#aside from weird lighting I Know how to paint everything because its sort of the same every time

[trans-xianxian]

after 22 hours of making thumbnails, sketching out panels, and lining, I have finally finished all of the line art for my wei wuxian birthday comic.... now I've got one week to paint all 27 panels

[ghostofbambifanfiction]

Part 1 of ?????

Started writing this fic a while ago and then lost faith in it. Should I continue? Feel bad for not posting much lately so I thought I'd share this. Read on and weigh in.

COME OUT TONIGHT

NO

You don't have to fucking shout?

Said the pot to the kettle?

Oh you grandmother The caps were an accidental by-product of voice-to-text Blame Siri if you're going to blame anyone

You have a Samsung Galaxy S20.

HAD. It got smashed. Worst luck. Listen, come out with me tonight.

Urghhhhhhhhhhhhhh I'm tired!

https://www.boots.com/wellness/vitaminsandsupplements/vitamins-supplements-shop-by-ingredient/echinacea

Hah (indifferent)

Just come out with me! Isaac has to go see some godawful student performance of the Antigone in wherever the fuck Chichester is and it's Sirius's flatmate's birthday party so I have to go and I don't know any of his weird mates

You don't HAVE to go.

Have to/want to Semantics

I'm not in a birthday party mood. I'm having a stressful week. My arse has been tense since Tuesday.

I will wade into the deep and massage your arse if I have to, just come It's a swank pad in Belgravia! I bet they'll have all sorts of expensive nibbles!

I read that as expensive nipples.

Those too!

Partying it up with the children of wealthy Tories. Sounds super fun.

Just come out with me, for fuck I'll pick you up at 7 and we can steal their silverware if it's boring as the grave

URGH I'll go but I'm NOT dressing up!

You don't have to dress up!

FINE!

*

take the drawings down please i'm begging you i'm actually begging you

Nah mate

siriusssssssss pleeeeeease

Nah

PLEASE

Nah

PLEASE ffs it's MY birthday!!!! there are going to be PEOPLE there! standing around! AT EYE LEVEL

I don't see what the problem is.

EVERYONE will see what the problem is! they literally will not be able to IGNORE what the problem is!

Sounds like a recipe for lively discussion to me tbh

that is NOT what i want people talking about at my birthday!

If I take them down, I'll have to take all the nails out and that'll leave nail marks all over the walls. It would be unsightly.

MORE UNSIGHTLY THAN YOUR DICK, SIRIUS?

My dick is bewitching.

DIE

*

She walks in expecting to find herself the infiltrator of a Made in Chelsea/Royal Ascot/Henley Regatta netherworld, filled with a gaggle of giggling, SW-postcode socialites wielding suspiciously powder-edged Harrods Amex cards in the place of horses and boats, but that's not what actually greets her on the other side of the lacquered front door.

What greets her is really quite ordinary.

Aside from the naked drawings of Kingsley's mate, which aren't.

Otherwise, the whole affair is pretty relaxed. People her age are clustered in their small groups, swigging beers. There's a table of oven-heated party foods, salty snacks and rapidly depleting ramekins of guac. She spies more band shirts than there are dress shirts. There's a round of Fortnite in full swing on the TV.

It's all just...startlingly normal. A normal birthday party.

And that's sort of embarrassing, really.

Where are all the visible Tory toffs, she wonders? Where is the braying laughter? The Eton alumni reunion? The glimpse of hunting-happy tweed and shotgun barrels as a coat cupboard door swings shut? Where's the indelible air of sneering superiority, of "we're richer and more privileged and better than you, so fuck the NHS and death to foxes!" that she'd been expecting? There's a fucking Henry Hoover in the corner of the hall, for Christ's sake. Lily came here to smile through her teeth at them all, to listen to the champagne problems privilege that bubbled from their lips and tell herself that she was the one who knew better, who thought better. Her plain white tee and skinny jeans and scuff-toed, high-top trainers were supposed to be a statement, a subtle setting-apart, but she's not even the most underdressed person in the room.

She pre-judged a house full of people. What's that about?

There's a lesson to be found in this. Perhaps.

*

James covered all of the dicks in Paw Patrol stickers that he bought from the newsagent on his way home from his mum's, but Sirius peeled them all off while he was taking a soothing lavender bath, so what's the bloody point in birthdays anyway?

It's early in the evening, and he's wedged—against his will—between the dining room bar and Shane Ruttle, who has just pointed at one of the many lamentable dicks and asked, "Is this one of yours?" which James kind of wants to thump him for. It's bad enough that he looks like a madman who stuffed his house with naked drawings of his brother, now people are actually assuming that he drew the damn things, even though most of the compositions are appallingly far beneath his skill level. He's a professional illustrator, for the love of god, and Shane is really standing before him like the posturing prick he is, asking him if he's the one who drew Sirius with one arm disproportionately longer than the other.

He knows that he should cheer up.

It is his birthday. There is cake.

Good cake, too, not the kind that gets buried in too-thick fondant that he has to pick off before he can eat what's underneath.

The problem is, there's also a party, and his friends are his friends, Peter and Sirius included, and Peter and Sirius can both get drunk much faster than James can. When Peter and Sirius get drunk, serious injuries tend to follow, Remus tends to fuck off in a flash and James tends to be the one who calls for an ambulance or mothers them back to health—physical, mental or otherwise. He has just turned twenty-six, and these repeated, drunkenly dramatic medical emergency scenes are starting to wear a little thin.

Can't a man get comfortably drunk and have a laugh at his own birthday party?

No, he can't, because Peter's already halfway to trashed, wobbling unsteadily towards the French doors that lead to the terrace, wearing that look on his face that says I'm definitely going to vomit or maybe even shit myself like I did on that one night we all spent in Munich with the Belgian handball team and the creepy tour guide who couldn't keep his sleazy hands to himself. For the sake of sparing the lawn such a punishment, James hastily removes himself from Shane, grabs Peter by the collar, shoves him in the direction of the downstairs loo and retreats to the safety of the living room, where there are, at least, no naked drawings of Sirius gracing the walls.

Most of the people in here are transfixed by Saffy Stephens, who is down to the last three in her Fortnite game and cursing like a sailor, but there are a small pile of birthday cards on the end table where James and Sirius normally keep their keys. He perches on the sofa arm, sets his half-drunk beer bottle on the carpet, pushes his dark, disheveled hair away from his forehead and begins leafing through them. It's a necessity when one lives with Sirius, who thinks nothing of swiping gift cards when the mood strikes him and he's had enough to drink.

They're mostly from his female friends, and all pretty standard, until he reaches the middle of the pile and finds a card bearing a picture of a moustached tabby and the caption: Have a Purr-fect Birthday!

The inscription inside is written in a lovely, swirling hand.

To Jasper/Jack/Jason/maybe Ja Rule?/J-something idk

(see above: everything I've learned about you from the friend* I came here with, verbatim)

(*who can't remember your name)

Happy Birthday! Thank you for (not) specifically inviting me, a stranger, to your party to celebrate this momentous event in your life. Please enjoy this festive card/social nicety/convention from me to you. My friend brought rum which you may prefer.

I'll be around. Not that you'll know.

LE

James lowers the card and twists on the sofa arm at once, eyes darting around the room in search of its author, as if they might be laying in wait to watch him read it and see how he reacts. Nobody appears to have ducked behind the couch, however, so the situation merits further scrutiny.

Obviously, he needs to meet this person.

A mystery! At his birthday party!

He perks right up after that.

*

She's coming out of the downstairs loo when a short, blonde man in a garish Hawaiian shirt barrels past her and pukes all over the chequerboard tiled floor, narrowly missing her jeans.

"Oh no," he moans into his wet hands. "Oh no—"

"There there, mate," says Lily consolingly, never one to judge somebody for getting drunk early at a party. She pats him on the back before squeezing past him and rejoining Kingsley, who is standing in one of this meandering Georgian house's many hallways, chatting to a bloke in a houndstooth sweater vest and holding two glasses of something very, very sparkly that she must try at once.

"It's like...it's like everything and nothing at the same time," Houndstooth Bloke is saying when Lily draws close, gesturing to a huge canvas painting of a rain-soaked fairground at night.

"Is it?" Kingsley asks.

"Mmm. Very." Houndstooth shakes his shoulders like he's slipping out of a robe. "Meant to be esoteric, I suppose."

That sounds suspiciously like pretentious bullshit to Lily, who doesn't find the concept of a merry looking fairground all that difficult to absorb. Kingsley knows more about the art world than she does, but he must agree with her assessment because he grunts and shoves her glass into her hand when she stops beside him, and more roughly than she deserves, as if she's the one who landed him in this mess of a conversation to begin with.

Trust him to find himself stuck with the only dick (not etched by a 4B Steadtler graphite pencil) in the building, and trust her to be stuck with the person who got himself stuck with King.

"What are we talking about?" she asks brightly, just to fuck with him.

"Drink your champagne, there's a good little hen," King mutters, his teeth clenched together, hallway lights bouncing off the smoothly waxed dome of his bald head.

"We've been discussing this piece." Houndstooth nods to the painting, but his limpid eyes narrow on Lily's face. "Christ, you're very redheaded, aren't you?"

It's decided. She'll wait 'til Houndstooth is drunk and trip him up with Henry Hoover's hose.

"Ergo soulless, yes," she agrees.

"And you...enjoy that?" he asks, as if being redheaded is her profession.

"Very much, thanks."

"Hmmp. Well. I came here with Saffron," he announces, pronouncing it Sef-ron. As if Lily is supposed to know who that is. "Platonically, of course. Actually, we're some sort of cousins, I think. What do you think the artist is trying to convey?"

He's very pointedly asking her, so Lily blinks at the painting, her eyes on the outstretched arm of a child on the carousel.

"I like the pretty colours," she decides aloud.

"Right," says Houndstooth, "but that's not—"

"And the lights, too. The lights are really pretty."

"But—"

"I love funfairs, actually," she brightly continues, finding a strange satisfaction in playing dumb in front of Houndstooth and his overbleached fade. Although she does really like the colours. "Haven't been to one in years!"

"Yes, good, whatever, but what is the artist trying to convey?"

"What artist?" comes a voice from behind them.

Lily glances over her shoulder and finds herself looking up at the man whose penis she's spent the past thirty minutes avoiding eye contact with, though he is taller, better proportioned and infinitely more beautiful than any of those crudely drawn depictions could possibly convey. He is also beplumed and bejewelled like a pirate, wearing a sumptuous velvet jacket over a loose white shirt, numerous rings on his fingers and an assortment of silver chains around his slender neck, while his grey eyes and elegantly high-set cheekbones are framed by a tumble of black hair that genuinely looks like silk.

The man is so beautiful, in fact, that Lily immediately wonders why he's been taking sketches home from the life drawing class that he and Kingsley pose for—hence their acquaintance and Lily's presence at this party—when nothing she's seen tonight has done him any justice.

Most happily, his penis is tucked safely out of sight.

"Alright, Sirius?" says King.

"Alright, Marvel?" Sirius claps a hand to the taller man's massive shoulder. Kingley's muscles bulge in a way that cannot be hidden by modern habiliments. "What are we talking about?"

"Not much." Houndstooth looks put out by the arrival of yet another person. "We were just mesmerised by this piece."

Lily refrains from gesturing to the painting with both hands and a "ta-dah!" choosing instead to sip her champagne.

It's very good champagne. Mmm. Yes.

"Oh, yeah, it's really something," Sirius agrees. He brushes past Kingsley and runs a finger over the illegible squiggle of a signature on the canvas. His nails are beautifully manicured. "Local guy, young up-and-comer. I assume you've heard of Algernon?" he asks Houndstooth, fixing him with a steely-eyed stare.

"Er, yes." Houndstooth's gaze slides from Sirius to the painting. "I know him."

Sirius's eyebrows lift. "Know him personally?"

"Well—"

"That's so weird, I heard he never speaks to people."

Houndstooth chews on the inside of his cheek, weighing up the challenge. "How…funny."

"Funny?"

"Oh, nothing. It's just, I know I've spoken to him before, and since you've bought his painting I assumed that you'd have—"

"That is funny, actually," Sirius interrupts, "because the artist is my brother, and Algernon is the name of his cat."

Kingsley has been tugging on his earring and almost rips it out of his ear as his body convulses, champagne spraying from his nostrils, while an alarming red flush sweeps across Houndstooth's face and he begins to sputter on his own self-importance. Sirius has clearly decided that he's done with all of that noise, however, because he turns back to Lily instead, looking her up and down with great and sudden interest.

"Who's this then?" he asks Kingsley, cocking his head to one side. "James's present?"

The champagne glass swings down and Lily fixes him with a deadpan stare. "Excuse me?"

Sirius slants a grin at Kingsley, a quick flash of teeth. "This one's queenly, isn't she?"

Kingsley wipes his nose with the back of his hand and laughs again. "Hardly."

"This is Primark, mate," Lily retorts, tugging on her t-shirt.

"Queenliness is a state of mind," says Sirius, "not a state of wardrobe."

"You had me marked down as a prostitute not ten seconds ago."

"Oh, that. I was only joking," he sighs, and grips her arm at the elbow, his long fingers cool against her skin. "But still, you're far too attractive to stand here talking to this clown. Come with me and I'll find you someone better."

*

James's friends are useless.

And drunk. Useless and drunk—or sort of drunk, in Saffy's case. Remus is certainly already pissed, but Remus is on meds so often that he drinks but once in a blue moon. One cocktail is usually enough to set him off, and he's been hard at the gin since he turned up with Peter at six.

"I don't know anyone with those initials," Saffy declares, once she has read, examined and even sniffed the birthday card for clues. "Except for Lisa Edelstein."

"Who's Lisa Edelstein?"

"Cuddy from House," says Remus, lowering the negroni from which he has been drinking deeply.

James pulls a face. "What the fuck is a Cuddy?"

"Oh, actually, it could mean le?" Remus suggests.

"Yes!" Saffy points at him like he might be onto something. "Like the French word for the?"

"Exactly, like—"

"It doesn't mean that!" James interrupts, unwilling to allow such profanity in his home. "That doesn't make sense, why would somebody sign their name as the?"

"Now you're asking me to explain how French people think?" says Saffy derisively, adjusting her bra strap beneath that burnt orange waistcoat she loves, the one that makes her look like she's directing a pornographic movie in the 70s when she pairs it with her tortoiseshell-framed aviators. It clashes wildly with her electric blue buzz-cut. "Am nooooo drunk enough for that."

"They could be one of those one word moniker pop stars, I suppose," Remus pipes up, smiling slyly. "You know, like Madonna?"

They think James doesn't realise that they're taking the piss out of him, but neither of them are sober enough to attempt their gambit with any kind of subtlety or grace.

"You know that's actually her real Christian name?" says Saffy.

Remus turns towards her with interest. "What, Madonna?"

"Yeah!"

"Really?"

"Yeah!" Saffy repeats. "I thought it couldn't possibly be her real name because, I mean, Madonna, yeah? But then I looked it up and apparently that's the name her mummy gave her, just goes to show—"

"I'm sorry," James interrupts, "but is Madonna relevant to this conversation?"

"Yes, always," says Saffy.

"She's an international pop megastar," Remus seconds.

James stares at his friend incredulously. "Drinking really chips away at your wit, y'know?"

"Does it?" Remus grins lazily and jiggles his cocktail in the air. "Oh, well, I'm negronly joking."

Saffy does a spit-take without the spit and clings helplessly to Remus's shoulder as she laughs, knees buckling, bangles tinkling, but James fights his own urge to start snickering.

"It's not that funny," he lies, and Remus eyes him with an alarmingly teacher-like shrewdness, despite the tellingly intoxicated flush that has crept into his thin, freckled face.

James's love of puns is tragically well known.

"You didn't get it." Remus points at his drink. His speech is starting to slur. "This is a negroni, what I said was—"

"Yeah, I got that part, I just—"

"Jesus fuck, look at her!" Saffy suddenly hisses, staggering sideways into Remus and sending him into the wall in a flurry of giggles—Remus giggling?—her voice hushed and urgent. "Who the hell is that?!"

James does look, following the direction of Saffy's gaze. Sirius has just entered the living room, casually clutching the elbow of a……

……goddess.

An actual. Like. Goddess.

A goddess. In James's house. In his living room. In the place where he eats his chocolate boulder cereal and rewatches Scrubs (even season 9, which is hilarious, and very unfairly disparaged by Joe Public) on Saturday mornings.

She's a goddess. A real one, and cleverly disguised as a mortal, sure, with her slouchy white t-shirt and her big hoop earrings and her light blue jeans that are torn at the knees, wearing her shoulder-length red hair half up, half down and slightly messy, but that doesn't hide what she is.

"Oh my god," he murmurs. His heart is pounding all of a sudden, which is so...utterly bloody stupid, but Saffy's right, bloody look at her, Jesus fuck.

"Surely she can't be with Sirius?" Saffy murmurs back.

"No, she—" He watches Sirius lean down to mutter something in the redhead's ear. A ghost of a laugh flits across her beautiful face. "She's not his—he isn't—"

"D'you think—"

"No, I—"

"Good," says Saffy firmly. She lets go of Remus and rises, lengthening her spine. It is a battle stance of some sort, presumably. "Because I saw her first."

"No!" James cries, wounded, and the redhead shoots him a curious look with a pair of eyes that are startlingly emerald green, even from all the bloody way over here. He spins to face Saffy and lowers his voice, face burning. "It's my house!"

"What are you arguing here, ownership rights?"

"No but it—it's my birthday!" James retorts, jabbing at his own chest. "And, actually, and—"

"It's in the bloody post!"

"—you didn't get me a present!" he finishes in triumph, not that he knows what he's arguing for, because the likelihood is that his tongue will glue itself to the roof of his mouth if he even dares to look in her direction one more time. "Plus I set you up with Vanya Petrich, with whom, as I recall, you enjoyed four years—"

"Stop throwing that in my face!"

"—four blissful years—"

"Is it my fault that you've never fancied any girl I've set you up with?!"

"—promised me an Easter ham for setting you up with her and I never got it—"

"So now you'll trade a woman for a ham?" Saffy accuses, though her face is too lit up, her brown eyes too crinkled at the corners—she's having fun with this and she isn't going to fool him and she knows it. "That's so low, even—"

"Don't start with that," James scathingly cuts in. "You offered me Sean Connery's autograph for Bonnie Grogan's number—"

"Which you never gave me!"

"Because you forged the bloody signature!"

"And now she's bloody married!"

"Yeah, well, Isabella wouldn't give me a counterfeit present, would she?" he retorts, and Saffy lets her shoulders drop, smirking. "This is pointless, Saf, we can't—"

"She's just left with Sirius," Remus informs them, and burps.

[space-city-traffic]

yet again im back on my bullshit so... (gazes with mixed feelings at the TV show Firefly) i could fix him.

my extremely long thoughts about my Own Personal Good Version of Firefly (with plenty of spoilers for the show and the movie) under the cut:

things that are getting axed first thing no question:

out with the whole “let’s add in a thin veneer of Chinese cultural aesthetics out of context for ~flavor~” deal. just no.

instead, let’s hire some actors from a bunch of different cultures and work with them to figure out how their characters would bring those cultures into space with them!! and also hopefully bring some experiences with immigration/alienation/travel into it, since the Whole Core of Firefly is about how humanity always brings our doomed and silly and stubborn and unique warmth with us even into the cold void where nothing is familiar or homey in the slightest.

let’s respect our sex worker character shall we?

i do appreciate that Inara’s work as a companion is described as legitimate and well respected in the show. however please stop having your captain and hero call her a wh*re every five seconds against her clearly expressed wishes and portraying this as just a totally acceptable thing

let’s be more respectful of our characters of color and also have some more diversity, shall we?

others have put it better than me but yeah, the way Zoe and Book are treated is very uncomfy, and the rest of the show is depressingly monochromatic. come on let’s do better.

stop the weird confederacy hat tips

again others have pointed these out with much more thoroughness than I could, but the names of some characters and locations, as well as some of the language used to describe the browncoats, has uncomfortably confederate vibes. instead i propose we very Clearly tip our hats to the Alliance equaling space capitalism instead! you can’t go wrong with space capitalism as a villain.

don’t! make! the! psychotic! character! violent!

listen i love River Tam with my whole heart. but you should absolutely not portray your only character with psychosis as violent because of that psychosis!!!!!!! and yeah, a huge part of her character is that her brain got fucked up by the alliance and so she hallucinates and is also a super ninja. but like. she doesn’t need to be a super ninja for her character to work, okay? the crew does not need to be scared of her for her character to work, okay??? more on this later bc it would take a lot of care and nuance to make her character work but i really think it can be done

things we are absolutely keeping:

found family tropes my fucking beloved

this should be self evident. this is why the show is as appealing as it is despite its flaws, at least in my eyes.

malcolm reynolds, the knight in dusty armor

there’s something so appealing to me about what Mal stands for. because at his core is this ridiculous, silly, stubborn, doomed devotion to what he thinks is important and right, a romantic idealism thinly covered by cynical cowboy platitudes that he thinks make his bleeding heart totally invisible. and he is so obvious and entirely incorrect. bless. this is a man who will do anything for his family, who charges into swordfights to defend his friend from a man who wants to turn her into an object despite having no clue how to hold a sword. at his worst, he starts brawls in bars just for the martyr’s thrill of being persecuted for supporting the right; at his best, he inspires downright religious belief from his crew because he represents a romantic and chivalrous and doomed dedication to the right thing over any practical concerns. and then he throws a “selfish” quip over it with 100% confidence that everyone fell for his clever distraction and believes him to be a dirtbag. he’s oblivious and ridiculous and god he makes me want to be a better person because he’s just so goddamned sincere. stupid, but sincere. 10/10 himbo. <3

Mal and Inara ultraslowburn friends to enemies to friends to lovers to enemies to friends to lovers to friends to...

there’s nothing i love more than a ship that’s just two people who know each other way too well, and they’re each the only one who knows the other well enough to call them out on their bullshit. the way Mal and Inara interact in the show sometimes makes me uncomfy but like. the core of their relationship has to stay.

space western aesthetic

i need the cows on a spaceship scene to stay like i need air okay

that sweet sweet religious shit

mal, who lost his faith in gd and a whole lot else during the war. who lost his faith in himself, and now feels he has to hide the part of him that still wants to be good, because he knows he can’t be anymore, and he feels like it’s embarrassing for a guy like him to want something so unattainable. who takes a preacher on board, and the preacher has lost something, too. the preacher has his own past, and his own questions. but not questions like the observant neurodivergent girl, the one who wants to interact with and understand this thing that’s so important to him, but it just doesn’t click with how her brain works and she feels like something needs to be fixed, either the Bible or herself. and Mal takes care of them all, and slowly, he begins to find gd again, not in a prayer but in humanity. humanity doesn’t need to be fixed, like the alliance thinks. the shining imperfect strawberry sweetness of it in his family’s smiles is something to be worshiped and served and devoted to. and he finds he has something to believe in again. (and his crew find that he’s given them someone to believe in, too. and maybe suddenly he’s a saint.)

and finally, my brilliant ideas as to what i would like to add:

TRANS WOMAN KAYLEE RIGHTS

listen her femininity is so important to me okay? it’s so thrilled about everything that’s pretty, from dresses to the spaceship’s electric innards, and it’s so non-traditional and grease stained until it’s not and it’s pink and ruffly and twirly, and she never sees any of it as a contradiction, because none of it contradicts, it’s all just her! her gender is warmth and love and prettiness, feeling pretty and appreciating the pretty and making her friends’ days pretty too.

i want us to find out she’s trans in that episode with the ball, and i want us to find out alongside Mal who just never asked or never realized. Kaylee gasps and squeals at the dress in the shop window and Mal makes an off handed, ill considered comment, and then... someone yanks him aside and hisses a few very significant words in his ear. and suddenly he remembers what the blue white and pink she painted all over the engine room means, and he knows he has something to make right. so he buys her that dress himself and lets her know just how pretty she looks, and when he walks into that ball with her displayed on his arm like something precious, he looks the proudest out of any man there. and she notices. for a few seconds, of course, until there’s chocolate, and ‘nara, and a chandelier—and some horrible girls, but she’s used to that, until—suddenly, she finds her people. a group of old men who light up when she jokes about compression coils and whack presumptuous boys who ask her to dance. they adopt her as a treasured granddaughter, and Mal is beaming at her like a proud dad, and she finds that one of her new elderly friends gazes a little too long at her bracelet, and so she gives it to xem and teaches xem a few new words, and... it’s a good day, huh? it’s a really good day. (of course, then the captain has to go and punch somebody in the face, but it was a real nice party up until then.)

also she and Simon are both transhet t4t im correct and you know it

time for a better River Tam

the first thing we’ve established is that this version of her is not unpredictably violent and the crew is not scared of her!!!! it makes no sense to take a kid who’s primarily brilliant, experiment on her brain, give her telepathic powers....... and tack on the fact that she also has super strength and speed and dexterity and what not, AND say that they programmed her to be super violent. no! no. not only is that extremely harmful rep, that’s also just stupid.

instead!! my version of River is in fact not terrifying to the crew, but is actually the one they feel safest around. River has always been totally blunt, she was one of those kids you could tell realllllly early was autistic, and she doesn’t like being disengenous at all. so you can always trust her to tell the truth and not play weird passive aggressive games or have any hidden agenda, which makes her just a really chill person to be around. also, one of her longtime special interests is music and dance, so whether or not she’s nonverbal on a given day, there will always be some sort of beautiful sound when she’s around. she does have the singing voice of a dying crow unfortunately but that’s ok bc Simon’s is even worse and they’re both incredibly competitive so you’ll at least get free entertainment out of the affair.

my version of River does have psychosis and hallucinations because of the trauma of the experiments, and they are really troubling to her. she and Simon work together to find ways to cope and meds that help, and it’s a process, but there are some things that help.

the only thing she gained from the academy was the ability to hear people’s thoughts and sense the future a little bit. and yeah, that led to her picking up a few spooky secrets at the beginning, which, yikes. and for a while, it was hard to figure out which voices were real and which were hallucinations. but around her friends, she always feels safe to ask “did you just think about triple cheese burritos or was that just a me thing?”, and they’ll always tell her the truth no matter how embarrassing their thoughts are, bc it’s important to all of them to respect her and help her sort accurately through what’s reality and what’s not. and bit by bit, she gets better and better at figuring out what kinds of things tend to be telepathy and what kinds of things tend to be psychosis, and that each one feels a little different. and because of the trust and respect and support of her found family she’s able to do that in a safe environment!!!

trans man Simon rights

listen i wanted to keep him as just a side note on Kaylee’s list but he is my son and he’s important to my heart so here goes

out on the outer rim where Kaylee’s from, gender ain’t much of a big deal, there’s an individualistic quality to life out there, and so if the trail you blaze is the trail of a woman or a man or neither or both, that’s respected even in the rare cases where it’s not outright encouraged. but in the inner planets, where competition and connections and public faces and family names are everything, you have to be what’s expected of you to survive. you can’t change your brand, you can’t be anything other than what your family planned for you since before you were born, it’s incredibly hard to survive in such a hyper competitive environment, and so your very identity becomes just a tool in how to market yourself for better success.

needless to say Simon (just as autistic as his little sister and also very trans) fuckin hated it there. but he was very good at it. correction: he was very good at his very specific field of STEM, good enough to where people stopped talking about how cute he looked in bows and started talking about how impressive his work was from a very young age. and his work had no gender. he could be whatever he wanted to in equations. so that was where he could express himself, and gd, he got so much praise for it, he never wanted to stop.

not until he discovered that his sister needed him, and ran away, and needed a disguise, and realized... suddenly, every stifling rule and prying eye was a million miles away. he was freefloating, freefalling, with none of the charted paths he’d been following all his life... so you know what? fuck it. he’s always enjoyed the name Simon. and since it’s not on any legal records, it’ll make him just that much more untraceable.

and on Serenity, starting over with new people who never knew him before his transition feels like an unbelievable blessing that just dropped right into his lap. he has to keep up the secrecy, he has to make sure they never find out who he used to be, because gd, it’s so nice when they look at him and say his name right, and he doesn’t know if he can handle losing that, not when it’s so new and so important to the person he’s finally becoming. but then one day, the unthinkable happens, the wanted posters for his arrest have an old name on them, they’re looking for the Tam sisters, and... nothing changes. the crew of Serenity could not give even a tenth of a percent of a fuck, and it doesn’t seem like they even know they’re supposed to. huh. that’s new. Simon could get used to that, he thinks.

i’m sure there’s more i could add, but it’s 4:30 in the morning now, so if more occurs to me, ill simply add it in a reblog tomorrow. if you’ve read down this far, i am in love with you. please let me know your Better Firefly ideas, too, bc im always down to yell about this show!!!

[avaritia-apotheosis]

Phantom Children Ch. 7

Massive thanks to my awesome betas for this chapter!

In Which: A Story is Given to the Locked Room

AO3 | Prologue | 6 | [ 7 ] | 8

DICK DOESN’T REALLY KNOW WHAT TO FEEL. Surprised, maybe? Though he really isn’t all that shocked. Not that the revelation of another Wayne kid isn’t surprising, it’s just that—well…

Bruce has a tendency to attract foolhardy kids with a strong sense of justice and a willingness to harp on Batman until he gives them wings and teaches them how to fly. It’s the way of the world. The sky is blue, the sun sets in the west, and little Robin-hopefuls flock to Batman like ducklings to their big, brooding, mother duck. (That most of them are black haired and blue-eyed with some sort of traumatic backstory is a coincidence. Probably. The universe is just weird that way.)

And Bruce, bleeding heart that he is despite all the steel walls and nuclear spike fields he placed around it, always had a soft spot for children. It’s what people don’t get when they call Robins and Batgirls, former or current, child soldiers. They think that Batman picks these children up from gutter alleys and unfortunate homes, breaking and reshaping them into crusaders for his war against crime.

(What most don’t get is that the easiest way to gain ‘favorite child’ status in the Wayne household is to just stay home and live the most normal life possible. All of them—with the exception of Damian and Cass—chose this life. And even those two chose to stick with it, even when Bruce was more than happy to give them a way out.)

Dick was one of the first to stand at Batman’s side. The original. The ‘golden boy’ as Jason always put it. He’d been there so early in Batman’s career that, years later, it’s nearly inconceivable to imagine Batman without his Robin. He’s been there for Bruce’s soaring highs, his crushing lows, his mundane middles, just as Bruce has been there for him. Sure, they’ve had their fights, but Dick had always settled himself with the knowledge that he was one of the few people that knew everything about Bruce Wayne.

But this . This nursery—no, this memorial . This monument that spoke of a life that could have, should have, would have been, is something that predates Robin’s existence. A story, a memory that had hurt Bruce so badly that he would rather hide it away than breathe even a word of its existence.

Until now. Until Bruce had no choice but to rip the wound open once more.

“Bruce. I—what’s going on?”

“Perhaps,” Alfred interjected. “Perhaps it may be best to take this to the cave. Such a story should be told once.”

Bruce laughed, a broken, shuddering thing. “What is there to tell? I was naive with a heart too open and full of longing. I let myself hope, and I let myself get crushed . I picked myself up, moved on, end of story.”

Alfred raised an imperious brow. “As you are the one who always insisted on detailed reports, I do hope your summary to the boys downstairs would have a little more detail.” His face softened as he placed a comforting hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “What recent information that has been passed to us paints a worrisome picture, given what little you have shared, but know that this time you are not alone to deal with this matter. Regardless of what you do, the rest of the family is involved by proxy."

Bruce seemed to release some of the tension in his shoulders at that. “Yes. Of course. Dick, why don’t you see if Tim is back yet. I don’t want to explain this more than once, if possible. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure, I’ll get right on that.”

“And, Dick?”

“Yeah?”

Bruce’s gaze was intense. “How is Damian doing?”

He remembered the way Damian sunk deeper into the chair, hands clasping and unclasping at air. The white of his cast hanging limply as Damian’s legs could just barely brush against the cave floor. Dick swallowed a lump in his throat. “I don’t know. But I do know that he could really use his father right about now.”

Bruce gave a shaky nod and Dick left.

_______

Everyone has heard this tale before.

His boys have learned about the birth of Batman, of how a boy lost his parents in an alley at the age of eight. How at 14 he took to the study of criminology to an almost religious fervor. He took and aced every AP test, graduated high school at 16, headed off to get a college degree, then disappeared off the face of the earth.

Batman may have been born kneeling in the shadows of a dirty alley, but it was on the streets abroad where Batman grew up. Learning and studying and fighting until he knew what made the criminal underworld tick, how to escape almost every type of restraints, how to solve a murder with only the smallest of clues. He trained under a demon and met his daughter. When their ideas of justice clashed with each other, he tried to leave, they tried to stop him, and he set their base on ablaze.

He returned to Gotham the prodigal son, the favored prince, the charming socialite. Bruce Wayne took his place at the center of Gotham’s solar system, shining and bright and unbelievably foolish. Batman put on a cowl and learned the shadows of Gotham’s streets, and built himself up to be a symbol of fear and justice. Soon, he acquired a Robin to temper that darkness. To bring a light of hope, to instill a sense of peace— something more than vengeance and the night.

The rest is history.

Here is the part of the story that Bruce had omitted:

Early in his career as Batman, a man named Quayin had plans to steal a weather modifying US satellite. This, and certain other events, led to Bruce and Ra’s al Ghul crossing paths—and working on the same side. The details of that mission, in the long run. do not matter. Not anymore. What’s important is that accompanying him is his daughter, Talia al Ghul. She was as deadly as she was beautiful—and Talia was very, very beautiful.

It was a whirlwind romance. A storm of passion. Gotham’s Bruce Wayne and socialite Miranda Tate. * Batman and the Daughter of the Demon. The tempest reached its peak on that fateful day in the gardens of Wayne Manor. The hot summer sun and buzzing insects fading away as she pulled him aside and said “Beloved, I am with child. I am pregnant.” **

Bruce was caught unawares by the news. Stared dumbfounded at her until his brain caught up with his ears and he felt such unbridled joy bubbling in his chest. He laughed, clear and bright. He held her tight against him as if she held the world in her hands—because she did . Talia held his world within her and Bruce vowed to protect it with every fiber of his being. He called Alfred immediately to tell him the news and started arranging for discreet interior decorators and shipments for everything they needed for a nursery.

Thomas, for a boy. Martha for a girl. He swore that very day that it would be the happiest baby in the world. **

And then—

And then…

As Ra’s and Bruce planned their next move to stop Quayin from initiating a war between America and the USSR, Talia collapsed.

Talia collapsed and the baby was just…

Gone.

And suddenly Talia wanted nothing to do with him. Told Bruce to leave her alone, that their relationship would never be the same.

His child was gone .

By the time the rogue satellite was recovered, Quayin defeated, and all loose ends tied up, the nursery was fully furnished. Bruce took one look at it and then turned away. Locked the door and hid the key god-knows-where.

His child was gone.

Batman continued to work.

There was no use for an empty nursery.

--------

End Notes:

The story I'm using for the circumstances surrounding Danny's birth is basically a modified version of what happens in Batman: Son of the Demon. Modified so that people knew that Bruce Wayne and Miranda Tate were a couple and to give enough time for a nursery to be built along with the rest of the events of that comic.

*Miranda Tate is the name Tahlia al Ghul went by in 'The Dark Knight Rises'

**These lines are taken from Batman: Son of the Demon

[jengajives]

Part two of my modern au. will Daeron ever actually meet the family? I don’t know

The Fëanorian house was big. Daeron probably should have expected it, just given the rumors he had heard before he even met Maglor, but it still surprised him with its immensity. It seemed a vast and artificial thing to him- somewhat unsettling if he was being honest- but the Noldorin leaning had always been toward excess and showmanship rather than the subtle, natural beauty his people preferred, so it was easy to calmly set his nervousness aside as simple culture shock. The lack of green anywhere beyond the perfectly manicured garden out front did make him feel somewhat squirmy inside, though; entering that glass and concrete beast was a daunting thought, even when he tried to explain it away. “We’re here!” Maglor said with a sort of nauseous cheeriness that conveyed no particular optimism. “Last chance to turn back.” Daeron craned his neck to get a look at the upper floors, currently glaring with an echo of the sunset behind them. “Wow.” “Dad designed it. It’s pretty, right?” Maglor actually looked over, read Daeron’s expression, and hastily went on. “Pretty horrible. Yeah. Really bad. Let’s go in.” As Daeron stepped onto the ceramic driveway, he was floored by another revelation: he had always thought Maglor’s car to be quite showy, maybe even to the point of tackiness, but seeing the other eight cars lined up nicely on the drive made him quickly change his mind about the rather conservative little blue Porsche. The first one he noticed was the cherry red supercar- it was hard not to look at it, to be honest, because it resembled a spaceship more than any other vehicle Daeron had ever seen. If he was ever unlucky enough to be standing behind it when someone turned the engine on, he’d pretty sure he’d get his eyebrows burned off or something. There was a Rolls-Royce parked next to it, painted a more subtle shade of midnight purple. Behind the two, a restored muscle car sat alongside an old hot rod, both opposite shades of green that made Daeron feel itchy to look at for some reason, and then came the pickup truck. It was the tallest car he had ever seen, iridescent black-to-green, and fitted with a downright obscene array of racks, lights, and speciality equipment, and with a deer skull mounted to the hood. One yellow Jeep and a small grey SUV looked very out of place at the front of the driveway even though they absolutely should not. Maglor had noticed him looking, so he pointed out who each car belonged to, but Daeron was so overwhelmed that everything went completely over his head. He did manage to pick out that the normal-looking ones belonged to Maedhros and to Maglor’s mother, though, and that was the only thing his overwhelmed brain could think of clinging onto. At least two of these people were a little bit normal-ish, at least. He could do this. While he stood staring at the cars, Maglor went on ahead, and he had to scurry to catch up. “Aren’t your parents divorced?” “Yeah.” Maglor gave him a look like that was the dumbest question he’d ever heard. For just a brief moment, Daeron worried it was, until he remembered which of them had a better handle on average family dynamics (ironically, it was the one without a family). “Then why is your mom coming to dinner?” “Why wouldn’t she?” They stopped in front of a big metal door, on what was the most intimidating porch he had ever seen. “She comes every month.” Daeron started to tell him that was weird, but Maglor was already reaching out to open the door, and he didn’t want to be overheard, so he just canned it and tried to look polite. As soon as the knob turned, Daeron was attacked by what appeared to be a red-brown blur. It burst from the cracked door and rammed into his chest with enough force to easily through him to the concrete, and Daeron couldn’t muffle a cry when he saw the glint of cruel yellow teeth and eyes belonging to a creature that knew exactly where it had to bite to end his life. Hot breath panted across his face, and a single line of drool drizzled nicely across the bridge of his nose. He was about to actually scream when he heard a sharp whistle and an even sharper voice. “Huan!” Immediately the creature bounded off Daeron’s chest and pranced out of sight. He only realized it was a dog when he saw the bristle tail swishing happily behind it. Maglor appeared above him instead, face swimming with concern. “Oh Valar. Are you okay?” “Sorry, chief!” Someone shouldered Maglor out of the way to fill Daeron’s view himself. One of the brothers already. Wonderful. “He’s still a puppy. Thinks everyone wants to play. I’m sure you know how that is!” The newcomer had the same basic facial features as Maglor, but he looked sharper all over, from the jaw to the cheekbones, even the teeth. When he grinned, Daeron got the impression he was a rabbit being played with before the meal. His hair was an unusual shade of pale blond, not quite Sindar silver, which Daeron had never seen on a Noldo before. It was almost white and caught the red of the sunset like melted wax. When Daeron realized he was being offered a hand, he took it and let Mystery Fëanorian Number One lift him to his feet. “You must be Mags’s new guy, huh?” The predatory grin flashed again. It was probably supposed to be disarming, but it put Daeron so on edge he jumped when the man clapped him on the shoulder. “Sindar, huh? Excellent. Amrod is going to owe me thirty bucks. Hey, Caranthir really isn’t going to like this, Mags.” He glanced around Daeron to where Maglor was standing stiff and awkward, face a mask of horrified embarrassment. “Dad probably won’t either.” “Celegorm...” Maglor finally groaned. His brother didn’t let him finish. “Hey, either of you want a smoke?” He tugged a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his worn-down jeans and held it towards the two of them. Because he was wearing just a white t-shirt that looked like it hadn’t been washed in a couple weeks, Daeron could see plenty of exposed skin, and the tattoos that covered Celegorm head to toe. Lots of deers, trees, wolves, and the like, though he did spot a rifle or two and a couple naked ladies as well. He had the words “WOLF PACK” printed across his knuckles. “No, thank you,” Maglor said flatly as he reached over to rest his hands on his boyfriend’s shoulders. Daeron relaxed just a little bit at the touch. “Suit yourself.” Celegorm shrugged. He patted his thigh and the massive red dog came trotting over again; Daeron swore it gave him a dirty look as it followed its master by. “Have fun in there,” called Celegorm over his shoulder. “It’s just starting to kick off.” Daeron waited until he and his dog had wandered out of earshot before he managed a few strangled words. “Is he the one who... fucked Oromë?” “Yep, that’s him.” Daeron stared, dumbfounded, and slowly shook his head. “Charming.” “Do you still want to go inside?” Maglor asked weakly, and Daeron just nodded. He had come this far. Time to dive in.

[ollie-ollie-oxenfreee]

then came the morning (aka: the post - canon cuddle fic)

The work in progress is finally done! I’ve been chipping away at it for the past couple weeks now, and it’s gone through many drafts / iterations, but I think I’m finally happy with it. :)

Title from an album by the Lone Bellow. 

The first time the two of them “shared a bed” was about as awkward as one might imagine. The initiating circumstances were hardly any better.

 The heating apparatus in their quarters had given out a week or so back in a spectacular fit of dust - laden wheezing. The engineering crew called in to inspect it informed them that it couldn’t be fixed until they could pick up the right parts at the nearest trading post (which was naturally thousands of klicks away on the ragged edge of nowhere). With the ambient heat from the nearby engine room seeping through the wall, the conditions were deemed “unpleasant but survivable.” They were issued two extra threadbare blankets and told in tersely formal military - speak to deal with it. 

 And they’d dealt with it really well for a while! They grit their teeth and carried on like a couple of champs: Harrow, having been thoroughly warned against using her magic too frequently, layering on spare cloaks and sweaters until she almost disappeared under a mountain of black fabric; Gideon curling up close to the engine room wall and wincing when the cold sent spiteful twinges shooting through her still-very-busted knee. 

 But then one night their grand flagship of the revolution chugged through a particularly empty sprawl of space and began to slow down. The heat from the engine room guttered like a candle flame. Frost spiderwebbed across the thin plex of their window. Harrow’s breath showed in thin wisps of vapor as she huffed, glaring down at the pages of her book like she wanted to reprimand the cold for daring to interrupt her studies. 

 Gideon had half a mind to encourage her to try (that glare could stop a full - fledged Lyctor in their tracks, who knew what other horrifying powers it possessed?), but thought better of it when she saw the genuine exhaustion in the other girl’s eyes.

 “You doing alright over there, my vulturine vicar?” she asked. “I know it takes some time to absorb all that good bone knowledge, but you haven’t turned a page in like half an hour.”

 The thunderous look on Harrow’s face darkened further as she set her book aside with an exasperated thump. “This is ridiculous. I studied in the depths of Drearburh for years without any issue, and yet here I am struggling to focus like a novice. It isn’t even that cold.” She bit her lip as a shiver ran through her at the words. 

 “Evidence seems to suggest otherwise, o mistress of melancholy. Do you want me to go ask that guy in the supply room for another blanket? He still owes me for his son’s fencing lesson.”

 Supply room guy didn’t really owe her anything, but she knew that mentioning it would make Harrow feel better. If she could believe that the nice things Gideon did for her were actually for Totally Self - Serving, Debt - Settling reasons, she could accept them without feeling guilty.

 (Guilt had haunted Harrow more than ever upon returning to her own body, making it hard to breathe on good days and leaving her shaking with sobs on bad ones. 

It was one of those fun little things they had in common.)

 From the way Harrow’s shoulders stiffened, though, it seemed that Gideon Nav’s patented Guilt Workaround wasn’t going to be as effective as usual. She shook her head - a stiff little gesture that made her earrings rattle - then sighed. 

 “No. Thank you, though, it’s kind of you to offer.” 

 The thank you was sincere, and that was admittedly pretty nice, but all the sincerity in the world wouldn’t change the fact that Harrow was still  very obviously shivering. She looked miserable beneath her usual mask of face paint and stoicism. The dark red bead of blood-sweat trailing down her temple indicated that she'd probably tried using some kind of homeostasis theorem, but it wasn't working well enough. 

 There had to be a solution to this problem somewhere. Harrow's stubborn pride meant that she wouldn't accept help outright - she would sooner set her books on fire than admit what she thought of as a weakness - but if Gideon could play it just right, maybe she wouldn't have to. It would need to be done carefully - too sappy and she'd be uncomfortable, too straightforward and she'd balk.  Casual, Gideon decided. Nice and casual was the way to go. It would just be a matter of execution.

 "Soooo," she said at length, leaning back against the wall all cool and easy. (She folded her arms up behind her head as an afterthought, appreciating the way it made her still-atrophied-but-getting-there muscles stand out through the thin fabric of her shirt. Confidence boosts were going to be scarce and sorely needed in the conversation to come - she’d take them where she could get them.)

 Naturally, Harrow did not appreciate the change in tack or the cool-and-easy-ness. She did, however, manage to muster up a look so steeped in wary disapproval that it cut through her earlier frustration like a hot knife through bone marrow. “So.”

 “You sure about that blanket? Because really, it would only take me a second -”

 “I’m sure. Thank you.”

 “Then, um, did you want to borrow mine?”

 Harrow blinked. “You need yours.”

 “Yeah, I know! I meant that we could maybe - share. Pool our resources.” She patted the edge of her bunk gamely, then instantly regretted it when Harrow’s eyes narrowed even further. 

 “You want us to sleep together?”

 "No? I mean, technically, but no. In the literal way. Not the other way.” Well maybe the other way sometime if you wanted to but that’s a whole other weird conversation that we probably shouldn't touch with a ten foot pole or we might explode. 

 "How exactly would that work?" The caution was still heavy in Harrow's voice, but some of the disapproval had ebbed away. 

 "I mean. We'd probably need to use my bed, since my sheets aren't covered in gross bone gobbets, but you could bring your blankets over and layer 'em over mine and then we'd have twice the blankets! And, you know, body heat. Which has its perks." Even Gideon's cool-and- easy-ness faltered at that, but she bravely soldiered on. "The point is, we'd both be warm."

 "And it won't - make things weird?" 

 "Nope! Not weird. All perfectly chill, my shivering scion."

 Harrow paused for a moment, worrying her lip between her teeth. "I'll get ready for bed," she said at last, clipped and decisive. "And I'll think about it."

 "Take your time. I'll be here."

 Moments later, after the shivering scion had swept grandly out of the room, Gideon's Thinking Brain crashed unceremoniously into her Talking Brain. Things were not, in fact, going to be perfectly chill. There were going to be some logistical problems with this arrangement. Big logistical problems.

 Big logistical problems namely revolving around the mutually exclusive facts that the midnight monarch was not especially comfortable with touch, and Gideon Nav, space - bee slayer and resurrected badass, was a sleep cuddler.

 Or, well, she was in theory. She didn’t have much (any) “real world” experience to go on, but she’d woken up many, many times back on the Ninth with a bundle of blankets wrapped up in her arms or nestled close to her chest. The habit had never really embarrassed her back then - she actually kind of liked it. She felt warmer and less lonely when she had something to hold, even in the frigid emptiness of her cell. 

 But that was back then. Things were different in the here - and - now. Harrow was in the here - and - now, and Gideon would never forgive herself if she ruined things with Harrow right when their relationship was on the upswing. They were actually talking, slowly figuring out how to work together again. The furious, tearful intensity between them in the wake of their reunion had calmed and warmed into something almost like real friendship. 

 After all that had happened - everything that had gone wrong over the past year and a half - they’d found a fragile sort of peace. There was no way in Hell she was going to ruin that peace now.

 So while Harrow swished about getting ready for bed, Gideon leveled with herself and laid down some ground rules. Don’t make this weird, Nav. Make sure she’s comfortable, give her her space, and don’t think about cuddling with her. 

 ...even though it would probably be warmer, and she has shitty necro circulation and essentially no body mass so she needs all the warmth she can get, and she gets that kinda soft peaceful look on her face when - no, fuck, see? You’re doing it already. Even if she did like you like that, which she absolutely doesn’t because she’s got a good old-fashioned frostbite girl back home, that’s not what you’re here for. You’re her cav. Her sworn sword. You’re here to do your job and make sure she doesn’t get her thumbs bitten off again. That’s it.

 “You’re staring.”

 Harrow’s voice cut sharp as a bone shard through Gideon’s nervous thought - spiral. Having apparently completed her grim evening rituals, she’d settled lightly on the far edge of the to - be - shared bed, countless dark layers poofing out around her like the feathers of a posturing crow. Her face was flecked with dots of gray from scrubbing off her paint, and her short hair stuck up in messy licks of black fluff despite her increasingly irritated attempts to smooth it flat. 

 It shouldn’t have been endearing. It really, really shouldn’t have. 

 It was.

 Gideon was so screwed.

 “Shit,” she muttered, scrubbing a hand over her face to ground herself. She glanced over to meet Harrow’s eyes (and wow, was that a mistake, they were as mesmerizing a swirl of black and gold as ever), then forced a smile like she wasn’t screaming internally. “Sorry. Zoned out a little. You good to go?”

 The wryly exasperated glint in Harrow’s eyes made them glow even brighter in the dim light. “Yes, I’m ‘good to go,’ thank you. Are you, though? You look … troubled.” 

 Shit. Shit. Shit. Think nice, normal thoughts. Don’t let her know. She cannot know. 

 “I’m always good, my chthonic countess,” she lied, smooth as could be, throwing in a roguish wink for good measure. That was distractingly stupid enough, it was bound to work.  

 Harrow frowned. “Why are you blinking like that?”

 The roguish wink apparently had not worked. 

 “No reason! Just dust. In my eye. Lots of very rude dust landing right in my eye. Anyway. How are we doing this?”

 A flicker of genuine, anxious concern ghosted over Harrow’s face as her frown deepened. 

 “Gideon,” she began, in that slow, reluctant way of hers that heralded Incoming Indignity. “I know that you were the one to suggest this, but I want to impress upon you that if you aren’t - certain about it, there is another possible solution.”

 She cast around the room for a moment and reached for a massive, dusty tome at the top of a nearby stack, flipping determinedly through the pages. “I've had the idea for some time, but I only just managed to convince our commanding officer that I could use theorems 'responsibly' without their constant supervision, so I haven't been able to test it until now. Small - scale thanergetic fission reactions produce sparks of flame that, if handled extremely carefully, could give off enough heat - "

 “Wait.” Gideon held up a hand, her own anxious brain jolting back online at the word flame. “Wait, wait, wait. Harrow. Seriously? The concern is sweet, don’t get me wrong, but your other solution is death - fire?”

 “I said that it was a possibility,” she snapped back, that old brittle defensiveness calcifying over the vulnerability in her voice. Her posture straightened with a great rustling of robes: shoulders back, chin high, eyes gleaming with disdainful pride as the bones scattered about their room twitched to life. Looking for all the world like she had when they were ten - twelve - fourteen - sixteen, bitter and vicious and spoiling for a fight. 

 She seemed to realize it right when Gideon did. Her eyes widened, then closed. The bowstring tension in her shoulders slowly ebbed away as her half - formed constructs clattered to the floor. “Sorry,” she said at last, her voice a threadbare murmur. “I’m sorry. That was - uncalled for.”

 “It’s a reflex. I get it.” And she did - she’d done the same thing countless times, had a hand on her sword and a barbed insult on her tongue without even thinking about it. 

 Another one of those fucked up things they had in common. 

 An uneasy silence settled between them, broken only by the rumbling hum of the engines, the thud of footsteps in the hall. 

 “I meant it, you know,” Harrow said, after a long moment. “About other options. It was a half - baked and immature attempt, but I wanted to give you an out if you were uncomfortable.”

 “Yeah, I know, my sepulchral sage. I appreciate it. Half - baked immaturity and all.” She bumped her shoulder gently against Harrow’s, then flopped back on the bunk to stare up at the low ceiling. “Are we, like, committing to honesty hour tonight? How deep into feelings do you want to get?”

 “As deep as is comfortable.”

 “That’s what she said.”

 “It’s a reasonable thing for her to say.”

 Another hush fell over them, marginally more comfortable than the last, as Gideon worried her lip between her teeth and counted the cracks in the ceiling above her. There were nine of them in total. Go fucking figure.

 A bony finger poked her in the side after a few cycles of counting. “Were you going to elaborate, or was that all just a set - up for one of your charming jokes?”

 “I can’t believe it took you eighteen years to finally admit that they’re charming, but no, that’s not why I said it. I’ll lay bare my tender squishy heart for you, penumbral lady. Because you asked so nicely.” 

  Because I think you might already have it. 

 No avoiding it now. Might as well bite the bullet and dive in. 

 “I was on board with the cuddle thing from the beginning, but I felt like you wouldn’t be, and I panicked. You probably already knew that because you’re way more creepily observant than you have any right to be, but there it is. Out in the open.” 

 She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could just run away and hide from the other girl’s piercing gaze. “I just don’t want to fuck things up with you, Harrow. I feel like we’ve got a kind of good thing going now. You haven’t called me a useless halfwit in forever, and I haven’t called you a heinous bitch in forever, and I haven’t wanted to. That’s unheard of for us. I don’t want it to go away.”

 Her voice cracked, and the most damning words burst forth like flowers through concrete: “I don’t want to give you a reason to shut me out again.”

 The memories of those nine months flashed in fragmented mosaic through her mind - the slick stone walls of the well, the freezing churn of the water, the burn in her muscles as she desperately thrashed up toward the surface and reached for someone who didn’t even know she was there. The gut - wrenching loneliness that defined her entire fucking life coalescing in that pit of brackish darkness. The chant rattling on loop in her mind as the water pulled her under: Harrow, what happened, what did you do, why the fuck did you leave me here, I had a purpose, I threw myself on that goddamned rail for a reason, was that not enough for you? 

 Was I not enough for you?

 A cool, fine - boned hand laced with hers and squeezed, just once. The memories blurred. 

 “Gideon,” the voice that had haunted her all that time said. “You know - you have to know that isn’t why I did it.”

 “Why did you, then?”

 A tiny hitch of breath. A soft, almost incredulous laugh. Then:

 “Because I loved you.”

 The words hung heavy in the frozen air. 

 “You - what?”

 “I loved you.” She said it so simply. Like it was something she’d come to terms with long ago. “I loved you beyond reason, and for once in my life I wanted to do right by you and keep you safe as you did me. The motivation doesn’t justify a moment of it, I won’t pretend it does, and I can’t even begin to erase the hurt it caused you. But I need you to understand that it was never because of something you did wrong. You are good, darling. Good to the core. You always have been.”

 Bright spots bloomed before Gideon’s eyes as her reeling mind fought to catch up. Three thoughts sprang unbidden to the forefront:

 Mmf.

 And: Darling?

 And:

“Loved. You said ‘loved.’ Why the past tense?”

 She sat there, staring blankly up at the ceiling, half - expecting a don’t be presumptuous, Griddle or something even remotely normal, at least. What she got instead was another laugh, halting and shaky and suddenly deeply bitter. The hand in hers went rigid and drew away. 

 “I came to my senses. I remembered the countless awful things I’ve done. Saw myself for the leech that I am. I’ve taken and taken and taken from you, over and over again, torn away at your life like a scavenger, I can’t steal anything more  - “

 “Who said anything about stealing?”

 For the first time since the grand awkward commencement of honesty hour Gideon felt a genuine smile bloom across her face. “Come on, Nonagesimus, give me some credit. You honestly think I would have stuck around this long if I didn’t know what I was giving you? If I wasn’t getting something out of it too?”

 “What could you possibly be getting out of it?”

 “You. I like you. Like, a lot. More than I ever thought I would. And I know the brain weasels are going to start yammering about how that’s impossible, and you don't deserve it, and we've still got a mountain of baggage left to work through, but I’ve thought about it a lot and I really mean it. Having you with me has made this whole shitty thing infinitely less shitty."

 With a surge of sudden bravery and dizzy emotion, she reached out to take Harrow's hand again and, giving her ample time to pull away, pressed a feather - light kiss to the back. “If you want me here too, sunshine - as your cav or your friend or something else - then I'm not going anywhere."

 Harrow closed her eyes, took a deep shuddering breath, and - smiled. A real one, slow and hesitantly sweet, lighting up her careworn face. "I need to think about it - we both should think about it. But I do want you here, in whatever way you want to be."

 "Yeah? Cool."

 "Cool."

 Silence settled upon them for the third time that night, but this time it was different. It was soft and tentative, fragile and new, like budding grave - flowers reaching for the sun. First flowers, the both of them, clawing up out of the grit and finding a way to bloom.

 "Should we go to sleep now?" Harrow asked at last, her rasping voice low and quiet. "It's getting late."

 "We probably should. Cam and Pal are gonna kill us if we're not up by 6:00 tomorrow. Are you still up for this, though? Like, the whole 'two girls, chilling in a military bunk, zero feet apart 'cause they're freezing and also maybe like each other' thing?"

 "Yes. On one condition."

 "Anything."

 "This might be difficult for you."

 "Seriously, Harrow, just tell me. Name it and it's done."

 "No sex jokes."

 She heaved a sigh, mock - exasperated and so stupidly fond. "As you wish, my dearest darling death omen. As you wish."

 It took a while to get comfortable - with Harrow's knobby elbows jabbing Gideon in the stomach, Gideon's clunky knee brace getting tangled in the sheets, the blankets collectively giving up and puddling on the floor at least ten times - but eventually, like everything else, they made it work. They fumbled through the sleep - cuddling confession with an admirable lack of panic on both sides, culminating in a firm agreement that they would let each other know the moment they were at all uncomfortable and an "I trust you" from Harrow so pure in its sincerity that it would be ringing through Gideon's mind for at least a myriad.

 Harrow was the first to fall asleep, curled up tight in a cocoon of black fabric, the dark crown of her head just barely brushing the sunburst scar on Gideon's chest. Her shallow breaths fell into an even, steady rhythm, interspersed with whistling snores that Gideon was definitely going to tease her about when her heart was less of a melted puddle of goo. 

 The minutes slipped by warm and slow as drops of honey as her own eyes grew heavier, fluttering closed. She gave her necromancer - her Lyctor - her beautiful baneful bone empress one last sleepy smile, and drifted off.

 (When Camilla went to shake her sparring partner awake the next morning, she found the two of them still sound asleep, wrapped up in each other's arms and looking more peaceful than she'd ever seen them. She huffed a laugh, muttered "finally," and let them be.)

[ca-8]

Zuko x Reader Scenario: When You First Meet

She could get in so much trouble.

No disciplined, sane child would ever dare to sneak out at night, especially those with parents who act like the most important people to have ever existed. Parents who always expected their children to be well-behaved, respectful, quiet, and incredibly boring for every second of their life. Parents who don't have a clue of what relaxation meant, even if some sort of high-class professor gave them a month-long lecture about it.

Basically the kinds of parents (Y/n) was so sick of.

The nine-year-old bit her bottom lip as she ever so carefully pulled the door to the beach house shut. Once she was sure no one had woken up and was on their way to give her another five-hundred-hour lecture on her ‘ignoble’ actions (whatever that meant), she snuck down the stairs and dashed toward the direction of the beach. 

‘Is it this way? Or was it the other way?’ she questioned. She forgot, and her mind wouldn’t let her remember. Her heart was racing; she had never done something this audacious. If her parents had already woken up and discovered that the pillows under her covers were not her, she’d be better off being alone with a fully grown dragon while covered in the finest jewels. 

And yet, at the first sight of the moon just barely hanging over the ocean as its light painted a shimmering white streak over the water, she instantly abandoned the worry. Here, on the quiet, isolated beach, she was free.

(Y/n) took off her shoes, and her toes instantly sunk into the cool sand. Her eyes scanned the beach, from the giant rocks asserting an aura of dominance, the tranquil ocean reflecting the twinkling stars that partnered the moon, and instantly to the lone turtle crab. 

A wide smile spread across her face, and she quietly approached her favorite animal. It stood at the end of the ocean line, gazing up at the stars. Something tightened inside of her; it looked so...lonely. 

“Hello!” she greeted, perhaps a bit too loudly than she intended, when she bent over it, suddenly covering its view. The turtle crab jumped and shrunk back a little in its shell, though (Y/n) still could see its upside-down face. 

“Why're you by yourself? Where're your friends?” she asked, jumping down beside it and making sand fly all over her pajamas. It stared back at her, then ever so slowly emerged from its shell. (Y/n) gasped. “Do you not have any?”

The turtle crab only blinked in response. “That’s terrible!” she exclaimed. "Buuuut then again, I don’t have any either, so… Hey, why don’t the two of us be friends?” She got on her knees, and the turtle crab’s only view was her giant smile. It blinked again, not saying yes, but also not saying no. 

“Great!” she cheered, embracing her new friend. Though a turtle crab wasn’t really her original ideal friend, every single kid she met proved themselves to be the most stuck-up, boring, rude people in existence, so maybe this was the better option. “So what’s your name?”

She immediately felt stupid when it didn’t, or, rather couldn’t, respond. “Ehehe, right, uh, you can’t talk,” (Y/n) realized. “But don’t worry, I can give you a name! What abooouuuttt….” The young girl scanned the animal for a quick moment before saying, “Misterrr...Snapper?”

It stared right at her, the moonlight reflecting off of its black eyes. “I’ll take that as a yes.” She got up and bowed respectfully to the small creature, just like how her mother taught her whenever they approached someone important. “Nice to m-I mean, my name is (Y/n) (L/n), and I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Snapper.”

She glanced at the turtle crab again and let out a soft laugh, then carefully picked it up and put it on her head. Her stomach flipped, and she couldn’t help but envision how loud her mother would be when she’d tell her to get it off her head. But, for now, she put the thought aside and focused on being glad it didn’t panic and run off. 

“You’re weird,” she giggled, “I like you, Mr. Snapper. Now, what should we play tonight?”

The night always seemed to last forever, so (Y/n) and Mr. Snapper could do whatever they wanted without anyone saying otherwise. When the moon would lose the war over the sky with the sun, it could be the second she’d stop running around the entirety of Ember Island. 

But doing that seemed pointless. And Mr. Snapper didn’t look like the type to enjoy marathons or running in general anyway. 

“I know!” (Y/n) abruptly exclaimed, making Mr. Snapper bounce on her head. She gazed up, expecting to see his curious eyes, but only obtained the sight of the twinkling stars. “What do you think about being the Dark Water Spirit?” 

~

“He...He’s gone,” (Y/n) whispered in the deepest voice she could make, staring dreamily at the ocean line where the moon had almost touched the water. She glanced back at her princess, Mr. Snapper, who stood silently with the white shell on his head. She didn’t know why she expected him to say his lines in a high-pitched, princess-y voice. 

“Yes, this glorious land is finally free from the Dark Water Spirit,” the young noble said, moving Mr. Snapper in a way that made him appear as if he were talking in the high voice she was doing for him. “And now, we can be together, Noren.”

(Y/n)/Noren picked him up and stared into her mortal girlfriend’s eyes as huskily as she could (she also tried not to burst out laughing when she thought about it). “I never thought I’d fall in love with a mortal, but I can’t seem to take my eyes off of you, Yua.” 

Mr. Snapper/Yua blinked, the moonlight reflecting off of his/her eyes. The shell began to fall off his/her head and (Y/n)/Noren fixed it quickly. “Does that mean you’re going to stay mortal? I can’t exactly marry a dragon, you know,” Mr. Snapper/Yua “said”. 

“Hm, let’s just say you’ll be seeing the best of both worlds. Now kiss me, Empress!” Yua and Noren gazed into each other’s eyes for a blissful eternity, and they slowly leaned into the moment of affinity. Their lips were close, even though Yua seemed to be pulling away for some reason, and then-

“Um, what are you doing?” 

(Y/n)’s soul was yanked out of Noren’s body and forcefully transported back onto Ember Island. Inches away from her face was no longer Empress Yua, but Mr. Snapper without his crown. And standing a few feet away from them was none other than Prince Zuko. 

The Prince of the Fire Nation was here. He was standing right there. Staring at the daughter of a lowly noble as she was about to kiss a turtle crab.

Had the air only turned unbearably hot and heavy to her or did something set the moon on fire? 

“Nothing,” she answered immediately in Noren’s voice. (Y/n) cleared her throat, mumbled an “I mean”, quickly held Mr. Snapper by her side, then put on the most innocent smile she could muster. “Nooothing,” she said in a voice much higher than it was supposed to be.

The Prince stared at her like she was standing on water and speaking three different languages all at once. “O...kay…” he said slowly. 

'Who taught you to talk in such an absurd way to the Prince?' her mother's voice suddenly echoed within her mind. 'Fix your posture and throw away that ridiculous smile. And please, dear, speak NORMALLY.'

“S-SO!” she yelled, making him jump and instantly breaking every one of mind mother's rules. “What’re you doing here? On this beach? That my, uh, family bought? I think? Cause you, uh, have your own beach, cause you’re a prince, a-and...um…” Her smile widened despite her infinitely growing urge to bury herself as deep into the ground as possible and hide there forever.

“This is actually my family’s beach,” he said with eyes knowing this was the dumbest girl on the planet. “You’re the one not supposed to be here.”

'Once again, you're acting like an embarrassment to our family,' mind mother muttered.

Everything inside her twisted and tightened and told her to run. Though there were tsunamis of embarrassment hitting her relentlessly, there were also tiny ripples of realization. “Huh, so that’s what that sign meant when it said ‘Prince Ozai’s Beach’,” (Y/n) commented. 

The Prince winced. “What? Are you-?”

Her eyes widened as they caught the animal he held in his arms. “IS THAT A TURTLE CRAB?” she shouted, then ran up to the boy and bent down to get a better look at the other turtle crab. Prince Zuko jumped back and hissed at her to be quiet, and her instincts told her to bring back the courtesy for him she had just thrown out the window. However, she only inched closer because LOOK AT THAT ADORABLE LITTLE FACE HOW DID SHE NOT NOTICE IT EARLIER?

"Awww, so cuuuute!" She reached out to pet it, but it sank back in its shell. Mind mother sighed, creating a tiny hint of guilt inside her. 

"H-Hey!"

(Y/n) looked up at the nine-year-old Prince, glancing back at the turtle crab every few seconds. "Keep your voice down or else you'll wake up the whole island!" Prince Zuko whisper-shouted. 

She stood up, cocking her head, then caught a glimpse of the turtle crab again. "What're you doing with it anyway?" 

"Um…" He glanced down at the turtle crab. "N-None of your business!" he insisted hurriedly with a hint of pink on his face.

She squinted her eyes at him, and the stern look in his onyx pupils faded away to the same confusion from earlier, then discomfort when more quiet seconds had passed. "You're...here because Miss Green broke into your room but you couldn't keep her there so you brought her back to shore because you wanted to make sure she made it back home safely!" (Y/n) took in a large breath, filling her almost-empty lungs.

The Prince stared back at her with widened, bewildered eyes. "...Who?" he said. 

"Your turtle crab's name! I named it that because it reminds me of my first teacher, Mrs. Red, but since it has a green shell, well, you know. Also, totally off-topic, but have you noticed that red and green go so well together? I've been getting into sewing lately, and I was thinking that Ms. Green and Mr. Snapper, that's my turtle crab's name, by the way, could have red and green sweaters! Wouldn't that be adorable?" 

He said nothing. He didn't exactly look angry, but not really pleased too.

Her smile dropped, then she giggled nervously. "Sorry, I'll stop talking. A-And you don't have to call it that if you don't want to! Or name it at all! I-I was just-"

The Prince went against his fear of being caught as he let out the loudest laugh (Y/n) ever heard.

Her entire body felt like it had been engulfed by every firebender's element. Her family might as well have formed a crowd around them with their disapproving gaze. 'Maybe Mr. Snapper can help me start a new life under my bed,' she thought as she gazed at her feet.

"You're weird," the Prince suddenly said, chuckling. 

(Y/n) snapped her gaze up at him and saw his weirdly relieved smile. "Oh, thanks!" she said, feeling her own smile curl upon her lips. She wasn't one hundred percent sure if he really meant that as a compliment, but his face didn't hold any signs of mockery. 

Her stomach did a backflip. Was the Prince, one of the most important people ever, being...kind of nice to her?

Prince Zuko laughed again, then after a quick moment, his face went back to being serious. "Um, please don't tell anyone I'm doing this, okay?" he said.

(Y/n) beamed and nodded. She stood in silence for once while Prince Zuko sighed, walked over to the edge of the water, then placed the turtle crab on the rolling water. 

Mr. Snapper wiggled out of her arms and crawled over to Ms. Green. Zuko stepped back until he was next to (Y/n), and the two animals stood together facing the moon with their claws just barely touching. 

"Ah, that's so adorable!" (Y/n) squealed. "It's like Yua and Noren!"

Zuko turned and raised an eyebrow at her. "You know about Love Amongst The Dragons?"

The girl gasped dramatically, swiftly putting her gaze on him. "Know it? I'll have you know that I've memorized every single line of that play!" she said, holding her head high with pride. "I can perform every character at any time! In fact, I was doing just that before you interrupted my final act." 

'You do realize you're still talking to someone much more important than you, right dear?' mind mother whispered. (Y/n)'s grin was wiped off her face along with most of her pretension. 

Surprisingly, he didn't look offended. "That's my favorite play, too," he said with a hint of enjoyment on his face. "Was that why you were about to make out with your turtle crab?"

She blushed furiously and pouted, averting her eyes. "M-Maybe…and his name's Mr. Snapper..."

Prince Zuko chuckled again and after a moment of weirdly comfortable silence, a frown appeared on his face. "Hey, I need to head back. And you should go in case the guards kick you out."

"...Th-There are guards here?" (Y/n) whispered. She ran over and fiercely hugged Mr. Snapper, then went back over to him, her voice slightly increased. "Why didn't you say so?!" 

He smiled the most carefree grin in the world. "I thought you knew, since you're on my dad's beach."

"Well, it was nice meeting you Prince Zuko, but now I need to figure out how to escape before my parents have to get me out of prison." She quickly bowed, her heart fluttering at the sound of the Fire Lord's grandson enjoying her joke (hopefully it stayed like that). 

"Wait!" he suddenly called.

She was beginning to run back to the beach house when he did. (Y/n) turned around and said, "Yes?"

"Um," he started, hesitating. The young girl cocked her head; someone like him shouldn't be nervous about talking to someone like her. If anything, she should still be the one hesitating and worrying about what to say. "What's your name?" he finally asked. 

She flashed a grin as the moon began to lower into the light pink sky. "(Y/n), Your Majesty." Before he could respond, she ran off the beach as fast as she could, hoping to see her parents still asleep within the beach house.

[lets-get-kraken-boys]

FatGum (Taishiro Toyomitsu) X Chubby! Confectioner/Baker! Reader: Sweets and Treats~

(Description: Woo, I’m so excited for my first story on this account! This inspiration came to me after thinking about our one and only, favorite chubby pro hero and me wanting to see some puppy love for you two. Also, the title says Confectioner/Baker, I want to clarify that Reader isn’t truly a baker but I feel like “Confectioner” wouldn’t reach as large of a crowd as “Baker” would, not a big deal but just FYI. I hope my first fic is enjoyed by those who choose to read, thank you for the support.)

~

Fanfiction Lingo

(Y/N) - Your Name

(H/C) - Hair Color

(E/C) - Eye Color

(F/C) - Favorite Color

~

“Normal speech.”

‘Inner thoughts.’

~

Requester: No One!

Reader Gender: Female (She/Her)

Style of Story: Oneshot // Entirely fluff, a pinning love on both ends, and a happy end to boot! There is one little heartbreak moment, but it’s over in a second.

Word Count: 4.5K Words

WARNING(s): None, unless you see adorable, tooth-rotting fluff as a crime!

~

“Morning, Tammy! Lovely day, isn’t it?” you greeted your employee with a bright smile as she stumbled through the door into your bakery.

She huffed, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes, “Sure, but I’ve hardly been up long enough to notice it. How are you always so peppy this early?” She pointed to the mechanical clock ticking from the left wall that read ‘4:04 AM’. You glanced outside and saw hardly anyone walking through the streets, except the occasional drunkard or lonely soul.

You bashfully shrugged your shoulders, “Well, after years of suffering waking up at three in the morning, you kinda get used to the torment! But, hey, so happy we got the shop far away from the center of the city, you can actually see the sunrise from here!” you tried to help her look on the bright side as you handed her one a cup of one of your homemade coffee brews. She took a sip of the drink and let out a content sigh through her nose, a small, but thankful smile on her face.

“You know, for being a confectioner, you make some pretty solid coffee. What is that?” her eyebrows furrowed as she asked, taking another swig to figure out the secret intense flavor.

You giggled, “That’s probably the nutmeg I added. Is it good?”

“More like fantastic, (Y/N). Trying out new recipes again?” she asked over her shoulder, hanging up her light jacket that protected her from the early morning breeze while grabbing her apron. Though, it being July in Japan, she probably wouldn’t need it again for a while.

“Yeah, I think this one will really please the early risers. It gives a special sort of kick to the taste, don’t you think?” you asked while gently sliding open the glass case that held all of the beautifully decorated pastries, grabbing a pair of tongs and a small floral ceramic plate, carefully placing a fresh Apple Strudel onto the plate, and setting it down on the counter.

“Totally. Hey, can I have a--,” Tammy stopped mid-sentence as she turned around to see the delectable treat already waiting for her.

“Your breakfast awaits, m’lady~,” you slurred out in a fake British accent with a cheesy smirk and a dramatic bow.

She scoffed, “You dork. Am I really that predictable?” she asked, scarfing down the pastry in a matter of seconds as she leaned on the counter.

“Yeah, you kinda are,” you joked as she playfully shoved your plush side.

“You know,” she continued, looking down at the gooey food, “It’s a shame you aren’t more popular with the people. You have a great location, an amazing personality and work staff, if I do say so myself, and don’t even get me started on the incredible stuff you make,” she praised.

“Oh, stop it, Tammy. You’re gonna make me blush,” you flushed from her sincere words, “Besides, I’ve only been open for two weeks, it’s going to be slow for awhile. It’ll ramp up eventually.”

“Yeah, I guess, but you can’t deny that your baked goods are better than most of the others in the country! One day, when people get their heads out of their asses, these little gifts of magic are going to make you RICH!” she threw her lanky airs up into the air and around your shoulders. She spun your smaller frame in a circle while the two of you laughed.

“Ha! Yeah yeah, I know! Now, stop your messing around and come help me fill the rest of these Cream Horns.” you concluded while you pat her taller shoulder. She groaned at the request but gave you a tiny nod. Tammy turned around while tying her short, brown hair into a messy bun, readying herself for the busy day ahead. You smiled while she retreated to the kitchen but before you went to follow her you decided to look out the window again.

Shuffling your legs over to the windows, you got a clear view of the rising sun and all its glory, the hints of yellow, orange, pink, red, and even blue from the night's previous dark veil still clung onto the brightening sky. Somehow you had this weird feeling that today something life changing was going to happen. You didn’t know if you should be excited or worried, but you decided to push those thoughts aside and continue on to the back of the shop where you could already hear the clutter and clang of falling pans, no doubt Tammy’s handy work.

Oh, if you only knew how right your hunch was…

~

~ Timeskip to a little later in the day and a P.O.V change to FatGum ~

~

“How much longer do I have for patrol?” I asked myself, pulling out my phone to check the time. The time read ‘9:12 AM’ and I huffed, still a couple more hours to go. Putting the device back in my pocket with a grimace but quickly faked a smile as I continued down the bustling street. The active community, excited civilians, and eager children usually never fails to put a smile on my face, but today everything just felt like a drag. I was sluggish, unfocused, and I couldn’t understand why. I shook my head, get your head in the game, Taishiro. You don’t have time to let your mind wander on duty.

After what seemed like hours, but was more than likely only 15 minutes, I felt my stomach let out a rumbling growl which made me groan. I stopped walking on the sidewalk and took a second to consider the situation, wandering the city for a couple of hours with nothing too exciting to do really works up an appetite, and I do need to keep up my strength. I’m a hero after all, and denying myself is like ignoring my civic duty to protecting the people! At this point, I’ll take any excuse to get out of this pointless shambling. But the REAL question is, what to get? I glanced around the street and noticed a few shops further down the block that looked to be food related. I smirked, perfect.

I wove through the few people occupying the area, past a few excited teenagers who asked for autographs, and eventually made it to the shops. Looking around I saw some insurance shops, an enticing Pad Thai sit down, and few others, but the one that caught my eye was a cutesy, (F/C)-painted bakery named, “Queen of Tarts”. Chuckling at the interesting name choice, I looked inside the establishment through the plexiglass windows.

The inside carried a light, fluffy atmosphere, pastel colored walls combining with the checkered tile floor caused a small smile out of me. A few small tables with delicate iron chairs here and there, but the real prize were the copious amounts of sweets that were displayed in the glass cases. Each were different colors, sizes, but they all looked delicious. Feeling my stomach grumble, I grabbed the door handle, flung it open, and walked into the scrumptious smelling shop. After walking in, the tiny jingle of bells alerting the workers of my presence, I finally saw the most stunning sweet of all.

“Hi, welcome to the Queen of Tarts, how may I help you today?” the gorgeous woman at the counter asked but it didn’t register in my brain because I was already lost in thought. Her adorable (H/C) hair framed her face to show her soft, chubby cheeks, her eyes glistened in the sunlight, and her smile, oh, it completely lit the room with its radiance. Curves in all the right places, I felt my cheeks heat up as I let out a nervous laugh, cursing my inner self for not holding it together. Seriously, I can face the nastiest of villains but throw one pretty lady in front of me and I fall apart? Fantastic. Realizing I wasn’t answering, I quickly stepped forward and cleared my throat.

“Uh, yeah. Hi,” ‘Wow, so smooth, Taishiro,’ I criticized in my head, “I...haven’t seen this store here before, you new?” I offered a smile, which she returned tenfold, making me even more flustered.

“Yes, actually! I set up shop here only a few weeks ago, finally settling in with the hustle and bustle of city life.” she finished, leaning in closer against the marble counter with her arms crossed.

“City life? You didn’t grow up here?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she shrugged, “Grew up on more of the countryside style of life. I love the city though, do you?”

“Yeah, you gotta get used to it when you spend all your time protecting it.” I let a hint of boasting attitude out, hoping she’d realize who I am.

“Ha, I hear ya! I do my own share of ‘protecting’ around here too. Well, if you count making goodies, that is.” she giggled, standing up and walking over to the glass containers. I deflated a little, guess that wasn’t going to work this time. I shuffled over to where she was standing and looked down at the treats they offered.

“So, kind stranger, what is it you’ll be having?” she asked after a minute of me inspecting the pastries. The problem with not being picky about what you eat, means there are tons of more options than that of others, and when all the items look equally as delectable, you get a little overwhelmed. Plus, the fact that a beautiful woman whom I would very much like to not embarrass myself in front of is waiting for my answer doesn’t help.

I gulped, “I don’t know, they all look amazing. What’s your favorite?” I asked, hoping to know a little more about her.

“Oh, gosh, let me think…” she pouted, resting her head on the palm of her hand while looking deep in thought at the treats. The adorable crease of her eyebrows scrunched together, the tip of her tongue poking out in concentration, her lovely, curvalicious body...that’s it, I’m so screwed.

“I think I’d go for the Chocolate Cream Puff,” her answer drawing both me and her out of our distracted states, “My dad taught me years ago this amazing chocolate ganache recipe and I drizzle that all over the tops of homemade pastry puffs and the whipped filling, ugh! It’s to die for, seriously!” she finished, a sparkle in her (E/C) eyes that fueled the fire in my gut. She spoke about food just as passionately as I did! She’s perfect.

Without thinking, I quickly said, “I’ll take ten.”

~

~ (Y/N) P.O.V ~

~

“Alright, there you go, 10 Chocolate Cream Puffs. Have a wonderful day, sir!” I said with a bright smile.

“Please, call me Taishiro. And you are..?” he asked.

I flushed, I’m such a klutz, “(Y/N), pleasure to meet you, Taishiro. I hope you enjoy them and come back to visit m...us! Come visit us again!” I hastily fixed my wording.

As he smiled and waved goodbye, I rolled the tension out of my shoulders and breathed a sigh of relief. It’s okay, he was nice...and cute...and...really handsome. Wow, I am I sweating?

“HOLY CRAP!” I jumped as I heard Tammy squeal out behind me, I spun around to look at her standing in the doorway to the back, watching the leaving guest with an awestruck face.

“What?! Where’s the fire?!” I shouted running up to her, grabbing the edge of my apron.

“(Y/N), look at me,” she grabbed my shoulders and forced me to stare into her hazel eyes, “Do you know who that was?”

I shrugged my shoulders as best as I could under her vice grip, “A customer, right?”

“A custom--ugh, curse you for not keeping up with the media,” she yelled while flinging her arms to the sky in exasperation before shoving them back on my shoulders, “(Y/N), that wasn’t just any old customer! That was the FatGum!”

I blinked, “Uh, who?”

“Aarrghh! The rank 58 Pro Hero in Japan! What did you say to him?!” I paled as her words sunk in. My legs felt like jelly and I wanted to lie on the floor and die of embarrassment as she raved on about my ignorance.

‘Oh, so I’ve fallen for a Pro Hero. Awesome.’

~

~ Timeskip to a few weeks later, same P.O.V ~

~

Who knew meeting a Pro Hero and potentially having a crush on him could be so amazing? After Taishiro, who is apparently a hero named FatGum, left the store, he personally posted on his main platform of media about the shop and how incredible the desserts were! Of course, to get a compliment from a hero who's Quirk is literally based around food, who’s eaten hundreds of thousands of different dishes, for him to specifically point out your’s brought the media swarming. Business went from nearly dead to tons of people coming in at all open hours! It was fantastic, and the handsome gentleman kept his promise of continually coming in and buying heaps of pastries.

You sighed, leaning against the marble counter after helping a few beautiful ladies buy some tarts, watching their desirable, attractive forms leave the shop and walk past the window. Looking around the busy lounge area, all of the customers were stunning, unique, and most of all thin. You glanced down at yourself, insecurities filling your mind about your appearance and unsurprisingly flickering back to the man plaguing your thoughts. You poked the chub, would he? No. He probably already has someone and even if he didn’t, why would he go for you? You’re a no one to him, someone who just sells him baked goods to fuel his Quirk, nothing more.

“Hey, boss man, what’s up?” Asher, a friend and employee of yours, asked while spinning you away from the counter to face him, drawing Tammy’s attention from her place on the stool behind the counter.

“Oh, it’s nothing, Asher. Just distracted is all, I’m fine!” you sighed and faked a smile.

Asher pulled a skeptical look and without looking at Tammy he said, “She’s thinking about him again, isn’t she?”

Tammy, like it was her sixth sense to pick up on gossip, flung herself to Asher’s side with the same skeptical look, “Yep, it’s so obvious.”

“I-It is?!” you yelped, pulling your hands up to your cheeks to hide your growing blush.

“What are we gonna do about them, Tam?” he asked, still not looking at her but instead grabbing your chin and tiling your head from side to side to inspect you.

 “I don’t know what else to do, Ash. He so likes her back but both are too scared to make the first move. Truly a dilemma.” she said, twirling a lock of your (H/C) hair.

“Wait, he does?! How do you know?” you pleaded but they weren’t paying any attention to you anymore, making you puff out your pudgy cheeks in frustration. Opting to ignore them, you listened to the aimless chatter of the seating area. The ambiance of the confectionery made you smile because it was exactly how you’d pictured it as a little girl, the sweet smells, the laughter, it finally felt like home after all these years in the making. All your hard work was paying off in the end. Suddenly, the ringing bells of the door opening drew your attention. Glancing back, you caught a glimpse of a familiar yellow and orange clad figure whose head almost touched the ceiling. You gasped and shoved your friends off of you and to the backroom, spun around, and greeted your favorite customer with a bashful smile.

“Taishiro! How lovely to see you again,” but you quickly noticed it wasn’t just him. Two teenage boys, one with striking red hair and a warm smile and the other trembling and hiding inside of his cloak’s hood, were by FatGum’s side, which made you ask, “And who is this with you?”

“(Y/N), this is Eijirou Kirishima and Tamaki Amajiki, they are training under me for hero internships. I wanted to bring them here so they could try your wicked sweets!” he finished, making you blush even harder.

“Aw, that’s so sweet of you, FatGum! It’s a pleasure to meet you, boys.” you finished, holding out your hand for them to shake.

The red-headed boy, Kirishima, shook your hand with a gentle, but strong grip, “Same here! I’ve heard all about this place because of the news, sorry I couldn’t come sooner!”

“Oh, that’s alright, and it’s wonderful to meet you, Tamaki.” you held out your hand, but all you got from him was a curt nod as he shrunk further into his suit.

“You’ll have to forgive, Amajiki, he’s sort of shy.” Taishiro chuckled, rubbing his hand behind his head.

You pulled your hand back with an understanding smile, “No problem, I totally get social anxiety. Happens to the best of us, I’m afraid.”

“No way,” you suddenly heard Tammy mumble behind you, no doubt to Asher, “He brought his kids to see her. Did not expect that. I respect the flex.”

“Isn’t that a little far for first base material?” Asher whispered back to her. You proceeded to shoot them a terrifying glare and subtly kick both of them in the shins, a symbol for them to scram. They gulped and hobbled off to the back to avoid your wrath while you huffed and whipped your hair out of your face with a smile.

“Anyways, since the three of you are here, what would you boys like? It’s on the house!” you confidently boasted.

Taishiro gasped, “(Y/N), no. I can’t do that to you, we’ll pay.”

“Ah, ah, ah, Taishiro. You are by far the most paying of customers and since you’re my favorite of all I want to give this to you. Call it, uh, thank you present for all the publicity you’ve given my store! I couldn’t have made it this far without you.” you grinned.

He sighed and, though it could have been your imagination, blushed a little, “At least let me pay for my portion. I get considerably more than them.”

“Nope, it’s already been decided! Kirishima, what would you like?” you changed the topic before Taishiro could argue with you again. He rolled his eyes, clear girl.

“Hmm,” Kirishima thought, “Do you have anything with strawberries?”

“I got just the thing for you. How about a Strawberry Turnover?” you directed him over to the case with the pastry. He took one glance and excitedly nodded his head and you smiled, grabbed the sweet with a clean pair of tongs, placed it on a napkin, and handed it over to the young man. He grinned and shoveled the pastry into his mouth without hesitation. 

“Thanks so much, Miss (Y/N)! It’s delicious!” he praised through a mouth full of food, making you giggle at his silliness. Walking back over to the registrar, you saw Tamaki looking at you. When he was caught, he gasped, quickly spun around, and hid himself away from you by pressing into FatGum’s body.

“What would you like, Tamaki?” you patiently asked. Taishiro looked at you with doubt and started saying something but you quickly shushed him and continued to wait for the teen’s answer.

Knowing that you weren’t going to give up, Tamaki quietly mumbled out, “D-D-Do you...have anything with...b-black raspberry? I-If you don’t that’s fine too, I-I didn’t mean to sound too rude or--”

“I believe I do,” you quickly interrupted so he didn’t go into a spiraling haze of self doubt, “Would a Black Raspberry Lychee Cake suffice, Tamaki?”

“Y-Yes, Miss (Y/N)...” he sighed in relief, glancing at you with tears in his eyes. You gave him a reassuring smile and grabbed the treat for him, handing it to FatGum so he could hold on to it for Tamaki.

“And now, what’ll you have, kind stranger?” you grinned as he chuckled.

“I’ll take my usual then, 10 Chocolate Cream Puffs, please.” he concluded while giving a sweet grin.

You snarked, “You always get the same thing every time, Taishiro. Don’t you wanna try anything else? I promise they’re poisoned.” you smirked.

He quirked an eyebrow at you, “Are you sure about that?” he joked.

“Taishiro! What kind of business would I be if I poisoned all my guests?” you laughed at him.

“Okay, okay, I’ll try something different, ma’am. Do you have anything with pineapple?” he asked with curiosity.

“You betcha. How does a Pineapple Poke Cake sound, sir?” you interrogated. You saw stars glisten in his eyes and you giggled at his excitement.

“How many?” you joked.

“I’ll take 12!” he concluded, blissfully staring off into space.

You packaged up his request in a cutesy (F/C) box with your confectionery’s logo and, biting your lip in apprehension, decided that if he wasn’t going to make his move then you would. You quickly wrote down your phone number on top of the box in Sharpie and signed off your name with a small black heart. As you finished the lettering you stared at the box and thought about your previous insecurities. There was still time, still time to take out the pastries, put them in a new box, and forget the whole number thing ever happened.

“Hey, don’t you dare take out those treats and put them in a new box, you hear me, girl?!” you heard a tiny male voice whisper above you. Startled, you looked up to see Tammy and Asher peeking through the window that let the customers see into the back of the bakery to watch the baking happen. You glared at the two, so they had been watching you try and confess your feelings to the fluffy hero in a discreet way.

“What am I supposed to do? What if he doesn’t like me and all the signs I’ve been getting from him are me making up a love story that is never going to happen between us?! What if by doing this I ruin our relationship and he makes sure the business tanks?! This is my life's work and I’m putting it on the line for a stupid chance at love!” you whisper yelled at them, the familiar feeling of fear and pain coursing through your system from previous failed love confessions.

“You really think a sweet man like that is going to make your life’s dream completely fall to pieces?” Tammy questioned and you exhaled, shaking your head ‘no’.

“Then go out there and get yo mans! You have to at least try and snatch that, I have to see my OTP become canon!” she sent a determined glare at you, grabbed the box, shoved it in your hands, spun you around, and pushed your forward. You stumbled and almost tripped onto the floor but caught yourself on the marble counter. Standing up tall, you took a deep breath in and urged your legs to move forward. Getting to the registrar, you smiled at Taishiro and the boys and handed over the box to FatGum after giving a subtle cough.

“Thank you for everything, Taishiro, you’ve helped me in ways you could never imagine. Now, I hope you boys come back sometime!” you spoke to the teens, Kirishima grinning at you with his shark-like teeth.

“Will do, Miss (Y/N)! I couldn’t stay away from this place even if I tried, your desserts are the BOMB!” he laughed, punching his fists together in excitement.

“...Thank you, Miss (Y/N).” Tamaki shyly whispered, giving you half a grin before cowering away once more.

“Don’t mention it, loves! Now, Taishiro, remember that I said this is on the--whoa! Are you okay?” you asked the man. His face was almost as red as his student’s hair, his eyes wide and unfocused as he stared at the top of the box, where your number neatly sat. You gulped, maybe it was the wrong decision after all.

Waving a nervous hand in front of Taishiro’s face, it seemed to break him from his spellbound state as he glanced at your eyes, “Are you...feeling okay, Taishiro?”

He looked at you with a shaken gaze as he laughed off his nerves while saying, “Y-Yeah! Just, um...yeah...you...let’s go, boys! Gotta get back to the patrol! Bye, (Y/N)!” he said while ushering the confused boys away from the counter and to the door. You felt your heart shatter into dozens of pieces as you turned your head down to conceal your sorrowed expression from the rest of the lounge area. You felt your eyes wet with tears but you used the sleeve of your white button down you dry them, you have to stay strong. At least you got it off your chest. Sniffling, you turned your head back up only to see FatGum’s face, only he was suddenly a lot more chiseled in the face and body and wow, did it just get hot in here?

“I forgot one thing.” he said with a flustered smile. You, less heartbroken then before just more confused, shrugged your shoulders in question. He then grasped your shoulders, tilted his head to the side, and planted a loving and firm kiss on your right cheek. You felt your face melt into a puddle of red as he held the kiss for a few seconds longer than anticipated but eventually released your cheek, staring back at you with the same expression as you.

“Did you really think I was going to leave without paying you back, cream puff?” he chuckled with a grin.

“I-I, um…” no longer sorrowed, your brain couldn’t catch up with the fact that he most definitely liked you back.

“Heh, you’re cute when you’re flustered for me. I’ll text you later, okay? Keep on the look out for me!” he said, backing up from the counter, only to grow immensely in size as he returned to the state you had met the hero in. He waved goodbye as he walked back to Kirishima who was practically bouncing off the walls in his excitement.

“Congratulations on the relationship, Miss (Y/N)!” the teen sang out as the three of them left the store to patrol the streets for their hero duties once again.

The entire restaurant was silent as they watched your chubby form turn into a puddle of emotions and ditzy giggles, the only thing that was heard was a loud, “YES! IT’S CANON, BABY!”

~

~

~ The End ~

[moony-meadow]

The Very Hungry Beelzebub (3)

Previous Part / Next Part

“Uhhh…” Beelzebub was frozen. He was clearly unsure whether to reveal everything to Mammon in hopes of getting his help, or concocting some kind of lie to protect both his and my dignity. And I had a feeling that, unlike Mammon, Beel didn’t want to make the decision without getting my approval first.

“It’s okay, Beel, you can tell him,” I sighed. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to finding out what Mammon’s reaction would be. I honestly wasn’t entirely sure what to expect.

Though I couldn’t see it, I could easily imagine the confused expression currently painted on Mammon’s face as he wondered why he’d just heard my disembodied voice. No doubt he was looking around the room, searching for the source of the sound. “Huh? What was that?” he questioned, sounding thoroughly befuddled.

Poor Beel was going to be forced to explain the bizarre situation. Of course, I could try to do it, but it seemed like something that would be more easily done by someone not hidden away inside a stomach.

I could feel Beel take a nervous breath. He was obviously not looking forward to this. Despite being younger (and less powerful) than Mammon, he had never really acted like it. Beel would never take orders from the second oldest, and he showed no qualms about stepping on his toes. But now, he was anxious about admitting the truth to Mammon. What exactly he was afraid of, I didn’t know. Did he think his brother would be angry, or disappointed?

“After I started to recover from being sick, I got hungry...really hungry,” Beel began. “I-I wasn’t in control of myself. I ate everything in the kitchen.” I placed a hand on one of the fleshy walls, hoping it would come across as reassuring. “And then...and then Y/N came in.” He winced as he said it, and honestly, I did too.

“What exactly are ya sayin’?” Mammon’s voice had taken on an edge, a dangerous edge I hadn’t ever heard before.

Beel swallowed hard. “Mammon, I...I shrank Y/N and ate them.” He spit out the last part of the sentence, as if he was worried if he didn’t say it fast enough, he would never say it.

“You what?!” Mammon roared. I heard a commotion, and then suddenly everything around me lurched. I threw my arms out to brace myself against the walls. I definitely had not missed being thrown around like a ragdoll inside someone’s stomach, completely subject to their massive movements. “No, that can’t be right. Y/N has a pact with you. They woulda ordered you to stop.”

I could visualize the kicked puppy look on Beel’s face perfectly as he admitted to what he’d done in his hunger-fueled delirium. “They couldn’t. I put a silencing spell on them.”

More rough movements rocked my world, and then I heard, as well as felt, an echoing slam. I had a suspicion Mammon had just shoved Beel against a wall, which was difficult for me to imagine. I didn’t think I had ever seen him get violent with his brothers, or anyone for that matter.

“Mammon! Relax, I’m fine!” I shouted. The last thing I wanted was for things to get more physical, for my own sake as well as for Beel and Mammon’s. Seeing the brothers bicker and get at each other’s throats was commonplace, but I never enjoyed witnessing them coming to blows.

“Y/N?” Mammon exclaimed, his tone of voice instantly shifting. “Y/N, if you didn’t order Beel not to hurt you then you’re in danger! You’ll get digested--”

“Don’t worry, as soon as I got my voice back I made sure that wouldn’t happen,” I promised. The unfiltered concern in Mammon’s voice was more than a little endearing. The guy was quick to play the aloof, uncaring demon, though of course I knew that was all an act. It was refreshing to hear him being genuine and not attempting to hide his true feelings.

I could feel Beelzebub’s heartbeat begin to come down from its heightened rate as the tension in the room began to lessen. Once again he placed a gentle hand against his stomach, and I reciprocated with my much smaller hand on the other side.

“The only problem is I can’t bring them back up the same way you did,” Beel told Mammon regretfully.

“I guess that means you found ‘em tasty, huh?” Mammon said in a grumpy tone. Evidently he was aware of the little stipulation that prevented the Avatar of Gluttony from throwing up. I wasn’t shocked to hear Mammon was none too pleased about “his human” getting eaten by another demon. The Avatar of Greed was nothing if not possessive.

“Even the worst humans have a good flavor,” Beel remarked. “Of course Y/N would be leagues ahead of them.” My heart fluttered at the compliment, though it was a bit spoiled by the context of said compliment. I was glad Beel considered me to be “leagues ahead” of the worst humans, though I didn’t really like the fact that that seemed to go hand in hand with my level of tastiness.

“None of that matters,” I called out, eager to direct the conversation away from how enjoyable I apparently was to eat. “What matters is getting me the hell out of here.”

“Damn right,” Mammon was quick to reply. I had a feeling his determination was in large part attributed to his possessiveness.

Before Mammon had eaten me, when he was trying to convince me to agree to the whole endeavor in the first place, he had mentioned a backup place in case he was unable to cough me up naturally. His exact words had been, “if I can’t get ya out naturally, I could always just swallow the end of a string and pull ya out that way.” While the idea did sound pretty ridiculous and silly, I didn’t see any reason why it couldn’t work.

“Mammon, do you really think Beel swallowing the end of a string would work?” I questioned. I would be more than a little pissed if he had only offered that as a suggestion to trick me into letting myself get swallowed.

“Oh yeah, good idea!” Mammon exclaimed. “Lemme go find somethin’ that’ll work.”

“Wait, hold on a second--” Beel started to protest but was quickly interrupted.

“Beel, you should go to Y/N’s room so we don’t gotta worry about anyone walkin’ in on us.” After that came the sound of hurried footsteps exiting the room.

Beel remained still for a moment before releasing a soft sigh. “I’m going to make my way to your room,” he announced. “I doubt we’ll run into anyone at this hour, but just try not to move too much just in case.” He gave one last soft pat to his stomach before heading off.

While Beel definitely seemed to be making an effort to move slowly and carefully, the ride inside his stomach was still fairly unsteady. While it may have been my second time being eaten, that didn’t mean I was anywhere near used to the experience of riding around in a giant stomach.

Thankfully the trip to my bedroom didn’t last long and was completely uneventful. Once I heard the sound of the door clicking shut behind us, I let out a relieved sigh. “Is it okay if I sit down?” Beel asked tentatively.

A little smile formed on my face. Beel was so considerate and sweet. It was definitely a different experience being in his stomach than in Mammon’s. Aside from Beel’s far more mindful behavior, his stomach was also significantly bigger than Mammon’s had been. Of course that wasn’t surprising. He was the Avatar of Gluttony after all.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” I replied with a light chuckle.

My environment creased slightly, signalling that Beelzebub had gone ahead and taken a seat. I myself took a seat at the bottom of the stomach, reclining slightly. Feeling much more confident that I would make it out of this situation alive, I allowed myself to relax a little bit. To be honest, being inside someone’s stomach was kind of comfy in its own weird way. I had gotten one of the best night’s sleep I’d had in awhile when I’d spent the night with Mammon. Of course, I would never admit that. Mammon’s head was already big enough as it was.

“Hey, Y/N?” I could feel Beel tracing patterns on the outside of his stomach as he spoke. “You know that I don’t, you know, just see you as food, right?” There was nervousness in his voice, as well as a large dose of guilt. He clearly hadn’t forgiven himself for what he’d done despite me having already given my forgiveness.

I paused for a moment. All seven of the demon brothers viewing me as tasty in some capacity was something I had accepted a while ago. I had forged friendships with them knowing that fact. At the start, the only thing keeping any of them from eating me had been my status as an exchange student. However, I believed things had changed. I couldn’t imagine any of the brothers intentionally trying to bring harm to me anymore. Even Belphegor had gone from wanting to kill me to being a close friend.

So maybe they all still secretly imagined eating me. It didn’t matter. Because I was convinced that none of them would put that desire before my wellbeing--so long as they were in their right mind of course. “Don’t worry, I know,” I reassured the demon.

“You’re sure?” Beel asked uncertainly. “Because I know I always talk about how delicious you look, and I ask if I can eat you sometimes--”

“Hey, I get it...well I sort of do anyway,” I said. “Humans are usually on the demon menu. I suppose it’s normal for you to want to eat us.” I added with a shrug.

I tried to imagine the situation from the demon perspective. To put it into human terms, I had to guess it would be like having a delectable ice cream sundae walking around and talking. I definitely wouldn’t feel comfortable eating a sentient ice cream...but that was beside the point.

“That doesn’t make what I did okay,” Beel stated firmly.

I sighed. “Well no, but like I said, that wasn’t really you.” I didn’t care that he wanted to eat me when he was in his right mind. All that mattered to me was that he didn’t actually do it.

It seemed likely that Beel would try to argue with me, but he didn’t get the chance before I heard the bedroom door opening. “Alright, let’s get Y/N outta there!” Mammon announced.

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

Aragorn and Boromir: one of them was late to/forgot about an event for the arguments thing!

Alright! They didn’t argue-argue because they REFUSED. Idiots. But they did have some weird emotional conversations so that’s as good as we’re going to get. I hope you enjoy! 

Title: Sweet is the Air

Pairing: Aragorn/Arwen/Boromir - basically. 

Summary: Set in the same time-line/AU World of Naming the World & My Land is Bare. So, Boromir survived Amon Hen, to everyone’s great joy. The main plot-points remain mostly the same. Barring some people living who died in the canon. 

This is post-ROTK. Denethor remains alive, the ghost at the banquet. 

--

‘Did you forget?’ Aragorn asks.  

‘I didn’t,’ Boromir says. 

Aragorn repeats: But did you? It’s alright if you did.  

‘I didn’t,’ Boromir insists.  

Aragorn wishes the man would just admit to it. Yes, he forgot. How hard is that to say? Yes, it slipped his mind that they were going to have a Talk with Denethor about The State of the Stewardship. Or, more truthfully, Yes, he forgot because he wanted to forget because he doesn’t want to talk to his father about The State of the Stewardship. 

‘Do you know how hard it is to corner your father?’ Aragorn asks, attempting to not be annoyed. Because he isn’t annoyed. This is only the third time this has happened, after all. And the first occurrence of Boromir’s lateness to the Denethor Conversation had a legitimate cause; the second - well it could be argued to be legitimate. A third time though? 

But he’s not annoyed. 

(Arwen, last night, You’re annoyed. Aragorn, insistent, I am not annoyed. Arwen raised an eyebrow and therefore looked eerily like her father, For some reason I remain unconvinced. Have you told him you’re annoyed? This made Aragorn scowl and so he therefore looked like a statue of one of his dead relatives, Why should I do that? I’m not annoyed. There’s nothing to talk about. Arwen, I’ll tell him if you don’t. To which Aragorn tried to forcefully declare: You will do no such thing but that merely prompted Arwen to pantomime opening a window and hollering out, Boromir, your king is frustrated with your inability to manage your father. Aragorn became horrified, You wouldn’t dare. At which Arwen smiled and said, Just watch me.) 

‘I promise I didn’t forget - it was only, I was tied up,’ Boromir states. 

Aragorn swallows: well that is a terrible excuse. Because that is not a kind thing to say. It is not a worthy thing to say. Boromir deserves better than Aragorn being missish. Because they are no longer on the road. Because the Fellowship is over. The Four Hunters has long been disbanded. 

Gods, Aragorn thinks bleakly, I’ve been king for ten months now. 

‘Well, it’s terribly difficult to force him to have ten minutes of time. Your father is wily.’ 

Boromir nods slowly. Picks at his nails. Looks at the sad bushes, the dismal remains of summer roses, jasmine climbing up columns, the naked trees. Aragorn isn’t sure how to proceed. He should have practiced. Arwen told him to practice. Aragorn despairs. 

‘He is,’ Boromir finally agrees. ‘He is very wily. A puppet master. I don’t -’ he stops. Aragorn waits with great expectation. Boromir works his jaw for a bit. Does more scanning of the environment so Aragorn can’t see his eyes resting still for more than a second. Aragorn worries Boromir is going to leave. He does this when he wants out from a situation. When he wants to disappear into captain-hood and slide sideways from duty as, essentially, regent-steward.

‘I can’t do this,’ Boromir finally whispers. 

‘You have to.’ 

‘I can’t, Aragorn. I really can’t. He’s my father.’ 

Aragorn makes a sympathetic face. He wants to say that he understands but that would be a lie so he keeps quiet. He cannot imagine Elrond no longer firmly grasping the world in front of him. He cannot imagine Elrond forcing this situation upon himself. There is no dignity to it. Aragorn cannot imagine Elrond without dignity. 

Boromir is silent which causes Aragorn some small anxiety. 

‘It would be a kindness, I think, in the long-run,’ Aragorn tries after another minute of muteness from the future-steward passes. 

‘Yes. It would be. It is.’ 

‘No one need know the reason of why he is being set aside.’  

Boromir looks at him with a sidelong expression. It is almost a sneer. ‘Everyone knows.’ 

‘Is that what frightens you? That people know and will think less of you for your father’s - um-’ 

‘Madness?’ Ah yes, here is a Boromir sneer. ‘Insanity? Lack of mental stability? Gone off with the birds?’ 

Aragorn nods. 

‘No, that doesn’t frighten me,’ Boromir says. ‘I can handle it well enough. It’s more that - well, it’s demeaning to be relegated to old, doddering man. It takes a person’s pride from them and gods, I feel like he’s lost so much already. All the things that matter, too: his position, his son to a certain degree, his father’s affection, my mother. I think, in many ways, pride is all my father has left.’ Boromir draws breath to continue only to deflate. Aragorn wants to comfort him but isn’t sure this is the time or place or, indeed, the best approach. 

It’s hard to know how to handle Boromir. He has more walls than Aragorn can fathom, at times. When he thinks he’s through one, there will be another five he didn’t anticipate. All of this alongside Boromir’s dislike of receiving reassurance. Comfort. Vulnerable affection, as Arwen calls it. There is such a deep fear of being seen as weak or, Aragorn thinks, being thought to be a burden. 

Aragorn tries, ‘Your father has more than that. And he hasn’t lost you.’ 

‘I was speaking of Faramir.’ 

‘Ah.’ 

Boromir’s humourless smile. ‘It’s all a bit of a mess, isn’t it? I’m not sure what I thought would happen after the war, but it wasn’t this.’ 

‘It’s hard to know how people will take things. And, I mean,’ Aragorn shrugs helplessly. ‘There were extenuating circumstances. No one knew about the palantir.’ 

‘No.’ 

‘And, well -’ he stops. Shrugs. Boromir raises an eyebrow, but otherwise he is still as stone. As a king of old, the ones whose names are lost to time but their faces are committed to rock with paint, with chisel. To Aragorn, Boromir has always conveyed more of the regal air he thinks is expected of a king. That he, himself, should display. 

What a thing, to walk into a room of foreign dignitaries, have the King of Gondor be announced and everyone looks at Boromir. Which Aragorn cannot blame them for, because he too would look at Boromir. Honestly, he thinks not for the first time, their roles should have been switched. Boromir should be king, Aragorn can be steward. 

‘Yes?’ Boromir prompts. 

‘I was just thinking, is your father truly mad or merely desperate?’ 

Boromir opens his mouth then closes it. 

‘Sometimes, it can look like the same thing,’ Aragorn continues, gently. He is so desperately trying to be gentle. ‘It’s as you said, he has his pride. He was raised to be Steward of Gondor. To be the sole ruler of this land and then I went and showed up. He’s desperate to hold onto what is, at the end of the days, is rightfully his.’ 

A dismal nod from the future-Steward. 

‘Perhaps there can be a compromise--’

‘No,’ Boromir shakes his head. ‘Not over this. It’s all or nothing with the Stewardship. I know my father, he does not share power.’ 

‘But you always seemed to have a position of influence --’ 

‘Of his making and of his control,’ Boromir shrugs. ‘So, you will either have him as Steward or me. It won’t be both.’ 

A bird’s screech ricochets through the courtyard that is empty and feels so desolate, like they are in Hollin or on the empty steps of Emyn Muil. Boromir has turned and begun a slow, meandering tour around the garden. He pauses where an arch looks out over the city, the River Anduin snakes its silver body through the eastern land of Gondor. Osgiliath shines in the distance. Boromir’s back is to Aragorn and the Future-Steward who is essentially acting-Steward, rests a hand on columned archway. Robes drape in such a way that he is a shadow against white marble, dappled grey. Aragorn wants to go to him but suspects it would be unwelcome, at this exact moment. 

‘My father once told me that he couldn’t remember what happiness was and I said that there would be brighter days yet, that he would live to see them. And he has, there is sun and the clouds of Sauron are gone, but he is not better.’ 

Aragorn thinks that a monstrous thing to tell one’s son. To say: I can’t know warmth, so light the fire and if you do not, then all my coldness is your fault.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says instead. He suspects Boromir won’t take kindly to having his father be called monstrous. 

‘Why?’ 

Aragorn stalls in thought then just shrugs and says that he is sorry because that is a lot to say to a child. 

‘I wasn’t a child.’ 

‘Still,’ Aragorn says, if a bit lamely. 

Boromir sighs, turns to face Aragorn. ‘I can’t do it. I can’t be the one who tells him that he is being pushed aside.’ 

‘Would you be able to be present?’ 

Boromir’s lips thin out into a line and his unhappiness at the prospect is a wave how it rolls from his shoulders. But he nods in agreement, as Aragorn knew he would. Still, it is a relief to have a firm agreement. 

Or, as firm an agreement as he is going to get at this juncture. 

He had asked Faramir: What should be done about your father? And Faramir had gone a little wide-eyed and said, I don’t know. What do you mean? And Aragorn had sort-of motioned as if that could contain everything that had happened. Faramir had then shaken himself out of whatever place it was he went when the question was posed and declared that the person to ask is Boromir. Boromir always knows how to handle our father, Faramir said with confidence. If you want to get Denethor to do things he doesn’t want to do, you have to have Boromir do the asking. 

Later, Aragorn relayed this to Arwen who said, What family have you gotten us tangled into? And Aragorn had replied, primly, I’m absolutely sure it’s worth it. And Arwen had laughed and said she agreed and that she trusted him. It’s just, really, that was what said? 

‘I’m glad you’ll be there,’ Aragorn says. ‘I’m happy to do the talking it’s only, your father is quite fearsome. Like a tempest. Or a sandstorm.’ 

‘Don’t be mean.’ But Boromir said it with a smile so Aragorn feels he can continue. 

‘Just, this time, don’t forget.’ 

Boromir mocks becoming affronted. ‘Excuse me, your royal highness, I did not forget. I got tied up in other very important affairs of state and therefore was merely late. By just five minutes, mind you, and you had already scarpered.’ 

Aragorn takes his arm and steers them towards the covered archway that will slowly weave back to offices and studies and rooms of state. ‘Tempest,’ he says. ‘Remember that.’ 

‘Right. Or sandstorm.’ 

‘A deluge.’ 

‘I’m going to make a record of these.’ 

‘You don’t need to do that.’ 

Boromir grins, ‘I absolutely do.’ 

Aragorn shakes his head, ‘If this is the sort of treatment I am going to receive from you I shall pass you over in favour of Faramir.’ 

‘Oh thank the gods,’ Boromir dramatically sighs. ‘Finally, the man has a good idea. The first time I’ve heard one from him since we met.’ 

‘I wouldn’t go that far -’ 

‘Let us run across Rohan for a week, he said. It’s a good idea to chase two thousand Uruk-Hai with only four people, he said. Trust the former-traitor-witch of Rohan to be of aid on the paths of the dead, he said. Let’s hike across a mountain in February with no firewood, he said.’ 

‘These were all brilliant ideas, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ 

Boromir laughs, then, a full one. And Aragorn grins because it is a pleasant sound to hear and these are sunny days. Despite the shadows that linger in them and the ghosts of still living men who haunt the halls of this palace, there is sun and there is warmth and there is, at the end of it all, something like hope for a new start.

[voidcat]

Company — Seijoh 4 & animals

(press “Keep Reading” for Iwa, Mattsun & Makki!) 

Oikawa Tooru, cats: It was cute, watching you unhook your hand from his to run towards any cat you saw on the street, crouching down to their level and talking to them as if they could understand you. When he said this one, you laughed and said they did understand but the look in your eyes made it clear you were serious. Getting to see a soft side of yours, unfiltered, shining and radiating so much love was a scene he loved dearly. Your bond with cats went so far back to your childhood and he loved listening to your stories.

But when you appeared in front of his door one day, on the same day as your little trip, with a box in your hand, he knew what was about to come.

“So Tooru.” “No.”

“As you know I’ll be away for a few days and cannot take my baby with me.” “Why…”

“I’ve written down a little manual on her likes and dislikes, her preference of food and how to be pet.” “Can’t you ask Iwa-Chan instead?”

“No because Iwa-Chan does not live in Argentina.” So that’s how he found himself with your cat one morning, leaving the lid open, he went back to bed.

That night when he returned from another practice ended long gone, him staying overnight, he was met with a furious glare. “What are you looking at? I left an extra plate of food for you.” Was all he said.

By the time you returned, it was too early for them to be up. Opening the door quietly, putting your bag down and tiptoeing towards the bedroom, you were met with Tooru sleeping with your cat leaning against his leg. Pulling her to herself and lying besides him with as little noise as you, you joined them.

“Maybe she wasn’t such an awful guest.” Was what he first mumbled to you. As you chuckled, she got up to adjust her sleeping position, hitting him in the face with her tail in the process. “She has a name you know.” “I refuse to say it, especially after getting hit that harshly.” “It’s not that bad.”

He scrunched up his nose once “I’m sorry, Czarina Natalya.” As you laughed again, scratching her head with one hand and stroking Tooru’s hair with the other, he asked: “I still don’t get why you brought her to me. It’s not like I’m that good at taking care of plants or pets.”

“It was so she would take care of you while I was away. Nati is pretty good at that though she likes to act cold hearted.” “I guess that’s a story for another time.” “In the morning. Let’s get an hour of sleep before she starts meowing aggressively for breakfast.”

Iwaizumi Hajime, dogs: It was an ordinary day at the beach. Enjoying the sun and the waves, letting the sounds calm you and having a mini picnic of sorts. Seeing stray dogs by the beach wasn’t extraordinary, it wasn’t a common thing either, but when the white pup approached you shyly, you couldn’t help but pat the spot next to you on the sand. Running to you and laying down under the comforting shadow of the umbrella, she accompanied the two of you for the rest of the day. Petting her on the occasion, offering half of your sandwich and giving water, it was a given she would follow you home. And you didn’t have it in you to reject her.

Iwaizumi wasn’t so keen on the idea at first. The dog did seem well, she didn’t have a collar but she appeared healthy to the eyes. But it was the eyes that captured your heart and that’s how you found yourself listing so many advantages of having a dog to live with. And it was your eyes that Hajime couldn’t argue with so that was how you ended up with a pup. She would wake the two of you up with gently bumps of her nose, accompany Hajime on his regular runs, walk with the two of you to the market and keep an ear out at night to make sure no harm came near you. “Hey Princess!” You would say and she’d lay on the floor, paws raised and belly in the open, a sign of her trust too.

When you woke up that day, it was a bright grey. Clouds clogging up the sunlight, you knew what was about to come. Going through your morning routine and getting urgent things done, you decided to allow yourself a breathe. On your way to the kitchen, you heard the first rumble. Hurrying now and taking out your relaxing tea mix, you went to grab your blanket as the water boiled. Pouring it to your french press and adding the tea, you dropped yourself to the couch. When Cotton saw you, she walked away. “Weird.” You said to yourself. When she appeared minutes later, accompanied by footsteps, you realized why she was gone for a short period of time. As Hajime sat down by your side, pulling you into his arms, Cotton joined in as well, placing her head to your lap and giving you looks of concern once in a while. That’s how you found yourself waking up in the middle of the night, the thunderstorm long gone, you in the arms of Hajime, your beloved girl sleeping with content in your lap.

Matsukawa Issei, fish: When he decided to try all the ridiculous games at the fair one night, insisting on winning a prize, you were too busy laughing to sense the seriousness in his words. But as the night came to an end, your stomach hurting from the Cotton candy you had, Issei walked towards you, the smug expression you’ve come to know so well, painted in his face. Hands behind his back, you started laughing again. No absurd color could be seen so he didn’t go and win any huge stuffed toy. But when he raised his arms with a “Ta da!”, it was a small plastic bag filled with water, and a little orange fish swimming inside. There was no way this was real.

The fish you thought was the side effect of too much cotton candy turned out to be as real as the two of you. Grabbing a big glass and filling it water, you left the fish in the kitchen that night. Waking up to meet with it again was a shock to say the least. So doing what any responsible adult and eager kid would do, you took a photo of it and went out to get a proper tank, decorative rocks and fish food. By the time Issei got up to prepare some coffee, you were still in the kitchen, head rested on your hands, watching the fish and tapping against the tank once in a while. You didn’t see the way he took a sip of his coffee as he watched the two of you.

This became a habit long after, on stressful days, one of you would take away the source of the stress away and guide the other back where Carrotcake was, watching the light break and divide into infinite colors, getting lost in the waves of its tail as it swimming in serenity. The simple life of your fish was a break from anything and everything, especially when you needed escape. Getting too attached to a fish seemed hilarious to you at first but few months in and you found yourselves researching, then going out to get him a friend and a larger tank, now with a little castle they can play in.

As you sprinkled fish food into the water one morning, Issei placed down his mug to the side and wrapped his arms around. “Who knew we would rediscover us in them?” “Next time we go to the fair, I’ll be the one to try and win a prize.” “So the family keeps growing, huh?” “Why not? They deserve a little happiness and love like ours in their lives too.”

Hanamaki Takahiro, birds: It was a regular café try-out. As Makki was trying his profiterole pyramid, your attention was pulled to your phone when the notification bing! Reached your ears. Seeing a video from your friend, who was visiting her family in her home country, you opened the app eagerly. The joyous chirping of the budgerigar filling the café in an instant, you immediately turned your volume down. Seeing the bird sing and move his head as if he was dancing, you couldn’t help but be glued to the screen. Feeling the burning gaze of Makki in you, you showed him the video and watched him as fascination took over his features. After that, it was merely a count down. When he saw an adoption post for one, he sent it to you in an instant and in a week, you were the proud parents of a budgerigar. Spending the day setting the cage in a good place and checking the water and food, you went to bed content.

Waking up with an unfamiliar and loud noise the next morning, alarmed at first, only to remember the bird afterwards, was an experience to say the least. The first time you let Boncuk out of the cage, to fly inside the living room, you had no idea what he would do to your books. Experience being the best teacher, you found yourself running to get a blanket and using it to cover the book cases. Despite the energetic nature of the bird tiring you once in a while, it was fun to have a singer in the house. He would learn where to fly and what not to chew at in time, sit on your arm or on Makki’s head in the evenings, often pooping on Makki’s head and making you laugh the loudest in your life. When he first opened his beak and made a song far from a typical tweet but more like an actual word, you yelled Makki’s name, pulled him by the arm and asked the bird to do it again. And do he did, he could say only one word but it was more than enough. With the same pride parents have when their baby first starts to walk, you took videos all day, called all your friends and made them hear this wonder on call.

Being the two of you, it didn’t took you long to teach the bird a few more words. The best one was when you called Oikawa on his birthday and Makki called out “Okay, Boncuk! Now what do we say?” “Shittykawa!”

As the two of you started laughing, Oikawa hung up, complaining as he did. Yet all the mindless fun aside, your favorite thing was to watch the two of you duet together some nights, the bird singing along to Makki as he would serenade you or dance with you.

Boncuk means “bead” in Turkish, it’s a common name for budgerigars

[fictionadventurer]

Have you seen the new little women movie? If so what do you think of it?

My initial thoughts on the movie are here. I just rewatched it for the sake of answering this ask. My thoughts can be summarized as follows:

This is a beautiful movie. So much loving focus on the things and the textures. The clothes are extremely Pinterest-and-Hallmark-movie aesthetic rather than anything remotely resembling history, but it’s hard to mind when every character is wearing three different textures and patterns at all times and giving the eye so much to look at. (Also, I was knitting during rewatch, so the knitwear was especially satisfying).

But I’m still not sure it succeeds as a story. Much like the outfits, there are so many different bits and pieces layered together, with different textures and colors that make it interesting to look at, but I’m not sure they come together into a coherent whole. Individual scenes could be good, but it was hard to connect emotionally to any of the characters when the backstory was chopped up into so many pieces.

I found it easier to differentiate between the past and the present this time--I finally figured out that the golden light is for childhood and the blue light is for adulthood. Noticing that also made me like the ending more, which I’ll get to later.

I liked the dancing scenes a bit less. They were a little less joyful and emotionally uplifting than I remembered. I did find it interesting how Jo and Laurie’s dance at their first meeting turns into a sort of silent film for part of it, until Meg intrudes and brings them back into the real world by telling them about her hurt ankle.

I liked the Meg and John story less. Emma Watson just doesn’t seem very motherly or wifely. However, the ending scene of the silk subplot was very touching and one of the few scenes in the movie that showed the self-giving side of marriage.

I still wish there had been more focus on the virtue development part of the plot--the “Meg falls to vanity” scene falls kind of flat because Laurie is just scolding her for...wearing a fancy dress? In a way that makes it seem like he’s just scolding her for being feminine and liking pretty things. We don’t have the context to make it clear that she’s bending her morals for the sake of being liked. The scene does set up a contrast between Laurie-the-moral-guardian and Laurie-living-a-life-of-vain-pleasure in the very next scene, but it’s not enough to make the Vanity Fair scene work on its own.

And why didn’t the movie have more of Mr. March? Let us see the marriage that has shaped the girls’ ideas of what marriage is supposed to be.

I found it interesting that the devoted spinster Aunt March who believes in marriage as a purely economic concern rejected offers to enter Meg’s wedding dance twice. She keeps herself but missed out on the joy.

I found Amy and Laurie slightly more believable as a couple. Though when Amy has the struggle of “marry for financial gain or marry for love”, it’s rather too convenient that the resolution is that she decides she’s really in love with a different rich guy than the one she was going to marry solely for his money.

Beth was a lesser character than I remembered (both in terms of screen time and emotional impact). However, I did like her role in the story far more because she’s kind of key to some of the themes (which I’ll get to in a moment).

I still hate Jo changing her mind about Laurie. It makes her choice of Bhaer seem like she’s settling for second-best.

Now’s the point where I’m going to talk about the themes and the ending. Which was the primary reason I wanted a rewatch--to clarify my ideas about this movie’s message and resolution.

SPOILERS AHEAD. FAIR WARNING TO ANYONE WHO HAS NOT ALREADY BEEN FRIGHTENED AWAY BY THIS WALL OF TEXT.

This movie is about three things: Marriage, Art and Money. Money is necessary to survive. Marriage and art can both be a source of money, but they are also pursuits that should be entered into out of love.

This movie harps and harps upon the fact that marriage is an economic proposition. It’s the most stable way for a woman to get money. She also gets love, ideally. But where the movie falters is focusing so much on the getting part of marriage and rarely on the giving. Laurie wanted to marry Jo because he wanted to get her love. Jo’s “I’m so lonely” scene specifically has her say that she wants to be loved, but not to love--she wants to receive rather than give. I’m not sure there’s any indication that either Jo or Laurie ever give or give up anything when they finally do enter into matrimony. It seems that they just get who they decide they want. Amy gets a rich husband and gets a man who loves her, but what does she ever give up for him, aside from another man who she also did nothing to love?

The silk scene with Meg and John is one of the few times where we see a married couple giving to each other, rather than focusing on what they get out of it.

Art, too, is a love that can be turned toward money, and most of the characters have this out of balance as well. Jo loves writing, but she wants to be seen as good, and she mostly cares about the money that she gets out of it. Amy gives up art completely when she realizes she’s not a genius. “I’d rather be great or nothing” is the exact opposite of doing art for the love of it--what she cared about was getting praise rather than giving something of herself to the world.

Beth is the only one who understands the giving nature of both love and art. She performs for no one’s praise or payment--she plays because she loves music. She’s the one who gives up her time to bring the donations to the Hummels when her sisters are caught up in their own pursuits. When she gets the piano, her sisters are the ones who are caught up in admiring it as a thing, but she runs off (without any of her sisters even noticing, too caught up in the wealth in front of them) to thank Mr. Lawrence because she recognized the love behind the gift.

Jo starts to understand the importance of love within art after Beth dies. We have the lovely scene of Beth encouraging Jo to do her writing for someone--give of her art. When Jo returns to her writing, the camera beautifully focuses on the For Beth at the head of the manuscript--Jo is not writing this for money or praise, but out of love for her sister.

I like the ending much better than I did before. I can see the golden sunlit ending as the “real” end of the story, because I noticed the lighting trick. When Bhaer is leaving the March house, Jo is standing in the blue light, but Bhaer is in the golden light. It’s as if Jo sees that a life with him could provide the same level of happiness that she knew in childhood.

It’s still odd that her family has to convince her every step of the way that she’s “in love”. But because of the lighting trick, I can more easily believe that she really did want to spend her life with him.

That dumb scene with the publisher is what ruins everything. We had Jo writing her book out of love. We had Jo deciding to give Bhaer a reason to stay. But it’s derailed by this weird focus on money. Jo keeps insisting that she’s “selling” her heroine into marriage, and that she’s willing to sacrifice her artistic vision just because this ending is what sells. I feel like if they’d cut out all that stuff about the contract negotiation--which seems only to have been put in because Gerwig wanted to show off this bit of trivia about Alcott’s business acumen--the ending would have been a million times more coherent on a plot and thematic level.

I can believe that the sunlit ending at Plumfield is Jo reaching happiness by giving of herself to others. Everyone is using art to give to others--Bhaer is teaching music, Laurie’s teaching some kind of drama class, Amy’s teaching painting.

The shot of the gold leaf being stamped onto the cover of Little Women, which had seemed like the final stroke saying “this ending is fiction” now seems to be saying that “this is the way the story really ends.” It’s helped by the fact that after Jo gets the book in her hands, we cut to the image of a group of little girls playing pretend--it’s Jo being satisfied in her book not because it’s her achievement or a source of money, but because she knows it will inspire another generation of little girls. Thus we can have Jo achieving artistic and personal fulfillment by publishing the book and teaching at Plumfield.

If it wasn’t for that contract negotiation scene, there wouldn’t even be a question of what the real ending was supposed to be. There’s only one version that shows Jo prioritizing the giving part of art and marriage over any selfish gain, and I hate that the ending muddles it so badly for the sake of misplaced meta-feminism.

[prettywordsyouleft]

Bloodstone | Part 2

Summary: You knew all about the ring your grandmother had told you about and yet when the stone fell from it one fateful day, you weren’t truly prepared for its return, nor who it came back with.

Pairing: Kim Namjoon x reader

Genre: fantasy / romance

Warnings: talk of witchcraft and magical books

Index: Prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

You had returned home after a lengthy and mostly unsuccessful brainstorming session with Yoongi. You could see why he was thinking of fantasy novels because as you let yourself into your home, now cold and hungry from the long day, you felt as if you had become the main character in one.

Just what did all this mean? Where was your wise guide to teach you the ways to get through this? What journey would you even face now that the stone was gone?

A big part of you wanted to forget that it had even happened. That it was just a ring and your grandmother had spoken of something silly. You even went as far to pull the remaining silver from the finger it had lived on for years, trying not to look at the permanent indent in your skin that it had created.

You needed to forget all about today.                                                

Except, as you trudged through your home, exchanging your clothes for your pyjamas, you found yourself stepping through the door to your study, staring at the wall lined with books. Most had been inherited from your grandmother, though the one you reached for first had been given to you by your mother shortly before she fell ill.

“You’ll get more out of this than I ever did, my love.”

It was an inconspicuous text, no title or author was scrawled on the front. You hadn’t really looked through it at the time, more focused on her ailing health. Now, you wondered if she had known this day might come.

Flicking through the first few pages, you sighed. It was in a different language, one you couldn’t understand. You placed the book down and went to make yourself something to eat, returning with your bowl of food to use the computer.

However, you stopped midway across the room, the book you had discarded now on a different page. “What’s this?” you murmured, picking it up on your way over to the desk, placing both your food and the leather-bound book down upon the surface as you took a seat before them.

There in the middle of the left page was an exact drawing of the ring you had worn for fifteen years. Blinking slowly, you took in the unique style of the ring you knew every detail of. This was no coincidence and looking around your room cautiously, you turned your attention to the right page to see what was written down about it.

You gasped when the words, before foreign and undecipherable started to make sense to you. Flipping back to the front of the book quickly, where the opening page had seemed incomprehensive, you now took in the first sentence with ease.

This book is not of the human world, you thought to yourself, a tremble running down your arm as you slipped back to the section about the ring. It was titled The Stone of Blood and you frowned. Was that the ring’s official name? Thinking back to the colour, you had just assumed it to be a ruby of some sort.

Was it actually made from some sort of… blood?

For the briefest moment, you were grateful for the stone leaving you if that was the case. A shudder rolled throughout your body at the thought of how you had protected and appreciated a ring made of blood. However, your curiosity was still present and you looked at the first statement about the ring, gasping lightly.

“The Stone of Blood is a love stone. It connects the realms of possibilities to those strong enough to possess it. The ring chooses its host and when the Triax connects, the stone falls into the possession of the divinity. The journey for the stone to return to the ring is one in which binds two unlikely entities through the truest of love.”

“Yeah sure, whatever,” you muttered through your shock, trying not to put any weight into it. You and the word love never went together. You had only suffered through mediocre attempts towards finding someone to adore. There was more than enough mortification in your past from dating tribulations that you had sworn off men altogether – apart from Yoongi, that is. But he was different. He was a part of your family, the person you had known the longest in your life outside of blood relatives.

You didn’t need a book to tell you that the stone you had worn had a habit of falling loose from the center of it to go find you a man. The idea was completely laughable and you started to do just that, laughing until your cynical mind was well and truly satisfied. If this was the journey your grandmother had hoped for, then she would be sorely disappointed. Perhaps the ring should have loosened off the Stone of Blood in her time so she could have met someone instead.

She had met someone wonderful. Your grandfather had been the most comfortable man to spend time with, spoiling you rotten as a young child with his affections and sweets. And had she not met him then you wouldn’t exist right now.

“Still, sorry grandma, this one isn’t a plight I’ll be taking on any time soon,” you spoke out loud, your eyes lingering on the book, vaguely taking in the words of sacrifice and hardship.

You needed to sleep. With your food now within your belly, you should go to bed and close out this ridiculous day from existence. In the morning, you would wake up to a brand new day, where books with strange languages didn’t make sense and didn’t need to worry about where the stone – the ruby as you had known it to be – had gone.

You were all too happy with it not returning.

When Namjoon landed with a thud, he remained still for a moment, accessing if any part of his body hurt. It was during this time that he realised the ground he had fallen to was covered in a plush rug, and he opened his eyes slowly.

He was inside a darkened space.

As his eyes adjusted to the lack of lighting, Namjoon sat up, wincing a little as he did so. It hadn’t been too hard of a fall, but his chest did hurt a great deal.

For a moment, he tried to recollect his thoughts. He remembered the day of sorting gemstones and going to leave to go have dinner with Marian. Furrowing his brows, he gasped at the arrival of the stone that had opened havoc on him and his studio.

The bloodstone.

Searching around his body for the cursed rock, he stopped when he saw his actions reflected across from him. Getting up from the floor, he moved towards the mirror hanging on the wall, his gaze widening. Hastily undoing the three buttons to his linen shirt, he pushed it aside to expose his chest.

“What the…” he breathed, finding the stone now embedded over the left side of his chest. His fingers ran over it gently, trying to find a way to pull it out of his chest. It was due to the red glow that he grew distracted of the extraction, frowning at the items on the shelf next to the mirror. He had never seen plants and paintings quite like these before.

Turning around, Namjoon shook his head in disbelief. Just what was this place? Looking for a way to light the space he was in, Namjoon fumbled around, bumping into something protruding in the wall. The room suddenly became illuminated with bright lighting, and he pressed the switch again, casting everything back into the shadows. He turned it on again and then grinned.

Back home, lighting was triggered by pulling a chain on a lamp. Wherever he was now had a superior system, he decided.

Rummaging through the strange yet wonderful items in the room, Namjoon smiled. This was a world unlike his own. The space was cluttered with possessions that he had no idea why anyone would need, however, he was eager to learn their purpose. As he soaked it all in, he noticed the kitchen was adjoined to the room. Or at least, what he assumed to be the cooking space. There was a cooking range with strange symbols on it and he decided against turning the knobs in case they ignited the flame.

Growing bold, Namjoon moved across to a door and twisted the handle. He found the bathing room in here and laughed with delight at the strange concept of no bathtub yet a raining waterfall came out from a spout on the wall.

Closing out of this room, he turned to another door, which led to storage and then the next that welcomed him into a library. This room he felt the most at home in, if he didn’t stare at the weird contraption sitting on the desk taking up most of the space. There, laid strewn beside it, was a book and he picked it up, surprised to find it written in his language. Did the owner of this home know of his world?

Flicking through the pages, he stopped when he saw something familiar, the shade of red catching his eyes. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmured as he scanned the explanation of the bloodstone. He moved from the first part to the next, his father’s concern now apparent.

“When the stone lands in front of the divinity, one must endeavour not to fall for its charms. It lures the purest of hearts towards its glow, implanting itself there until that of the host can free their heart from its captive state. Love can be fleeting once this occurs and if the host chooses that of human devotion instead, the stone will poison the blood of the divinity, condemning them to a life of being incapable of loving another. Even if the entity finds someone to care for, it won’t be at the same level of compassion as before.

The Triax will be broken and the bridge between worlds forgotten of until a new host is chosen worthy of the stone.”

Glancing down at his chest, Namjoon let the book drop from his grip. It landed on the floor with a bang, and before he could reach to pick it up, he became aware of another presence in the room.

You stared at him and then at the book, shaking your head in disbelief. And then you stilled completely, gaze cast towards his glowing chest. You swallowed visibly. “Just who are you?”

“Are you the host?” he asked in return, his grip now firmly around the spine of the book he held up. “Are you the one who captured me with this bloodstone?”

_________________

Part 3

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[piraytoro]

Please please PLEASE give us the thought process behind picking everyone’s true form

The archangels and antagonists specifically punched me and took all my lunch money with how spot on they felt

I have actually gotten three asks about this so far, so I’ve decided that I’m going to give an explanation for one of the posts in response to each ask. I’m going to do the antagonists here.

Uriel: This one is very imposing, it looks like a spray of feathers. The gold is striking, and to me it represents power, but it’s the only color outside of black and white, which represents his rigid thinking. The whole image gives me the vibe of a crown of feathers, representing Uriel’s belief in the purity of angels and their cause, as well as his feeling of superiority over humans. But all this aside, this is one of the images that I saw and immediately knew which angel it was, before I thought much about my reasoning at all. I saw it and said, “oh, that one’s definitely Uriel.”

Metatron: This one reminds me of an emperor penguin, because of the colors, the shapes, and the textures. That’s not why I chose it for Metatron but that’s what made it first catch my eye. It’s fairly simplistic in colors, in a similar way to Uriel’s, because Metatron thinks he’s a lot more creative than he actually is. There’s something almost sinister about this picture, although you might not notice it at first glance. I think it’s the way the yellow and white peaks in front stand out, but there are others looming in shadow in the background.

Zachariah: I chose this one for Zachariah because it reminds me of a painting you might see hanging in an upscale hotel. Not like a millionaire hotel but more like a nice hotel your boss puts you up in while you’re on a business trip for your white collar office job. It’s abstract but kind of in a boring and predictable way. It’s colorful, but the colors are kind of muted. There’s also a lot of negative space. I don’t know, this is another one that I looked at and immediately went “oh yeah that’s Zachariah.”

Hester: We don’t really know that much about Hester aside from the fact that she was in Cas’s garrison and said that iconic line about Dean corrupting everything that touches him. Castiel was lost the second he laid a hand on him. Icon. This image looks kind of like blue and light green feathers proliferating out from a single point, which is pretty cool. This one was chosen mostly based on vibes, I don’t have a great explanation besides just saying that this looks like Hester. Idk.

Naomi: Okay THIS one I have a lot to say about. So this one I originally saw in a portrait orientation rather than landscape, with the blue on top, which honestly works better but looked weird when all the other ones were sideways. So the blue on top/the left represents the placid minds of the people who she’s brainwashed, as well as her own outwardly placid demeanor. However, there’s chaos underneath, and it’s trying to break out, represented by the cracks in the blue. In the original orientation, it looked like blood was bleeding down from the red dots, representing the cost of that “peace.” It’s also the exact visual of the blood leaking from Cas’s eyes as he started to remember what she pushed down. There’s a violence to her, underneath the calm veneer.

Anael: This is actually one of the ones from the very first edition of this post before I decided it worked better without the explanations included. Here’s what I had there. “Dark, with a sort of murkiness to the colors. Gives the sense of things hidden, secrets. Inconsistent coloration, with combinations that look ever so slightly off. Deceitful. Lots of negative space, like something has been removed or depleted.” I think that pretty much stands for itself. The shading also lends to this, as well as the sketchiness at the edges of some of the shapes.

Ishim: This is one of the ones that I thought was pretty cool at first but came to really, really love the more I looked at it. It looks somewhat like a third grader’s interpretation of the sun if an artist rendered it. It has a quality to it that makes it almost look like a woodcut. I chose this one for Ishim because of the way it looks like fractured light. I also think that the “body” of the “sun” in the top right corner is dark, like a dying star going supernova. Cas once saw Ishim as someone to look up to and follow, but he sees that the angel army has been rotten from the get-go, causing pain and suffering by carrying out orders they don’t question.

Duma: This one is really cool to me personally because it looks kind of like the inside of a cell and I am a gigantic science nerd. Tell me the left side of this doesn’t look like the Golgi apparatus. I chose this one for Duma because it’s complex and intricate, and it looks almost maze-like. The pattern of the colors makes it look almost like there’s a shape being partially obscured by the negative space. Like a puzzle missing pieces, and if you were to find those pieces an image would emerge.

Ephraim: This one also piques the interest of my science brain because it reminds me of synapses, where electric currents are carried from one brain cell to another. However, there are black veins running down through one side of the image, like death spreading at the cellular level. All of the pinks represent the pink mist left behind after Ephraim’s kills, and the apparent incongruity between that color—the color of bubblegum, a color associated with innocence, levity, happiness—and the gravity of Ephraim’s job is interesting to consider. The side of the image with the black veins running through it is more colorful, with a wider range of colors, even though the black is there—a black that is NOT present on the pink side which represents death—representing the pain that Ephraim senses from humans that naturally comes along with experiencing a wider spectrum of emotions. But this spectrum, with its pain, also includes a happiness and freedom that Ephraim will never know.

Gadreel: This particular image is interesting because it’s really the only one with such a sharp delineation down the center, with fairly solid colors on both sides. This represents the duality that Gadreel presents within the narrative itself, as well as his personal struggle between two loyalties. The fact that the separation doesn’t go straight up and down the image is also interesting to me, and it almost gives the appearance of falling, to represent Gadreel’s fall from grace, and the red droplets on the right side represent the damage that was done when Gadreel fell.

[adulttrio-imagines]

“My hand was made to fit into yours. That’s all there is to it.” - for Hisoka;-)

“Label it however you want, I truly do not care.”

Hisoka replies without even looking up from his phone. He’s propped comfortably across your new couch, snuggled under a pile of blankets he stole from your bedroom, head lolling off the armrest as he snacked on your sweets. He spares you no second thought, giggling to himself as he scrolls through the web, thoroughly unaffected as the world around him shuffles in repetitive motions.

You huff, and set your laptop aside. It’s not for the first time he has brushed off your efforts to put a name to your… relationship. To call it difficult would be an understatement, if you could even use such a term to describe whatever it is you had with him.

He chuckles again, and your phone lights up with a beep. It’s a filtered photo of him in a fake mustache with an eggplant in hand. You turn to see him looking up at you, cheeky grin spread ear to ear across his face. He waves and tosses you a familiar piece of candy. Bungee gum, it expired two weeks ago.

You chuck it back at him, he lets it nail him in the head, ear splitting grin never leaving his face.

It was never meant to be like this. Your lives were never meant to intersect, they were tangent lines that ran close but never met. But somehow, you met him in the eye of the storm, a beautiful mess of red and gold who saved you from your assailant one rainy night, followed you home and for reasons unknown, upended your entire life and has stuck with you since. His visits were sporadic but interesting, mind constantly skipping two steps ahead of yours, and you found yourself swept into the deep undercurrents of his torrential downpour with no way of escape.

He was a whirlwind of color, dancing continuously before your eyes, from the tips of his fiery hair to the manicured ends of his painted toes, a flying mustang that stormed through the skies, running faster and faster alongside unseen monsters, soaring through perilous thunderclouds, reaching out to something beyond your existence.

And it scared you.

“Isn’t this enough?” You remembered asking one day as twilight fell, when he barged into your home, thick with bloodlust and doused in blood, staining the walls a dark red as he dragged a clawed hand through them, leaving angry scratch marks in its wake. You should have left him then, you suppose, when he push you against that very same wall and started fucking you hard. You should have cried and screamed for help (it wouldn’t have helped, you both knew that) when he whispered unimaginable threats into you ear, the smell of death lingering in his breath as he ravaged you, leaving bruises that made you limp for weeks on end after that; your knight in shinning armor. He shattered your idealistic notions of him that very night.

But it wasn’t as if he hid who he was. He made that very clear from the start, when he crushed a man’s skull with a single bare hand like rotten fruit on your second date, or when he easily snapped a man’s neck in half just because he was in a weird mood and could do it. You were a fool to believe he could be satisfied that easily, even stupider to believe he could ever be content with what he had in front of him. He was a voracious man with an insatiable appetite for thrill and excitement. There was always something he was chasing after, too far and too bright for you to see, you had to turn away and shield your eyes from its glare, or risk going blind and losing it all.

That was just the type of person he was, standing above the rest on top of the mountain he carved out himself, towering miles overhead, removed from everyone and everything, where nothing but the sun and the howl of the wind could ever touch him.

“Is it lonely up there, all by yourself in your castle of pride.” You said once, it wasn’t a question. He laughs derisively, but his nails dig unnecessarily deep into your arm when he pins you and forces his tongue down your throat, teeth clinking loudly against yours.

It wouldn’t be fair to call him a complicated man, but it wouldn’t be fair to call him an honest man either. He was always clear with his motives, but never his intentions, his actions laid bare before you as he clouded his goal with a shroud of deceit; a walking contradiction who spewed sweetened lies intermingled with bitter truths, showered in layers of secrets and lies,

as if to protect himself.

He didn’t trust you, but he didn’t need to. What could you do against him?

“What are you afraid of?” You’re both drunk of copious amounts of alcohol, faces flushed bright red as you lean against the back alley wall, ignoring the stench of filth rising all around you as his hand creeps up your skirt. Instead, he sings you a story of broken men and angry gods between voracious acts, sweet lies crooning in your ear.

He never speaks of his past, and neither do you offer to divulge into yours.

It was ridiculous to try and get a straight answer from him, a lost cause trying to gain his attention, and a futile effort for trying to maintain it. Yet, even coated with a layer of death is he beautiful for reasons you cannot explain, and you can only stand and wait for the tide to pull you in, dragging you into an endless hurricane.

Somehow amongst all the madness, fate continued to weave it’s interconnecting strands of circumstances, and you both fall into a routine.

He doesn’t officially move in with you, because god forbid he gets tied down, but you were never one to make things official anyway. It’s easy to say he’s more like a stray cat, coming and going as he pleased, snacking on your food or lounging in the living room as if he owns the place.

You don’t know where he actually lives, but the expensive colognes that line your dressing table make known that he’s no traveling pauper.

You get into the habit of leaving sticky notes around the house. Just simple things, like shutting the patio door whenever he left or to take off his shoes before he even thought of entering your house. He responds by sticking his own notes on your various houseplants, naming them obscene words and the occasional crude drawing.

You don’t know who he is, but you do know this. He’s painfully meticulous in his appearance and can spend hours highlighting the slope of his cheeks and the curve of his lips, he has freckles climbing all through his shoulders, his left ear is slightly smaller than his right, he sings in the morning but never at night, and sometimes when he smiles, his eyes are more caramel than amber.

He always finds a way to bother you when it’s least convenient, and disappears whenever you need him most, as if he has a built in tracker of sorts installed deep in that brilliant mind of his.

He calls it magic; you call it being a pest.

Sometimes he leaves for days on end, but he always returns, sometimes with murder in his eyes and bile in his hands, his nen a torrent of poison when he creeps into bed, staining your sheets and shaking you awake, demanding for more (there’s nothing for you to give) wild and unhinged as he tears into you (he gets what he wants anyway).

It’s the quiet moments you like best.

It’s the blissful mornings that smell like coffee and honeyed French toast, it’s the rainy afternoons where you’re both sitting across the other with a deck of cards at hand and the television blares white noise in the background, it’s the late evenings where you sit outside to read and the smell of honeysuckle lingers as you sit and enjoy each other’s company, it’s when you both start laughing so hard at the same time that your sides ache, it’s when he smiles at you when he thinks you aren’t looking; without fuss, without fanfare, without secret codes and hidden meanings, you both just exist, just as everything is meant to be.

It’s so normal, and so pleasant you can almost forget what he is.

When the morning sun barely peaks over the fairway mountains, painting the whole room soft shades of violet and velvet blue, you like watching the way his chest moves up and down like calm seas with each intake of breath, the way he stretches out across the bed, you likes the way his face naturally looks without the usual layer of makeup hiding it all.

You both hide yourselves from the outside world in different ways.

It becomes a fun game to see how long you can get away with tracing the features of his face before he awakens, the curve of his lips, the sharp peak of his nose. Your fingers dance all over his face, planting feather light kisses wherever they linger. The urge is uncontrollable, he looks so human when he is asleep that you finds it difficult to believe that he is more man than beast.

Sometimes your roles are reversed and he’s staring at you instead. He’s difficult to read on the best of days, and by the time his stare stirs you from your slumber, his smirk is the first thing to greet you. Most of the time his lips are twisted into a smug satisfaction, taunting as he smiles patronizingly at you, eyes crinkled into amused crescents. He’ll tap your nose and laugh at whatever expression your grumpy morning self makes, before rushing right in to plant his lips against yours and initiating round two to finish whatever you both started last night.

But there are time when he just stares, unreadable and distant, his eyes taking on a lifeless glazed quality. He doesn’t say anything, or do anything, as if the whole process of breathing is too laborious for him to do anything but. Silence echoes, an unfamiliar drumming sound beating right below your ear as the unnatural quiet stretches infinitely. His stare buries holes deep into your soul, eyes glinting and burning yellow, like cosmic lights, fiery and all encompassing, swallowing you whole and leaving you struggling to breathe, but he doesn’t move. You don’t understand those moments no matter how hard you try, they scramble your head and tear through whatever thoughts you can scavenge, but you understand that he is thinking and rearranging everything in his jumbled up head. He never speaks of these days, but you’ve seen the way he jerks during his dreams, the way his back arches and the odd angles he contorts himself into, silent screams and gasping hands that search for others lost and never found; you recognizes them well. At those times, you go in, resting your forehead into his chest, counting each beat of his heart, reminding him that he is still alive and not six feet below and rotting compost for worms. The constant thumps of his heart are a surprising comfort, the feeling of the warmth generated from his body spread all around you like a soft blanket. Sometimes you remain like that, unmoving until the sun reaches its peak in the everblue sky, glaring into your eyes and you moves away to get breakfast ready, but never does he push away.

There are days where he pulls you in and holds you close, gripping you so tightly your bones crack and ache for weeks after it. Those days his heart races like shooting stars careening off the universe, lost and directionless, fizzling endlessly until they get extinguished from exhaustion. Cotton candy and spiced liquor mingle with the earliest rays of dawn, and you both fall right back asleep, curling into each other like quotation marks, fingers filling the gaps between hands perfectly, a rare moment of tranquility created in your small universe.

I’m here.

You never fail to remind him that during those times. His memory is sharp, and his trust is hard to come, but you do so anyway, for there isn’t much else you can otherwise. He needs to know that, you tell yourself between breathless kisses, hands desperately clutching at each other, even if he cannot find it in himself to believe it.

I’ll always be here.

You close your eyes, darkness flashing momentarily as heat radiating from him in scorching waves burn unseen marks throughout your skin. One day, he will leave; it could be today, tomorrow, the following week, the next year. Through choked sobs you learn that try as you might, you can never tell when would the time he walked out of your door be the last, and you knew better than to try. But you will wait for him, for you were too young, too dumb, too headstrong to stop yourself for falling so, so deeply into him, and he’ll always have a home with you.

You brush his hair aside, the fiery shades of red and pink were soft to the touch, and felt like sheets of velvet in your hand as you fill in the gaps of his fingers with yours.

“My hand was made to fit into yours.” You squeeze your hands tightly together, “that’s all there is to it.”

[boneswriteswords]

Alien Boyfriend: Duxob

I wrote this over a year ago and it was on my wattpad so I decided to move it over here too. Its my first crack at an alien and a space story. Let me know what you think and if I should continue this world building. 

I reread it and I’m not a fan but I never like any of my work so eh. Its unbeta’d because we die like men here. 

Length: ~7900

Male Alien x Female Reader

~~~~~~

The sun that rose in the west was at its peak as you pretended to rummage through your backpack. It was the kind of hot that evaporated the sweat from your body before it even had a chance to drip and you could feel the skin at the back of your neck boiling. Stealing the large tub of sun cream you in preparation for your days on this hell-site of a planet was honestly one of the smartest things you had ever done in your life.

A few feet away, Duxob leaned against your bikes, tinted band hiding half his reptilian face as he scanned the area - particularly the cargo wagon by the gateway- under the guise of adjusting something on one of the handle bars.

It was a believable enough scene. Your bikes looked like they were on their last legs, barely functional and ill-maintained, what with all the scratches and chipped paint, the dangling wires and exposed gear shifts. The tires were covered in duct tape. The seats were tattered and stained. The metals looked rusted and dangerous.  

No one needed to know that they only looked that way though.

No one needed to know that you designed them to look like heaps of junk. Aside from the things that you needed to fix on them the next time you hit a decent port city, they ran smoother and faster than anything on this side of the galaxy.  But, for the purposes of keeping your head down and not getting robbed, life was easier when they didn't look appealing.

Across the clearing, you could hear the men attaching the empty wagon to the jump ship, checking over the mechanics one last time. They're yelling something  The driver of the jump ship revs the gears in quick bursts, filling the silent port with noise, and you know that you only have a few minutes before they leave.

You adjust your band down over the bridge of your nose, turning up the the tint so your eyes weren't visible. If anyone was watching, you didn't want them to have any more identifiers than necessary. It was bad enough that your roots were showing, revealing your natural hair color to the world.

Glancing up at Duxob, you nod. His scales shift colors -green to blue to purple- in silent agreement, running his hand over his pants and mounting his bike. There was no need for words when you've been working together as long as you have. There is no doubt between you and it makes picking out the best targets easier than breathing.

Like the driver. You would have approached him. He was an old Culxan, wrinkles deep in his wide face and expression set in a way that shows he has never known much other than struggle and hard labor in his long life, but he was soft around the edges. He likely had a family or at the very least, he wished he had one. You'd be able to play into that if you had the time, chipping away at him with curious glances and innocent but intrusive questions until he broke rules about stowaways and border jumping.

But time was the one thing you didn't have at the moment.

Which was why Duxob was taking the lead while you kept watch, one hand on your gun and the other on your bike handle. There were no visible security measures - the region you were in was way too poor to afford drones and bots and all the other high tech shit that smothers the galaxies - but that didn't mean much. This was an outlaw station - used more for transporting produce and drugs than intel and technology - and that meant anyone could have some sort of weapon on them at any time.

Which meant that they all did.

It also meant that you both needed to be extra careful. What you were doing was still illegal - Duxob could be arrested the moment he set foot by the gates - but there was a lawlessness about the way they dealt with criminals.  There were no questions. There were no arrests. There were no calling the authorities.

You didn't just have to watch for guard passes through the jump, you had to watch for anyone who looked at your partner for longer than 10 seconds.

It made you anxious but you knew Duxob could handle himself. He was Alzeanian after all - one of the most deadly species to exist on this side of the cosmos - and while they were rare and were hardly ever seen off their own planet, everyone knew what they were capable of.

It was an advantage you had utilized many times since you met him.

Still, you also never looked away from him as he approached the cargo wagon. Between the whirring of refueling pods and the grinding of the lines, the whole area is drowned in a sea of noise that made it damn near impossible for you to pick up what Duxob was saying. He was off his bike and if you hadn't redesigned it yourself, you would have thought it was turned off.

'Not safe yet,' you thought, watching as he adjusts his gait into a saunter as he approaches the driver. His wide smile is all sharp teeth but his flat nostrils are closed into slits as he scented the wagon. After a moment, the slits flared open again and He stretched, his lean body on display as his dirty shirt rode up.

You tried not to stare but it was difficult when your job was literally to watch his scales to see if they shifted or not.  

Duxob's toothy smile morphed into an easy grin as he reached down into his pocket and pulled out a small bag, slipping it into the driver's pointed claw in a pseudo-handshake. He flashed green and you knew you were safe for the moment.

Relieved, you hitched your backpack over your shoulders as Duxob drove back over. "We good?"

"Yeah. One bag of units and four ounces of dust," he husks, removing his own backpack from where it was hooked onto his bike, "Pretty cheap but then again, the wagon is empty, they're jumping through a moon shift, and its heading to the Triquaz region so anything more than that would have been bullshit and he knows it."

"Ew."

You hated the Triquaz region. Hated it. On your list of choices for destinations, it wouldn't even make it to the top 500 but the reality was that you didn't have a choice at the moment. They needed to get off this planet and find a port where they could stock up on their dangerously low supplies. You were human, which limited the amount of things you could consume in the galaxy apparently, and finding stations that imported Earth produce and the like took a bit of research to find.

"I know but at least the temperature doesn't fluctuate so suddenly or so dramatically."

"This is true," you sighed, adjusting your grip on your handle bars as you walked alongside the bulky alien, kicking up dust as you did so "Do you know which planet we're going to?"

"No but I do know we will be confined inside the back for a good five days before we get there."

"Well fuck," you groaned, "Do we have enough to get us through til then?"

His lips quirked up and you couldn't help be annoyed at it. You had real concerns damnit! You knew how much you had in your bag but that was it. You didn't touch your partner's bag unless it was a severe medical emergency, like the time you got bit by a Qon and needed a poison pack or when Duxob accidentally burned off an entire forearm's worth of scales and skin trying to readjust the thrusters on his bike without your supervision.  

"Don't fucking smirk at me dickhole."

His grin widened minutely before disappearing completely, "We will be fine. We have enough to last until we get off-world and find somewhere to sleep."

God you missed sleep. It felt like ages since you were able to get more than an hour here and there. The tension in your body was tight enough to choke someone to death. Your body was not made for the rough interstellar outlaw lifestyle that you found yourself in and it loved to remind you of that.

The alternative wasn't any better so you tried not to bitch too much about it.

The wagon was attached to the jump ship, the back door closing as it prepared to jump. The gatekeepers on both sides of the portal gate were bustling too and fro, making sure everything was secured for a final time before departure.

"Ready?" Duxob grunts, picking up the pace.

This part, along with literally everything else about being a stowaway, made you nervous. Jumping was a very serious, precious thing. If you fell back, it usually wasn't so bad. Depending on how far you are, you could come back unscathed. If you fell to the side.....well, it wasn't pretty thats for damn sure.

"Ready."

As one, you run forward, kicking up even more dust and shoving your bikes upwards, hopping into the wagon just as the doors close. You can hear the clicking as the metal latch seals and the overpowering light from the east sun was consumed in darkness. You quickly dropped to your knees and clutch onto the metal door handle, feeling the start-up of the initial burst of speed that is required in order to jump.

Duxob worked quickly to secure the security locks and activate the bracer shields on the bikes, knowing full well how awful it could be if the bikes remained unsteady during liftoff.  

The wagon rocks as the buildup increases. There is heavy clanging happening outside, slowly being drowned out by the familiar ghostly noises of the portal as the wagon approaches it. You brace yourself as the rocking turns into lurching, knowing full well that no matter how hard you clutch onto the door, you are going to be flung.

It always hurts and this time is no different. The bruises on your back are going to be a fucking bitch.

"Y/N?" Duxob pulls a light stick from his bag as it ends, snapping the two ends together and holding it up. The wagon illuminates and you give him a thumbs up from where you landed on the floor on the opposite side of the wagon.

"Is anything broken, you weird fragile creature?"

The thumbs up quickly turns into middle finger and he snorts, which makes you bend your arm and snap it up a few times to emphasize the level of 'fuck you' you are directing at him. You hated everything.

The wagon lurches again and flings you over to another side of the wagon yet again. Pain shoots into your side but its quickly quashed when you realize it hurled you right into Duxob's body, causing him to grunt and slam back into the wall forcefully.

Fucking aftershocks.

"Ish what you get for talking shit asshole," you mumbled, face pressed uncomfortably into his abdomen (?)- you had no idea because Duxob dropped the light stick on impact and it rolled underneath one of the bikes and died.

A solid hour goes by before either of you move, wanting to be completely sure that the jump was successful.

"Only five days to go," you grumble as you finally shift away from the chilled body of your partner, "Fuck."

Five days of sleeping on a hard floor, working in the low lights of your remaining sticks, sucking on dehydrated food packs and ignoring the grumbling in your stomachs, and trying not to go stir crazy in the darkness of space. Again.

"We'll get through it. We always do."

"I know," you sigh, "I just wish it was different sometimes."

He doesn't say anything but you can feel his clawed hands stroke the top of your head and you hum, content despite the complaints on your lips. You'd cope. You both would. Just like you always do.

Because you weren't alone and neither was he.

~~~~~

Five days was four days and 23 hours too many to be confined in the dark with nothing to do. You were ready to tear your skin off just to have something else to focus on. As awesome as it was, travelling the galaxies wasn't a luxurious process if you didn't have the money to book passage on a tourist ship or buy your own. More often than not, if you wanted to get somewhere off-planet, you either hitched a ride or you snuck your way into empty crates and bag holds, spending hours upon hours being quiet and still.

It was maddening at the worst of times but you always felt better knowing that Duxob was with you, keeping you company in the quiet.

Nevertheless, the moment the secondary engines turned off, you were up and ready for action, securing your stuff back onto your body before the clinking and clanging of the descent even stopped.  

Duxob was too by the looks of it. His face was always hard to read but you could tell he was just as anxious to escape your wooden prison as you were. You couldn't see it too well in the dark but his scales were more red than any other color and bright than normal, indicating his level of irritation. You watched as he pressed close to the wood, listening to the shouting coming from the outside through his comm chip.

You would have but yours was damaged and the parts were too small to see and repair in the total darkness of the wagon. The universe was filled with other languages and you picked up what you could but everything on the outside sounded foreign.

"Can you make anything out?" you whisper, already straddling your bike with your hand on the starter. After being confined for so long, the rush of adrenline was blinding. You wanted to go.

Duxob jerks away from the wood quickly and hops on his own bike, "We've descended. They'll be opening the door any minute now. Get ready." His long clawed hand turned his bike on before reaching over and flicking yours on too, "We have to be quick. This port is more heavily armed with border agents and just as ruthless. Be careful."

"You too."

The seconds seem to drag on and anxiety causes your grip on your handles to strengthen even as you start to sweat. Border patrol agents were nasty pieces of work, hired to check and process travellers as they come and go off planets but, because there were no uniform regulations to keep them in line, they often just did as they pleased to people, especially those that are illegally jumping.

Like you and Duxob were.

"We will be fine Y/N," Duxob mumbled quietly, his voice hoarse from disuse and oh how you loved how he said your name "They haven't caught us yet. They never will."

The darkness seems deeper in the contours of his face as you look at him, emphasizing the brightness of his golden reptilian eyes and the gold pseudo-eyes that rest above them and bleeding over the contours of his cheekbones. (He never explained to you what the 'pseudo eyes' were - you weren't even sure if they were eyes to begin with- or what they did and you couldn't bring yourself to care about you- not when he was looking at you and you had more important things to focus on).

He's all hard lines and safety, a reminder of all you've gone through the last few years to get where you are, and you relax just the slightest bit.

"No. They never fucking will."

His lips quirk up again, "Now get ready. Its almost time."

And he was right. No sooner than you had turned back to face the wagon door, did it open with a hiss, revealing several border patrol guards with scanners and tasers and all the pretty toys you wish you could get your hands on.

"Show time."

~~~~~~

The getaway was as dramatic as you would expect. The air tasted wet, the humidity of the planet already working its magic on your already beaten body as you sped away from the guards. The port was a mess - Duxob finding it absolutely necessary to snatch one of their stun bombs and let it off over the entire port. There was a pain spreading from your side and you knew without a doubt that you got hit.

But it was worth it.

Duxob was unharmed.

You glance over your shoulder and assess the chaos left in your wake. Its nothing more than a smoky ball of dirt on wet and slimy hilltop and you grin when you see that the guard patrol bikes are still hovering around the port.

"They didn't see us. I think we're good," you shout, grinning wide despite the pulsing pain in your side. You could feel the blood dripping down your back, a burning sensation crawling over your flesh. Carefully, you engage your auto-drive.

"Lets get farther away before we get comfortable," the reptilian man warned, doing nothing to stop the smirk forming on his lips but kicking his bike into the next gear. You untie and retie your jacket's belt quickly, using whats left of your clothes as a makeshift bandage to staunch the bleeding, before putting your bike into the next gear to catch up.

"Where to?" You could feel drops of water splashing up from your wheels and you pointedly do not think about how much fucking mud you are going to have to clean out of your rechargers later. Instead, you focus on how exhilarating it feels to be alive.

Alive and with Duxob.

"There is a city not far from here but I think we should head out farther. When they release we got away, they'll immediately head to it to try and smoke us out."

"Sounds good to me." It really didn't, not with the way the fire in your side spread and consumed you but auto-drive was a beautiful thing and it wouldn't be the first time you passed out and needed your bike to take you to safety. Duxob was more than capable of syncing your bike to his so you didn't get separated and he was more than used to you passing out due to your human stamina.

It would be ok.

~~~~~~

It was not ok.

You had been on the road for at least a full 12 hours before Duxob found a port city to stop in, every rock, bump, and hurdle ripping at the ever-growing wound on your side.  There was nothing special about this particular port - same lost cost rooms, dingy dive bars, questionable food marts, and horrific pleasure buildings, all the same shit that comes with being a hub for the transients and the poor - and that what made it the perfect place to lay low for a bit.

It also meant that there likely wasn't a med bay anywhere in the vicinity and you're going to have to try and fix the wound yourself when Duxob went for food.

There were plenty of buildings advertising rooms but Duxob was picky, choosing the one that had the least amount of skeevy employees and cleaner bathrooms. It had a parking lot right outside the rooms, which was good since being able to get to their bikes at a moment's notice was vital in your combined survival.

Your room was all the way in the back of the building, on the first floor, another thing Duxob insists on when you bunker down in actual rooms for a night or two.

"I got us a room for five nights," he says, flashing the card keys and slipping them into his jacket pocket.

The surprise on your face must have been obvious because he snorted, "We need a rest. And we need to restock. Shipments are due to come in all this week at this port. Better to lay low and stay than run off with half empty gas tanks and no food."

Point.

"They didn't charge me too much," he murmured, knowing how anxious you got when you ran low on units, "I bartered."

Bartered meaning threatened the clerk until he was satisfied that they wouldn't bother you both.  You smirked up at him, "Good. I'm assuming we also have an hydration pod?"

Duxob leveled you with a stern look before it broke into a small grin and a wink, almost sending you to your knees in shock.

"Oooh, whats got you all playful?" you joked, subtly adjusting so you could poke his abdomen through his thick jacket. The movement was enough to make you want to die but you could not pass up the opportunity to tease him.

"You're going to stop smelling like shit and I'm excited about it."

"Fuck you, you stoic cumstain," you cackled, knowing full well that he was right. A downside to the life is that cleanliness often had to be traded for survival. Weeks could go by with only light rinsing and scrubbing through hoses and water containers and lakes. Soap was an almost nonexistent luxury as was conditioner and lotion.

Honestly, it was one of the hardest things you had to give up when you first left Earth and the thought of slipping into the pod and being able to do a deep cleansing of your body and wound was heavenly.

The scales on his head shift to a deep violet, spreading down his neck and chest in striping patterns and you know he is just as excited as you are to bathe. He reeks just as much as you do, the skin between his scales caked with ingrained dirt that probably drove him insane.

You made a mental note to offer to swab them out for him after his initial wash. You know, if you didn't pass out from the pain.

He swipes the card through the door before walking back outside to secure the bikes. You immediately drop all your stuff onto the bed in the corner, slowly lowering your body down next to it. You side screamed in protest, sweat starting to drip down your body as the wound shifted from a spreading  pain into paralyzing infection.

Which means that it wasn't just a normal blaster the guard was wielding.

Which means that it was one of the million different kinds of biological weapons they had at their disposal.

Which means that not only did it feel like your flesh was being fried and eaten, it likely was being fried and eaten to create the ideal environment for whatever chemical or disease that was inside it to make itself at home and infect you.

Which meant you were fucked.

The world got really fuzzy.

"....hey....Y/N? Are you ok?" your partner said, voice sounding distant.

'Oh...I think I'm dying,' you thought sluggishly as Duxob's face appeared above yours, handsome reptilian face slowly fading.

"Nope," you slurred, making sure to emphasize the pop of the 'P', "I got shot at the port. Thought it was a normal blaster shot but looks like its not...."

"What?"

Oh, he sounded mad.

"Yeah. Don't be mad."

"Oh. Mad doesn't even begin to cover what I'm feeling," he growled, easing off your jacket and the majority of your shirt off as carefully as he could to inspect the damage. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"We had to get away." There were pieces of fabric melted into the wound and no matter how gentle he was being, it was not pleasant and you couldn't stop the choked noises from escaping. Something cold was sprayed on the blistering skin and you vaguely recognized the smell of antibiotic spray.

'He's so smart,' your mind supplied as it floated in dead, squishy remnants of your ability to think rational and continuous thought, 'Knows just what I need.'

"We could have stopped sooner! This needs to be dressed and treated!"

You didn't have the strength to argue, blinking to fight off the very tempting urge to just pass out and ignore the way your body was succumbing to the infection. There was an unhealthy amount of sweat pooling in your collarbones and in the small of your back but there was ice in your bones.

"Stay awake. Stay the fuck awake Y/N! Do you hear me? I'm going to wrap you up and get some help."

"Too dangerous."

"Fuck you, I swear if-"

You didn't hear what he said next. Everything went silent, like when audio is cut right in the middle of a movie. You were positive he was still talking but his lips were moving way too fast for you to read them and it wasn't like you could see them clearly anyway.

A feeling of calm washes over you before the world goes black.

~~~~~

The first time you regain consciousness feels like something out of one of your nightmares.

There is pain.

Lots and lots of fucking pain.

And you can't move.  Your body was frozen, limbs unresponsive and weak.

And there is one - no, two - faces hovering above you covered in blood and neither of them was Duxob. You didn't recognize either of them but you knew that the blood was yours.  

The screams formed and fizzled out before they could reach your teeth.

'Please. Please let me die. Oh my God, please let me die. I can't....help me. Someone help me!'

The darkness gripped you tight and you hoped that you never woke up again.  

~~~~~~

The second time you wake up, you are in a different room and the pain is gone but it was replaced with a throbbing ache in your joints. Its dark, the only light coming from a small light stick in the corner of the room, but you can make out the shape of something moving in the room behind weighted eyelids.

"Dux?" you rasp, mouth dry and disgusting, "That you?"

The shadow figure moved closer. Right away you knew it wasn't Dux and you couldn't stop the anxious whine from escaping. It crackled painfully in your throat. The dark hid everything from you, fear slamming back into you forcefully.

"Shhh. Shhh little love," the shadow whispered, voice feminine and sweet, "Dux is nearby. Cade had to take him to the back room while R fixed you up."

A cool cloth was placed on your head and you flinched, whining again when you realized you couldn't move away from it. The ache spread throughout your body as it tried to shiver. The bed beside your hand dipped before a soft hand stroked your cheek and hair.

"Rest. You are out of danger now. I'll let Dux know you know you woke up," the shadow said, a smooth lilt to its voice as they continued to soothe you. "He worries."

As much as you want to protest, to jump up and demand answers, scream for Duxob to come in and protect you from the shadow and this strange, awful place, you couldn't help but the shadow's touch was comforting. Something beeped somewhere in the darkness followed by a burst of sweet-smelling aroma.

Before you could stop yourself, you slipped gently back into unconsciousness with the bitter knowledge of waking up alone on your tongue.

~~~~~~

The third time you woke up, you felt better. The throbbing ache was centralized to the spot where you knew your wound was. You kept your eyes closed for a few moments, cataloging your body, relieved when it seems that all your limbs seemed back online and capable of movement.

"Y/N?" a familiar voice asked and you couldn't help the grin as it formed on your mouth.

"Dux?"

"Yeah, its me," the sound of wood scraping on wood filled the room and the bed dipped a little, "I was starting to think Jazza lied."

"Who?"

"Don't worry about it right now," he murmured quietly and you didn't have to look to see that his face was next to yours on the pillow, "How do you feel?"

"Sore," you whimpered, shifting a bit on the bed, "but good. Better."

"Good. Good."

After a moment of struggle, you were able to roll your head to side and open your eyes. Duxob's face was, indeed, very close to yours on the pillow. Close enough that you could trace the green patterns in his iris's.

"Hi," you whispered.

"Hey."

"You ok?"

"Yeah, I'm ok."

"Promise?"

He chuckled at that, the sound reverberating through the pillow, "Promise. Go back to sleep. You need more rest."

As soon as the words left his lips, you yawned, sending what was probably a really nasty-smelling gust of gross-mouth into his face. His face contorted in mild disgust but stayed put. You admired his restraint.

"Sleep." There was a hint of command in his tone.

So you did, eager to fall into a place that was just Dux's cool hands and vibrant scales.

~~~~~~

Weeks had passed before you were able to stay awake for more than three hours and each time you woke up, Duxob was there with fresh blankets, soup, and a new story about what he had done while he waited for you to wake up again.

You quickly became acquainted with Jazza, a fiery little humanoid Flazian woman with artificial purple eyes and scars across her pink body who you recognized as the shadow who lulled you back to sleep, Cade, a small golden alien (you couldn't place his species for the life of you) with bright orange antennae and tattoos covering his body, and R, a tall tentacled Carcog who trained as a doctor on Pantone but left the practice to lead a rebellion after he discovered that the institution that hired him had been giving placebos to the poorer populations of beings instead of actual medicine.

You had also learned that the building you were in was where R worked to heal the disenfranchised and those injured by border agents and those they work for in the various riots and rages he leads and organizes. It was beaten down and broken, windows boarded up with wood and red tape, floors splintered and decayed, regularly infested with at least three kinds of parasites at any given moment - seven if Cade didn't parasite bomb once a week -, and the smell was enough to make you vomit. It was incredibly well-hidden - it had to be in order to fly under the radar for extended periods of time.

However, despite the shitty state of the building and most of its rooms overall, the healing rooms were immaculate and perfectly sterile. The medicine cabinets were lined up neatly along the walls and labeled with the different medicines they stored. There were neat charts and lists hanging on the walls - patient schedules, post-its with cute doodles on them, restock lists, all manner of relevant papers.

Air purifiers hung in every corner just high enough to reach and adjust if needed and you were thankful for them because without them, you could imagine it getting quite stuffy in the room.

Cade had found the building right before the last time they had been forced to run - over 3 years ago - and they still hadn't been found, which put you at ease. You wouldn't be able to fight your way out if there was a raid on the building.

Especially since you were unarmed and unable to get out of bed without risking rupturing all of R's hard work.

They were quite the trio, always on the go and doing something, getting in each other's way - sometimes on purpose just to get a rise out of the other - but, despite their strangeness, you were grateful. They saved your life and, from what Jazza had said, kept Duxob from losing his shit all over the place while you were out.

"Dinnertime!" Jazza sang as she sauntered into the room, a steaming bowl of gross mush that was supposed to promote rapid healing.

"Oh goody," you reply sarcastically, dog-earing the page you were on and putting the book off to the side so she could place the bowl on your lap table.

"Hush now," she mock-scolded, purple eyes whirring as they focused on you, "This is helping."

"But it tastes like shit," you whine loudly, exaggerating random syllables, "Its NASTY!"

"Child, I will spank you."

"Pfft, that is sooooo not a punishment," you smirked, wiggling your eyebrows at her as she cackled.

"If it makes you feel better, the rest of us are stuck on this canned garbage until we can make another run and it tastes even worse than the shit R is making for you."

"You're right, I do feel better."

"Oh fuck off."

You laughed, only stopping when your side started to throb. R had told you all about the stuff you had been shot with, and, because you waited so long before getting it treated, you would likely always have a residual pain in your side from where the nerves had been frayed and rebuilt.  Over time, the pain would fade into a more manageable level and you'd be able to resume most activities but it would likely never go away.

It bummed you out in more ways than you could ever imagine and for once, you were thankful Duxob wasn't in the room. You were 90% sure R had already told him everything a;ready, there was no way he wasn't going to get some answer from R after he had fixed you up, but you sure as hell didn't want to have a conversation about it.

"So, I have more questions," Jazza smiled and you groaned obnoxiously, causing her to shoot you a playful glare.

Jazza had grown up with very little knowledge of the worlds beyond her own, having come from a very secretive sub-community on a moon in some quadrant you hadn't even heard of, and only started experiencing other beings when she hitched a ride with Cade off her birth world. As a result, she had at least 20 new questions for you every time she came in and grilled you endlessly as she tried to understand. Most of the time, her questions were about humans and Earth but there were times when her curiosity drifted to your partner.

It was sweet, the way she lit up when something made sense to her. She's get all starry eyed and excited and you felt a pang of loss over your own loss of wonder.

"Ok. Shoot."

"What is up with Dux's scales? One minute they're green. Then they're blue. They get really bright and then dim down like a Hashi craft. I fucking turned around yesterday and he had bright red fucking elbows for no reason and I don't know dude, is he sick? Does he need a catheter too?"

If you had been drinking, you would have choked, "First of all, thank you for reminding me that I have one of those in right now. I really needed to be reminded that I can't pee on my own."

"You are welcome," she responds with all the seriousness of condolence.

" Secondly, its partially how he communicates," you said, rolling noodles onto your fork, "Alzeanian scales are a lot more complex than what people think. Probably because they don't leave their planet often and anyone who visits their planet gets killed so no one really has any data on them." You shrug, dipping your fork of noodles in the little sauce pot. "Each scale looks like its just a flat color from a distance but the closer you get, the more you can see that they are more of an iridescent duo-chrome. Alzeanians can control how muted or how bright their colors are and can make them shift from regardless of where they are standing in the light. Duxob has a green to blue-purple shift in the majority of his scales. In others, he has a gold to red shift and he has a tiny patch that shifts between purple and red but that's literally just on his elbow. Depending on where we are and what we are trying to do, he uses them to talk to me from a distance."

"That is so cool," Jazza whispers, eyes wide and whirring as she slurps down her own food with her double-tongue.

"It can be," you acknowledge, "and its always nice knowing that your partner is adept at handing any kind of situation and can alert you real fast if things get...unsavory. I lucked out big time that he took me on."

You couldn't help the twinge of sadness that came when you thought too deeply about Duxob's presence in your life and the implications of how recent events were going to change that.

"How so? I saw your Wanted reel. You are quite handy with a gun," she grinned, nudging you with a dirty hand and you couldn't help but grin back. You were extremely proud of your Wanted reel. It really captured your insanity and desperation for freedom. Other outlaws try to seem as scary as possible when they know they are being filmed to dissuade anyone from coming after them.

Not you though.

You welcomed the challenge.

'Come and get me. I dare you.'

"I try."

"You succeed."

"Its all I know how to do. Wield a gun and fix bikes," you shift your now empty bowl away from you. There is a bitterness lurking there, something you try to keep down as much as possible. Jazza seems to understand.

"Lets change your bandages," she suggests and you are grateful for the change in topic.

~~~~~~

You hate physical therapy.

Hated it.

You also hated Duxob.

Because the piece of shit loved to get you up early and do the exercises with you until you cried.

This morning was no different. The stupid lizard wouldn't stop smiling as he guided you into each stretch.

"Stop enjoying this," you grumbled as he pushes down on your torso so you get an actual stretch instead of one of the fakes ones you did before he took over because you didn't see the point of putting yourself in more pain.

"I'm not," he said, smile stretched, sharp, jagged teeth on display, even further on his usually stoic face. Fucking liar.

"You are, you - ow, ow, ow, owwwww," you screeched as he eased you into the most painful of the stretches, "Whhhhhyyyyy?"

"You need to use your muscles again. You were in a coma on and off for two weeks and you've been recovering in bed for two more. You're going to get squishy and useless."

"I already am squishy and useless though!"

"No, you aren't," he murmured, letting you come out of the stretch and falling back onto the bed, "And you need to get your body used to movement again."

"Leave me to die," you whine dramatically, turning your head and throwing your arm over your eyes like a princess.

The words formed and hit your mouth before they hit your brain and the silence that follows is deafening.

"I think recent circumstances would suggest that I wouldn't," Duxob says, soft and displeased.

"I know," you sigh.

~~~~~~

"Tell me," Jazza begins, a couple of days later, "How'd you get hurt anyway? I feel like we've talked about literally everything else since you've been here but that. You had a pretty sizable wound when you came in. R wasn't sure you were going to pull through and he's done multiple surgeries on Gorglax creatures."

"Oh um, well," you wrack your brain for a good explanation but the look on Jazza's face suggests a finger right in your side if you lie. "Ok well. We had gotten off a port wagon and the usual 'run for your lives before the space coppers get you' game ensued. Dux had managed to get a hold of one of their stun bombs and released it, paralyzing the border guards. Most of them anyway." You take a deep breath, a weird flash of emotion flowing through you as you relived it. Ew. Not going there. "There was a smaller one following close behind us as we fled from the port. I don't know if he saw me or what, maybe he completely disregarded me as being the less important catch - whatever - but he aimed at the back of Dux's bike. His recharger wasn't in the best shape - I only had duct tape with me when I rewired it - and any sort of hit would have caused an explosion. He took aim at it and I swerved in front of him, causing him to slam on the breaks and swerve away."

Your side throbbed dully at the memory of your skin splitting open as the gun went off anyway, haphazardly, hitting you just enough to burn away a chunk of your body.

"It went off anyway  and got me in the back as I was speeding away."

"It wasn't a direct hit?"

"No, thankfully."

"Then why was it so bad?"

You chuckled awkwardly, "I, um, didn't tell Dux I had gotten hurt so we, kinda, sorta...drove for 12 hours before I collapsed and he brought me to you."

The furious look on Jazza's pretty face would have been hilarious if it hadn't been for the fact it was directed at you, "You are an idiot."

"Hey, no I-"

"Yes you are! Did you have some kind of death wish?!"

"No-o...I-"

"You what? What could possibly have gone through your head that would justify you allowing yourself to burn and rot?"

It was silent for a moment as you tried to think of a reason other than the truth but, it just wasn't worth it. Not anymore. You were tired.

"I thought it was a normal hit, something minor," you whispered, unable to keep looking into the girl's pretty purple eyes, "I thought that I'd likely be okay. We'd stop, I'd patch myself up, and we'd rest. It wasn't until we got there that I realized I was fucked but even so, I was content. It hurt like a bitch but I've long accepted that I'm going to die in a shoot out or in a shitty sleep room in some shitty port," you sighed, leaning back into your lumpy pillow and rubbing your face, "And you, if I was gone....Dux would be safe. Safer, I should say."

Jazza's round face softened, the anger melting into a calm understanding.

"How so?" Her voice was soft, like the night she had soothed you to sleep in the shadows.

"I am a liability. I am no use to him, not really. I get hurt more. I eat more. I sleep more. I am more high maintenance than he is. I require things he doesn't and  that make being on the road difficult. There is a reason humans aren't an ideal partner, especially when you are running from space cops! I mean, look at where I am now? In bed! Hurt! He had to go around in a strange place and put himself at risk to try and find someone who could help. And he's waiting for me out of some misplaced whatever when we both know he could dip at any moment and he'd survive just fine!"

You didn't realize you were screaming until you stopped to catch your breath, throat hoarse and frustrated tears rolling down your face. Everything that had bottled up the last few years poured out, exploding in a tsunami of bullshit you didn't want to have to deal with. There was a throbbing in your side that you knew was from overexertion but you didn't give a fuck anymore.

"He would be fine," you reiterated, suddenly feeling sluggish. The drip in your arm had turned up on its own at the feel of your elevated heart rate and increasing level of agitation. R had set it up to monitor your activity and keep you from doing something stupid out of boredom and ripping yourself open. It was such a staple in your life that you had forgotten it was even in.

"No, I really wouldn't."

Oh shit.

He did not.

"Dux?" your mouth was slow, dripping over the syllable as he entered the room. A silent conversation took place between him and Jazza, one too fast for your slushy mind to process, before Jazza took off out of the room without another word.

The door closed and he sighed, all but collapsing on the chair next to you bed, looking more ragged than you had ever seen him before. His scales flashed and shifted uneasily as he looked at you.

"It seems we need to talk," he said, the finality of his tone telling you a talk was going to happen despite his phrasing.

"If you want."

"No but we're going to."

"Fine, you start."

Coward, you scolded yourself but hey, feelings were scary, which is why you never dealt with him.

"Fine," he growled, scooting the chair even closer and putting himself all in your personal bed space, "Things are going to change."

"I figured," you shrugged, "I can't run anymore. My side will never allow me to do all the strenuous activity of being an outlaw."

"Agreed. You can't do that anymore," he said, eyes roaming over the bandages peeking through the shredded top you were wearing before meeting your eyes again, "So I came up with a solution."

You leaned your head back, your neck unable to hold it up due to the sedation pumping through you, "Where are you going to take me?"

"What do you mean?"

"I'd like for you to drop me off in a place I'll be able to get around easily enough. I liked that little blue planet we stopped at like 2 years ago."

"You aren't going anywhere."

"But you just said I can't run anymore. I can't stay here forever and we are still Wanteds. I'm going to need to be in a place where I can live and blend in without drawing suspicion."

"Who says you can't stay here?," he asked, harsh golden-green eyes boring into yours, "And who says that I'm going to ditch you on some random planet?"

"Dux, I can't," you pause, mind really blurry because he isn't making any sense and it's making you anxious, "I am very drugged. Please stop."

His gaze softens and he reaches a stubby clawed hand out to stroke your head, "Calm down, ashistoiro. You are ok. You are safe. I am here."

"Ashi-what?"

"Ashistorio, Y/N. Beloved in Alzeanian...well, the closest translation for it," he murmured, claws scraping gently along your skin, "I discussed it with R. He is letting us stay. There is a bunker attached to this building that he is going to let us have until its time for all of us to leave. I am not leaving you. I won't. I can't. You are my biggest asset."

It wasn't a normal confession of love, not by a long shot, but it was one of the most meaningful you had ever heard.

And you hated that you were passing out in the middle of it.

"Yeah?"

He smiled as he watched you nod off, "Go to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

You couldn't wait to wake up.

 ~~~~~~