#and its also funny that no one even asked for it

[averycutesalamander]

Brighter than the Sun, Bigger than the Moon

wc: 8k. hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, warning for vague mentions of sex. also up on ao3 if that's your preference

One of the greatest mysteries in the universe is that of soulmates.

They’ve existed for as long as history itself – perhaps even longer. No one knows if it’s the influence of an Aeon, or if it’s something stranger; the most recent theory is that Aha is behind it all, but it’s a joke to even think about getting a straight answer from THEM. Not every soul bond is the same, and they don’t even have to be romantic or sexual; plenty of them start and remain as entirely platonic, but either way, you have a partner for life. The details differ person-by-person as well; some have matching marks, some have a red string, some can't see color until they meet. 

Shared dreams are on the uncommon end of the spectrum - even more so when they live on different planets. Such is the case for you and the boy who will later be known as Boothill. 

When he first sees you in his dream, he thinks little of it; you’re another unknown face among a sea of strangers. He’s busy climbing a seemingly endless mountain, chasing a spectacularly evasive lizard that’s as large as a cow; Nick has just started talking about teaching him how to ride horses, and damn it all, he just can’t wait. Just when he manages to climb on its back, the earth shakes underneath him, and he starts to slide off – then, out of nowhere, you appear on the beast’s back, grabbing his hand and pulling him back on.

When he really sees you for the first time, he thinks your smile is brighter than the sun. 

Even as a kid, he's deeply charmed by you. When he mentions the friend he made in his dream one night during dinner, Nick and Graey are so overjoyed that they light up the whole room with their grins. You're his soulmate – but, really, all he cares about is that you're very funny and nice and are a lot of fun to play with. Every night, you talk and play games and run around in elaborate environments that the two of you create together. The dream can be static, if you want it to be – so the two of you make a giant oak tree in the middle of a field to mark your names on, and mutually decide to meet there every night. Eventually, you start to mark your heights on it; the notches get higher and higher every year, and you joke that you'll need to start climbing branches if he gets much taller. 

As a teen, he tries to teach you horseback riding, but it turns out that trying to do things that only one of you understands is a lot harder in the dream, especially when that task involves an animal that neither of you can quite control; eventually, you promise him that one day, you'll visit his home, and he can teach you in person. 

That's the thing, though. Neither of you have a damn clue where his planet is. You searched for it when he told you the name, the syllables clear and crisp on his tongue – but you can't find any matches, which leaves you with little to go on. And he certainly won't be able to find you, but…

Both of you try not to worry about it. You'll find some way to meet, eventually. You're soulmates, after all. 

You're with him as he grows into an adult, from a sweet boy to an equally sweet man, though he now reserves most of the sugar for you. You're with him the night after he makes his first kill, after the first bloody drops of justice stain his hands. You're with him the night after he claims his first bounty; when you ask how much he got for it, the two of you spend an embarrassing length of time trying to figure out the value of each other's currencies. You're with him the night after he takes his first bullet wound; though he's put on a strong face for Nick and Graey, he lets himself whine dramatically into your neck, bemoaning how fussy Graey has been and how he'll have to obey his order for bed rest, lest he invoke his wrath.

And every step of the way, he's with you, too - comforting you on bad days and celebrating with you on good ones, hugging you through friend breakups and laughing with you over inane drama. When one of your close friends dies, he holds you while you sob, gently rocking you; when you recover, he quietly asks if there's anything you want to do in the dream to remember them by – a memorial. With your voice raw and your lips trembling, you tell him about a tradition on your planet – one where you plant something in memory of the lost; you are obligated to care for it, naturally, and as the plant grows, you will heal with it as well. You decide to plant a cypress, not too far from the oak; he helps you pat down the dirt around it, the dust on your skin washing away with your tears. 

There are good times, too. On one of your birthdays, he tries to figure out how to conjure some malt juice for you to try – but the whiskey is awfully hard to get right, and the flavor never quite matches reality. You try to let him taste some bizarre fruity drink from your home, only to have the exact same problem. “Why is it sour?” you grouch, a cute little pout on your lips. “It should be sweet, and just a little tart!” He watches you speak with fond, dreamy eyes, soaking in your warmth like the sun. No, he thinks, the sun doesn't even compare. 

You're still fledgling adults when you first tell him you love him. 

You say it so simply, so easily, like it's the most obvious thing in the world; your head rests on your hands as you lounge in the pleasantly fuzzy grass, your eyes soft and tender in a way he never knows how to handle. “I love you,” you tell him, right in the middle of a fifteen-minute ramble about his latest bounty. 

He stops dead, every function in his brain going on pause. After a beat too long, he stutters, “I– Really?”

Your smile widens. “Yeah. Bigger than the moon.”

He throws up his brows dramatically, just in the way that always makes you laugh. “Really?” he drawls, faking skepticism. “The moon’s pretty fuckin’ big, sunshine.”

Your snicker makes his whole body light up with warmth. “Yeah, that's the point.”

As the two of you mature, you get closer - a lot closer, as soulmates often do. The night he chooses to kiss you isn't because of some other special event; perhaps the stars in your dream make you look just a bit more exceptional; perhaps you smile at him in a way that makes him a little too hungry; perhaps he just wants to do it for no reason in particular. Either way, he kisses you, clumsy and wanton and embarrassingly lovestruck, and you reciprocate with just as much passion, making sweet little noises into his mouth as he nibbles at your tongue with blunt teeth. 

It becomes routine, then. When he first leaves the waking world and enters your shared dream, he kisses you sweetly in greeting before asking about your day. When it's time to wake, he gives you another as a parting gift - deep and passionate and longing, some nights more than others. And with every night that passes, your touches get a little bolder, a little needier, a little hungrier; he licks into your mouth with enough fervor to steal your breath away, and you moan so prettily under him that he feels like his heart is going to burst from his chest. 

The topic of sex comes up eventually, if a bit hesitantly. Somehow, he's more shy about talking about it than you, but after some back-and-forth, both of you agree that you'd like to save it for the real thing. When he sinks into you for the first time, he wants to really feel you, wants to hold you in his arms, wants to nibble at your skin without an inch of distance between the two of you – because as wonderful as it is to kiss you in the dream, he just knows that it won't compare to the real thing. 

Eventually, he finds that little girl in the snow; as he tells you about her, about her cheeks rounded with baby fat, about her sweet brown eyes, about the way she tugs on his hair every chance she gets, you smile brilliantly enough to put the sun to shame. You ask what her name is, and he just shrugs. “Never been good at naming things,” he says; he named his first horse Blackjack because he won it in a game of blackjack - simple as that. You laugh – that sweet laugh that always makes his heart skip – and think about it for a time, staring at the impossible stars as you ponder. You rattle off a few names that you think would be cute, mostly just as an idle exercise - but when he hears "Clementine," his eyes light up. 

"That's the one," he tells you, staring at you with a love warm enough to melt ice. "That's her name. It's a cute one, ain't it, sunshine?”

He loves you. He's known for years, for his whole life, from the moment you reached down and offered him your hand; he loves you more than the sunlight, more than the shimmering stars in the sky, more than a fresh breeze on a hot summer day. He's always loved you, and not a damn thing will change that. 

He'll have to marry you, once the two of you finally meet in person; he thinks he wouldn't be able to look at your hands without imagining a pretty ring on your finger.

And then the men in black arrive. 

He's immediately wary, he tells you – but when he describes them in more detail, about the strange device they gave him that granted impossible knowledge, your expression darkens like the sky before a storm. He wishes he felt anything other than dread when you confirm his suspicions. 

“That's the IPC,” you mumble, your eyes distant and quietly resentful – he's never seen such a severe look on your face. “You should be careful, honey. They're always bad news, no matter where they go.”

Neither of you could anticipate just how right you were.

Once the fighting begins, your worry increases with every day that passes. “I know it's awful, sweetheart, but… You should try to find somewhere for your folks to escape to.” Your eyes are dull with terror – fear for him, for his family, for his home, for his life. “And you should go with them. No one wins against the IPC.”

He scoffs, prickling subtly. “You're tellin' me to just run? That I should just let ‘em do whatever the fuck they please?”

There's a gravity to your sorrow – like you're grieving a tragedy that hasn't happened yet. “Maybe you'll hate me for saying this, but… yeah, I think you should run.” You turn away from him, wiping your freshly budding tears away. He doesn't move to comfort you. “It's better to lose and survive than to lose and die. At least there would be something left.”

“We ain't gonna lose,” he spits, glowering at your back. He doesn't feel ready to wake up, but he doesn't want to be here anymore. “You'll see.”

It's the first fight you've ever had. 

Neither of you know that it will be the last. 

They lose. 

They're crushed beneath the cruel boot of absolute power, of weaponry that they can barely comprehend. One by one, his siblings, his friends – all of them die, their lives stolen in squabbles that they never win. 

For weeks, he doesn't meet you by the oak tree. For weeks, he takes refuge in the dark forest you once played in, the pine needles beginning to crumble from the withering trees. He thinks, and plans, and plots – but he does so alone, still fuming over his hurt pride. 

But his pride does nothing for him when the world is aflame, when his home has crumbled into charred wood, when his family has been reduced to ash, when his entire life has gone up in smoke. 

When he finally returns to the oak tree, you're already waiting there, your shoulders hunched and the air deathly still. The leaves on the oak are beginning to yellow at the edges; the grass in the field around you has begun to shrivel; the sky has been muddled with clouds so dark that they look like ink. 

For a long, long moment, he stands and stares, suddenly feeling as if he's been hollowed out. Then, as if you hear his heart crying out for you, you look up at him and his tear-smeared face and his red-rimmed eyes–

And you know. 

He falls to pieces in your arms. You don't breathe a word of anger to him – only quiet, futile comforts and gentle apologies. He cries so hard that he feels like he’s been gutted, like he’s been dissected, like he’s been bled out and left to dry. His anguish and regret and anger bleed from his eyes, staining your dream with grief. 

He's an idiot. He was such a fucking idiot, thinking it was a good idea to abandon you after that spat. It seems so goddamn stupid now that he's looking at your tired, worried face, now that he sees the evidence of your pain all around him, in the fields and in the sky. 

In that moment, he makes two promises to himself: 

One: he'll never leave you alone like that again, no matter what. Even if he's angry, even if he's annoyed, even if he has to go out of his way, even if fate itself tries to keep you apart – he will never leave you. 

Two: he's going to slaughter that man. 

“I'm gonna fuckin’ butcher him,” he rasps, his voice ragged from sobbing. “The one that gave the order. I'm gonna find that son of a bitch, and I'm gonna make him wish he weren't ever born.”

“Okay,” you respond quietly, like a wisp of smoke. “You'll… It'll be really difficult. If he's an executive…”

“I've got a plan.” His voice sounds more somber than he'd like, but the anger sank beneath the surface the moment he laid eyes on you again, the moment he saw the leaves withering on the oak tree. 

He tells you about the half-baked plan he's got brewing. He's going to commandeer a ship and find someone that can make him invincible. While he bears the weakness and complications of flesh and blood, while he's weighed down by his mortality, he'll never be able to slaughter his way to the top. 

So he'll cast aside his mortality, his morality, the sanctity of his body. 

He has to admit that he's grateful that you don't protest. You don't try to stop him, don't waste your time failing to convince him; you only listen, your eyes sad and dark. And in the following days, you earn his gratitude a thousand times over; when you search for his planet now, you get a match – and with your guidance in this new, terrifying world, he finds a mechanic that will help him begin his hunt in earnest. 

(You don't tell him about the official records that the IPC put down for his planet – how his people “died in a mysterious disaster.” His cup is already overflowing with rage; you worry that if it fills any further, he'll collapse.)

The night before he meets with the mechanic is a somber one. 

“Please be safe,” you whisper, as fragile as a breath of wind. “Please. Promise you'll come back to me.”

“I promise,” he tells you, firm and earnest. He reaches up, cupping your face in both hands, thick and rough with callouses. “I'll come back, sweetheart. I promise.” Almost hesitantly, tentative to bridge the gap, he presses a tender kiss to your lips. “I love you so much, sunshine.”

The smile you give him is tired and weary – dimmer than the stars. 

“I love you too,” you answer, your throat tight, “bigger than the moon.”

You'll be brighter than the sun again, one day – he'll be sure of it. Even if he has to strangle the light from the sky with his bare hands, he'll be sure of it. 

He's not quite prepared for the long, aching hours he spends in limbo, while his humanity is surgically removed and replaced with cold, unmoving steel. 

The darkness has seeped into every seam of his body, creeping into the cracks of his spirit like an invasive weed, the roots disturbing the fractured pieces of his heart.

He wonders, for a time, if any of this is worth it at all; if his family would even want him to strive for vengeance like this; if Nick and Graey would be happier if he settled down with you and forgot the bitter past, letting the wounds heal, letting the ash turn to dirt until it blooms with new growth. He can almost hear Graey’s voice in his ear. “Nothing can change the past, sweetpea. When something breaks and can’t be fixed, you have to let it go.”

He thinks of you – of your sad, tired eyes, of how desperately you held him when he last dreamed.

The heavy chains of grief bind him, sinking him deeper into the black.

But then he thinks of little Clementine, of her bright laughter, of her wobbling steps – and the doubt is incinerated in a fire hotter than the sun, the chains melting and reforming into an armor that cuts inside and out.

He claws his way out of the dark, his heart burning with rage, his chest aching with sadness.

“Congrats. You’re pretty hard to kill.”

He wants to laugh, bitter and acidic.

Yeah. Yeah, he sure is.

When he prepares to go into rest mode for the first time, a faint note of dread rings in his chest, sharp and inexplicable. Ever since he woke in this new body, he’s felt off – which is to be expected, of course, but…

This feeling – this disconnect, this vertigo, this tension – he can’t quite put his finger on it. And as he drifts into sleep, it nags at him, clinging like a tick.

Except–

It's like he only blinks. One moment, his systems are going into sleep mode, his heart pounding with anticipation; in the next, he's awake again. He checks the time, and it's four hours later. 

No.

No.

This can't be happening. This has to be a fluke. He has to be able to fix this.

He can't lose you. 

The next day, he slams open the door to the surgeon's dingy back office, his steel fists clenched and his eyes burning. When he demands answers, she merely shrugs with far too much nonchalance.

“Soulmates are pretty tricky. When I removed part of your brain to sync the rest to the neurochip, it probably screwed something up.” She watches him fume with an idle gaze, then shrugs again. “Sorry. It's not like you mentioned it or anything.” 

He grits his teeth so hard his jaw groans. “Fix it.”

She sighs, openly exhausted. “I can’t undo what’s already been done – just like I can’t restore your body. You’re out of luck.”

(He’s been out of luck for months.)

For a long, long moment, he considers riddling her full of bullets. But a sense of emptiness begins to sink into him, taking root in his chest, hollowing him out. He feels like he's going to be sick. 

He's lost his home, his family, his little Clementine, his life, his body, his dream– 

And now he's lost you, too. Because how could he ever find you in a cosmos as vast and infinite as this, when he's not even sure you ever told him the name of your planet?

Just like that, he has another person to grieve. 

And one of the worst things about it all? 

The IPC doesn't even have all of the blame. 

He spends the following years in a sort of daze, clinging to his hatred as an anchor – because it's all he has, now. He loses himself in violence – lets it seep into his core until it's fully saturated his soul. He fills the cracks with IPC blood until he's nearly unrecognizable, until he feels nothing but the visceral excitement that comes with bloodshed. He suffocates the grief under a thousand corpses, and piles on a thousand more for good measure. 

Whenever he dreams, now, it's always nightmares – something he's never had to deal with before, blessed as he was with your shared dream. The first is full of flames and ash. He scrambles desperately through miles of burning rubble, his fingers bleeding and broken; thousands of screams echo in his ears, but loudest of all is yours, ragged and broken as you beg him to find you, to come back to you, to join him in the fire – doesn't he want to rest? Doesn't he want to be with you? Doesn't he love you? 

“You promised,” you cry, so pained that he feels his heart shatter like glass. “You promised to come back to me.”

He wakes with a heaving breath, feeling very distinctly like he's about to hurl his guts out, his eyes burning with tears that will never spill again. 

The nightmares only get worse with time. He sleeps less and less, pushing his systems to the limit, getting upgrades that let him stay awake for longer and longer. 

And then, one night, after years of silence, he dreams that he's beneath the oak tree. 

The leaves have fallen off, the branches clawing at the black, starless sky. The plains around him are empty and dead, the grass blackened like a fire had raged through. In the far distance, he can see the forest the two of you once ran through; the trunks are bare and charred, and the ground below is coated with lifeless ash. 

Your dream is dead. 

But there, by the oak tree, just beneath the faded carvings of your names and the notches marking your heights…

A collection of plants, most of which take him some time to identify: the muted red leaves of a sapling spindle tree, tattered and worn; the tall stalks of an asphodel, its flowers dry and browning; bunches of primrose, whose blooms are paler than bone; stout meadow saffrons, whose petals are dusted with frost.

For a long moment, he wonders why they’re there–

And then he remembers what you did when your friend died, all those years ago – and his heart shatters into a thousand pieces, never to be repaired.

He finds himself there a few more times over the years, and it feels like a punishment every time. Most nights, the dream is more of a blur than anything, smeared and warping like he can't focus his eyes. He can't interact with it anymore; it feels more like he's a passing viewer, on the outside looking in through a window blurring with the pouring rain. Always just out of reach. 

Always missing you – if it’s even real at all.

On a few occasions, he swears he can hear you talking, your voice indecipherable, but clearly anguished. He mostly convinces himself that these are just delusions – mere wishful thinking. 

Once, all he hears is the heartwrenching sound of you sobbing. Maybe not wishful thinking, then. 

Every single time, he wonders what he did to earn a fate like this – to earn this kind of torment, this kind of pain, this kind of loss. 

No god ever answers.

And then, one day while he's chasing a bounty into a busy marketplace–

He sees you. 

He stops dead in the middle of shoving his way through the crowd, deaf to the protests of the people around him. From this angle, from between the moving bodies, the most he can see is a sliver of your face – but he could never forget the swell of your cheeks, the arch of your nose, the shape of your ears, the texture of your hair. It's only a little, but it's enough.

He abandons his bounty without a single thought in his head – now, he's weaving through the crowd with a different target in mind. He's getting closer, only a few bodies separating him from you. His eyes never leave you, his vision tunneling– 

When you turn to walk away, you turn toward him – and it's like your gaze is magnetized toward him, like you could sense something was amiss. And when your eyes lock onto his, the entire world grinds to a halt. 

You've aged somewhat; the laugh lines on your cheeks are just a little more prominent, but the crease in your brow is new, and your eyes are duller than he remembers. There’s a weariness to you – a sort of permanent exhaustion that he’s never seen on your face.

He doesn't even register that you're rushing toward him, too absorbed in savoring the sight of you after so many years apart. It's only when you're just a few feet away that he murmurs your name, so soft that he's certain the noise of the market has swallowed it, but your eyes widen like you heard him anyway. 

He doesn't realize that he's reaching for you until you grasp his hand in yours, cold metal against warm skin; his hands are no longer the shape they used to be – the shape that molded perfectly against your palm. Without a moment of hesitation, you begin to tug him through the crowd, guiding him into a tiny alleyway between two crowded buildings.

The moment you turn to look at him again, you drop your shopping bag to the ground without a second thought. With trembling hands, you reach up and cup his cheeks – cheeks that are too smooth, too cold; cheeks that lack the smatter of freckles he always had, lost and forgotten when his skin was replaced; cheeks that are missing the scars he gathered over the years, like the one he earned falling off a horse for the first time. 

You whisper that name – the name of a dead man, of the man he once was, of the man he can never be again – and he's never heard you sound so broken, so desperate; his heart aches like it's been crushed. 

“I'm… I'm not him anymore, sunshine,” he rasps, his throat so dry that it feels like his tongue is clogged with ash. “I can't be him anymore.”

“It's still you,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “Even if you're different, it's still you.”

His eyes burn so horribly that he wonders if he's actually going to cry, if the weight of his anguish will break the rules of his new body. 

Suddenly, you surge forward, wrapping your arms so tightly around him that, if he were still human, you would’ve crushed the air straight out of his lungs. “I thought… I thought you were dead,” you sob, clutching him even tighter, like you're trying to dent his body. “I thought you died during your surgery, or didn't recover, or– or–”

He presses his lips against your temple, his steel arms wrapping tenderly around your shoulders. When he breathes in, your smell hits him all at once; he never could smell you in the dream – only a strange void of scent, like something was removed from his brain before he could process it.  

Somehow, you smell familiar. Somehow, you smell like home.

“I’m here, sweetheart,” he murmurs, one hand slowly petting the back of your head. “I’m right here.”

He lets you cry into his hold just as you did for him, so many years ago, his chest aching like something inside him shattered to pieces; when your knees begin to fold out from under you, he carefully picks you up with one arm beneath your thighs, bearing your weight with inhuman ease. You take the opportunity to cling your legs around him, gripping him like your life depends on it – like his life depends on it.

He doesn't have a clue how long he holds you like that, rubbing circles into your back as you cry and cry and cry. You calm slowly, your breath hitching and your nose sniffling while you recover. Finally, you ask him to take you home; he carries you in one arm and your groceries in the other, following your guidance down the streets as you cling to him like he's going to disappear from under your grip. When he reaches your apartment, your hands are shaking too hard to unlock the door, so he gently pries the keys from your shivering fingers and carries you inside. You direct him to your bedroom, your groceries abandoned in the entryway. 

He settles you into the sheets like you're made of glass, but neither of you want a single millimeter of distance; he cradles you in his arms and curls around you, murmuring quiet reassurances when you begin to shake and cry again. 

Finally, when your breathing is calm and even once more, he tentatively asks, “Did… Did you plant flowers in the dream? Under the oak tree?”

You blink up at him with red-rimmed eyes, a little astonished. “How did you… know that?”

“I ended up there, a few times,” he says quietly, thumbing away the remnants of tears from your cheeks. “Thought I was making the whole thing up.”

You stare at him like you can't believe he's real. “...It was for you,” you confess, so quietly that he probably wouldn’t have heard it if he were still human.

His chest aches with a grief that isn't his. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to comfort you; he fears that part of him died like everything else. “I love you,” he rasps, stupid and earnest. 

A little smile graces your lips – a little quirk in the corner of your mouth; he feels his heart sing in response. “...Bigger than the moon.”

Your exhaustion catches up to you, sooner or later, and he lets himself rest shortly after you fall into an uneasy sleep, a tiny sliver of hope in his broken heart. 

He wakes up under the oak tree.

The dream is clearer than it has been since his rebirth – so sharp and vivid that he can taste the ash from the forest on his tongue. For a fraction of a second, he wonders if he'll be flesh and bone again, if his hands will mold perfectly to yours – but he looks down and finds them to be just as hard and cold as usual. 

You don't seem to mind. In fact, you barely seem to think about his new body at all. You still hold his hand the same, still kiss his cheek the same, still hug him the same. He can't bend for you, not anymore – but you bend around him without a breath of complaint. 

The two of you talk, eventually, about everything and nothing. You update him on the direction your life has taken, the things that have changed. He doesn’t miss the ways you talk around the worst parts, about the years you spent depressed, about the veil of darkness that overtook your life; you don’t miss how he does the exact same thing. Neither of you press about it. 

He stays with you for days, into the indeterminate future. He keeps every thought of his hunt out of sight, out of mind; he's been burning the candle on both ends for years, and now that he's in your arms, the exhaustion has sank its teeth into him. 

So he stays. He takes care of you, spoils you rotten, desperate to make up for all of the lost time. You’re absolutely inseparable. Everything goes on pause to integrate him into every second of your life; perhaps that’s not the healthiest course of action, but neither of you are willing to acknowledge it, let alone change it. You talk during the day and while you sleep, and when you aren’t talking, you’re savoring each other’s company in silence.

He relearns you, and you relearn him. He notes all of the ways you’ve changed, all the new scars, the ways your face has shifted with age, the ways your speech has changed. You note all of the subtleties of his new body, his new eyes, his sharpened teeth, the way his feet have themselves been turned into boots. He shows you the cannon built into his left arm, all of the dozens of little utilities and tools built into him, all of the scuffs and bumps and scrapes that he hasn’t repaired yet.

It takes time to settle into something resembling familiarity. There’s a caution between both of you, at first; it’s hard to pin down, but it’s like both of you are terrified that the other is going to disappear, like you can’t let your guard down in case it’s all ripped away.

But he stays, and so do you.

When you first ask him if he wants to make a memorial in the dream for the ones he lost, he thinks his brain functions completely halt. 

He never did get the chance to make graves for them – any of them. 

After a long, long silence, he swallows, his throat thick with grief, and manages to nod. 

After the grave markers are down, it takes him a great deal of time to decide what would be best – what they would like the most. You help him form a rocky hill in the plains, within viewing distance of the old oak, but far enough to be inconspicuous. You grow a small grove of trees to coat the whole area in dappled shade, granting him privacy to work on his own as you busy yourself; growing things in the dream has become a momentous task in the time you’ve been apart, and it’ll take some time to get everything right.

He tries not to think too hard about what to put down. His heart will know best, after all – not his head. 

A well-crafted wooden swing, just like the one Nick and Graey had on their porch; a small garden plot, dense with lettuce and artichoke and tomatoes; an eagle’s nest, at the peak of the tallest tree you made; a herd of roaming horses, their spotted coats gleaming in the sunlight; a thin creek with tiny waterfalls and even tinier fish; a thousand other tiny details, one for each of his siblings and friends.

When he makes the clementine tree, he stares at it for several long, aching minutes. He's silent and still for so long that you come to check on him, a furrow in your brow. (He doesn't like that he's becoming familiar with such an expression on your face. Contentment fits you so much better.)

He speaks before you can ask. “I'm alright,” he lies, his voice thick with grief. “I just…”

You approach him slowly, a bit like the way he would with a spooked horse. When you gently reach up to cup his cheeks, it’s only when you smear wetness across his face that he realizes that…

He’s… crying. 

He barks out a laugh, bitter and disbelieving.

Of course. Of course he can.

When he manages to compose himself, he turns back to the memorials with blurry eyes. 

There's only one thing missing, now. 

He could just make it out of thin air, he knows – but that feels… cheap, too simple, too… cold. 

It takes hours of effort, as it did the first time, but you sit by him all the while, trying to coax flowers to bloom from the dry, barren earth. The scrape of his knife and the tap of his chisel and the rasp of sandpaper fill the too-silent air. When he finishes his work, his hands ache with phantom pain and his fingers have a few new scrapes – but it's all worth it. 

He wills the limbs of the clementine tree to bend into a cradle, sheltered by soft leaves and plump fruit. With a trembling grip, he settles the tiny guitar into the gentle hold of the branches, watching them curl protectively around it, ensuring that it will never fall.  

It looks comfortable there, somehow. He can almost picture her in his arms, trying to scramble up the tree with her pudgy little fists, reaching for the strings with clumsy fingers.  

She never got to taste the fruit she was named after. 

When he bursts into tears again, you stand by his side in an instant, holding him silently in your arms. When he sinks to his knees, brought down by the weight of his anguish, you cradle him against your chest, slowly stroking his hair. 

For years, he thought he’d run through this seemingly endless wellspring of grief, that he’d truly hollowed himself out, that he’d manage to excise everything that wasn’t fuel for the raging fire.

For a long while, he stares at the scene he's created – at the swing rocking in the wind, at the eagles flying overhead, at the horses prancing in the field, at the babbling creek, at the tiny blooms on the clementine tree.

He decides there's something else he'd like to add. 

Slowly, tentatively, he shifts to look at you. You must see some hesitation in his gaze, because without missing a beat, you cup his cheeks and ask, “Is there anything I can do for you, sweetheart? Ask and it's yours.”

He swallows, working his jaw. “...Y'know that tradition ya taught me about, when we were young? About the plants?"

Your eyes widen into saucers. “You want to…”

“I want you to… help me,” he chokes, fresh tears welling in his eyes. “To… To help me figure out what to plant for who, and to help me keep everything alive.”

You stare at him with a quiet sort of awe, an immense but tender kind of love that feels like the warm swaddle of a blanket. Then, finally, you nod. “Of course,” you croak. “Of course I’ll help you.”

He tells you about all of them – all of the friends he made and lost, all of the siblings he grew up with. One by one, you work through them all, telling him the meanings of the plants you choose for each person. 

He tells you about Simon – a smug little bastard he grew up with, who kept his arrogance until the day he died. He'd challenge him to bizarre, impromptu contests at every opportunity, racing him back to the house for dinner and proposing that he'd never be able to catch as many fireflies as him. “Loyal to a fault and dumb as a bag a’ rocks,” Boothill huffs, staring at the jar of softly glowing fireflies he'd set beneath a tree. “Sorry bastard couldn't lasso to save his life.”

You laugh quietly. “Mm… Something to represent loyalty, for sure. Maybe… perseverance? Ambition?”

He hums in agreement. Ambition. Simon really was ambitious, wasn’t he?

Before long, his grave is blooming with tall spikes of red and violet gladiolus, intermingled with white hollyhock, framed by the fuzzy petals of edelweiss.  

He tells you about Jess – the snarkiest woman he ever met, and clever to boot. They met early into his bounty hunting days; she approached him in a bar and flirted with him so relentlessly that he almost didn't notice her trying to filch his wallet. Turns out that she'd mistaken him for a target she was hunting, and had a habit of robbing her bounties blind before turning them in and doubling her money – and sometimes she'd even make a bet with them before a game of pool, just to add insult to injury. “Sharp as a nail and wily as a fox, that one,” he laughs, eyeing the pool cue he'd set up against the rocks by the creek. 

You nod in contemplation. “Intellect, ingenuity…”

His lip quirks a little, fond and wistful. “Anything to represent a wicked lil’ liar like her?”

You laugh. “I’m sure I can think of something.”

For her grave, you grow brilliant scarlet hyacinths, pencilled cranesbill geranium, and dark red snapdragons.

On and on and on you work, going through every gravestone, the air rich with memories. He laughs when he tells you about Micah – the funniest man he’s ever known, and too damn whimsical for his own good; the first time he took a bullet was after he'd literally shot himself in the foot while mucking around with his gun. He tells you about a man he only ever knew as Bark – a mute gunslinger with wicked aim, who loved to chew on pine bark. He tells you about Beau, a sweet girl that loved her horse more than anything else in the world – but when it came to shooting, there was no one as bloodthirsty as her. 

For Nick and Graey, you plant asters – a symbol of love, you say, and of happiness in old age. For Nick, black-eyed susans, coltsfoot, and elderflower; for Graey, magnolias and purple irises. 

For Clementine… baby's breath and cinquefoil.

It takes three nights of work to finish everything. By the end of it all, you’ve both made a brilliant garden, rich with splendor and greenery in a dream that’s only just recovering, still brown and dead and barren. But the memorials stay healthy, with his maintenance and your own.

He doesn’t have the words to express his gratitude.

…But as he hugs you tightly to his chest in the dream, fresh tears spilling from his eyes and wetting your skin, he thinks you understand. 

He’ll need to leave again, eventually. He knows this. You know this. It’s an unspoken dread – one that neither of you are willing to acknowledge yet. (What if he stops dreaming when he leaves? What if he never comes back? What if you disappear while he’s gone? What if, what if, what if?)

He spends weeks with you, and in that time, the two of you manage to defrost. The light returns to your eyes, and the constant tension in his jaw fades away; you stop clinging to him like a bear trap, letting your body rest; his endless paranoia about you being found by the IPC melts away into something gentler, something more reasonable; your wounds begin to heal, and the wicked sting of grief and loneliness fades to an ache.  

The night you first make love is hardly different from any other; perhaps the tender affection in your eyes makes you look just a bit more exceptional; perhaps you smile at him in a way that makes him a little too hungry; perhaps it’s for no reason in particular.

And it really is making love, not simple sex. It takes hours – not because of his limitless stamina, but because both of you refuse to do anything but savor each other. He maps your body in full for the first time, pressing tender kisses to every inch of your skin, making note of the marks he's never gotten the chance to see and keeping track of which spots make you squirm the hardest. You explore his new body with a touch so tender that it makes his heart ache, following every ridge and divot in his plating, tracing the seams, learning all of the markings and vents and ports with a reverence that leaves him dizzy. 

The pace is slow and sweet as honey; you worship each other for hours in a melting pot of pleasure and satisfaction, and when he finally enters you, it feels like a missing piece of his soul has clicked into place. He kisses you so gently that your eyes well up with tears, and he presses them away with his lips as he rocks slowly into you. You cling to each other desperately, longingly, passionately, your hands hot on his metal and his fingers strong on your hips. 

He makes you come with your name on his tongue. You beg for him so, so sweetly – but you never needed to beg. He would tear the stars from the sky if you asked; he would gift you the universe if you wanted it. When the exhaustion catches up to you both, you fall into the dream together, still unable to keep your hands off each other. He was right – the sensation really is different in the dream. 

It’s still wonderful, because it’s you.

He’s surprised that you’re the one to bring up his departure first. You seem… more relaxed about the idea than he expected, too. He himself has been agonizing over it for weeks, the thought nagging in the back of his mind in the limbo between the waking world and the dream. But you bring it up with a sort of resignation in your face, a quiet, sad kind of acceptance that makes him want to hold you and never, ever let go.

(You don’t beg him to stay. You know that he’d cave in an instant, but you also know that he’d be restless for the rest of his life. You know he loves you, but you also know that he’s etched the memories of hatred and grief so deeply into his soul that he could never be happy without resolution.)

You love him more than life itself.

…So you let him go, no matter how reluctant both of you are. 

He kisses you with every ounce of passion and love and care in his shell of a body, and he looks you in the eye, and he tells you, “I’ll come back.”

You nod, and though there are tears in your eyes, you are lacking that dim, bitter grief that you once held in a moment just like this, all those years ago. “I know.”

He leans toward you, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’ll come back. I promise,” he breathes, his voice tense with tears that he can only shed in dreams. “I swear it. I’ll come back. I’ll visit.”

You smile, a fragile little thing. “I know.” You press a kiss to his lips, your tears spilling over. “I know you will.” You cradle his face in your hands, and he feels like his chest caves in at what he sees on your face. 

Your eyes are gleaming with love, with trust, with affection. The sun has returned to your gaze.

“I love you,” you murmur, quiet and earnest.

His lips twitch, his eyes burning. “...Bigger than the moon.”

And so he leaves, the salt of your tears stinging bitterly on his tongue.

But he dreams.

It seems like the proximity changed something in him – reignited a piece of himself that died when he did – because when he next sleeps, thousands of light years away from you, he finds himself under that oak tree.

Words can’t express his relief when he sees you sitting beneath its barren canopy, staring at the plants you’d tended to for years in his name. Their growth is wild, untamable – but they’re alive.

You’re both alive, and that’s all that matters.

The dream gradually recovers as both of you do. The dark clouds begin to fade in the twilight of the rising sun; fresh sprigs of grass sprout in the fields; pine trees begin to poke out from the ash; the bitter wind begins to warm. But, perhaps most importantly of all–

There are tiny, fresh buds growing on the jagged branches of the oak tree. 

Winter has begun to reach its end, and spring is blossoming beneath the ash. 

He'll learn how to love again, how to dream again, even if it isn't the same; even if you've both changed. Because if there's one thing he's always known…

…it's that his love for you is brighter than the sun, and bigger than the moon.

[thatturtleleon]

TFP Panic Attack Help (x reader)

quick note: personally i experience both panic and anxiety attacks, theyre vry scary, but they always pass. i hope this offers some comfort to anyone reading!

Optimus:

i feel like he gets them too

imo he definitely has anxiety and with the stress of being the leader/a prime, its gotta be overwhelming

he notices your sudden change in demeanor

grows concerned seeing you become pale and shaky

and asks if you are alright and if he should get Ratchet

if you can't speak or refuse his offer to get the medic, he'll stay with you

he's concerned but has a good idea of whats going on

if you're experiencing derealization of some sort or have a hard time focusing, he's very patient

will definitely know at least a few grounding techniques

does them with you too

worried but overall very calm and will say with you until you're feeling better

Ratchet:

100% knows how to deal with panic attacks

that being said, you're human and he's not as confident with his medical skills with humans

he's not just gonna sit there and do nothing though

very concerned, scans you, makes sure you're sitting down in a safe spot

once he figures out whats going on he's focusing on calming you down and grounding you

reassures you're safe multiple times

once you've calmed down he'll ask questions on what triggered the attack, if you have a history of them, what he can do to help better, etc.

a bajillion questions but also makes sure not to cause you any more stress

makes sure you at least got some water afterwards

Arcee:

yupp she knows whats happening too

still a little panicked herself at first thinking you're sick or injured

once she realizes whats happening she helps you sit down

grounding exercises and reassures nothing is going to hurt you

if you're ok with it, she'll begin talking about stories, good memories, anything that might distract you from your current condition

i think she'd range from talking about funny moments with the team to giving a heartfelt story of her and Cliffjumper

once you've calmed, she tells you that you did a good job and she's always there for you

she'd wanna know if there was a specific trigger or if these tend to just happen

if its PTSD related, she understands and later researches some techniques and healthy ways to cope for humans

Bulkhead:

he lowkey thinks you're dying and freaks out, but keeps it as calm as possible on the outside

if Ratchet's there he goes to get him and still stays with you, but if not, he makes sure you sit down first

depends how severe it is, but if you're hyperventilating he's focusing on getting that taken care of first

stays with you the whole time and doesn't leave for a second

he'll hand you any comfort items, water, etc. literally ANYTHING that'll help you feel better (he may spill the water but its ok because he's trying)

talks about times with him and Wheeljack or Miko as a distraction

even after you're feeling better, he's staying with you and making sure you're ok, and if you're not, thats ok too, he's still there

Bumblebee:

he probably freaks out the most out of all of them, but he understands what's happening pretty fast

helps you sit down and stays

offers to drive you around (as long as you find it relaxing)

mainly sits there with you quietly offering his support, but if it's to the point where you genuinely need someone's help, he goes to get Ratchet or someone (he still stays with you tho)

if you need a distraction, he'll chat away about something or turn on the TV in the base

of course he lets you hug him if you want to, he'll never step away first, letting you be the one to let go first

[alexanderwales]

The push for "person-first language" came from the 1983 Denver principles published by the organization "People with AIDS".

We condemn attempts to label us as "victims," a term which implies defeat, and we are only occasionally "patients," a term which implies passivity, helplessness, and dependence upon the care of others. We are "People With AIDS."

This makes sense to me, and it's mostly because the formation "AIDS people" is, instinctively, ludicrous. But this is because "AIDS" isn't an adjective, and there's not a great adjective that we can use in its place, and because there's not a great general term for "people with AIDS" or other formation. Some of this is also just "if the condition is stigmatized, then any term that refers to it will grow stigma".

But then "person-first language" started to spread.

I think it's defensible to have people write "an alcoholic man" rather than "an alcoholic", and I do accept the argument that writing "an alcoholic" in some way essentializes the condition of alcoholism. I don't think that this is some massive improvement, and there are definitely some very untested Sapir-Whorf theories that we'd need to be true for this to be best practices (and the replication crisis should give even more pause than normal), but sure, "homeless people" rather than "the homeless", this is not egregious in my opinion, I can go along with it.

But what a lot of person-first language prescribes is different. It's "a person who is blind" rather than "a blind person". And this runs into the problem that in English, we put adjectives in front of nouns as a matter of course. We say "the cute black cat" rather than "the cat who is cute and black", just as a default.

So there are, naturally, a lot of arguments about this, and a lot of them are premised on shaky sociological studies and linguistic arguments about what goes on in someone's head when they say a thing.

When you say "blind person" are you putting the blindness before the person? When you say "person who is blind" are you making an awkward, ungainly sentence that sticks out and others? Which construction is more alienating? Which one is inclusive? Which more closely aligns with the fundamental reality of the adjectival trait?

And of course some people feel the urge to try to cut the Gordian knot and say "ah ha, let's ask people what they prefer", but I think in practice this doesn't really work, because different people prefer different things, and there isn't always a consensus, and also ... do we really want to have to memorize what every different group prefers, if there were consensus?

I had a section here where I listed out every major American organization and their preferences (if they had one), but it wasn't very funny or interesting, just sort of monotonous, but it would suffice to say that there's a lot of disagreement and/or mixed preferences, and if you're not talking to or about some specific person, it's a crapshoot. The National Federation for the Blind is pretty insistent on "blind people" or "the blind", with a number of articles having come out in strict opposition to person-first language. The Deaf community likewise seems to have a fair amount of opposition to person-first language, for most the same reasons.

So one-on-one, if you're talking with a friend or coworker, you let them lead the way, but if you're writing a letter to the editor, or a blog post, or talking to or with the general public, there are two standards to use and a complex morass of discussion about what's "preferred".

Personally, I loathe the language police, but as I hope I've made clear, I do like playing language detective.

[ghostsofchernobyl]

I have to be honest, this has been weighing on my mind since you asked how my url came about. Funny, given that I was hoping someone would ask. It's just a bit... complicated.

I'll give a short version and a long version, with the long version underneath the cut.

Short Version: It's the name of a fictional post-rock band that I came up with.

Long Version:

If you have paid any attention to my post history, you'll know that my primary special interest is Radiation, because naturally that's what I'd be drawn to. Funny, cause I was super scared of getting an x-ray when I was 5 and used to have a very intense fear of nuclear war. (The foreshadowing in this is not subtle).

I've known about the Chernobyl disaster since... forever, I guess? My memory of my childhood is very suppressed, and what I do have is foggy. But that's besides the point. Anyways, what caught my attention is the... solitude? of abandoned places. Like that eerie feeling of being somewhere that's been forgotten.

So, anyways, I used to have a really big fear about nuclear war. I don't remember the specifics, but I know when North Korea did their last test I was at summer camp, and we had also been told that they now had missiles that could hit the U.S. Pretty scary stuff for a kid my age.

My anxiety got so strong at a few points that I hallucinated the sounds of air raid sirens (which don't exist where I live). I also started to do stuff specific ways to *not* have such a war happen (huh, this definitely doesn't become an OCD diagnosis later on).

When I was 16, I started legally doing some Urbex after a mall an hour away went under. I also watched a documentary about the Manhattan project in class, as well as delving into the Chernobyl Disaster through the S.T.A.L.K.E.R. video games. I eventually watched the movie that they're based on, and it remains one of my favorites to this day.

Last year of high school sucked for me, but I ended up starting the special interest around radiation and nuclear war. My favorite element for a long time has been Astatine, because we can't compile enough of it to be visible without it tearing itself apart from the heat of its own radiation. Cool stuff.

Anyways, at that point my OCD kept me to only knowing about the disasters (Chernobyl, Fukushima (I actually know a survivor), Three Mile Island, Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Windscale, etc) and Fission Bombs (Gun-Type, Implosion, Boosted, Ivy King). It was also the last time I did Urbex because a lot of my spots by then had been torn down, or my pass to go to said places was revoked because they wanted to do construction or whatnot.

Because of this, I got even deeper into STALKER lore. My favorite faction is Monolith, which is basically a hive mind of people who worship the Monolith at the center of the Zone, right in the Sarcophogus. The HBO Chernobyl series coming out didn't help the special interest, although it is very blatantly wrong in many places.

Freshman year of college the dam broke and I started looking into fusion bombs, and damn did I miss a lot. But that's really where the special interest leaves the story. So on to another component: Post-Rock.

I discovered "We Lost the Sea" sometime in High School, but I don't remember exactly when. I had gotten into the genre through Krobak at the start of the COVID lockdowns. Anyways, WLTS has an album called Departure Songs, and it's given me a lot of catharsis. I've always been very musical, and learned how to play both guitar and bass in high school.

My dad had old tapes from when he was taking night classes, and one of them was labeled "Isotope Effect". It's something to do with how different isotopes react with body chemistry differently, something I'm actually going to learn about next year. Anyways, I always thought it was a cool band or song title.

Well, I came up with the fictional band "Ghosts of Chernobyl", and I would dedicate some riffs I came up with to them. Stupid, but the tism gotta tism, and that's how it be for me.

I can't say my faith has had nearly as large a role in my url as yours had, but it's definitely given it more meaning. I'm a Jewish Convert (a Proselyte in the jargon), and I converted for a lot of reasons that would triple the length of this tangent.

It turns out that Tschornobyl, Ukraine (the original name for Chernobyl) was actually originally a village of Jews who had survived everything from the Russian Pogroms to the Holodomor, but unfortunately didn't make it through the Holocaust.

I found that out after my obsession with chernobyl started, and long after I had come up with the band name, but it gave it more meaning. I turned it into my url because it represented a lot about me. It represented my love of post-rock, how it's gotten me through some horrible times in my life. It represents my special interest in radiation, which is how I learned to stop worrying and love the bomb (TM). It also represents my Jewishness, cause the original town was an Ashkenazi/Chasidic Hotspot.

But most of all, it represents my feelings of being forgotten. Chernobyl is a town with a lot of ghosts, and was practically built by them. It is those ghosts, who have unsung tales and live in the ruined apartment blocks, that I wish to embody the spirit of. The cathartic feeling of distant, forgotten memories, where the land has been salted over.

I also found out later that there's a movie called "Ghosts of Chernobyl", but it kinda sucks and has nothing to do with my url.

Nice url. How'd you get it?

It’s a bit of a long story. To condense it, it’s a reference to a Psalm that was popular with a famously weird Mormon seminary teacher of mine, and a character that I felt like was the most human and interesting depiction of Mormonism in pop-culture: Joshua Graham.

I started using the name when I was in online exmo support groups because of the religious significance it once had to me, and for its literal sense of mourning. At some point I stopped spending time in ExMo circles and just wandered off into the regular online world, but I kept the name. It feels right.

How about you?

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I know I just sent an ask regarding the Miss Raven relationship post, but I saw the scrapped Yuus one and I wanted to ask smth related (⁠��⁠‸⁠↼⁠‶⁠) sorry if two asks in a row are too much in this regard too!

first of all I LOVE YOUR STYLE 😭 it's so cute, I always get excited when you post art. and it's so interesting to get to see a part of your creative process in making characters, even if they didn't end up existing. ( THE ONEE-SAN YUU... Miss Raven was saved from falling for another charming smile... and so were the rest of us )

in regard to ocs, I wanted to ask... do you have any other twst ocs? I think I read some old posts about some RSA ocs, but I wanted to ask specifically if there's another "big" one in terms of story/being as fleshed out as Miss Raven 🧐 or if you ever plan to make another Big Oc™️ in terms of lore like u did for her

also... I wanted to ask... now that you finished her main story, is there any other long form (?) stories you want to explore with her? I know you're hosting the future!au event rn, and you've written more side stories (?) about her in similar events... but I mean as in- again, a longer sort of story. I'm just genuinely curious, since I really like your work + her specifically and I'm curious about whatever you have planned for her 👀 but ofc it's totally okay if you have other plans orrr if you'd prefer to let the heavy Raven lore rest for a bit!!

[Referencing this post and this blog event; the asker’s Miss Raven relationships ask is here.]

adskjblfabfqyovf OTL Thanks??? I get anxious about posting my art because its usually hand drawn, non-committal sketches 💦 I personally really like reading about other people's creative processes so I tend to scribble notes all over my drawings, and then they get all messy and cluttered... I'm glad you like them regardless though.

I like drawing Onee-san!Yuu’s art eyes and hair… She is very dainty and cute! Her personality is fun to toy with too, since how she acts and how she’s truly feeling are so starkly different. I’ve thought about her so many times, it’s almost like she’s psychically reaching out to me in an attempt to have me formally implement her 😂 Again though, not sure if I’ll ever settle on a Yuu because the concept of a Yuu does not really interest me.

Aaaah, my RSA OCs were back from like 2020-2021. I never did manage to flesh them out and I think I’ve lost the fire to. I have several NRC OCs that I haven’t shared because they aren’t that fleshed out either. Of those, I think my favorite is my twisted!Iago (who is in part also inspired by my own pet)… He’s just a punk ass (first year Scarabia) kid and Jamil’s self-proclaimed minion (Jamil has no idea who he is).

Ironically, I think the most detailed NRC OCs I have at the moment are the three based on mob students:

Even then, I don’t think they’re super deep… Pome A can be summarized as "ex-delinquent who now has the goal of becoming 'a gentleman'" (similar to Deuce, who wants to be an honors student). Scarab B is basically a Jamil fan boy (though he's less angry/pushy about it than Sebek is; he has more eager puppy energy). The most detailed one of the bunch is Octa A, who is very anxious (Idia-sh) due to being sorted into Octavinelle, where his dorm members are constant sources of stress. Outside of that, he's a very... homely "boy next door" type. I picture him coming from a tightly knit island town and helping out his family at a community center where they help people find jobs that best suit them. (If you couldn't tell, a lot of Octa A's backstory is inspired by the Lilo and Stitch animated series.) The mob student OCs were conceived because I thought it would be funny to sometimes write from the perspective of unrelated onlookers watching all of the crazy stuff that happens on NRC campus and just going, "What, AGAIN????" They feel more like unserious gag characters, if anything.

I have actually considered writing a sequel to the Tale of the Cursed Raven for the longest time! If you've read the original tale, Vil, Azul, and Idia play prominent roles throughout it. The second saga would theoretically give the other dorm leaders (Malleus, Leona, Kalim, and Riddle) importance. Note that 3 out of 4 of the dorm leaders in the latter group are nobles or have noble relatives. That's because the (potential) sequel would involve themes of social status and who gets to shape the future. A-And hey, maybe it could focus on Raven's relationship with L*ona instead of J word this time-- The synopsis is as follows: Having finally broken her curse, Raven Crowley is now free to live as she wishes in a happily ever after of her own making... or is she? One day, a strange invitation arrives from an unknown sender, beckoning her to Briar Valley. Amid whispers of Malleus Draconia's ascension to the throne and a grand ball to decide the dragon's bride-to-be, the timing is certainly strange. "This is far too suspicious," she thinks. "I simply won't go." Then a sparkling carriage pulls up to the gates of Night Raven College, claiming to be looking for a princess in black feathers. Accompanying that carriage are two men cloaked in white and a woman that shines like starlight.

"Who are you?" Raven asks, feeling as though they've met before in some distant past. "Why, I'm your Fairy Godmother. I'm here to make all of your dreams come true."

Perhaps this meeting was always meant to be.

(I WANT TO BE CLEAR: despite how the synopsis sounds, it is NOT meant to be Raven x Malleus. I would appreciate it if readers refrained from discussing this topic, please and thank you.)

As you can probably tell by that 💦 the story sounds very ambitious... and unfortunately, I don't feel comfortable writing it because we're still missing so much from the canon main story. I'd like the OB Malleus and Grim arcs to complete so I understand the full scope of the story and how the loose ends are tied up (particularly Malleus's reaction post-OB and how, if at all, he embraces change). More lore on dragon fae would be helpful as well. I'd also ideally like a Briar Valley hometown event so I can see what the culture, traditions, people, politics, etc. are like before I attempt to depict it in my writing.

In this sequel, there would be many OCs introduced--at least 4 of them! I've been cooking a lot behind the scenes ^^ One of these OCs you've actually met in the original tale; it would be the Enchantress (Estella) that originally cursed the Storyteller. 2 of the other OCs are what I would describe as Estella's helpers, who are meant to be her equivalent to Silver and Sebek. One is inspired by the concept of the “messenger dove + dove with the olive branch” and the other is inspired by Swan Lake. The 4th and final OC is basically all but confirmed would be a foil character to Malleus, an ambitious nobleman twisted from Nerissa (the villain from Enchanted).

Here’s some doodles I have of the 4 OCs I mentioned! The first two are “the dove” and “the swan”, respectively. The bottom two are concepts for twisted!Nerissa and Estella.

This sequel would expand more on Estella's motives and background (something I mentioned in my afterthoughts), as well as tie in history and political intrigue as Raven’s forced to navigate those circles. It would most likely be set a year or so in the future, and the events that take place would inform Raven’s internship decision in her fourth year. (She would be a scribe in Briar Valley!) I’d like part II to feel like a story event that supplements or follows up on the development in part I/the main story.

xbjsbsjsjsb Anyway 🤡 That’s all I feel okay with revealing for now. I want to be clear and reiterate that this is all just a theoretical sequel and I’m not sure if I’ll actually get around to writing it. It’s definitely been fun to conceptualize though ^^

I’ll leave you with this concept art:

[thetempleofthemasaigoddess]

Zoro's fourth sword

Roronoa Zoro x reader. NSFW!!

Based on this. Oral sex, sub Zoro.

*****

You have been seeing each other -if that is the right word- for little more than a month; neither expected it to happen, it simply did, like it’s often the case with good things. After a night spent drinking saké on the bridge, you ended up making out in the small room behind the kitchen, fierce kisses multiplying as your and Zoro’s hands explored each other’s body. Nothing more happened, but it was intense enough to make your head spin; that time was, and all the ones that followed, almost every day since and sometimes twice before dinner time, whenever the two of you could find a moment away from your crewmates.

You never talked about it; you never felt the need to, at first at least. Until now…

“Here, this is yours.” you announce as you step into the boys’ cabin, a pile of washed and neatly folded clothes in your arms; Zoro, who is sitting on his bed with one of his swords and a rag in his hands, blinks as he lifts his gaze on you, his brow furrowed.

“Is that my stuff?” “Yes, I found it in the basket; I was doing my laundry, I thought I’d wash these as well.”

Zoro grins as he stands, carefully lowering the sword next to the other two on his bed to take his formerly sweat-soaked clothes from your arms. “Thanks, (name), you didn’t have to.”

“I know I didn’t; I just felt like doing you a kindness.” you explain with a shrug; you are not the most romantic of women and talking about feelings usually makes you uncomfortable in the best of cases, but at the same time you see no reason to hide how fond you are and always have been of your friends, including the green-haired swordsman who in the last month has stuck his tongue in your throat more times than you could count, and even had to wear a scarf for a few days -it’s just a cold, no I don’t need help, thanks Chopper- to hide the hickey you had sucked on his neck.

“Well, thank you anyway.”

“No problem. Am I bothering you?”

Zoro shakes his head as he returns to his bed, and his swords, which he is busy cleaning. You sit on the bed in front of his -Sanji’s- and spend the next couple of minutes like this, your knees supporting your elbows, your fingers intertwined under your chin, observing the young man in front of you.

He’s handsome, undoubtedly so, strong and fit and more good-looking than he probably realises, but that is not all; he’s also strong-willed, clever, stubborn, generous, and kind, all characteristics you have always appreciated in a person. You didn’t expect to feel attracted to him, you wouldn’t have imagined it in a million years, but at the same time, now that it has happened you don’t feel surprised at all, much less regretful…

“You are staring at me.” Zoro comments after a while, without looking up; he’s been rubbing the sword’s blade for five minutes.

“Shouldn’t I? You’re very handsome.”

“Damn, (name)...”

“What’s wrong? Zoro, are you blushing?” you ask, amused, and he mumbles something under his breath, once again avoiding your gaze. You can’t help but finding it funny, that a man who has fought the strongest foes without fear and even risked his life to save that of his captain, could feel self-conscious simply because a woman -one he has made out with at least three dozens times, but still- has complimented him, but the last thing you want is to make him uncomfortable, so you decide to change the subject.

“That’s the sword you got in Wano, right?” you ask, observing the katana with its slightly curved blade and golden and lilac-colored hilt; you have never had any interest in swords, but you have to admit it is beautiful.

“Enma, yes.”

“And then there’s the Kisetsu…

“Kitetsu. Sandai Kitetsu.”

“Sorry. And the Wado Ichimonji, which belonged to your friend Kuina.” you conclude, observing the other two blades resting on the bed next to Zoro, already polished to perfection “Are you the only man in the world who uses three swords?”

“That I know of, yes.” Zoro admits with a grin, clearly pleased.

“When I first met you I couldn’t believe you could actually fight with all three together. Then there’s your fourth sword, but that obviously doesn’t count.”

Zoro’s hand finally stops. “... what?”

“Your fourth sword.” you repeat, surprise evident on your face, and you see confusion colour Zoro’s expression as he struggles to understand.

“What are you talking about? I don’t have a fourth sword.”

“Of course you do!”

“No I don’t. (name), is this a joke? I had a couple other swords, the Yubashiri I got in Eines Lobby and the Shusui, but…”

“No, not those.” you patiently explain “Look…”

You stand, covering the brief distance between the two beds in a single step; you gesture to Zoro to stand as well, which he does after placing Enma on the bed once again, and once you are face to face you slowly raise your hand to brush your fingertips against his lips.

Your touch is delicate, feather-like, but Zoro must see something in your gaze, something he appreciates and fears at the same time, because you hear him hold his breath.

“You know…” you continue slowly, and after the chaste caress to his mouth your hand descends to do the same to his chest, a delicate massage to his pecs that makes Zoro’s heartbeat quicken under your palm. Your fingertips not-exactly-accidentally brush against his hard nipples, and he jumps. “Fuck, (name)...”

“I’m talking about…”

Your hand stops at his belt, your gaze searching his for reassurance; this is a line you are yet to cross together, and while you can feel Zoro has already gotten aroused you don’t want to do anything he hasn’t enthusiastically consented to. Your eyes meet; Zoro is clearly struggling to swallow, but he gives you a nod, tiny but determined, wordlessly giving you permission without breaking the illusion you have spun around you both. 

You smile, relieved and proud, and let your hand slip even further down, until you reach his pelvis, your palm and fingers gently cupping his already hardened member.

“... this.” you conclude as you caress him, your touch delicate but relentless, and in a moment you can feel Zoro’s flesh responding to your touch “Your most beautiful sword, the most precious, and powerful, and hard - so hard. But this sword is only for me, you understand? No one else can touch it; only me.”

Silence.

“I asked you a question, Zoro. Is this sword for me, and only for me? Answer me or…”

You let go, just an inch, and Zoro hurries to nod. “Yes! Yes, only you.” he mumbles; the great swordsman, one day to become the most powerful in the world, the vanquisher of so many enemies, has disappeared, leaving in his stead a young man desperate for that touch -a woman’s touch- that, he has confessed to you on your third make-out session, he had never experienced before “Only for you, (name). I don’t want anyone else.”

“Good.”

You kiss him, light and gentle. “You wanna close the door?”

It’s the middle of the day, which makes it unlikely that any of the other boys will need to use the room, but one can never be too sure. Zoro almost trips over his own feet as he crosses the room and turns the key of the cabin’s door, effectively locking three of your crewmates, including the captain, out of their room; it is rude, undoubtedly, but at the moment neither of you cares.

There is anticipation, arousal and anxiety at the same time, as Zoro turns and presses his back against the door, waiting for you to join him, which you have done a moment later.

“Do you want to sit on the bed?” you ask, your mouth an inch away from his. There are few things that you enjoy more than kissing Zoro, tasting sakè on his lips as your tongues battle for dominance, but you won’t do it now: at least, not on his lips “You might be more comfortable.”

“Like this is fine.” he mumbles, clearly struggling to meet your gaze; redness has spread on the tan skin of his face, and while he’s not restrained in any way, he’s completely still, arms spread at his sides “Just so you know, I’ve never done this before.” “You told me; but this is not a test, you have nothing to prove.”

“I know, just… In case I don’t last long.”

You smile. “As I said, nothing to prove.” you murmur, and a moment later you have gracefully knelt in front of him, eyeing the now evident tent in his trousers. “Hmm, not that I risk remaining unsatisfied, from the looks of it…”

Zoro gulps as he observes you raising your hand to cup him once more; he’s now completely hard, big enough to barely fit in your palm, and you find yourself licking your lips in anticipation. “Is your fourth sword ready for me, baby?”

“Yes!”

“Good. Now, let’s see…”

You keep your eyes to him as you slowly, very slowly, unbutton his trousers and then lower them down his legs, baring his muscled legs, and a pair of black briefs whose fabric looks a moment away from tearing on the front. You take his cock in your hand once more, tearing a long, guttural moan out of Zoro’s lips as you carefully squeeze it. 

“Hmm, what do we have here? Is it a sword or just a tiny dagger?”

“Of course it’s a sword!” Zoro protests, outraged, and a moment later he is biting his lip, well aware he has fallen into your trap “Don’t tease me, (name).”

“I’m sorry, baby. Believe me, I am more than impressed…”

You keep looking at him as you slowly bring your face closer to his body, and then your first kiss is placed on the fabric covering his cock, just above the head; Zoro’s hips spasm, and he “Fuuuck…!” moans.

“You alright?” “Yes… yes… more than alright… Do it again, please…”

You obey, and you spend the next three minutes kissing Zoro’s sword through his briefs, your pecks delicate and gentle but sufficient to make his legs buckle; he has placed a hand on your head, his calloused fingers running through your hair, while you run yours up and down his legs, feeling the taut muscles under his tan skin. 

“Feels so good…” he murmurs “Ah… yes, (name), don’t stop…”

You don’t, but then you do, and you hear him whine when you pull back; you share a new look, satisfied on your part and literally pleading on his, as Zoro licks his lips, torn between the desire filling his belly, not to mention another part of his anatomy, and whatever amount of self-respect he can scrape up at the moment.

“I thought you said…” 

“I am not leaving you like this, baby.” you reassure him with a smile. You are aroused, very much so, but there’ll be time to take care of your needs; now you’ll see after his, and make sure he never forgets this moment “But I was wondering if you’d like me to take this off you; it might feel better.”

Zoro hurries to take his briefs off, but you stop him, telling him to just relax, and let you take care of him; you take the hem between the tips of your fingers, and then, slowly, agonizingly slowly, you carefully take the briefs off him, letting them fall to the ground.

Zoro’s naked cock is now in front of you in all its glory, large and heavy, soft green hair surrounding the base, its thickness enough to dry your mouth. You swallow, and “Wow…” you murmur, sincerely impressed.

“Is it… good?”

“Are you kidding? Zoro, it’s perfect! It’s really beautiful, just like you are.” you assure him “I’m going to make you feel good, alright? Just tell me if I make you uncomfortable.”

“I will. Just…” “Yes?”

Zoro bites his lip; he looks uncertain all of a sudden, but something in your smile, and your eyes, must reassure him, because he confesses: “Can… can you take your shirt off before you do it?”

“Of course.”

You remove your top, while Zoro does the same with his own shirt without having to be asked, and his gaze immediately falls on your chest; you smile as you cup your breasts in your hands, squeezing and making them bounce slightly. “Do you like them?”

“Fuck…” “That is not an answer, Zoro. Do you like my tits?”

“Yes.” he moans; he licks his lips, eyes burning with desire “They look so soft… so pretty…”

“Glad you approve; I can let you suck on them one day if you want.”

“Fuck, (name)...!”

You smile, and a moment later you are holding Zoro’s cock in your hand; you move it up and down the thick column, a drop of pre-cum already falling from the tip lubricating it, and no matter how much you tell yourself to slow down, because hurrying will ruin both your and Zoro’s pleasure, the mere prospect of having it inside your mouth -not to mention somewhere else, one day- is enough to make you salivate. 

Your first kiss touches the tip, while you’re still pumping it, and Zoro jumps. “You were right; it’s way too big to be a dagger.” you murmur “It’s a… what is the largest type of sword?”

“The…” Zoro struggles to speak, and to breathe, as he observes you, eyes wide open, as if he had wandered for a week in the desert and you were a spring of cool, pure water “The… the broadsword, I think… and there are some naginata that are ten feet long…”

“Impressive. But your sword, Zoro, yours is the prettiest of them all… so perfect and strong and long… so beautiful I could kiss it. May I?”

“... yes…”

“I can’t hear you.”

“Yes!” Zoro cries out, loud enough to be heard outside the cabin; he bites his lip, but he’s still smiling “Yes, of course, you can kiss it as much as you want. It’s yours, after all.”

“Good to know.”

You take your time, savouring the sensation of your lips running up and down the thick column of Zoro’s manhood, each of your delicate pecks tearing a moan out of his lips, but it’s only when he feels the silky touch of your tongue on a deliciously large vein that his hips - no, his whole body spasms, a powerful shiver of pleasure running through his flesh. “God…” “Yes, but you can call me (name)...”

Poor Zoro is almost too breathless to laugh, but he does, avidly staring as you keep kissing his cock with abandon, and something akin to pride shines through his gaze. “You like it?”

“Of course I like it. You have…” You have the best cock I’ve ever seen, this is what you meant to say, before deciding you better not; the young man in front of you was already embarrassed at this being his first time, the last thing you want is for him to have to wonder how many people you’ve already made this very experience with. 

They don’t matter; he does. He really does, and you want to give him pleasure, enough that he’ll never forget this, enough he’ll think he could die for it. 

“... you have a very beautiful cock; I’m very glad I get to taste it.” you finish, and Zoro smiles, before taking your head in his hands, gently caressing your hair, and you smile back at him before you begin licking the head, gently and inexorably titillating it until he’s whining above you, his grip on your head tensing, even though not to the point of hurting you, as if he were mustering all his self-control to remain still, rather than sticking his cock in your mouth.

“Please…”

“Please what, baby?” you ask sweetly as you take advantage of your latest kiss to gently suck 

“FUCK!”

“Keep your voice down, Zoro…”

the head; he moans, the gaze of his single eye expressing both arousal and frustration. 

“Do it, please. Please, I… I can’t take it anymore…”

“Do what?”

“Damn, woman… you know it!”

“I…” kiss “... really…” suck “... don’t.” you reply, and then you add your tongue once more, and Zoro is forced to steady himself with his hand on your shoulder, because his legs are about to give way “Why don’t you tell me exactly what you want?”

He glares, frustrated and as menacing as a man in his position can be, but a moment later his proverbial strength of character wanes, and his voice is pleading, almost begging, as he says: “Take it in your mouth, (name); take… take me in your mouth. Please, I’ll do everything you want, I swear, just… I need to feel you…”

You smile. “Then you will.” you reassure him “I promise” and then, finally, slowly, part your lips to take him in. It’s a sweet, delicious torture, Zoro’s sword entering your mouth inch by inch, and you’re able to swallow most, but not all, of it, and while right now talking is out of the question you’re able to make him understand you have reached your limit with gestures, and Zoro smiles, openly flattered. 

“God, you’re so w-aah, shit…!”

You’ve gotten to work, using your mouth, your tongue and even -very carefully- your teeth to worship Zoro, and his beautiful sword, like he deserves; he tastes good, unexpectedly sweet yet a little pungent, and you happily suck and lick him as the symphony of Zoro’s pleasure -groans, whines, murmurs of your name and pleas of don’t stop, baby, God you feel so good, so warm, I… oh, fuck, just like that…!- fills the air around you. You feel his fingers running through your hair, their touch gentle despite the tension enveloping his body, while your hands move from his hips, which you had placed them on to stabilise yourself, to his buttocks, avidly grabbing the taut mounds of flesh, and Zoro mewls - a sound you had never heard coming from the throat of a grown man, and that makes liquid fire pool in your belly. You will have to quickly retreat to the girls’ cabin soon, making sure Nami and Robin are otherwise occupied, to take care of yourself and imagine how it would feel to have your positions reversed, but now you need to focus on Zoro, and given the way he’s responding to your ministrations, you are confident you are doing an excellent job.

It is almost exhilarating. A powerful pirate, a fearless combatant who has never backed down from a fight and has risked his life more times than he can count, completely in your power, laid bare both literally and spiritually, made a slave of needs and impulses that, you have come to suspect, he had barely paid any attention to before the two of you started fooling around. You are not even really having sex, and most young men his age have experienced much more than just this, but it doesn’t matter; Zoro is literally beside himself, completely at the mercy of you, of your mouth, and of the arousal you have awoken inside him.

It’s scary, almost humbling, that a person can have so deep and overwhelming an effect on another, potentially without being affected themselves; it feels unfair, somehow, even though the last thing you want is to take advantage of Zoro, let alone to hurt him. In that case, you promise yourself, you’ll do your best to make him happy, and make sure he remembers this moment for the rest of his life, even when, if, you won’t be by his side anymore, and why, you suddenly worry, your gentle but relentless pace faltering for a moment, does that thought -the prospect of you and Zoro no longer being together, of him being touched by another woman- hurt so much…?

Zoro notices something is wrong almost immediately. “You alright?” he murmurs, looking down at you; he’s clearly making a superhuman effort to speak intelligibly, but there is sincere worry in his gaze, worry and tenderness, and you’re not entirely sure of how that makes you feel “If you -hnnn- if you want to stop, it’s fine…”

You shake your head -slightly- as you keep licking his cock as if this were the last day of your life. You give a particularly merciless suction that makes Zoro press a hand to his mouth to stifle a scream, and then pull back, freeing his sword from your sheath.

“What…! No, fuck…”

You start pumping him lightly, just to keep him on his toes. “It’s fine; I’m not done with you yet.” you assure him, and you really aren’t; you’ve never been a fan of oral sex in particular, at least when you are not on the receiving end, but what started as a little distraction to please Zoro has quickly become something more, and you’re enjoying it as much as you would if he were the one kneeling at your feet, and this is a thought you’ll have to reflect more attentively later, when you’ll have locked the door of the girls’ cabin behind you “I just wanted to ask where you want to come.”

“... where?”

“Yes. In my mouth or… somewhere else. You know, on my face, or on my tits. I don’t mind either way, the choice is yours.”

Zoro is painting like at the end of a long run; he struggles to swallow, as if deeply torn among the various options. “You… you really wouldn’t mind… swallowing?”

You start pumping him harder. “Not at all, I like it.”

“Then… in your m-mouth. Please…”

A smile blossoms on your lips. Despite his undeniable goodness and generous spirit, sweet is not a word you would normally associate with Zoro, but the last month has led you to reconsider; this is probably a side of him he has never expressed with anyone else, a side maybe even he wasn’t aware of, and you feel blessed, even honoured, that he decided to share it with you. “Of course. Now, I want you to resist as long as you can; you’re so strong, Zoro, so resilient, I know you can do it. Hold it in until you really can’t do it anymore, you’ll see how good it’s going to feel when you finally come.” 

“Do I… tell you when…?”

“If you want. Now, are you ready for me, baby?”

He nods, and sighs when you have taken him in your mouth once again. You suck him hard, hard enough your jaw muscles have started to hurt, your hands moving up and down from his hips to his ass to his thighs, and Zoro seems to have forgotten you are on a ship full of people who could, and shouldn’t, hear him, or maybe he has lost the ability to care.

“You feel so good.” he moans “So warm, I… oh, shit, (name), don’t stop, please, baby, use… use your tongue… yes, like that, fuck…!”

It takes him several minutes to reach the brink, when desperation mixed with the pleasure in his voice makes it clear Zoro’s self-control is at its limit; once again you meet his gaze, and you see doubt, even shyness in his. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna… baby, please, I can’t…”

You nod once, Zoro’s hips, his whole body really, have a new, violent spasm, and then

“(naaaa-meeeee)...!!”

he’s coming in your mouth, a long sigh of relief filling the air as you, still clinging to his body as if fearing he could slip away, drink him avidly, filling your senses with the acrid but sweet taste of his semen. 

*

“Are you alright?”

You’re sitting on the bed, your backs pressed against the wall, as you both catch your breath; the hand towel you have retrieved from Zoro’s side of the closet -he couldn’t move, his legs wouldn’t let him- and that he used to clean himself before pulling his trousers up is abandoned on the floor. You’re still aroused, almost painfully so, and you could easily slip a hand under your skirt to rub yourself to relief -Zoro would surely appreciate the show- but that would mean breaking the quiet, intimate peace surrounding you, and you wouldn’t do that for the world. 

The bright mid-morning light bathes the cabin, the gentle rocking of the ship lulling you; you’ve been awake for maybe four hours, but the peace and contentment you feel are so intense you could easily fall asleep like this, your cheek resting on the shoulder of the young man next to you, who without even realising is now holding your hand, for the first time. 

“Of course I am.” you murmur, lifting your head to meet his gaze “Never been better, actually; but I should be the one asking. Was it… like you imagined it? As good as you hoped?”

Zoro rubs the back of his head, still a bit embarrassed. “To be honest… I had no idea what this could feel like; but it was… God, (name), it was amazing. I think I died for a moment and you brought me back to life.”

“I gave you mouth-to-cock resuscitation.”

“Oh my God…!”

You laugh together, and then a strong, tan arm slips around your shoulders; you happily snuggle against his side, trying your best not to dwell on the fact that this precious moment has ended, and now you both have to go back to whatever life awaits you out of the door. You and Zoro have been fooling around with each other for a month and nothing says you can’t go on like that for many more -... right? He can’t have gotten bored of you already, after this?- but part of you wishes you could remain like this, just holding each other, for the rest of the day…

“It was good, wasn’t it?”

“Zoro, we already spoke of this, it was not a test, you didn’t have anything to…”

“No, I mean…” he starts and then he bites his lips, as if unsure of how to express what he feels… or afraid of your answer “Was it good for you? I mean, I know this sort of thing is mainly one person doing all the work and the other just enjoying it, but I was wondering if… if it felt nice…”

“Oh, Zoro…” 

You cup his face in your hands, tenderness filling your heart. Damn, how could you be so lucky? “It was more than good; it was amazing, because it was you and me, and you took care of me just like I did you.” you murmur softly “Believe me, I am… more than satisfied, and it felt amazing. How could it not, when I’m with you?”

You smile. “And in any case, you promised you would return the courtesy soon, didn’t you?”

“You’ll have to teach me what to do, but I promise I’ll do my best.”

He kisses you soundly; he can taste himself on your lips, and it doesn’t seem to bother him. 

You remain together for a while more, until you need to leave to attend to your duties on the ship; you kiss Zoro one last time before standing to retrieve your shirt from the floor.

“You were right.” you comment once you have reached the door, turning to smile at him. “It was a sword, not a dagger; and as formidable and of excellent quality as the other three.” 

Zoro grins, openly flattered; a moment later you have turned again, and opened the door, and “We’re reaching a new island tomorrow.” he mentions just as you’re about to step out.

“Yeah, I heard.”

“Do you want to… I mean…”

You’re looking at him again. “Yes?”

Zoro, now sitting on the edge of the bed, looks away, but not quickly enough to prevent you from seeing he has blushed. “We could go somewhere; just the two of us. Have a drink, or… there’s an amusement park, it could be fun…”

A moment of -stunned- silence follows. Then, slowly:

“Zoro… are you asking me on a date?”

“You don’t have to say yes; we can simply go on like we’ve done until now…”

“I’d like that. To go out with you, I mean. I would love to.”

“... really?”

“Of course.” you assure him; happiness has filled your heart, the smile so large on your mouth it hurts “I can’t wait.” “Alright then...”

Zoro grins; he’s even happier than he was ten minutes ago, and doesn’t even try hiding it. “I’ll see you later then.”

“You bet you will.” you answer, and smile before letting the door close behind you. 

[milkamel]

Hear me out,

Cross finds a “stray puppy” outside the castle, he asks nightmare to keep it and promises to take care of it himself, cross then makes said “puppy” its own room outside the castle since he’s worried about it attacking the cats.

He also asked killer to help name it, cross trains it to protect the castle.

The “puppy” grows older only for cross to realize its a wolf but he’s grown a bond with it so since nightmare still thinks its just a “dog” cross then proceeds to create a whole slide show telling nightmare that the “dog” was in fact a wolf and he still wants to keep it, adding onto with his puppy dog eyes and killer is just watching this all go down with dust and horror.

And the wolf should fr be a dire wolf, cross is to amazing for a normal wolf

OMGGG THIS IS AMAZINGGGG BAHAHAHGHF- 💞💞

I'm sure that Cross will be responsible with the "puppy" and will make sure it has proper care and training, I can't see him being neglectful after talking Nightmare into allowing him to have a pet. (I doubt that Cross even asks for something unless he truly wants it so Nightmare will cave in. That's the least he could do for his hardworking soldier and the dog would be useful in case someone tries to break into the castle.)

(And of course Killer will be the one who helps with the name- He has so many cats so he has experience with naming pets! Cross would probably be picky about the names though XD)

And the whole reveal about it being a freaking wolf- I think Cross would be quite suspicious of the size this puppy was becoming and once the realization would hit him he'd panic. This "dog" is his companion, someone who always cheers him up, someone he kind of sees himself in. He's a dog person and he's the dog himself. He'd hate to lose his beloved pet.

I imagine that Nightmare would be quite surprised by that revelation but ultimately wouldn't care. After all, they already allowed Killer to keep a bunch of cats so one wolf wouldn't hurt, Cross trained him well and his pet didn't cause any issues. Just let Cross have something he can have for himself. But the whole ordeal and the slide show presentation from Cross was quite funny so the gang would tease Cross about it after XD

And absolutelyyy Cross deserves to have a unique and beautiful wolf like he is <3 This is an amazing scenario I LOVE IT A LOT

[pumpkinsy0]

wait wait wait stay w me here but what about the curtis gang visiting pony (wherever pony moves to or in college, pick ur poison) but like they dont know that papercut are together so like they were surprised that curly was there and they just stood there like idiots staring at eachother when curly answered the door? yknow what i mean? idk if that made sense or not

this is funny bc this would imply multiple things

1) curly just dipped and DARRY of all ppl didnt think to ask tim where the hell the guy went

2)pony has literally NEVER brought that guy up, like ever, especially during calls they would have after pony already moved

3)its either NONE of them helped pony move in or they DID but they didnt think to question all the new thinks pony got that r TOTALLY not his style

4)lets say curly moved in AFTER pony already did, they didnt take curlys sudden disappearance as something to ask EACH OTHER at the very least about???😭😭

5)pony probably forgot to actually tell them he was w curly or he was gonna use THAT TIME to tell them, like omg???

AND I KNOOOWWWW curly answered that door shirtless, they couldnt even argue that curly was also there visiting, he was making himself COMFORTABLE, crumbs on his face and chest, bonnet on his head, he was there to STAY, damn it

imagine finding out ur little brother been seeing some guy u aint like for at LEAST a year, what kinda bs is that, im w the gang on this one i think😭😭 there was no wayyyyy they could get comfortable knowing that, fuck whatever else they came there for, theyre starting an interrogation

does curly care??? nottttt rlly, hes going back to what he was doing and it pisses everyone off so bad but look from his pov, hes hid his relationship w pony from the gang for so long he doesnt care if they know

[gemsofgreece]

thoughts on the new thessaloniki metro?

Well, I will have to visit it and see it with my own eyes to form a proper opinion. The following are based on what I watched on TV and the Internet:

I watched a few videos and the most notable thing for me was the widespread excitement of the citizens of Thessaloniki, which was so pleasant and almost unprecedented for me to see, because you know how we are always so suspicious and reserved with everything that happens within the borders of our country. Even expats from Germany came to see it, even foreign people, for example from Georgia! This created a sentiment of generalised euphoria. I saw a few people - especially young Athenians - did not understand why the Thessalonians acted SO happy but I have lived a few years in Thessaloniki and people just don't have an idea how badly the city needed the subway. Not only it needed it badly, not only you entered the buses and weren't sure you will make it out alive due to how (almost fatally) overcrowded they were but the eternal metro construction works in process caused paralysing traffic issues downtown and a severe aesthetic deterioration of the streets. Thessaloniki needed the metro so much that the first plans for it were suggested 100 years ago! So no it's not because the Thessalonians are 500 years backwards... but because its creation after so many decades means so much to them. Besides, older Athenians confirmed the Attic Metro was also much smaller in its first years, serving only the center...

Funny reactions of Thessalonians when the first train arrived. I am laughing so much with the boy making his cross (I mean, he's not wrong):

I even made a gif of a moment... when the gates opened for the first time, the first one who enters is a very old dude and you can see from his gesture of triumph that he thought: "YES I LIVED TO SEE IT!!!". That was so hilarious!

Now, of course there are the drawbacks we could talk about again. It took 40 years (hence the enthusiasm of the old dude) and it is not even the whole thing yet. Really, the most pivotal extensions have not been created yet. The metro will be extended to Kalamaria next year but then it also has to extend to the west side (ie Evosmos, Sindos) where more than 250,000 people live. And of course it has to extend all the way to the airport, otherwise we 've done next to nothing. That's only when we will be able to talk about a fully functional metro. And I heard the airport extension will be ready... in 2040..... so once again let us hope we are going to be alive to see this one too!

Then it's also all the shady ways the antiquities were dealt with that have been condemned by most archaeologists. But after all, well, let's just not pretend there was an easy solution for it. It's not like they found an artefact here and there. They found the entire ancient city! So either if they changed entirely their route of the subway or what they actually did, literally pick up the ancient city and transfer it elsewhere temporarily and then put it back (for real, that's what they did!), it kinda makes sense that there were delays and fights and drama about it. I mean, sure, it should be ready much earlier but let's just not pretend it was an easy project. Another thing I noticed in the coverage of the inauguration that was so refreshing to me was that a lot of journalists interviewed actual workers from the subway and asked them about their struggles and feelings now that the metro was ready. Not the "minds"(...), they asked the "hands" of the project and I really liked that. People looked so eager and passionate to share their experience working there. Furthermore, amongst everyone who wanted to exploit the fruition of the project for their political benefit, I think there were even a few politicians who looked genuinely invested, most notably that old minister who was responsible for the project when the project first started 40 years ago and today gave a speech and then dissolved into tears. This was wholesome.

I guess, the general euphoria, even the positive internet comments (a most rare sight in Greek social media) indicates this is good for the city and the country and that strictly speaking the positives are more than the negatives.

Aesthetically, I think some statements in the likes of "best metro in Europe / the world" definitely are pushing it a lot but I also saw a Thessalonian saying in a video that photos and videos don't make it justice actually. In any case, I think it looks like a pleasant enough subway. Venizelou Station with the Decumanus Maximus, the discovered main road of the Roman period of Thessaloniki, called Μέση Οδός in Byzantine times (Middle Street), and all that part of the city that was unburied, plus other remains exhibited outside some other stations definitely give a uniqueness to the subway. They used to say that people will be able to walk on the ancient city and the politicians yesterday did exactly that

however maybe it won't be open to the visitors for walking after all, fearing a degradation of the archaeological site, and that makes sense. Okay I found out that the balconies surrounding the site have glass floors so you see the whole site like you are hovering above it. Then again there is also a huge projector showing stuff in the end of the road so I don't know how you'll get there without walking on it. Maybe it's going to be open for organized tours only? Idk just hypothesizing now

It's not just that though. There were 300,000 archeological finds during the making of the subway. I read that "only" 700 of those are exhibited in the various stations. For the rest they are going to build a Subway Museum near the Sintrivani station. They didn't say anything about that yesterday so it will probably take some more time. But when we have the addition of more trains, the stations to Kalamaria, the museum with all those artefacts that cover ALL eras of Thessaloniki from 315 BC to the modern period, and the future stations in the west part of the city and then to the airport, then yes we will be talking about a dang good subway.

Below I am adding videos and photos from the metro with some more commentary.

I think the following video gives the most accurate picture (obviously it's not going to be that crowded in normal days) :

And below is the station in Agia Sofia. What I liked particularly is how they presented the stratification of the history of the city as it is discovered archaeologically and geologically; the recent eras on top and the more ancient ones as you go deeper and deeper. This is how they presented all artefacts, in a continunation from top to bottom or rather an evolution from bottom to top. I found this very clever.

And this video is good for English speakers, it also stresses on something important I forgot to mention. This first line alone is expected to serve 300,000 people daily and decrease the presence of vehicles in the streets of Thessaloniki, with estimated 50,000 fewer cars! Now that's awesome on my list and I hope the predictions prove true:

The trains are automated and driver-less and the waiting time for each is 2.30 minutes.

Below some pics from the stations:

In conclusion, with all the drama and huge delay, I think it is fair to feel happy for Thessaloniki now and try to support the project as much as possible.

[cubbihue]

Since Peri has problems with flight does irep also have them or is he fine

Irep's a talented flyer actually! While Peri's wings feels heavy for him to use, Irep's are light as a feather. He's an expert at navigating the air, and can outdo even a Pixie in flight!!

This has made him all sorts of popular and unpopular among jock-like fairies.

Bitties Series: [Start] > [Previous] > [Next]

[invye]

We are interrupting our regularly scheduled program to bring you a snippet of a potential ZoSan undercover as a married couple fic:

(Timeline wise shoehorned in sometime shortly after the timeskip, before the Strawhats make it back into the news big time.)

(People need saving from a exclusive circle of nobility, but most of the Stawhats have already been seen around the island, so the lot ends up on Zoro and Sanji to try get in posing as a freshly married couple on their honeymoon to try get more information.)

[after coming up with the plan and Zoro and Sanji hesitantly agreeing]

Robin: "You seem a little stressed, Cook-san."

Sanji, chain-smoking his third cigarette: "I'm fine, I'll do this… I just… I don't like lying about something as significant as marriage, alright? I know it's stupid, but that's just how I am."

Luffy, perking up from where one might have thought he wasn't paying attention at all: "Oi, Sanji, promise to protect Zoro?"

Sanji, puffing out smoke: "Obviously, the Marimo would get lost within all of two seconds without me having his back."

Luffy: "Good! Now, Zoro--!"

Zoro, already rising to the bait: "Oi, if anyone is protecting anyone, I'll be guarding your lanky ass, shit cook!"

Luffy, laughing: "Alright, then as the captain of this ship I hereby pronounce you married!"

Zoro:

Sanji:

Robin: "Oh my, congratulations!"

Brook: bursts into song

Luffy, grinning at Sanji: "See, now it's not a lie anymore, so you don't have to feel bad about calling Zoro your husband."

Zoro: "LUFFY!!! YOU CAN'T JUST--"

Sanji: wordlessly walks off to get ready for the mission

Usopp: "Wait, wait!" runs after Sanji, grabbing his wrist

Sanji: stares

Usopp, sweating nervously: "Need your ring size…"

Sanji: staring intensifies

Usopp, scurrying off as quickly as humanly possible: "Wedding gift!"

Luffy, in the distance, still being yelled at by Zoro: "Too bad we don't have time to celebrate, I really want some wedding cake… :("

[gncrezan]

the established orion-romance dreams have gotten to me. what will my delusional visions reveal to me next <3

[al-luviec]

something simple to try to get out of art block (it didn't work)

[boarloved-art]

i like the car movies a lot.......

[skitskatdacat63]

"If you're not with me(rc), then you're my enemy!!"(x)

[puppyeared]

its so hard to watch time pass when things like careers and assignments exist. what do you mean im supposed to take that seriously