two went, if they knew how he felt, if they cared at all. “cal, there’s gotta be like, someone in there for you, if you want a wingman-“ you babble, trying to push the idea of you and calum far, far, far, out of your brain. if he could just make out with someone, you could never think about him like that again, and then you could really get pregnant, and live a calum-free life. “there’s no one in there for me.” he says coldly, turning his shoulders away from you, making your arms drop down to your sides. you can feel him closing off. you roll your eyes, “how are you supposed to know that,” you soften your tone, you didn’t really know how to talk to calum like this. “cus’ i just do,” he���s slowly inching away from you now, trying to increase the space, trying to decrease the connection. “why should you care?” he turned his difficult feelings into coldness. “you’re my friend, i think, if you’re allowed to be so involved in my uterus, i should be allowed to try and get you some!” you fume, stepping closer to him. “i’m trying to be nice while you continue to be so mean.” “why try?” “i-“ you didn’t know, “i don’t know.” “well,” he barks, “if i’m being so mean and you can’t stand it, why do you hang out with me?” “why are you so mean?” you ask, both of your voices raising. “i don’t know.” he mocks you, “you have to know!” you were being far too dramatic for where you were, but you were so blinded by rage you found it difficult to care. “if you’re allowed to not know why you put up with me, i’m allowed to not know why i’m mean to you.” he turns to walk away from you, you grab the sleeve of his jacket, blood pumping rapidly. “don’t walk away from me, calum, that’s rude as shit.” “i am rude as shit.” “you’re not!” you cry, people walking out of the bar into the cool air taking a second glance at your exchange. “you’re not rude and that’s why i’m confused as to why you’re being rude to me, you weren’t like this before.” “before you started going out on dates and shit and getting pregnant,” he grumbled, shoulders slumping into himself. you gaped, “how does that have to do with why you’re being mean.” “m’ not mean.” his voice got quieter, head now lowered. if he couldn’t just box you out he could always try retreating into himself. “you just said you were,” you matched his volume. “m’ not,” he repeated, “n’ there’s no one in there for me.” “you’re all over the place,” you’re head is spinning, and you can’t connect the dots between anything calum’s saying. “cus’ the only person for me is standing outside the fuckin’ bar.” “have i ever told you, you have such a way with words,” you were trying to be so cool, because you doubted that the middle-aged businessman standing near the entrance was the one for calum, but he was making it really hard. “you’ll never guess what i do for a living.” he jokes back, but his chuckle ends too short to be real. “ok, so, why do you think i’m pregnant? like i’m still lost.” “can we please not talk about it,” he begs, finally looking at you. your stomach flips at his eye contact, and as wobbly as your knees are, you’re unmoving. you couldn’t “that’s not fair to me, cal.” “just not here then, please.” the sound of your front door closing was the first thing to break the agonizing silence between the two of you. “so...” you lean over your kitchen counter. calum rubs his face, and groans. “it’s stupid,” his words are altered by his cheeks being smooshed against his hands. a blush creeps up the back of calum’s neck and onto his face. he wasn’t getting out of this one. “yeah,” you agree, “it is stupid, but why?” there’s a long stretch of silence, “cus i like you,” finally cuts through the thick air surrounding you two. “m’ still a little drunk.” you spit out the sip of water you had just taken. “sorry,” you sputter, wiping your mouth. sure he had implied something of the sort outside the bar, but hearing him say it was sending you elsewhere. “i um,” “you don’t have to say anything back, but you wanted to know, so i told you.” he shrinks into himself, “no, cal, i just wanna know why you thought that was how you should’ve gone about it.” you weren’t saying you didn’t feel the same, but you also weren’t saying you’d let him off so easy. “i’m sorry, if it really bothered you.” he says instead, spinning himself back and forth on the bar stool. he was looking everywhere but you. “it’s not that, it was just-“ “weird?” “yeah.” “i know id be weird anyways, so i figures being mean weird would rule out yanno, me feeling things.” he explains, playing with the cuff of his jacket. “oh,” you whisper, studying how his eyebrows scrunch when he can’t button his sleeve. “you can’t just try and cancel out your feelings...like pemdas.” his eyes flicker towards you, “wrong, i did try, it just didn’t work.” “so you still like me?” you ask, “do all pregnant people ask this many questions?” he says under his breath, and you let yourself laugh because it’s kinda funny. calum smiles sheepishly as he continues looking down at his sleeves. “just me i guess,” you decide to play along. “yeah, i do.” “cool.” “that’s all i get?” he sits up straight, gripping the edge of the counter. “it’s cool!” you defend, giggles escaping your lips. “yeah well, what’s cool about it?” he tests the waters, maybe you were interested, maybe it wasn’t so crazy to think maybe you’d like him too. even just a little bit. he leans back against the chair. “i think it’s cool...” you trail off, biting your lip, “that someone so cool likes me.” “you think i’m cool?” calum’s tone is teasing, but you can tell he’s flustered by the way his usually low voice raises a bit and the blush painting his tanned cheeks. “mhm.” you nod slightly, the little bit of alcohol in your system making it hard to hold off. calum’s stature was especially enduring right now, his soft, sleepy eyes and messy hair, your heart swelled at the sight. “cool.” he said simply, eyes crinkling. you only let out another quiet ‘mhm’ in response, taking another sip of water. “so, is that it?” “is what it?” “is that all we say, and now i just have to stare at you until you kick me out?” he questions, face dropping. surely, he thought, you were only playing him. “bold of you to assume you’d even wanna stare at my face that long.” you counter, raising an eyebrow. he thinks for a moment, “bold of you to assume i wouldn’t.” “bold of you to assume...” it was getting really hard to go back and forth with calum now, his cocky smile getting under your skin instead of on your nerves for once. “bold of you to assume i’d kick you out,” “oh?” he grinned, leaning over the counter, mirroring my position. he widens his eyes at you, “better get used to it then.” “are you flirting with me, calum?” “bold of you to assume i’m not setting you up for the best pregnant joke of all time.” you roll your eyes at him, starting to move away. he grabs your hand suddenly, pulling you back over the counter. “i was only kidding, (y/n).” “figured,” you squeak out, trying not to faulted. you swallow hard, “but why do you need to be so close to me?” you were certain if anything was obvious is was the prominent blush splayed across your cheeks. you’d be surprised if he couldn’t feel the heat radiating off of your cheeks. “like seein’ you blush,” you were right, “sure, i could see it from down the street, but this is a better view.” “doubt it.” you bite your lip, “agree to disagree?” “turning down an argument?” you question, “i’m sure another opportunity will present itself.” he whispers, “you know i’d stay here, but it’s a really uncomfortable position.” you speak, after a moment of silence. “and i hate being in jeans. are you spending the night?” “what does that have to do with being in jeans?” he stays leaned over the counter after you stand straight again, and start walking towards your room. “i don’t have any clothes for you, i’d feel bad if i was comfortable and you weren’t.” “not something you’d ever cared about before, doll.” he spins around to face you, relaxed against the stool. suddenly your whole body feels hot. you gulp, “i guess you’re right,” you come back later, clad in pajama shorts and a long sleeved shirt. calum’s lounging on your couch now, feet kicked up on the coffee table. “glad you’ve made yourself comfortable.” “you weren’t going to,” he speaks, eyes not breaking away from his phone. you sit down next to him, legs folded underneath yourself. he glances over at you, a smile smile evident on his lips. it felt odd, not being genuinely angry at calum for more than an hour. “listen,” he speaks, “you don’t have to kick me out, i can leave on my own.” he looks down at his hands, twisting his rings. “you can if you want,” you say softly, covering your yawn with you hand. you hoped he didn’t want to leave, cause you’d be ok if he sat on your couch forever. “do you want me to?” he meets your eyes, you shrug, inspecting your nail polish, “don’t care,” “i mean, it’d be kinda weird if i stayed cus i like you and you don’t-“ “i like you calum,” you cut him off, darting your eyes back down to your nails. “oh,” he shook his head a bit, a grin creeping its way onto his face. “glad that’s out of the way,” you say, still not looking at calum. if you looked at him it’d be real and you’d given into him, who was bullying you for a fake pregnancy only hours before. it was stupid if you put it that way. but if you thought about it another way, it was never really that deep. “then, i guess i’ll stay?” he says carefully, nudging your thigh, eyebrows raised in anticipation. “cool.” you nod, making eye contact for a split second before turning back away. you could combust then and there. “you’d like that?” he teases, inching closer to you. you swear you feel your heart stutter. “if i stayed?” “mhm.” you laser your focus on your chipping polish instead of his body heat in attempt to calm yourself down. but you’re the furthest thing from calm. “ok,” he huffs, leaning back and throwing an arm around your shoulders. you stiffen under his touch, your entire body on fire. as of the last couple of months you’d been hot out of anger, not by whatever this was. calum’s gaze was fixed on you, his eyes fond despite his cocky manner. “you gonna relax, sweetheart?” the nickname dripped like honey from his lips. “you gonna kiss me to get it over with already?” you spit suddenly, wanting to end the awkwardness. you were sick of the jitters now, and all you wanted was calum. yet, you slap a hand over your mouth. he let out a laugh, “can’t with you so far away from me.” you roll your eyes, and lift yourself to turn yourself toward him. “much better,” he grins, moving a hand up to cup your face. fuck that, you think, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pressing your lips together. you feel the tension leave your body, as calum’s lips work against yours. it feels like heaven, his plump lips against yours, hands gripping whatever they can. calum pulls away, forehead leaning against yours, panting quietly. you take in his look, eyes closed, blissed out, beautiful. “bet your baby daddy couldn’t do that?” he jokes, smiling. “shut up.”

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @haletostilinski!

A/N: a little note, here, that a friend gave me ideas that helped this along, lol;; a soft warning for a vague Hale fire mention;; I hope it’s a good gift, and I hope you have a very merry christmas!!!

Read on AO3

*****

Loneliness, Food, & Mistletoe

It starts with a dorm.

Or, more accurately, it starts with a waterfall.

Specifically, it starts with Stiles waking up to a flooded dorm, water rushing from the ceiling after having had the craziest dream about being in a snow-strewn field with his mom and a group of people he didn’t know, having a feast and drinking flower wine, as they all chatted with him, all beatific expressions and an ambiance of aching joy. His mother had hugged him, before he’d woken, whispered something he can’t remember into his ear, and then his eyes had fluttered open to a personal, theatrical, indoor waterfall.

It takes him about three minutes, blinking and smacking his lips and generally being only barely awake, before he actually realizes what’s going on to the tune of shrieking curses and scrambling to save everything he doesn’t want to lose to spectacular water damage.

His roommate, the ass, has been at his girlfriend’s place since the day before yesterday, and has enough money that his only response to the informative, sarcastic, slightly melodramatic text Stiles shoots off to him is the equivalent of a shrug and an, I’m good here, so you’re on your own with that shit-tastic fiasco. Have fun.

The dormkeeper, TA person is… daunting? Stiles has never talked to him, anyway—no matter how hot like burning the guy is, storms live in his tsunami eyes, ‘I’m going to kill you’ is written in the line of his impressive eyebrows, and intimidating might actually, in this case, be an understatement. But, nevertheless, he doesn’t really have the option of avoidance now, since it’s four in the morning, water’s still actively flowing, and Derek’s the guy.

(If there was any other guy, but, nope, Derek’s the only one.)

So, gingerly, clothes and computer and cheap-ass griddle piled haphazardly in his arms, he—tries and fails to knock at least four times, almost dropping everything in the process, cursing some more, until the door’s opening all on it’s own, a sleep-mussed, startlingly soft Derek Hale standing there, glaring at him, and narrowing his eyes hatefully at Stiles’ armful of things.

“Oh. I, uh. Have a feeling this is already off to a bad start? Um, so, okay. My room? 320? I’m Stiles, by the way, I’d shake your hand, but… uh-hm.”

One of Derek’s eyebrows steadily rises as Stiles babbles, and now he’s leaning on the door-frame, arms crossed over his chest, looking distinctly unimpressed.

Stiles gets the feeling, if he doesn’t get to the point soon, Derek’s going to slam the door in his face. In hindsight, introducing himself wasn’t necessary.

“My dorm’s flooding, is the thing.”

Derek’s eyes widen, something like a growl filling his chest as he whips around to grab something from his room. “Stay here,” he orders, his voice a little like smoked sugar-grain, higher than Stiles would’ve expected. The man prowls away intently without another word and Stiles sighs heavily, sets his stuff beside Derek’s door and settles down next to it to wait.

Derek comes back more than a little soaked around two and a half hours of bejeweled, tetris, and candy crush later. He looks harried and two shades shy of homicidal.

“Do you have anywhere to go?” he bites, and Stiles looks up from his phone to gape at him.

“I—no? Is there no way to fix it? Is it still flooding?”

“Yes,” monosyllabic monotone, but there’s something incredibly dry in his eyes and it takes Stiles a second to realize the man wouldn’t have just left it like that, then another to realize that, even if the flooding itself has been stopped, it probably hasn’t been fixed, and he really doesn’t have anywhere he could possibly go.

He tells Derek as much and the man glares at him for an endless moment, it feels little better than being an ant pinned under a microscope and infinitely more awkward. A huff, and then firm, thick-corded muscles are wrapped around his pile of stuff and lugging it into Derek’s room.

“Wai—woah, hey, hey, dude, what are you—?” Stiles calls, exasperation and incredulity warring with annoyance as he scrambles to follow after. Derek drops Stiles’ stuff on the right side of his perfectly pristine room- the side with the bean-bag and the nineties bulk-tv and the pale-blue carpet and the closet door, without the bed and the distrubingly neat study desk and the bookshelf- before regarding him with a scowl.

“Don’t make a mess,” the man says, “it’s temporary.” Then he grabs a change of clothes from the closet and leaves Stiles stranded with the implication that Stiles will probably be staying here until whatever piping problem turning his dorm into a nature documentary gets fixed.

Here with the annoyingly uncommunicative TA dormparent who is simultaneously terrifying and vaguely infuriating.

He blinks at his stuff, breathes. He’s pretty sure he’s been through worse… maybe.

–❄❆❅❆❄–

He gets desensitized fairly quickly, gone from mildly scared of the guy to downright vexed by him.

He’s obsessively clean, which is something Stiles struggles with, but is more capable of understanding—after all, up until now, this has solely been Derek’s space. Still, the half snarky, half antagonistic, half animal sounds of irritation don’t actually tell him anything- except that Derek’s upset, and there could be any number of reasons why, because, man, this dude is tightly wound as fuck- until his side of the room is being invaded and forcefully cleaned before Stiles can protest, let alone do anything about it. He has some definite anger management issues, and isn’t spectacularly good at dealing with Stiles’ particular brand of hyperfocus versus hyperactivity, and cheap, unhealthy college student habits. Stiles has some problems with how quiet he is, how he’s never tactile unless he’s aggro, and how he’s always huffy, grumpy, sour.

Needless to say, they grate on each other, and it might be a month yet before Stiles’ room gets fixed, which is just, you know, great.

–❄❆❅❆❄–

Snip.

Derek tries valiantly to focus on his book.

Tnk, szznip.

A vein in his forehead is throbbing, he can feel it.

Stiles mutters unintelligible gibberish around the highlighter he’s holding between his teeth.

Clip, snip, tnk, snap.

“What. The hell. Are. You. Doing.”

Stiles spins around quickly, the chair making two dizzying rotations before he stops it, facing Derek, and yanks the marker out of his mouth. There’s a neon yellow mark right next to his lips, cuddling up to his freckles, pen and glitter coating his bone-nimble fingers. Derek doesn’t want to be endeared, really, he should be annoyed.

“Writing an essay on how to use inflections correctly, how to make them flow, y'know? So that questions sound like questions, sentences sound like entiresentences. It might be surprising how many people struggle wi��”

“Stiles,” he snaps, annoyance abruptly far brighter than fondness.

“Oh my god, can’t you just… chill, a little? I’m doing classwork—although the depths of the internet may’ve distracted me, on that one, I’ll admit—and I’m making decorations for Lydia’s christmas party, because she’s terrifying, and I’m pretty sure if I don’t she’ll gut me. Or steal my roommate—.” Stiles cuts himself off, a tiny recoiling flinch in his eyes that Derek doesn’t understand at all, but it’s there and gone so fast, it might not have been there at all. “Which would actually border on a good thing, considering, well, Jackson.

"Wait… have you ever met Jackson?”

A headache. Derek’s pretty sure he’s getting a headache.

His question answered, he contemplates just ditching for the quiet of the library, only. Well.

(This is the first time in a very long time he has shared his space with anyone, and his feelings about it are complicated, to say the least, but part of him whimpers at the idea that, if he were to leave right now, when he came back, Stiles might be gone. Another part says that he’ll come back to a mess that would be too much work to clean and babysitting is just altogether a better idea.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, he worries about Stiles’ oddly mournful pause.)

In the end, he sighs heavily, and returns to his book.

“Don’t make a mess.”

Stiles starts muttering about being the cleanest person in the world, and Jackson and he would probably get along, and just wait, he dyed Jax’s hair blue in the fourth grade, he can fucking do it again if he wants to, fucking Sourwolf.

Sourwolf? Derek wonders; then, I better keep an eye on my shampoo.

–❄❆❅❆❄–

Derek watches Stiles do the same thing he’s been doing every day for a month and a half.

The egg sizzles on the griddle, gets tossed on top of a bowl of instant ramen, which is downed along with two red bulls, before Stiles’ full attention is returned to his work, which is, as always, at least ten things at once, armed with a highlighter, no less than four books, his computer, two notebooks, a dozen differently colored pens, and maybe a thousand color-coded sticky-notes, half of what he’s writing is either seemingly encrypted or in a different language altogether. In a few hours, Derek knows, he’ll blithely down another redbull.

He barely fucking sleeps, and he’s paler than the moon, and, jesus christ, if he keeps going on like this he’s going to die, his body won’t be able to take it.

The next day, Derek shoves a plate of banana peanutbutter bagels with granola and yogurt on the side in his face along with a cup of caffeinated tea, and Stiles looks up at him with wide, wide eyes before smiling, those eyes crinkling, the honey in them warm and gooey as his cheeks dimple and plush, crushed-pastel lips curl something happy. It’s the brightest thing Derek thinks he’s ever seen, and everything around it gets cotton-soft, tempered with gentled sweet, and his breath catches, heart tripping over the bubble of wonder billowing out in his chest.

Stiles says, “Thank you,” on the edge of an awed breath, and Derek swallows, nods curtly, stalks away.

He tries to remind himself that Stiles can be annoying and loud, talks too much, asks too many questions, doesn’t take care of himself at all, is, quite possibly, one of the messiest people he’s ever known, and that it shouldn’t matter how nice it is to share space with someone again- because sharing space isn’t something he should be allowed, anyway- it shouldn’t matter that, when he does decide to talk, Stiles actually listens, or that he gets Derek’s dry humor, snipes back easily and mostly good-naturedly, or that he smiles like… like that.

It shouldn’t matter. This is temporary and Stiles is an asshole most of the time.

(It does matter, and Stiles isn’t the kind of asshole Derek could ever hate, anyway.)

–❄❆❅❆❄–

Stiles’ room gets fixed. And that’s fine, that’s seriously fine, it’s not like he wanted to sleep on a borrowed air-bed in the corner of someone else’s room much longer, anyway, but…

He’d just started to get used to Derek, just started to be able to maneuver around him and with him with any kind of ease, could now translate the scowls and the serial-killer eyebrows from the emotionally clumsy, socially awkward language he’d finally realized they were into mostly… unexpectedly sweet intentions. More than that, he’d begun to realize just how much of a dorky mom friend Derek secretly is, with him spending any time he wasn’t studying or cleaning- or cleaning up after Stiles- reading some really old, complex book, cooking (for them both, because every time Stiles eats a mildly unhealthy meal or foregoes food for caffeine, Derek’s eyebrows twitch like he literally cannothandle watching Stiles’ unintentionally self-destructive habits without overloading on discomfited concern), and drawing these steampunk looking ink sketches of buildings and construction.

It had taken less coaxing than Stiles had thought it might to get Derek to admit that he wanted to be an architect, and that a lot of those books he was reading were either historical diaries, euro-romantic literature, or spanish or french poetry, with occasional visits from obscure fantasy and science fiction. He has a weathered set of books by Tolkien, and the whole of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, dozens of ragged, rugged, heavily used art journals, along with a complete collection of star trek and star trek: the next generation and old school doctor who cds on his bookshelf. He’s sassy in an almost inspiringly dry way, quick witted, funny, and, just, genuinely good.

Yeah, his social skills leave a lot to be desired, and he can still be annoying as all hell sometimes, but. An almost permanent glare doesn’t stop him from dropping everything and helping anyone who needs anything the moment they ask, doesn’t stop him from kindness and chivalry, for all that it’s masked by his gruff, almost wolfish demeanour.

And yesterday, for the first time, he saw Derek laugh. It was an odd kind of thing, because he’d woken up grumpier than Stiles had ever seen him, and it had felt like the first day all over again, like five thousand steps back, a doom-gloom quiet descended and everything Stiles did seemed to grate, everything anyonedid seemed to, and after all the discoveries he’d made about Derek’s character, it had felt like such a loss.

So he’d taken the lashing out in stride and done whatever he could to cheer Derek up.

The tension broke when, after corralling Derek into a daredevil marathon- because he had a feeling that Derek might… relate, a little- he began rambling about parkour and cinematography and “sinful red leather, oh my god.” He doesn’t even remember what he’d said, exactly, that made it happen, he’d just turned his brain-to-mouth filter off and let the words come, but the next thing he’d known, Derek was curved toward him and in, knuckles to his mouth like if he just pressed down on it enough it wouldn’t come. His eyes had gone so vivid, vast forests, willow trees tangoing, dipped back into the lakes their roots curled so close to, sunshine scattered across a dusk-smoke sky as a smile spread helplessly, as a sound a little like joy bubbled up and overflowed, and the thing that shocked him most was that he’d been rooming with this person for three months, and this was the first time he’d ever seen anything like it.

Mist still lingered in that small, frangible piece of joy.

Something devastating taints most things Derek does, Stiles thinks, and begins to hate all the more that he suddenly needs to leave this temporary haven, because he wants to know why.

He wants to see Derek smile more, wants him to laugh so much this whole room is saturated with it. Wants to be the reason for the sound, the expression, wants more.

Derek turns from his drawing when Stiles clears his throat, square black framed glasses perched on his nose, charcoal smudge on his cheek, and Stiles bites back a burst of something utterly fond.

“I’m gonna head out.”

Derek’s eyebrows twitch a little, his mouth tilting firmly down when he eyes Stiles’ stuff packed, a little less haphazardly than last time. Unhappy, Stiles can read easily, but the rest is inscrutable.

The man nods and Stiles huffs. The less comfortable Derek is, the less communicative he is, and Stiles gets it, but he’s unwilling to leave on this note, so he digs his phone out of his pocket, flicks it to contacts, adds a new one, names it Sourwolf, and hands the thing over. Derek peers down at it, glares at him.

“We’re friends now,” Stiles informs him, “insufferable nicknames are a necessary evil.”

Derek’s eyebrows raise, a little sarcastic quirk to his mouth.

“Yes, friends. Dude, give me your number of your own free will, or I’ll get it on my own using my awesome investigatory powers and I’ll spam you pictures of dirty dishes and piles of laundry and unorganized bookshelves. You know me, you know that I can, and I will.”

Derek scoffs a half disbelieving sound and rolls his shoulders meaningfully.

“You wouldn’t block me,” Stiles smirks, “we’re besties, big guy.”

Derek glares at the slight mess Stiles has left on his desk, gives Stiles a blank look with black at its’ edges, raises an eyebrow.

“Face it. I’m a slob and you love me anyway.”

Stiles moves to tidy up a bit, anyway, and when he returns to Derek, the man’s holding out his phone, Sourwolf’s contact page completely filled in.

“Text if you. Need… food,” Derek orders, voice saturated in a grudging growl, and Stiles knows he’s grinning like a fucking loon- he doesn’t even care- as he leans in, smacks a quick kiss to Derek’s cheek.

“Definitely,” he agrees, delightedly, before spinning toward his stuff, heaving it up, and swanning off.

(He doesn’t turn back or stay long enough to see the deep, candied-cherry flush that fills Derek’s cheeks, coats the tips of his ears. Doesn’t hear him exhale, sharp and heavy.

Doesn’t hear him breathe out a soft, strained, “Fuck.”)

–❄❆❅❆❄–

Stiles sighs when he sees the sock on the door, for a whole, huge, sack of incredulous reasons.

The first being that it’s three a-fucking-m, and Jackson knew he’d be getting back around now. The second has to be how absolutely cliche it is, nevermind the actual state of the sock—maybe Derek’s rubbing off on him, because all he can think of is that fucking germ song Derek texted him a few days ago, and how he’s going to have to disinfect that doorknob if he ever wants to feel safe using it again because eughh.

So he’s stuck, slumped outside in the hall, with absolutely nothing to do.

He barely even hesitates to snake his phone out of is jacket pocket and start texting Derek. Yeah, it’s ass'o'clock in the morning, but Derek turns his phone off when he goes to sleep, because he’s lame, so Stiles is pretty assured in just complaining to a non-existent audience, figuring Der might get a kick out of it later.

He tries not to look too deeply into the fact that Derek’s the first one he wants to complain to, the person he’s been talking to the most lately, refuses to analyze how overjoyed he’s been to discover that, as long as you give him the time to, Derek’s communication issues don’t hinder him as much over text.

Derek’s sometimes so dry it takes Stiles a whole fifteen minutes to realize he wasn’t actually being serious, on tuesdays he only responds in iambic pentameter, and he uses shakespearean insults on occasion because he’s nothing less than a sarcastic little shit; he’s still monosyllabic, every once in awhile, and his punctuation is as terrible as it is in real life, but it’s like the distance, the phone between them, makes Derek feel more confident, makes it easier for him to be… himself.

The week before last, they got into a conversation about past relationships, that led to a discussion about fire and the confession that Derek had only ever had three relationships, one that ended because he’d made a childish mistake his high school lover couldn’t forgive, another that ended in flames, a trial, and a prison sentence for a woman Stiles would… probably kill without a second thought, if he’s being honest, and a third that was too self-destructive for both of them to have ever been healthy or sustainable.

Soon after, Stiles had opened up to him about his mom’s disease and his dad’s drinking and his bills—he hadn’t really had the time to date much, his romantic entanglements tend to be of the more one-night-stand, friends-with-benefits variety, and even when he’s wanted more, no one else has seemed to.

Every day since Stiles moved out, even after he’s annoyed the hell out of Derek to the point of radio silence, the man comes to him with a tupperware full of healthy, incredible food, and a cup of tea, his scowl fermenting on his face, the storm of it worsening when Stiles inevitably giggles (how can he not?) as he takes the gift. There are days, too, when they’ve ribbed each other, chatted extensively about conlangs and architecture and psychoanalyzed star trek characters in between memes and jokes and Stiles’ ever fickle focus, and Derek will come bearing his small feasts with this soft, tender, breathtaking expression, a smile curling in his eyes that never touches his lips, and hot cocoa or coffee with whipped cream and cinnamon and marshmallows and extra chocolate instead of tea.

(“I’m going to get fat if you keep bringing me this-” a bite, then, choking back a moan- “glorious, sacred—oh my holy god.”

A hand, large and warm, calloused and covered in ink-stains, in charcoal and lead, had smoothed tenderly through his hair, gentle enough to make him almost thoughtlessly lean into it, to make him want to shiver.

“It’s better,” he’d said, then left before Stiles could ask what he meant.)

He doesn’t know what to do about how much part of him, lonely and withering, the same part that would view Lydia taking Jackson away as some form of punishment, because then he’d be alone, craves every little interaction, and then some.

Mostly, he ignores it, as he starts to type out how much of an asshole Jackson can be, and couldn’t he have gotten his nookie a little earlier? which all devolves into an anecdote about that time he painstakingly filled Jax’s locker with water for being an asshole and all his stuff got soaked but he kept the freaking fish.

He’s surprised when he gets a text back calling Jackson a goodly rotten apple, and then asking if Stiles realizes what time it is.

〖did i wake you? don’t you turn your phone off when you pass out so it can charge or some shit?〗

〖There could be an emergency.〗Derek texts back, succinctly, 〖And I don’t want you to starve.〗

〖… you keep your phone on at night, now, because i could have an emergency craving?〗

Stiles bites his lip, hard, warmth bursting in his chest, champagne-fizz rushing through his veins. His heartbeat’s skipping along to an odd tune of half embarrassed hope, and he’d known he was probably crushing on this man, but, god, he’s so fucking gone for him it’s ridiculous. For one, completely insane moment, a giddy part of him wants to send a bunch of kissy, heart-eyes, I might be falling head over heels for you emojis.

But, no. No way. Too awkward, silly, and he’s still not… sure. About how he feels.

Derek texts,〖Yes,〗 and it takes longer than it should to remember how to breathe.

〖you’re being sarcastic right now, aren’t you? you’re such a fucking tease, i was totally craving one of your crazy sandwich concoctions〗

〖Stiles.〗

A minute or so passes.

〖You woke me up.〗

〖yes. i gathered. the hazards of being my friend, oh, such a horrible atrocity, how much sleep have you lost, woeful der-ber? how much? shall i just call in the queen to chop off my head right this very minute?〗

〖Stop being an asshole or I’m going back to sleep.〗

〖you wouldn’t leave me in the lurch like that, would you?〗 He stops being an ass, anyway, though, just in case, only feels a fraction of guilt as he steers the conversation toward Lydia’s fast-approaching christmas party, one which they’re both attending, because Lydia’s a force of nature, and she somehow met, cajoled, and garnered a befuddled promise out of Derek at some point after the whole dorm-waterfall incident. Derek’s still mildly lucky, at least he didn’t get roped into decorating duty.

For all Stiles knows, if Lydia had known Derek’s architectural ability, she would’ve demanded he construct her an entire building for the affair.

Time ticks by, and Stiles is enjoying himself enough that he doesn’t notice until his phone starts complaining at him how low his charge is. The only problem? his charger is in the room.

He has no fucking clue how long Jackson’s going to be keeping their room… occupied, and he’s far too invested in this silly little conversation he’s having, anyway. (How could he not be? He can practically see Derek smiling through the phone.) So, vaguely hopeful, he tries knocking on a few other doors, begging after anyone who might be willing to lend him their charger. The only one who isn’t so pissed off about him waking them up or interrupting their study time as to simply slam the door in his face, doesn’t have a compatible charger, and…

You know what? fuck it. He needs to talk to Derek, this idiot who cares enough about Stiles to wake up at three in the morning and endure Stiles’ spazztic assholery, who, if Stiles actually asked him for food seriously right now, would probably make him something and come without a second’s hesitation, whatever black look he may’ve worn the entire time, who said 'emergency’ like part of him expected having a friend meant the maw of disaster was ten seconds away from chomping at the bit, the dork who… yeah, he must be totally fucking in love with.

He sincerely doubts he would have opened his door, army crawled through a room hosting a veritable pornographic lovemaking scene on the bed, snatched his charger out of the outlet, and rolled the fuck out of there for anyone else. Not even candy crush and boredom are that important.

But Derek is.

A silly conversation about crows being one of the most mischievous animals on the planet and seagulls being generally shitty is.

Fuck.

What the hell is he going to do now?

–❄❆❅❆❄–

Christmas eve brings the ice queen Lydia and her spectacular winter gala that… pretty much the whole college has been invited to and is attending.

But Stiles doesn’t let himself get distracted by the two guys covered in glitter, dancing and making out on a table to the cheers of a bunch of drunken peers, or the various decorations put up, scattered around, that he had a hand in, or the numerous people trying to get is attention or get in his way. He’s on a fuckingmission.

He’s on a hyper-focused and overthinking for two weeks about how to approach the Big Emotional Elephant In The Room, before giving it up as a lost cause and going for the first stupid thing he could think of, mission.

Which is why, when his eyes catch Derek’s across the room, he rushes for him, which is just as well, since the man seems greatly relieved to have an excuse to run away from the group of people cornering him, trying to elicit conversation.Derek still makes a noise of surprise, though, when Stiles’ saving him comes in the form of grabbing Derek’s arm and impatiently dragging him away, calling a brusque, “I need him more!” over his shoulder at the gawking partiers.

“I—Stiles?” Derek murmurs, mildly wary, the warmth of his breath ghosting over Stiles’ ear.

Valiantly, he doesn’t let himself shiver, instead, he jerks to a halt, hand still wrapped tightly, terrified and hopeful at once, around Derek’s wrist. His breath is short, heart beating too fast, and he’s scared.

What if this doesn’t work? What if it’s… not meant to be? What if he loses Derek to these useless, silly feelings?

“Stiles?” Derek urges, softer, more worried, and he pulls his wrist away, replaces it with his hand, wide and warm and so, so gentle.

Stiles swallows, forces himself to take a breath, to turn enough to look Derek in the eye as he squeezes his hand, indescribably grateful for the contact. Vast seas reflecting vaster galaxies stare back at him, solicitous, fond, questioning, and there’s this little confused smile twitching at his lips.

A smile Stiles thinks was knitted and weaved together just for him by a man who doesn’t like to smile at all, has too many reasons not to, besides.

God, it’s probably the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“I think I’m in love with you,” Stiles breathes, and those impossible eyes widen, too-lovely lips part. “And, goddamnit, I really want you to come to this doorway with me where there’s mistletoe so I have an excuse to kiss you?” The words trip over his tongue, come out all in a rush, flutter and skip like his heart, a terrified, hopeful sort of babble, his eyes scrunched up because he has no idea what Derek’s reaction will be, and he doesn’t dare look.

The fingers laced with his curl in further, a staying kind of thing, as Derek responds, a little husky, wanting, soaked in every type of sugar imaginable, “Or you could just kiss me here?”

Stiles’ eyes snap open, and Derek’s grinning, all impish rogue, glittering amusement. “No,” Stiles blurts, logic pretty much knocked clear out of him, “no, I have this all planned out; the mistletoe’s important.”

Derek leans in, eyes hooded, heated, brazen, his free hand sliding up Stiles’ cheek, tender but no less shocking for it, their lips nearly ghosting when Derek whispers, all alluring, seductive-smoke, “How important?”

Stiles feels a bubble of hysteria climb up his throat as he tugs a sprig of mistletoe out of his pocket to hold above their heads. “Important enough that I have contingencies,” he tells him, and Derek blinks a little, laughs almost suddenly, warmer than any fireplace, sweeter than any confection, and the best gift Stiles could’ve ever fucking asked for.

This may, in fact, be one of the best christmases he’s ever had.

It only gets better when they bridge the gap, a caress that turns filthy on the edge of a gasp as Derek pulls Stiles flush to him, both of them greedy for the taste of each other, biting and humming and mewling softly. Stiles’ arms end up around Derek’s neck and Derek’s clingingly around his back, their kiss ending breathlessly, both of them melting further into their embrace, drinking each other in, nuzzling, and just. Holding on.

“In case you hadn’t noticed,” Derek presses the words into Stiles’ pulse-point, barely heard over the chaos of festivities and overly loud, remixed christmas music, “I love you, too.”

Stiles chokes on a laugh, and holds all the tighter.

“I think I lost that mistletoe.”

“Mmm. Merry christmas, baby.”

Stiles can’t suppress the shiver this time.

“Merry christmas, Der.”

[leftnipsdoodles]

full offense but d2 painting Asher as incompetent isnt right and it’s pretty obvious it’s mostly done to make Ikora look better and to show the two as opposites (cool concept, still inconsistent). this is pretty clear when you look at the few times Asher is paired with someone else for mission control (Sloane, Failsafe) and is suddenly right in his assumptions and succeeds with his objective. it’s like they just can’t allow more than one warlock in the room to be right lmao

anyway, let me set the record straight, Asher:

- in the main story; correctly guessed that just blowing up the Almighty wouldn’t be the smart thing to do and helped us scan and assess it -> prevented us from accidentally blowing up the sun. he was also the one to alert us to Taken activity on Io, which subsequently kept it from imploding. just saying.

- in Getting Your Hands Dirty; was able to make us control the Taken to the degree that they could be used as a weapon against the Cabal, while never letting things get out of hand

- in Postmodern Prometheus; literally WAS able to create a sort of synthetic light, even if it wasn’t to the extent that he’d hoped. I never understood why the game flat out denies this, as if he didn’t just create a ton of light orbs for us to pick up and charge our Super with.

- in Red Legion, Black Oil; he’s right about the organogel inside Cabal armor/vehicles and helps us sabotage it, which basically makes the entire supply into a guaranteed time-bomb when used. if adventures weren’t self-containted side stories, this would be a sound tactic to gain a leg up on the Cabal by making them kill themselves without ever having a chance to figure out why. btw, in this, he’s also confirmed in his distaste for Titans, as Sloane would have you blow up the supply instead, which would be a much smaller victory without any kind of future merit.

- in Road Rage; rented us a sweet Cabal Interceptor. their intermittent boost, which provides a one-second burst of speed every several seconds, and their Solar cannons that fire large explosive shells, causing splash-damage, combined with their enhanced durability compared to Sparrows or Pikes, makes them a fun and deadly vehicle to ride. furthermore, the variant seen in this particular adventure, distinguishable by its black hull, has a significantly increased rate of fire and an infinite speed boost. with its ability to fire both cannons at once, it certainly is a sight to behold! anyway, thanks to him, the Vex didn’t get their hands on sensitive data on the Warmind project, as well as our beloved copies of Pulp Fiction.

- in Cliffhanger; he managed to upload a virus into the Vex Collective

- didn’t help us in Arecibo, but i’m listing it just to say that to be fair, it wasn’t due to incompetence, just apathy.

- in the Pyramidion strike, he IS constantly wrong about things. however, to help me make my point i will point out that his experience with the Pyramidion was a lot more akin to a raid and towards the end of our strike, it’s made clear that the Vex NOT throwing everything at us was indeed like, super weird. Ikora says it was a trap but.. what kind of trap is that? just letting us waltz into the vex boss’ office and beating the shit out of him? Asher had every right to refuse to accept us getting Brakion handed on a silver platter lol

- in the Dunemarchers’ lore tab; he was able to translate Cabal language from scratch

- exposed us to radiation on multiple occasions. this isn’t actually a good thing, i just feel like we shouldn’t let it slide.

the only time that rly made me go ‘Asher wtf’ was when he wanted us to destroy the data in Road Rage and our Ghost had to suggest to recover it instead, especially since in Red Legion, Black Oil he lectures us abt not always just destroying things mindlessly. i guess that one’s Asher being 100% a hypocrite, since a lot of patrol lines and the like show him being prone to violence and wanton destruction himself. him wanting Brakion dead instead of researching it or at least its body is also p stupid but it ties into the above and it’s made obvious that his need for revenge is an unhealthy and irrational thing so. that’s that on that i guess.

i’ll use this opportunity to also say that like half the time asher uses big words it’s to hide what he’s rly saying bc he’s uncomfortable saying it, so e.g. when he means to say ‘i’m sorry, i was wrong’ he’ll tell you ‘looks like my hypothesis was disproven’ bc he clearly has trouble expressing anything other than anger and it’s also p much canon that he’s better at expressing himself in more impersonal ways, like writing. so everytime someone says Asher using big words is bungie trying to make him sound smart and failing im like yo, give them a break. stop trying to find sth negative abt everything in this game when a bunch of it is genuine characterization.

which is a weird way to end this rant since my whole point is their weird, biased writing. huh. oh well

[katzirra]

~waggles brows~ Gotta talk about that XigMar

001 | send me a ship and I will tell you:

when I started shipping it if I did: Mm, honestly I can’t pin when. It was mentioned a few years ago actually, and I was very squint because some things?? But idly a while ago I started to think of ships in KH, and actually realized it had more basis than others, and yet there’s no content for it? Which is surprising, but what���re you gonna do? But shrug, shrug.

my thoughts: For how I ship in terms of interaction and connection, it has a decent basis given Xig recruited him? Also the fact Xig is up in EVERYONE’S business, he’d probably get a kick out of Mar in general given his personality versus Xig’s. I’d have to re-familiarize myself more with Mar, which I keep meaning to do but just never get around to, because I have no reason blah blah. For fanon thoughts and stuff on it; it’s fun to think of, because they both have their own selfish goals in the organization and would be an interesting series of plot roads to go down? It’s an idle fun ship I think about, because it makes sense in it’s own weird way, and I really enjoy their personality overlaps and vast differences because I know I pin Mar a bit different than you do. I kinda like the idea of someone who makes Xig sort of check his shit when talking, which is what fun I have with a lot of organization members is always thinking who makes him jitter a little. I feel like Mar would purposely try to unsettle him or say shit that is very accusatory in it’s on way that Xig KNOWS, but he’d still be like “s-shut up, dude.”

What makes me happy about them: I think they’d have a fun sort of dialogue aspect to them. They have a DRY ad wry way of talking, that I could see them both chuckling at. I think they’d have a similar teasing or chiding sense to them. I like the idea of them specifically sparring given their canon stats and abilities - especially with Mar’s gosh. I think he’d keep Xig on his toes in a LOT of ways, especially given his lacksidasial nature? Xig is very passive and teasing, but Mar is very upfront and alludes to things all the same. So it’s just an interesting chemistry that mm, not a lot of the organization does for me honestly. Even the popular ships for both of them just kinda, don’t hit this little spot this ship covers I guess?

What makes me sad about them: There’s lots I suppose. Regardless, Xig is a big gossip about shit like what happens at the castle in the scene with Zex, and that kinda plays into that whole hearts versus acting like no hearts aspect you can play off? The idea of them jsut using one another to achieve goals of their selfish own, there’s ways to pull it in a healthy light as far as organization ships go, and it’s easier to pull it into unhealthy light. Even still doing one or both being manipulative as fuck - any aspect of the ship is kinda fun more than others because that ability to pull it either way depending what you think they bring out, or what aspect of the character you feel predominates in scenarios??

things done in fanfic that annoys me: THERE IS NONE, SO. But in general the mm way 90% of writers do either of them is just irritating. Mar being the way he is is just... flamboyant or manipulatively sexually assaultive is just mm can you stop? That’s gross. I hate it. Why did this start? And like, while I love the aspect of Xig being kinda put off by his shit - it is to a POINT where it’s been so long that I think it’s passive now? And people REALLY play DEEP HARD INTO IT? And I think it’s just like a bruise feeling more than a fucking open wound? Also just man, writing either dialogue is something in a lot of fic??

things I look for in fanfic: I dunno. Good dialogue is my main love in fic usually. You know this though.

Who I’d be comfortable them ending up with, if not each other: Eh, I mean... I will to my deathbed love Xig and Dem because that super chill and comf ship aesthetic. Mar I default to Vex, but like even all my time in the fandom it’s a ship that falls in a category for me?? It has to be done a certain way?? Like I can’t think too hard about the ship, because then I just get mad about Vex as a character?? Like I could go on about that but -wiggle hand-

My happily ever after for them: Man I don’t know really... That’s so strange to think of them helping the other achieve their goals. Like... I don’t know. Mar wanted to take over didn’t he? And Xig just wanted a fucking keyblade, so it’d be goddamn just Xig shifting allegiance to Mar - which is in character... you’re gonna follow the guy with the bigger stick... and Xig would have his abilities on his side in turn with Mar’s abilities... but even still... MX fuck stick slapped Sora, so I can’t see those two beating MX... -rubs chin- I mean... honestly just aiding eachother in getting further in their goal is kinda nice. Teamwork in shape of wanting to achieve more. In canon now.... getting their old lives back, I can’t see them being GOOD people but maybe helping move past the whole nort and organization shit? They’d both have some pretty heavy demons to face and discussing their experiences as I’m sure they remember them... would be nifty. -taps chin- Hm.

who is the big spoon/little spoon: Man, fuck if I know. Xig is shit ass short, but him as big spoon cracks me up. I feel like he’s got more of the damage though so he’d be more the shit ass nightmares type? Usually my fall back for him. Only vulnerable in his sleep if even that~

what is their favorite non-sexual activity: Sparing? Does that count? -waggles brows- Uhm... Mm. I dunno. They’re both talking types I feel. I feel like they’d just strike up conversation about random shit easily. Being around eachother?? HUM HUM. FART NOISES.