#buggy is just muscle memory at this point

[aimbutmiss]

Only have a blue pen and bored out of my mind at grandma's so here are some very quick, no reference one piece drawings for shits and giggles

[hey-august]

What if Buggy doesn't like having his hair pulled

What if it reminds him of being teased for having long hair

What if no one has ever handled his hair gently, not even him

What if the first time his hair is brushed without causing him pain is by your hands

Maybe he's scared of telling you, scared you'll pull harder, he knows you're not like that but he's still scared because it still hurts

😭😭😭 This breaks my heart. WC: ~300

Buggy can’t help but flinch whenever someone is near his hair. It’s muscle memory for him at this point - pulling away when anyone reaches for his head, cringing when something touches his hair, tensing up to prepare for the inevitable pain. After many years of the same call and response, it’s hard for Buggy to let go of the past.

But he wants to.

He wants to know if you’re always so gentle. Maybe you ate a Devil Fruit and can take away pain. How are you able to brush his hair without yanking on all the snarls and tangles? Buggy didn’t know it was possible to not have a headache after brushing his hair.

When you push strands of hair out of his face, you’re just so kind. You’re careful of his nose, you make sure the hair doesn’t drag through his face paint, and you thread your fingers through his hair so carefully that he could just melt into your touch. He wants to, very badly, but he’s afraid.

He watches how you wash your hair. The way you massage your scalp firmly, but not painfully. It actually looks relaxing. Buggy tries to mimic what you do, but he’s not sure if he’s doing it right. His fingers dig in and create more knots, just adding to the overall frustration of having his hair.

Secretly, Buggy loathed his hair for the longest time. He felt cursed. It drew attention, just like his nose. And because it’s so long, people always wanted to know if it was real. Like his nose. So they would try and touch his hair (and his nose). It felt like his body was betraying him.

But then you came along. You love his hair. And his nose. You love him. And the more you show those feelings, the more he feels your love, the more Buggy thinks that maybe his long hair isn’t a burden.

[sporadicthingcollection]

Smash or Pass: Part 4/4 (LA!Buggy the Clown x Reader)

Summary: It's the last stop before the Grand Line and you slink away for a quiet evening. The universe, however, decides to clown on you. Sequel to Kiss, Marry, Kill. Pairing: LA!Buggy the Clown x F!Reader Rating: Semi-explicit. Warnings: Attempted murder. Word Count: ~3.6k.

---

PART 4: In which you prepare for a walk of shame, avoid eating your hair, and do some storm prepping.

Oh, what a wonderful dream. There you were, the High Surgeon Princess, besieged by uncultured swine. You thought for sure your time was up, but then the Harlequin Outlaw swooped in like the incorrigible, irascible rapscallion you've always wanted in your life and saved you from certain doom and dishonor. You graciously treated his wounds and one thing led to another and you fucked like rabbits in springtime. You got married and had two-point-five children and lived happily ever after in a castle with a white picket fence.

Unfortunately, your marital bliss is interrupted by the sun on your face and a battleaxe pingponging around in your skull.

You grumble. You hate Drunk You. She’s a bitch who doesn’t know her limits. Next time you see her, you’re gonna kill her.

Your cheek is stuck to something smooth, your arm is under something heavy, and something wispy tickles your lashes. You open your eyes to find that they’re all the same thing -- a broad expanse of tanned skin stretched taut over hard muscle, draped with a head of long, blue hair.

Alright, maybe Drunk You isn’t so bad. She knows your tastes and left you a thoughtful gift. Maybe you’ll get a bonus round.

You drape your other arm over him and explore. Nice pecs, fuzzy chest, cock semi-erect… ooh, soft belly. Very nice.

You walk your fingers up to his face. Stubble, pierced ear…  what the hell is that on his face? 

You sit up as much as you can with your arm stuck under your gentleman friend.

Your memories come rushing back like water through a sluice. Your blood turns to ice. You’re never drinking again.

You’re stuck. In bed. Naked. With Buggy. Buggy. Fucking Buggy. Not Kuro, who at least had some class while he tried to eviscerate you. Not Mihawk, who has no beef with you personally and doesn’t wear a shirt. Not even that handsome Marine with the sword and suit.

You could have lived with any of those, but no, you wake up next to the most pathetic man in the four Blues. A literal clown. A vainglorious loser. A man who wants to rip your captain, your best friend, limb from limb and feed him to sharks.

Do you think you could chew your arm off before he wakes up? 

You look for any sign of him stirring. Eyes closed, hair falling in his face, lips parted slightly as he breathes. One strong arm tucked underneath his head and the other in a loose fist by his mouth.

He looks so cute and peaceful. Ugh.

He shifts enough for you to free your arm and, just as you thank the gods, he lets out a snore that could have come from an ox. You can’t help but laugh.

Maybe this wasn’t a mistake. Maybe this was two people fooling around. Maybe nothing will come of this and you'll both go on your merry way with a fond memory of a night of drinking, dancing, and screwing. La-di-da-di-day. Everyone wins.

You stand up on shaky legs and examine yourself. A lot of little bruises on your thighs where he gripped you, but no hickeys. Thank God.

There’ll be no hiding the walk of shame, but you can at least maintain some dignity. You fix your hair, rinse your mouth out with the water in the dry sink basin, and sponge bath yourself with…

Hmm. No washcloth and you're out of rags. There’s gotta be something around here you can use.

Like the candy cane bandanna on the floor. You snatch it up and, wetting it, give yourself a quick wipe down. Pits, tits, pussy, as the saying goes. You'd never forgive yourself if you got something nasty from this.

“Oh,” says a soft voice. 

You turn. Buggy, propped up on his elbow, blinks sleepily at you. The sun lights up his hair like a shallow sea on a calm morning, shifting and shimmering as he brushes a few strands out of his face.

Your stomach jumps up your throat in a most pleasant way. Clearly, it’s conspiring with your heart against your brain.

He rubs those wide, gorgeous eyes. “Thought you’d’ve made your exit.”

You were about to. You shrug. "Just enjoying the view. Counting the masts.”

Hook baited. The joke is right there. Right there. He’ll say ‘I’ve got a mast for you right here, hur hur’ and you’ll have an excuse to get the hell outta here.

But he smiles. Not the showman’s smile he gets before he says something he thinks is clever. It’s soft. Warm. The kind of smile one bestows in private to those deemed worthy.

"Glad you didn't," he says.

Your brain puts up a valiant defense, but the heart-stomach alliance is winning. You swallow.

His smile wavers slightly. “Is that my bandanna?”

Shame burns your ears. "Sorry. I'll wash it--"

He flaps his hand dismissively. "Keep it. I've got plenty."

He pulls the sheets back and by God, nothing has ever looked as tempting as him. Him, a pirate with a weird nose who tried to kill you, sprawled out on scratchy, threadbare sheets, his fat cock laying there so deliciously—

You swallow again. Your pussy has joined the siege on your brain and they’ve voted to rename it the Organ Entente.

He stretches as he stands, his muscles rippling as he pops and rolls his joints. Sunlight pours over his body, draping him in liquid gold. He pulls his hair from its ponytail and gives it a good shake before putting it back up.

Lest your eyes join the fight as well, you turn away. Count the masts in the harbor. See if you can spy any Marines. Find the Merry.

Two strong arms drape around your shoulders, pulling you against a broad, warm chest. He rests his chin on your head. “Think I can see my ship from here,” he murmurs.

And in jumps your skin from the top rope. The nerves have betrayed the brain, charging over the ridge to aid the Entente in its assault. “Yeah?”

“Right over there. The Big Top.” He points to a perfectly normal-looking ship, nothing like the beast that waylaid you a few weeks ago. “Well, she’s the Loosey Baru now. Heard the Marine captain's a real bulldog, so we did her makeup and gave her a costume change.”

“Amazing what you can get away with when your sail’s not a big Jolly Roger.” You were the only one against putting a giant WE ARE PIRATES sign on your mainsail, but you got outvoted.

His chest thrums as he giggles. “Subtlety is for cowards.”

You scoff. “Subtlety is for people who like not being in prison.”

"And being flashy is for people like me.” His head moves to your shoulder. His stubble scratches against your cheek. “Who like meeting girls like you.”

The Entente breaks through the wall and feelings flood your brain. Warm feelings. Fuzzy feelings. Feelings that make you absently kiss the side of his nose before you’re even conscious you’re moving.

Buggy goes stiff and not in the fun way that pokes your kidneys. He jerks away from you, gaze hard as he searches your face. Whatever he’s looking for, he must not find it, because a moment later he kisses your lips.

Overwhelmed, your brain surrenders. The Entente celebrates by jumping around all through your body, bouncing from your head to your toes. They also must have fired off a twenty-one-gun salute, too. Why else would your ears be ringing like bells? Big bells? Big, glorious, golden wedding bells?

But it's over as soon as it started. He pulls away and straightens up. “C'mon, let's get outta here before the matron gives us the hook."

Dressing goes smoothly enough for the both of you. Socks and gloves are retrieved. Drawers are located. Your bra and his scarf are found. You stuff his bandanna into your pocket and he settles on a ponytail.

You’re pulling on your trousers when you see him looking in a small compact mirror, carefully drawing green swoops on his face with what looks like an oil pastel.

“Makeup at a time like this?” you ask.

“Flashiness is next to godliness.” He draws a cross on his forehead, then regards himself. “Ech, I need a shave...”

You pause as you fasten your belt. “Gimme a few grand and I’ll shave you so smooth you’ll look like a ten-year-old. Promise not to cut your tongue off this time.”

“Done.” He swaps the green pastel for a tube of lipstick and moves on to his mouth, smearing his lips red. “Gonna have to straighten out my cabin first. Place’s been a mess since... well, always."

You pause mid-bra hooking. "Huh?"

“Haven’t shared with anyone ‘til now.” He rubs his lips together. “Not like it’s dirty — just clothes and shit everywhere. Hope you don't need much closet space.”

What the hell is he on about? You pull your shirt over your head. “Sharing quarters?”

“What, you think I’d stick you in with the freaks? My bed’s big enough for two.” With the back of his wrist, he smears the color onto his cheeks and into the gruesome smile he’s known for. “Not to mention that it's a bed and not a hammock. You ever try to fuck in a hammock? Ain't easy, lemme tell ya."

You lace up your shoes. "I have no idea what you’re on about."

"I’ll show you when we get back to the ship."

"What ship?”

Any mirth in Buggy's face vanishes. He looks at you, brows knit. "My ship," he says slowly. “We’ll get you settled, then I’ll go take care of my business, and we'll haul anchor when I get back."

The audacity of this man. "You really think Luffy'll let you kidnap me? He'll be on you like suckers on a squid."

He’s giving you a look you know well: the do-you-need-a-psych-eval-cuz-you’re-talking-crazy look. “Since when is going with someone willingly kidnapping?” 

You return the look. "What the hell makes you think I'm going with you at all?"

He pockets the lipstick and clicks the compact shut. He steps towards you. “You said if I screwed you to the wall, you’d come with me. I did just that. And then I asked if you meant it, and you said you did.”

"That's not--" You falter. Okay, you can see how bringing up what he said and telling him to do it could be misinterpreted.

Well, shit. Miscommunication strikes again. "Sorry you got your hopes up."

Buggy falters. Something stirs the rivers of his eyes, the same vulnerable, hurt something you saw lurking when you'd insulted his nose. His gaze drifts downwards and his jaw clenches.

Remorse douses you in a bucket of ice water. You're officially a giant asshole. And a slut. And a dumb bitch lush who hurt someone you actually started caring about.

For a moment, you consider recanting. Go with him. Run off and join the circus like you always threatened you would. Sail the seas with a colorful cast. Get rocked every night.

You stop yourself. Enough. You hate a captive audience, you're not a pillager, and while you are a slut, you're not desperate. You have people you know you can trust. Stick with them. Don't jump in with the wildcard.

Buggy huffs, snapping you out of your musings. The hurt in his eyes has faded and the rivers are still. The eerie calm before the storm surge.

"You led me on," he growls.

"I did no such--"

A knife flies past your head, taking off a few strands of hair and shattering the window.

Buggy's shoulders rise and fall rapidly. He readies another knife. "I'm gonna rip your lying tongue out."

You suppose that's karma. You edge towards the window and he matches your step. Another knife narrowly misses the back of your head.

“And then I'm gonna drag you across the keel by your fingernails."

Ouch. A third knife sails past your nose. You're almost there...

"And then I'll nail your corpse to the figurehead!" 

He lunges at you and you at him. You dive low, hitting the floor as he hits the dry sink and leaves the way to the door wide open.

Unfortunately for you, it's locked. You turn the bolt only to be pulled away and spun around by the strap of your satchel.

Buggy pins you against the door, yet another knife at your throat, his arm against your chest, and his knee between your legs. It would be hot if it wasn't for the deranged churn and roil in his eyes.

"I'm gonna ask one more time," he says. “You coming with?”

“No,” you spit. You try to kick him off, but he holds you fast.

He cracks a bit in both composure and voice. “What’s that little rubber prick got that I don’t, huh?! What's it gonna take?!”

“He’s never tried to kill me.” Not on purpose, anyways. “And he doesn't hurt innocent people.”

Frustration ripples through his eyes, and his gaze drifts downwards. “Well, I’m hurt.”

"You're not exactly innocent!" He doesn't notice your hand sneaking towards the knob. "He'll have to be dead, dying, or catatonic before I leave him."

He looks back up. Defeat hardens into determination. "Consider it done."

You really shouldn’t say what you’re about to say, but the words are out before you can stop them. “Good fuckin' luck, big nose.”

The river rages. The floodgates crack and the levees break. He drops the knife and reels back a punch.

You twist the knob. The door opens outwards and he sails past you, landing a heap on the floor. 

"Sorry," you say. You really do mean it. He tries to grab your ankles, but you dodge his hands.

The bar looks like a stampede went through it. The matron looks up from her cleaning as you leap down the stairs. "How's your boyfriend?"

"Trying to kill me." You sprint for the front door, only to pause. "This happens a lot. Situation normal." One more pause. "And he's not my boyfriend."

An impotent roar hits your ears. "I'm gonna make you eat your hair!"

And there's your cue. Exit, pursued by a clown.

---

In hindsight, it makes sense that Sanji would be in the galley making breakfast. You still scream like you saw a corpse when he greets you, but he doesn’t take it personally. Just offers you a warm drink and a place to sit.

You sit at the counter while he pours you a steaming mug of black coffee. You drink deeply. “How do you always manage to make a perfect cup?”

“If I told you that, I’d be out of a job.” He returns his attention to the stove. “So what’s his name?”

You almost spit your coffee all over him. “Say again?”

“You're gone all night and come home in the morning looking like you ran the whole way.” He gives you a sympathetic smile. “Will you at least tell me if you were chased? Just in case we need to bust some heads.”

“I think I lost him by the shipyard.” You stare into the swirling steam. “If you fell in love with someone, would you leave the crew to be with them?”

Sanji’s gaze drifts upwards. "Didn't I already?" 

But he's... Oh. Ooooh. "Alright, that was smooth. But you know what I mean."

He pulls a frying pan from the cabinet, gazing into its sheen like a scrying mirror. "I'm not sure. Depends." He looks up. “Is this the same person who sent you running?”

“No,” you say on impulse. Sanji continues to stare at you. You slump. “Yes.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “Love always hits like a hurricane,” he says. You quirk your eyebrow at him. “Old East Blue saying. It's sudden, fast, and sweeps you off your feet.”

Not the only thing that does that. "Speaking from experience?”

“First time I saw you, love,” he says with a wink and a smile.

You blush in spite of yourself and laugh. “Call me in ten years. I’m a bit old for you.”

His smile grows. “Could have fooled me.” He clicks the burner on and turns to dig around in the refrigerator. “So, tell me about your temptation.”

“What's there to say? Boy meets girl, boy drinks with girl, boy dances with girl, boy kisses girl…” Boy blows girl's back out, boy gets his heart broken, and boy threatens to make girl eat her hair. “...and here I am.”

“Sounds like a swell guy.” He sets a stick of butter, a rasher of bacon, and a dozen eggs on the table. "At least you had fun."

You snort. “So what do I do about B—” You catch yourself. “About this hurricane of mine?”

Sanji looks at you. Not that accusing right-into-your-soul look that Nami does, but like a man contemplating fish in a pond. “Well, you could build a sea wall, evacuate to higher ground, dance around naked in the rain…”

You chuckle. You wouldn’t mind seeing that. “What would you do?”

He smiles. “Batten down the hatches and enjoy the rising tide.”

You nod. Certainly something to chew on.

Standing, you take your mug. “I’m going to sit on deck. Photosynthesize a bit,” you say. You smile. “Thanks for listening, Sanji. I mean it.”

"Any time, love. I'd never judge." He cracks eggs one by one into the frying pan. “Every big storm has a name. What’s this one?"

You pull the bandanna from your pocket. You should hang it out to dry. “Hurricane Buggy.”

As you head out on deck, you hear the mighty splat of eggs hitting the floor.

---

The Buggy Pirates are no stranger to their captain's mercurial temper. Laughing one moment, shouting the next, then throwing a violent fit about who knows what, then back to cackling.

But this is extreme even for him.

They linger outside his cabin, listening to the crashing and slamming. No shouting, though. Just the occasional huffing and puffing, followed by the crack of splintering wood and the whunk of knives hitting the wall.

"How long's he been at this?" the strongwoman asks the fire eater.

"Longer than usual," he mutters. "No one knows why."

The old fortune teller -- also the cook -- crosses her arms. "He was gone all night and he comes back with a love bite. Could only have been a woman."

The shatter of glass makes everyone flinch. Still, not a sound from the captain.

"Could've been a fella," the strongwoman says.

The cook shakes her head. "I've been around a long time, girl. Only a woman could drive a man to this sort of madness. The fury of a woman scorned is nothing compared to the rage of a rejected man."

The contortionist rolls his eyes. "So he fucked around and found out. So what? Mohji said he had eyeballs on the rubber kid's crew. We need to move."

The strongwoman casts him an appraising look. "If you wanna go in and get him, be my guest."

He blinks, then frowns. He crosses his arms. "We could all go in there."

"I'm not gonna fight a guy with a shitload of knives."

"We can take him. Not like he can't stab all of us."

"He literally can."

"Wait. Shh, shh, shh." The fire eater puts a finger to his lips and holds up his hand. "You hear that?"

They all listen. They hear nothing. Silence.

He presses his ear to the door. "He's singing," he says with a frown.

They all glance at each other. That's never a good sign. "Singing what?"

"You know the one about the guy who gets drunk and kills his woman and gets hanged for it?" They nod. "That one."

The cook gives the strongwoman her famous told-ya-so look. The strongwoman rolls her eyes.

The door opens. The fire eater leaps away and everybody tries to look like they weren't eavesdropping as Captain Buggy comes strolling out, fiddling with his scarf and humming. He looks perfectly normal -- well, as normal as a man like him can look.

He speaks like he hasn't spent the last hour tearing his cabin apart. "Mornin', folks!"

The marksman looks at the strongwoman. Say something, it says. She shakes her head and looks at the cook. She looks at the contortionist, who looks right at the captain.

"Rough night, cap'n?" he asks.

Captain Buggy freezes. Everyone flinches.

Slowly, he turns to the contortionist. His expression doesn't change as a disembodied hand snatches the man by the neck and throws him into the water. Everyone jumps away, but nobody dares move any more.

Captain Buggy recalls his hand. "Mohji's found Rubber Boy, huh?" he says. "Great! Right on schedule. One little last minute change, though. The brunette with the long hair? I want her alive."

They look at each other again. "I thought we were gonna kill them all," the strongwoman says.

"Oh, we will. First, I kill Rubber Boy. His ass is still mine. Then you all clean up his little friends. And then..." His voice drops. "I teach the little diva a lesson, and then I'm gonna kill her." The darkness vanishes, and he returns to being jovial. "But first, breakfast!"

He strolls off, humming to himself. As soon as he's out of earshot, the cook speaks.

"Oh, he has got it bad," she says.

---

Take a look at a boy like me

Never stood on my own two feet

Now I'm blue as I can be

Oh, love come get me down!

---

A/N: And here end the melodramatics! a big thanks to everyone who read and commented and reblogged and liked and sent asks (askers ilu especially, i see a 1 by the envelope and my day is immediately made) 💙 i've got some ✨idears✨ in the pipeline for what's next, but in the meantime... stay flashy~

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[reineydraws]

For the mishanks body swap au, how would luffy/zoro/perona react? How would other people they know react?

hi! this got long so i'll put it under a cut, and there aren't really any drawings since that's a bit more effort and time i don't have rn 😅 but i wanted to answer this!

the people i cover are:

benn & yasopp

perona

zoro

luffy (and rayleigh, kinda)

kid luffy

buggy & croc

kid uta

thanks for the ask!!! :)

this is how i had some of shanks's crew react:

i think yasopp and benn, who have likely known him the longest and best and who have probably seen the most of mishanks together, would recognize mihawk's body language, even when it's on shanks. i also think ppl who spend a lot of time together and/or love each other a lot pick up each others' mannerisms, so benn and yasopp have probably already seen their captain exhibit little tells here and there that clearly come from mihawk. when mihawk himself somehow ends up in their captain's body, it's weirdly familiar for them, and they realize it's 'cuz they're not just seeing echoes of the swordsman in shanks, but the real thing.

for perona, i imagine shanks would roll up to kuraigana thinking like, "i should try to be like mihawk so as not to alarm them, esp 'cuz hawky probably would rather they not know" but when he steps off hitsugibune, he waves to perona and greets, "perona," and she's immediately like, "who are you!" she noticed that shanks buttoned the shirt he picked out of mihawk's coffin-crate wrong, and mihawk would never wear that shirt with those pants like that! and she thought maybe mihawk was having an off day until "mihawk" waved in greeting and called her by name. at this point, shanks is sweating lol.

zoro, i think he'd probably notice something is Off right away (shanks continues the charade bc he explains the situation to perona and perona thinks it's hilarious and wants to see how long zoro goes without noticing) but wouldn't really care until "mihawk" draws yoru for some training. zoro would scowl, annoyed but not alarmed bc perona's not alarmed, and he'd be like, "okay, that's it. mihawk would never hold yoru like that, he keeps at least another hand's-width distance in his grip for better support, what the hell," and shanks is just like, of course i got the sword thing wrong. of course his sword student would notice. 🤦🏻‍♀️ mihawk would only train interesting and competent people, and that's luffy's swordsman! c'mon shanks.

(i am a firm believer that shanks is the only other person that's ever been allowed to handle yoru in the time she's been mihawk's sword, and as an extension of that, i think it'd be cute if he held her in a slightly different grip bc shanks's style when using yoru is a little more hilt-heavy and defensive. he hasn't done this since losing his arm though, so it's actually nostalgic to be able to wield her with both hands.)

(i say this but i suppose, like with all body swap au's, there might also be an element of muscle memory involved. in that case, zoro probably confronts shanks when shanks reaches for beer instead of wine at dinner. but i like the sword thing better haha.)

luffy? luffy and mishanks aren't interacting in canon rn so i can't imagine where he'd meet up with them body-swapped, unless one of them goes to rayleigh at sabaody for help. (i say "one of them" but while shanks would be alone, poor mihawk would definitely have the red-hair pirates as a peanut gallery following along lol.) in this case, i think luffy (and rayleigh) would just laugh. like, a lot. so much.

if it was mihawk (looking like shanks), luffy would probably ask him a lot of questions regarding zoro and proclaiming his time is almost up as wgs, and then hang out with the rhp to catch up, show off his improved abilities a little, and tell yasopp about how usopp's been doing. with shanks, i think they'd catch up and then end up horsing around, and it would be extra funny bc from the outside it looks like dracule mihawk is having an eating contest with strawhat luffy. rayleigh will take photos for posterity.

if it's kid luffy and this happens before luffy's a pirate, i think luffy would probably ask mihawk-as-shanks what being a pirate is like, and also stories about being the wgs. and mihawk would tell him about fighting marines and his coffin boat and luffy would get a little starry-eyed but also maybe want to fight him lol.

other people they know... i can't help but imagine what kind of fuckery shanks would come up with if he rolled up to karai barai looking like mihawk. 😂 buggy and croc would be so unnerved.

i think shanks would take the opportunity to fuck with buggy a little by bringing up inciting incidents between them from when they were kids, like their really stupid arguments, and buggy would be caught between arguing back heatedly, creeped out that mihawk knows and is smiling all i-know-something-you-don't-know at him *shudders*, and wondering if the weird amount of knowledge on buggy's childhood mihawk has means that mihawk and shanks are fucking or something. (they are, but buggy doesn't know that. mihawk is a little annoyed at shanks for getting this revealed 'cuz he was holding onto their relationship for a more dramatic reveal if it ever presented itself, and he wanted the source of the blackmail he had on buggy to be a little more enigmatic. now, he can't creep buggy out bc he'll just assume all his blackmail material is from shanks. ugh.)

croc would be a little baffled that "mihawk" has suddenly started interacting with the clown way more than he used to, before realizing there's something deeply wrong with "mihawk". he seems too personable, too trusting, too... smile-y. it's weird. he doesn't like it. he is forced to go to buggy about this when his own henchmen don't seem to know what else to do about it, and they end up relictantly working together to find out what caused this personality change. when it eventually gets figured out that "mihawk" is actually shanks, buggy is livid and crocodile's already thinking about what this might mean for the cross guild, if the red force is going to come to karai barai, if that will cause problems for what he's trying to do, and of course, how he can use this situation to blackmail mihawk in the future. it's annoying but he can admit it's also kinda funny.

totally self-indulgent addition, but kid uta would take the oportunity to play dress-up with her dads since they've now effectively switched fashion senses. both let her, bc they are both charmed by how happy this makes her.

[grizouille]

Summary of the panel with Jeff and Taz

(@pure-jeff-ward if you're interested)

1-"what the devil fruit taste like?" According to Jeff, a devil fruit tastes like watermelon and chocolate

2 - "what's changed in your life since One Piece? " (as far as I understood) Taz told Jeff changed his life. And Jeff is impressed by Taz's dedication concerning his training, joking about the fact that he was kinda jealous that Taz was muscled compared to him but mostly he admires Taz. He's happy to be him friends with him. Afterwards Taz hugged him. (So cute!)

3-Their favorite scene of One Piece(series) is the last battle scene with Sanji and Zoro. Jeff joked about Buggy not fighting, saying "it's really hard to train to disassemble your body and all, I can't do that now because I'm tired" and Taz was in fits!

4- favorite music :Jeff loves hip hop and apparently rap and Taz likes all kind of music except techno. He likes when there is a beginning and an end to a song, songs that are constructed. (for example, he was playing Blink-182 on his phone while signing autographs and AC/DC during the photo ops)

5- favorite anime: Jeff likes Ghibli movies ("my neighbor totoro" and "spirited away") and Cowboy Bebop if I got it well, Taz likes Trygun currently.

6- favorite memory of the set: Taz loved explosions in the water. He was afraid because he was resting in his tent, so got out like "what's happening?" but then found it funny and amazing. Jeff talked about winning against Iñaki on FIFA (He said "destroying his ego" or something in the same vein. )

7-favorite character from One Piece who's not in the show yet: Jeff has chosen Trafalgar Law right away because he really likes his power. Taz wants to meet Sanji's dad and brothers, wondering what height they'd be. (On that point Jeff teased him for minutes after saying "they could be this size.... Or this size.. So funny!)

8- "if your character ordered food what would it be?" Buggy would order something and send it back, even if it's what he ordered, screaming and breaking everything around just for the fun of it. Sanji would order/make tart, he does this for very special people only.

9-Taz loves doing salads on set but the guys aren't keen on it. So he makes dishes in which he uses butter and salt for everybody to like it. Jeff added"that made me fall in love with him" 😂😂😂

10- "If you were in Avatar the last Airbender, which element would you like to bend?" : Taz said fire and Jeff said he'd like to bend all of them, like Hang

11-the last question was for Taz. "how do you deal with injuries?" Jeff said he ignores them lol but Taz said it was not wrong because "if it hurts nevermind." Yet, he uses ice bags if it hurts too much. He added that one day he was so hurt he called his dad and was shouting on the phone like he was dying lol.

[littlehypnone]

ao3 request for phantom dropping during a show and a cg of choice taking care off them after <3

780 words, no cws, little phantom, cg rain

He couldn’t find any reason for it happening, this time. He wasn’t that tired, he wasn’t that overstimulated, he wasn’t that stressed. He just slipped, he supposed, without any particular cause. And it’d all be absolutely fine if they weren’t in the middle of playing a show. That was a bit… inconvenient.

Phantom started feeling fuzzy around the half of the ritual, and got all small by three thirds of it. They were a professional, though, and a very well trained demon with great muscle memory, and that’s probably the only thing that had saved them from Sister Imperator’s reprimand for messing up the show.

They slinked over to Swiss, at some point, and opened their arms, wordlessly asking for a hug. The multi ghoul obliged, of course he did, and Phantom fell into him. As much as they could with Swiss being on the platform, anyway.

The moment was over quickly, Phantom had to get back to playing, but not before Swiss whispering in their ear, “You’ve got this, buggy, just a bit more.”

They nodded and ran back to the front of the stage again. Phantom did well, but the ritual couldn’t have ended faster, and as soon as they got their guitar off and handed it to their tech, they threw themself at Swiss again, needing that warmth and grounding pressure all over them for at least a moment. “Swissy, please.”

“I’ve got you, baby,” the multi ghoul whispered and crushed them to his chest, arms wrapped all around them. “Just the bows left, yeah, go grab Rain’s hand.”

Phantom turned their head, seeing Rain next to them, smiling through the face covering. They smiled too, and took his hand as Swiss instructed, lining up between two bigger ghouls for the bows.

Soon enough it was all over and they were backstage, in the dressing room. They ended up with Rain, the water ghoul taking care of them, and they’d never complain about that. Phantom really loved their Rainy.

They purred at that thought, just when the water ghoul was getting rid of their helmet and balaclava. “Oh, is it that nice, baby bat?”

“You’re very nice, Rainy,” Phantom admitted, blushing at Rain’s responding chuckle.

“Well, thank you, bug,” he smiled, unclasping their vest, “you’re a very nice little ghoul, too.”

The quintessence ghoul giggled, fidgeting with their hands, only separating them to help Rain get them undressed. Once they were sitting on the couch in just their boxers, Rain turned to dig around in Phantom’s bag for some clean street clothes. Once found, he got back to them, cooing at how their tail found its way into their mouth. “Do you want help getting dressed too, or you want to try yourself?”

“‘elp p’ease,” they lisped around their tail, giving Rain their prettiest puppy eyes.

“Hey, now, no need to bring this weapon out!” the water ghoul laughed, making Phantom giggle in return. He crouched down in front of them and piece by piece got Phantom dressed in loose, comfy clothes. Rain saw them nearly falling asleep, eyes glassy and oh, they were so sleepy.

“All set, baby bat,” he announced and ruffled their sweat-damp hair as he got up. Rain then changed too, as quickly as possible, to get his attention back to Phantom. “Do you want to go down to the bus already? Or want me to get someone else?”

“Mhm…” they hummed out, neither a negative nor an affirmative, half asleep. “Bus… you.”

“Gotcha.” Rain picked them up—Phantom immediately curling into them and shoving their face into the water ghoul’s chest—and left the dressing room. Phantom didn’t really register much more of what was going on around. They think they heard Rain asking someone to get their stuff for them, and to be quiet when the rest returns to the bus themselves.

Phantom thinks they were put down into Rain’s own bunk. They patted around and finding a shark, instead of their bat, confirmed their suspicions. It made them purr, loud, and they heard Rain chuckle at them from somewhere above. “Cute. You can hold him, don’t worry.”

“R’lly?” they whispered, hesitantly running their fingers over the plushies teeth.

“Yeah, of course! You’ll hold him and I’ll hold you, what about that?”

“Yes, p’ease,” Phantom sighed, wrapping their arms around the shark. It was a really big plushie, they loved it. Rainy was so nice for letting them hold him!

The water ghoul climbed into the bunk after them, and wrapped himself around the little ghoul right away, making them purr even louder. Rain joined in with his own rumble soon enough. “Goodnight, baby bat,” he whispered, kissing the shell of their ear.

[maddiethefashionista]

Arcane Spoilers Season 2 ep 1

Episode 1 thoughts

-Trauma everyone has it!

-Jace going towards Mel to check on her 5 minutes after the explosion! 🥰🥰

-jace seeing most of the council dead from Jinx’s missle 😳 instant trauma

-love the new intro! It’s giving Greek tradegy

-love Mrs Kirkmanns coffin. Very padme esque coffin! Ngl that coffin got me questioning how expensive coffins are.

-Vi just lingering in the background, wanting to reach out and talk to Cait but she can’t reach her atm due to her own guilt and shame.

-Mel’s mama finding a new bottom cough boytoy salo.

-it’s reigning tyranny!!! Side eyeing the council talking takeover Zaun with dangerous weapons

-symbolism of the rain finally falling on the council member as they declare war on zaun.

-ambassa unhappy that hextech won’t be used rn. She is so sus! What a warmonger!

-poor cait and her dad!! God grief is such a fucking bitch.

-unrelated note but Mr. Kirramin is really hot! Such a dilf!

-has vi been staying at the house? Poor girl is just lingering like a ghost.

-cait beating herself up considering that she could of end this all if only she was quicker in disarming Jinx.

-cait breaking in vis arms is heartbreaking!

-enter vis internal conflict about being an enforcer, a buggy man for every kid of the lanes.

I’m not really a fan of Vi. Like my fav character is jinx. But I can appreciate her complexity.

Also hello hot bearded tall man who looks like DILF Vander

Hello Victor, he’s basically a hextech jello right now.

Mel looking gorgeous as always!

Evolving hextech sounds fucking terrifying.

Did Mel’s armor protect Jace as well? Or does he magic durability from when he was a kid?

Mel and Jace really are super cute! Like I love their development

The wind chime garden is so gorgeous! Like arcane always slaps with their animation.

Jinx and Cait are my favorite parallels! Love them so much! God my girls are going to go through it this season!

God Cait is about to go on her toxic hot train right now! And good for her but she is going to go through it with this newfound hatred for jinx. And that is so relatable.

Callback to jinx “you created jinx” - VI

Maddie deserves to be protected! Also fish enforcer is really hot! I think I have a type.

Vi getting flustered at Caits tantrum and pride in her is so adorable!

“There still good ones left” fuck that line! Like damn the council neglected zaun to the point of poverty and now they have to face the consequences of that neglect. It was always a breeding ground for resentment and violence. This was always going to happen one way or another.

Memorial

The guys in the veils handed the main guard an invitation! And I’m like that weird, that supish!

Cait and Vi clocking something going down is my fav!

Hey it’s that chem baron! Channeling her inner leatherface

I for real thought Mel was going to do die!

Enter epic battle scene!

Cait looking hot with her gun!

Jace vs chem baron lady

Maddie and fish guy vs the other dudes

Vi vs the other dude

Vi and Cait saving each other

I do appreciate that arcane isn’t super bloody like some other anime’s I’ve seen

Jace going need some aloe Vera for that cut!

Arcane battle scenes are always so fun!

Leather face going after jace is so scary! But vi is saving her BIL!

Then they both save Cait and her squad!

But actually ambassa does it! And I’m like Where the Fuck have you been ma’am?! That convinnent muscle mommy!

This attack is just adding more fuel to the fire! Poor little boy/girl who lost their momma!

God Cait is loosing her mind! It’s almost like someone wants to further the divide between the two cities

Also I’m a sucker for the jaw cradle that vi gave her girl!

I need more lore breakdown on the kiramann family! They seem to be marticharl family

Oh boo hoo you gotta being an underground bunker for the first time in your life! Cry me a river.

Also is house kirammain get a seat on the council? Or do that have to be voted in?

Cait squad is loaded and ready to go!!!

Poor Jace is building weapons again!

Victor is in his jello prison yay!

Evil scientist guy is hunting wolves!?

[kaasknot]

Heyo! Hope you’re having a good weekend!

I saw this today and wonder if you have a take on it?

https://www.laineygossip.com/rami-malek-to-star-as-buster-keaton-new-drama-series-seems-like-job-for-johnny-knoxville/73389

i've seen so many takes flash through the buster keaton fandom in the past 48 hours, lol. as for this article, i mostly agree with the author's objections to rami malek. he doesn't especially look like buster, but eh, he's got similarly ginormous buggy eyes, which imo is more important than <checks writing on facebook> nose, jawline, or height. also he's a good actor and good with accents, so at face value he's no worse than donald o'connor in 1957's "the buster keaton story."

the thing that took my fucking breath away, though, was this sentence: "Over the last twenty years, no one has done more in cinema to keep the spirit of Buster Keaton alive than Knoxville and the Jackass crew." i am SORRY??? this author thinks fucking jackass is the true spirit of buster keaton???

rant incoming.

i don't particularly like comedy as a genre. it relies too much on idiotic situations, juvenile humor, or humiliation. i've never watched an episode of "jackass," but from what i've heard, it leans hard on the last two. i cannot stress this enough: buster's sense of humor bears almost NOTHING in common with johnny knoxville's, aside from stuntwork.

i hate humiliation-based comedy beyond words. i hate it. i got bullied severely as a kid, and candid camera-type shit where some quote-unquote "comedian" comes along and torments another person for laughs reads to me as pure bullying. when buster cameoed on "candid camera" in 1962, the joke was always on him. he would go into a restaurant and suffer mishap after mishap, to the point that the other patrons would try to help him. the best modern comparison is that tiktok of the guy faking phone confessions so he can capture the eavesdropper's reactions. it's the kindest form of bystander humor i can think of, and a far cry from "jackass."

i have a low tolerance for that kind of comedy too, tbh. it's better than making someone else the butt of the joke, but it's so hard to get the balance right, and more often than not it makes me want to curl up and die of secondhand embarrassment. but i never get that feeling in buster's films. sure, he goes through embarrassing situations, but it never hurts. there's a gentleness and deft touch that keeps it from being sadomasochistic. and i think this is something people don't really understand about his style of comedy: yes, it was physical, and yes, it was slapstick, but it was also surprisingly cerebral. he wasn't just a manchild yelling and throwing pies around; it could be very subtle stuff. and, god, he would have fucking died before he did something like nailing his balls to his thigh or snorting wasabi till he puked. just trying to imagine him doing that is—it's like trying to open a lock with an orange peel. it's not only laughable, it's absurd to try. buster's humor wasn't based in shock value. it was based in logic, wry commentary on humanity, and yes, eye-popping stunts that he walked away from—unharmed.

it's straight up comparing an arabian to a donkey. i mean sure, they're both horse-shaped, right?

back to the article, the author's correct that stuntwork is vital to any buster keaton biopic, and i do have reservations about rami's casting on that front. buster learned how to tumble at the age of three, and he practiced it continuously for the next 67 years. unless rami has a background in dance, gymnastics, or stuntwork... i'm not sure he'll be able to train up the kind of muscle memory he'll need before filming.

but i'm also willing to extend the benefit of the doubt. i heard a rumor that he's also a producer on the series; to me, that indicates he's invested. he wants it to be good.

brace for the worst, hope for the best. that's what i'm doing.

[thespaceyvoid]

Not sure if anyone has already done this, but here's my take. But the whole day, I spent...

Analyzing Discord versions based on the UI and MY Preferences.

Here's a little list I made!

203.10 Stable (ReactNative) • Android +7.0 🟢 use hashtags to change text size • image/video placeholder thumbnail is gray-colored ❌ unsuitable video UI; when on full screen, the background is not a SOLID black (video repeats video when full screen) 🟢 present call activities 🟢 use voice message feature 175.16 Stable (ReactNative) • Android +6.0 🟢 use hashtags to change text size • image/video placeholder thumbnail is gray (repeats video when full screen) 🔵 video UI decent; solid black background (video repeats when full screen) 🟢 swipe-able members tab 🟢 pins button shows full content 🟢 present call activities 🟢 use forum tags 🟢 use voice message feature 170.14 Stable (ReactNative) • Android +6.0 ❌ no hashtag text size changing feature • image/video placeholder thumbnail is colored gray ➖ call activities take long to load 🟢 use voice message feature 162.10 Stable (ReactNative) • Android +6.0 ❌ no hashtag text size changing feature • image/video placeholder thumbnail has the discord logo ➖ call activities take long to load ❌ no voice message feature 158.16 Stable (ReactNative) • Android +5.0 ❌ no hashtag text size changing feature • image/video placeholder thumbnail has the discord logo 🔵 video UI decent; solid black background 🟢 swipe-able members tab 🟢 pins button shows full content ➖ call activities take long to load 🟢 use forum tags ❌ use voice message feature 137.11 Stable (ReactNative) • start of ReactiveNative UI (UI used on iOS years before) ❌ use call activities 🟢 use forum tags ❌ use voice message feature 🐛 buggy message edit 126.21 Stable (Classic Discord) ❌ use call activities ❌ use forum tags ❌ use voice message feature 81.7 Beta (Classic Discord) ❌ use call activities ❌ use forums ❌ use voice message feature ❌ use threads • decent bugs

I want to point out I'm not overall familiar with technical terms, I'm just an ICT student who likes Discord a lot, so I apologize for the misuse in the list. Feel free to correct me and ask for any clarifications! I'm only choosing a suitable version for my phone and share my insights with all of you.

If you want to experience new features but not stray away from the classic Android UI of Discord, 175.16 Stable covers it. Still under the ReactNative UI. (The new UI that has been transferred to Android when iOS has been using this UI for years now.)

Conclusion:

126.21 Stable is where everything stopped basically, and 137.11 Stable was the new beginning, introducing ReactNative. The latest versions of today, 210↑ and above... well, based on my experience, they're quite laggy. Basically becoming a carbon copy of Messenger. It doesn't tie a lot with people who have been using Discord for a long time considering the muscle memory to navigate through this app quickly and such. The swipe to reply, the settings hidden by tapping/clicking instead of sliding from the right, and separate tabs for DMs.

If you're a neophobe when it comes to apps and the like (similar to me), 126.21 Stable is always available. (It's also the most modern version of the classic Android UI of Discord.)

Beta version 81.7 Beta if you want to timetravel to 2022. The rest below this are really outdated and I don't think I'd recommend them.

Thanks for giving this a read! It was fun writing out and figuring out which version suited me. Feel free to let me know what you think and some things you want to clarify! This was all for fun!

[the-aesthetician-writes]

Hello from 2022 - An Update

(almost 2023, yikes! my bad!)

So I have quite the expected update to provide. I am very disappointed in myself to share that I have significantly dropped the ball on all my WIPs. It's so crazy how 2020 lasted for like three years and hasn't shown signs of slowing down.

In any case, I have found myself wanting to write again (after almost a two year pause). I've been sick recently so, not exactly the best scenario to wake up when wanting to write again. I have a few updates on WIPs past and future. But before I do that I do have a some new observations about the writing process that I wanted to share.

Recently, I have heard of this new process of writing called the Kitchen Timer Method. It's not the Pomato Method, nor is it anything too revolutionary in terms of writing methods. Put simply, the Kitchen Timer Method consists of an isolated bracket of time devoted solely to writing. This can range from an hour to ten minutes, whatever time it is, you're supposed to be writing. What has gotten me to try to latest trend is that the Kitchen Timer Method is the use of a writing journal that is to be treated separate from the current writing project. The writing journal comes in whenever one feels stumped or distracted by real life to focus on the intended project. This allows you to train yourself to slowly ween yourself off of your writer's block and get you to write something!

Among (us) other things, writer's block has definitely played a role in my recent absence from Tumblr (as well as my writing) and I feel like this recent method is especially more forgiving when compared to others. With the Kitchen Timer Method, its more focused on getting you to write and get some version of routine into your muscle memory. So if target word counts or percentages is something that perhaps keeps you away from your writing, I highly suggest the Kitchen Timer Method. I will attempt to revisit this topic again later, perhaps tomorrow, depending on my progress. The main point I wanted to make with this originally was that I will be using my sideblog @thebybyebiline for journal portions of my writing sprints using the Kitchen Timer Method.

Now, an update on a few current WIPs and IFs:

I have worked slightly on @thehuntersacethetic . I made a barely working demo using GameMaker. Game design was always something I have been wanting to explore, should be no surprise given the amount of IFs I have started. However, development on the GameMaker version of THAT is of course on hiatus because coding is hard as fuck. Any future installments regarding THAT will most likely be in an Interactive Fiction medium(Twine, ChoiceScript, etc). The very early demo link will be below, hope y'all enjoy the color yellow!

The project I am most eager to work on again is @bybyebitheway , I would like to write more than the first chapter to something just once and I feel like with what BTW was supposed to be originally, the Kitchen Timer Method will help this project along just smoothly. Having the chapter art sitting in my desktop for a couple months has also helped.

In regards to my aro baby, @tobeaspected , I will try to work on this at least twice a month, but there might not be consistent updates if I want to finish work on BTW. Another update regarding TBA, I might decide on creating TBA entirely on HTML. Twine is great and all, but severely buggy. Given the amount of time in between pauses for my projects, I would like them found the way I've left them. My experiences on creating IFs with Twine have made me paranoid at its unpredictability, but I won't deny it is a good tool to use. Maybe I will simply add a side website similar to BTW and have the same content on there. (sidenote: the MC will have to be unisex in the HTML versions since my skills are faulty and my patience for Javascript is wafer thin).

Thank you for taking the time to read this, hope y'all had a great weekend!

-TA

[losille2000]

The Swan, Chapter 6

TITLE: The Swan CHAPTER NUMBER: 6/? AUTHOR: Losille2000 WHICH Tom/CHARACTER: Actor!Tom GENRE: Romance/Drama FIC SUMMARY: Sequel to The Ugly Duckling. Astrid embarks on a two-week trip to London to serve as her sister’s maid of honor, hoping against all hope she might miraculously run into her Hawaiian mystery man. When her sister and soon-to-be brother-in-law drag her to a production of Hamlet to meet the groom’s best man, Astrid gets the shock of her life. The situation, though, is anything but perfect. RATING: M (sex, language) WARNINGS: None in this chapter. AUTHORS NOTES: So... what can I say? It's been a while. If you want the whole story, you can look through my blog or message me. I'm happy to answer. That said, it's been a good three years since I did any serious writing. My writing muscles need to build back up to what they were before. Please be kind... and let me know what you think. :D

Chapters: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - ALSO ON AO3!

Chapter 6 - Flying the Coop

Regret.

Astrid regretted ever stomping up those stairs to Tom’s bedroom. She regretted challenging him to make a move. She regretted letting him have his way with her. In the moment, it seemed right. Maybe if they slept together again, they’d find an incompatibility, especially now that the air of tropical mystery had dissipated and left in its place two broken flesh-and-blood people.

How wrong could she have been?

Now it was amplified, deeper, hotter, engulfing.

Only two weeks for whatever this fire was to fizzle?

It wasn’t, as the Brits say, bloody likely.

And here she was, smack dab in the position she didn’t want to be in; no matter how tangentially her current association with her mother, the family business, and Hollywood was, being connected to Tom in this way presented too many problems to even consider at this point. And fucking him—

“Astrid, are you even listening to me?”

Astrid jumped from the intrusion, letting out a slight squeak. She blinked hard and turned in her spot to look at her sister, who stood in the middle of the furnished but unoccupied flat. “Sorry?”

“Are you okay?” Tilde asked. “You’ve been spacey after the dress shop— and I’m just worried.”

“You don’t need to worry.”

“Let me worry,” she begged. “Let me be the big sister I never got to be.”

Astrid laughed ruefully. If only she could actually talk with Tilde about Tom. She wouldn’t understand, or at the very least, it could pose some very difficult situations in the coming days with the wedding right around the corner. But, Astrid guessed, Tilde meant the other elephant in the room... Astrid being the elephant, and their mother being a Class A narcissist. Because there was absolutely no way Tilde would know about what had happened at Tom’s home...

“It’s too late for that, Tilde,” Astrid said. “You know I love you. I just— there’s no changing her.”

Tilde grumbled and glided over to the couch in the living room. She dropped down on top of the cushions, barely displacing the pillow stuffing with her slight ballet-formed frame. “I should have never allowed her to do all this. I should have done it on my own, it’s not like Jim and I are so hard up. But I thought...”

Astrid held up a hand to stop her sister and sat on the couch more gingerly than Tilde, measuredly, so as not to displace any stuffing in the overstuffed couch, either. Something her mother had taught her, after all: If you’re not going to put in effort to look like a lady, you can at least act like one.

God, even that memory still hurt, down to the marrow in her bones.

“But you did.” Astrid shrugged and laid her head on the back of the couch. There, she sighed.

The sisters sat in silence for some time, listening to Duchess rooting around the flat for something to chew on. When the pug found nothing, she eventually jumped up onto the couch and snuggled into Tilde’s lap.

Astrid cleared her throat. “It’s not all Mom, either. I’m just tired from jet lag and getting everything together for the house party.”

And sleeping with the Best Man. She was pretty sure she’d read a romance novel or a hundred about this situation once. Did that make her a cliché?

“Oh, I meant to ask,” Tilde interjected. “How did that go? Tom was a total tool last night and I was worried about today.”

Astrid licked her lips subconsciously; she could still taste the sugar left by a bite of tiramisu Tom had given to her on a fork. If she concentrated hard enough, she was sure she could still taste the salt of his skin mixed in with it. She could certainly feel the tight muscle in her thigh that pulled every time she shifted, from the way he’d bent it and held it firmly in place as he’d had his way with her.

Frankly, it was a miracle they’d accomplished anything after they ended up in bed. But, she supposed, that was the weirdest part about the whole afternoon. They got out of bed, dressed without speaking and just... worked on what they needed to for the party. There was no discussion. No arguing. Tom stayed a respectable distance from her; she wasn’t sure if she had really wanted him to do it again, over and over, until they were both exhausted. They ate lunch quietly, they got everything organized and packed into his Land Rover, then Tilde showed up and they bade farewell, like it was something they did every day.

Nothing more was said about Hawaii, or a relationship, or lies, or having this end in two weeks. He seemed to be ignoring the topics all together, likely in the misguided belief that if he didn’t bring it up, then everything was fine. She ignored them because discussing WHY she refused to become a true part of his life was too painful.

Astrid pursed her lips and closed her eyes again. Isn’t that what she told him she wanted, though? To feel worshipped and then go about their lives, like nothing happened? Ignore all the elephants and enjoy the sex. No emotion, only sex. He was just following her demands, his need too great to put the brakes on their interlude in his bed.

The problem was that she did want more with him. She wanted emotion and relationships and rainbows and butterflies. When she had thought of him as some wealthy businessman she might once again bump into while visiting London, this had been possible. She had, after all, imagined a reality over the last eighteen months that included falling in love with him and living a life together.

But he wasn’t a businessman. He was an actor. He ran in circles she just couldn’t stomach anymore.

“It was fine. We finished everything and packed it all into his Land Rover for the drive up to Cliveden,” Astrid finally said. “The costume deliveries will be there when we arrive.”

“This really has gotten out of control,” Tilde said. “Part of me just wants to run to the register office and get it over with.”

Astrid shook her head violently. “You do that, and I’ll flip the fuck out. I put too much work into this.”

Tilde laughed. “Scared you, huh?”

“I’m serious, Tilde,” Astrid said, lightly smacking her sister’s thigh. Duchess popped her head up, and thinking it was an invitation for her, came over to her aunt. Astrid cuddled the dog close to her chest, breathing in her freshly bathed fur.

“She likes you,” Tilde said.

Astrid kissed Duchess’ head. “Small children and dogs, apparently.”

Tilde chuckled softly before letting out a long sigh. “I bet she would really like it if her Aunt Astrid were around more.”

“Aunt Astrid is a teacher and never has any time,” she replied directly to Duchess. Duchess reached for the hand that had stopped petting her and touched it with her paw. Her imploring buggy pug eyes asked Aunt Astrid for more.

Tilde huffed, but said nothing more for a long time. Then she cleared her throat. “How do you like the flat, anyway?”

“It’s nice,” Astrid confirmed. In fact, it was nicer than “nice.” This flat looked like one of those staged ads in a real estate magazine with lots of recessed lighting, soft gray colors, top-of-the-line furnishings and a ton of space.

“We’re trying to decide if we’ll sell it or keep it as an investment property,” Tilde replied. “It’s kind of a pain in the ass as a rental property, though.”

Astrid nodded. “You could just give it to Dad’s company to manage.”

Not that doing so was a great option, either.

If Astrid saw her mother irregularly, she saw her father even less. After their separation, he spent time in Las Vegas developing a new casino concept and then, when Astrid graduated from UNLV, moved his business operations permanently back to Sweden. Still, though, the relationship with her father was better than it was with her mother, simply by virtue that he was never around and didn’t have an opportunity to find the weaknesses in her armor like her mother. Tilde rarely spoke about either parent, but Astrid was certain their relationship was similar.

Tilde sat up and turned to look at Astrid seriously. “Or you could move into it.”

“Excuse me?” Astrid said, her heart skipping a few beats, from a sudden surge of anxiety and... something else.

“I’m serious, Astrid,” she said. “We don’t see each other enough and I want to spend time with you and make up for all those years we were apart.”

This wasn’t just some passing fancy. Astrid could see that as plain as day on Tilde’s face. Her sister was determined to convince her to move to London. But for what? She had no support system other than Tilde and James... and her career... well, that was back in Las Vegas.

Not that Las Vegas itself was the most amazing place to live and work.

“I’d never see you anyway,” Astrid argued. “You’re always rehearsing, or preparing to rehearse, or performing. And god knows James is going to be busy doing whatever.”

“Yeah, about that...” Tilde said, trailing off quietly. She picked at the dog hair on her sweater for a few seconds, then slowly looked back at Astrid. “I’m retiring at the end of this season.”

“What?!”

Tilde shrugged. “James and I want a family, and if I wait until it’s a ‘good time,’ it’ll never happen because of our schedules. And really, it’s getting harder and harder to come back from injuries and such. I just... I need a long break from being a performing ballerina. I don’t have the fire I once had, the same will to fight for every goddamn role.”

Astrid simply nodded. This was huge news. Ballet was Tilde’s life. She’d been doing it since she was a little girl, had impeccable skill and training and talent for it. The joke was that Tilde had come out of the womb in pointe shoes.

Which wasn’t that far from the truth, really. As soon as their mother could, she’d gotten Tilde into dance with the best instructors money could buy. Their mother, the failed ballerina, always lived through them. Which explained why she did not like anything about Astrid— Astrid did not have anything that would benefit her.

“Have you told Mom yet?” Astrid asked.

Tilde shook her head. “Of course not! And listen to her prattle on about how I’m a failure and she gave me so much and I’m just a terrible person? No, thank you. I’ll wait until she is permanently back in LA before I tell her.”

Even though Tilde had not yet told anyone else, it somehow eased the tension in Astrid’s shoulders knowing that Tilde would be in their mother’s crosshairs for a change. Typically, that wasn’t the case; their parents always treated Tilde like the perfect golden child. Of course, Tilde had always been one of Astrid’s fiercest allies… when she could. However, since Tilde spent most of her life in London studying at the Royal Ballet from a very early age, support and camaraderie had been scarce. Now, though? Now it felt like she and Tilde could weather the storm together.

Tilde continued, “Yeah. I’m thinking about opening up a dance studio and then after the baby thing happens, if I still have the performing bug in me, then I’ll start guesting. But I’m just so excited to start having babies.”

Stopping the smile from forming on Astrid’s lips was impossible as she registered the excitement on Tilde’s face. Astrid felt the enthusiasm coming from Tilde’s corner of the couch. “I’m excited for you, Tilde.”

And she was. She truly was.

Tilde reached out and grabbed Astrid’s hand. “I’m serious, though, Astrid. We never had a great family growing up, and I see this as an opportunity to right the wrongs of the past and create the family we should have had growing up.”

“I don’t know, Til.”

“James and I have both talked about it a lot and we both agree.”

“Tilde, even if I did move here,” Astrid began, “I don’t know the first thing about teaching in England.”

Tilde nodded. “I know. But James’ parents are retired teachers. I’m sure they’d be willing to help you make heads or tails of it.”

Astrid pursed her lips and turned to stare at the dormant fireplace sitting in front of them. Duchess, who had not moved, made happy dog purr noises as Astrid massaged the tiny velvet triangles of her ears. To be fair to Tilde, Astrid had often thought of moving to London to be nearer to her, but she never thought it would happen or that Tilde would actually need or want her here. The fact that she was wanted made emotion spring to her eyes and prick at them until they watered.

But then, there was the other issue.

The really, super, ginormous issue that came in the shape of a devastatingly handsome British man she met on vacation. If she moved to London, she’d certainly be seeing him more. No clean break at the end of two weeks like she hoped.

“And, you know,” Tilde said, “London’s arts scene is stupendous. We have the hook-up. I thought you could get back into it. You can hardly do that in Las Vegas.”

Astrid snorted. “Tilde, that part of my life is over.”

“Why? You’re amazing. I remember the video you sent of your college production of Othello. There wasn’t a dry eye in the place.”

While Tilde’s appreciation for her talent warmed Astrid’s heart, it didn’t take away the sting of her mother’s actions. Astrid couldn’t even bring herself to discuss it with Tilde when it first happened, much less in the intervening eight years since the incidents that led to her total disavowal of all things acting related. Her silence on the matter, though, had finally come home to roost. First with Tilde telling Tom she was still an actor, and Tom calling her a liar because she told him she wanted nothing to do with it. And now, with Tilde staring her down imploringly. Tilde wanted answers just as much as Tom did, except for very different reasons.

Astrid could not force her suddenly leaden tongue to move in her mouth. Tilde would just have to live with not knowing the whole story, for now. Finally, she said, “If I move to London, I’m not going to be acting.”

“Well, I guess I’ll take that,” Tilde replied. “As long as you’ll still consider moving here to be with me.”

A knock at the front door startled them all, sending Duchess barking and wheezing to the door. The door opened and James popped his head inside. “Knock knock.”

“Come in!” Tilde sang back to him, jumped from her seat, and nearly leaped over the back of the couch to get to him like he was a cold glass of lemonade on a hot day. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him squarely. For a brief, possibly irrational, moment, Astrid was jealous of her sister and the relationship she had built with James.

Which wasn’t a great feeling to have if the plan was to spend more time with them. How could she uproot her entire life— leave her students and friends— and move halfway across the globe just to be consumed by the green-eyed monster?

“Babe,” Tilde said, “tell Astrid she needs to move to London.”

James laughed and turned to look at Astrid. “Astrid… you need to move to London.”

“Thank you!” Tilde pecked his cheek and pirouetted in place until she was facing away from him. She started walking back toward the bedroom. “Let me go get my purse and we can get going.”

When Tilde was gone, and the flat was mostly silent except for more of Duchess’ puggy wheezing as she calmed, James’ smile dropped into a stony seriousness. He stepped over to her and quietly murmured, “We would love to have you here, Astrid. But I understand if you don’t want to come. The decision has to be yours, and if you decide not to move, I will handle Tilde.”

Astrid was grateful for James’ level-headedness in the situation. In the short time she’d known the man, she found that he was a gifted reader of rooms. That was why he was so good with Tilde— a steady anchor in a turbulent sea. Clearly, he understood the anxiety twisting her stomach into knots.

She set a grateful hand on his arm and squeezed appreciatively. “Thanks, James.”

“And don’t let my association with Tom cloud your judgement,” James said.

Astrid withdrew her hand like he’d burned it. Her eyes snapped up to his, then focused outward on the rest of his features and body language. She didn’t know how he knew, but he did. Tom must have told James, despite that she asked him not to.

Unless Tom had told James last night…

“How do you...” She trailed off, turning her gaze and trying to hide her blush.

“He’s my best man for a reason. We tell each other everything,” James replied. “I had hoped that your work today would allow you some time to figure things out before more of this wedding commenced and caused a problem.”

Astrid gulped. “Does Tilde know?”

James shook his head silently.

“Good,” Astrid replied. Good for two reasons, really. The first, because it confirmed for her that the invitation to come to London wasn’t Tilde playing matchmaker. The second, because she still didn’t want anybody to know about it. “Wait… how much did he tell you?”

James stared back at her, a mischievous glint in his eyes and a slight curl at the corner of his mouth. “That would be breaking the Code.”

Her face now completely aflame, Astrid bent down and grabbed Duchess into her arms. She couldn’t even look at the man anymore without feeling embarrassed. Hopefully, it would pass quickly.

“Bad news!” Tilde called from the hallway as she came back into the room. Her thumbs moved rapidly over the screen of her iPhone. “Mother decided we needed an all hands on deck dinner tonight.”

Astrid groaned. “In addition to or replacing the one tomorrow night at Cliveden?”

“In addition to,” Tilde said. “Tom can’t make it tonight because he has the cast party, and Dad isn’t even in England yet, so that’ll be the official one. Tonight is probably just more nitpicking.”

“Do we have to?” Astrid whined.

Tilde sighed heavily and dropped her phone into her purse with agitation. “Strength in numbers, dear sister.”

Her sister's proclamation made the summons to dinner no better, but Astrid and James dutifully followed Tilde out of the flat and out to the car. The only saving grace was that Tom wouldn't be there. Astrid could focus on one problem, not two.

[kbstories]

Signification

sig·ni·fi·ca·tion (n.)

The process of assigning meaning to something.

Captain and First Mate, two years later.

(Or: Zoro adores his captain. A lot.)

Tags: Reunions, Nakamaship, Introspection, Fluff, Domesticity (!)

Post-Timeskip setting, between Sabaody and Fishman Island. Read Chapter 2 here.

***

Surrounded by tumultuous battle and the distant booming of cannons, the Thousand Sunny begins to sink. The waves churn and slosh against her hull with increasing might; glinting foam breaks across the sky in half-formed arcs and yet not a single drop touches the grass below.

The crew watches, wonder shining in their eyes. Roronoa Zoro counts, sharp gaze touching upon every familiar face, every smile that glows with shared relief, then starts over.

Nine. Nine, again.

Finally complete, the Strawhats are swallowed by the sea.

In a heartbeat, the breathless moment dissolves into the usual chaos as Nami commands their gradual descent: Usopp and Chopper screech in unison about this sea king and that monster over Franky’s good-natured reassurances at the helm and the melodic humming coming from Brook; blooming and wilting like flowers, Robin’s elegant hands crop up all over the deck where Sanji and Zoro are wrangling the sails against the ocean’s massive current–

The Sunny moves like a living thing underneath them and through it all, Luffy laughs and laughs like he couldn’t get himself to stop even if he tried.

Having his friends back is a delight in and of itself but it’s that sound that does it. Zoro can feel the rough edges of the past months knit themselves together into something nostalgic, something fond, a type of gooey-warm devotion that became second nature somewhere along the line.

Like muscle memory, dormant for a while and never forgotten. It’s good to be home.

And yeah, he’s the first to admit soft things don’t come easy to him. There is a private smile on his lips, though, one he doesn’t care to hide. There’s no reason to, not here. Above them, a school of fish swims by, silhouetted by the sun like silver-coated birds and–

“Woah, it’s huge! Is that a shark?”

–the smile turns into a grin. Zoro’s eye meets those of his captain and, before Monkey D. Luffy can utter the idea brewing in that rubber brain of his, Shusui glides out of its sheath smoothly. Luffy cackles and together they stand, with their crew behind and the vast ocean ahead.

“You ready, Zoro?”

Those three little words settle in the spaces between skin and muscle and bone and – after two long years of worrying, wishing, waiting – Zoro nods and gladly takes his place beside the man who will be Pirate King.

*

The reunion party takes days to run its course until, on the third night, even the most energetic among the Strawhats are turning to their spot on Sunny’s deck for a cozy evening. A bonfire burns brightly in their midst and, under Sanji’s watchful eye, all kinds of sausages and vegetables sizzle away on a makeshift grill. Curiously, the smoke it produces leaves the resin coating of the ship in small, harmless bubbles – arms crossed and leaning back against the railing, Zoro follows their path until they disappear into depths unknown like sticky shooting stars.

A bit of imagination and even this cobalt sky can yield a few constellations, though it would take a creative mind like Usopp’s to name them all. Their presence is soothing, regardless.

No need to look so glum, Mihawk had said, that first night an eternity ago, after awkwardly hovering in Zoro’s periphery for far too long.

It had been a clumsy attempt at comfort at best. There was blood on the cuffs of his shirt and the soot of cannon fire still clung to his coat; made vague by the darkness, it was nonetheless the kind of tangible proof that all those headlines in the paper lacked. Somewhere out there, the ruins of Marineford smoldered. Somewhere out there, his captain was hurting.

Zoro had just huffed and stared out into the void. There was nothing to say, nothing at all.

There had been a quiet sigh, and steps echoing in the silence. Arms crossed, Mihawk had stared until Zoro couldn’t but stare back, quietly surprised by the intensity of emotion burning where nobody dared to look for it.

Don’t grieve what you haven’t lost, kid. You’re all under the same sky, after all.

Still, Zoro muses, eye slipping shut and shoulders relaxing against the Sunny’s comfortable embrace. Around him, the ever-present chatter of the crew dulls to a low rush. This is better.

The transition between sleep and consciousness is so gradual that Zoro doesn’t bother to track down the moment he dozes off. Eventually, there is a subtle shift around him, like gravity itself bends and realigns towards a greater force – a silent force, and that is what makes Zoro glance up between sleepy blinks.

There Luffy stands, hand on his hat and his hat on his chest and a woven-straw brim barely covering the crater of a scar below it. The fire casts shadows on Luffy’s face (Is it doubt flickering there? Indecisiveness?) and yet they’re fleeting enough to make Zoro question what he sees, fractured as his vision has become.

Then Luffy notices he’s awake and it’s all gone with a smile. “Napping already?”, he chuckles as he hops on the railing next to him. Zoro shrugs and stretches with a satisfied grunt.

“We getting close?”

“Nope, not yet.” Luffy snickers as Zoro slumps right back to where he was, his back snug against warmed wood. Sandals flip-flop along with the carefree swinging of Luffy's feet. “It’s okay, though. More chances to listen to Usopp’s stories! He met the Hercules, can you imagine?”

“Hardly”, Zoro grumbles indistinctly enough to not disturb the starry-eyed marvel on Luffy’s face. “Did he tell the one about the man-eating plant turned island yet?”

“The what?!”

It’s impossible not to laugh at how wide Luffy’s eyes can get: Zoro snorts and gestures towards the shape of Usopp on the other side of deck, a silent have at him that Luffy almost follows.

Almost. Cheers and laughter carry over from Usopp’s loosely assembled audience, and Chopper’s astounded What, really?! proves the story being told is a good one. Even so, the motion to launch himself into an unsuspecting Usopp is stopped mid-way and Luffy bounces back to the railing.

Huh.

At Zoro’s questioning grunt, the man just shakes his head and lowers his hat to his lap. “Ah, y’know. We have time now, right?”, he says with a thread of serenity woven into his voice – one that wasn’t there, last time they spoke, and the realization that Luffy is pacing himself shouldn’t feel this monumental.

Zoro lets his gaze linger, this time: over the subtle lines around Luffy’s eyes and the hint of exhaustion underneath; over all the little scars dusting his knuckles, old and new, and the gentle back-and-forth of his thumb over the ribbon of his hat, a mindless gesture of comfort that aches, somehow.

Threadbare it has become, this most faithful of companions. The red is long washed out by the sun and the sea and hell knows what else. Gratitude registers as a warm glow at Zoro’s core, for it being there when none of them could. For weathering the storms and the tears and the laughter, from the instant it left Shanks’ head to this very moment.

“It’s looking good”, Zoro comments lightly as he sits up and rubs the last traces of sleep from his eye. “Feels like ages ago that Nami had to stitch the hat back together. After… Buggy, was it? The clown guy.”

The expression on Luffy’s face goes a bit funny at that, half-way to a grimace yet too fond to be one. “Hah, yeah, him. I’ll have to thank him next time we see him, him and Jinbei and the others.”

Zoro blinks. That… makes no sense at all. Then again, Mihawk did grumble about the clown becoming a warlord, so weirder things have happened. “Who’s Jinbei?”

Luffy smiles, then, bright and toothy. “A friend! Don’t worry, you’ll meet him soon. He’s all serious and talks about honor a lot, so.”

So you’ll like him, Zoro fills in for him and huffs to himself. That part of himself that is fiercely independent wants to argue the point – then again, Luffy’s instincts are rarely off the mark.

Another thing to look forward to, then. Hopefully this Jinbei guy likes to drink.

“Say, Zoro?”

In a bundle of rubbery limbs and rustling fabric, Luffy joins him on the grassy deck, legs crossed and hat back where it belongs. His head tilts curiously, the steady weight of his full attention one Zoro shoulders with ease. “Where did you go?”

Ah, that. It’s a question he’s heard a few times this week, along with How in the world were you first? and What the hell happened to your eye? and Zoro has no room to complain. He, too, keeps a list of names in his heart, and the question marks around their fates are a subtle discomfort but very much there.

It’s weird to think of adventure as something they can experience even when forced apart.

And so Zoro tells him, about the castle standing proud among ruins and the ship that wrecked before it even touched the sea and the day he bowed to become stronger. He doesn’t mention the tense days spent in-between, reading the newspaper near-obsessively for even a scrap of new information. That black-and-white image of his captain standing alone on a battlefield is fresh in his memory, and will remain there for eternity. “Took me a while to get what you were trying to say”, he admonishes without heat, and Luffy nods sagely.

“I know, right? So complicated… Without Rayleigh I would’ve mixed everything up.”

That confirms that theory, then. A whole library of those exists in Zoro’s mind, years’ worth of theories and questions gone unanswered and wild speculation and it doesn’t matter, not anymore. Not with Luffy sitting next to him, looking more at peace than Zoro expected, deep down.

“You did well, Luffy.”

The words are out before he really thinks them through. It feels right, though, to see surprise dawn on Luffy’s face; the pride Zoro places in his voice soon takes root in the square set of Luffy’s shoulders, too, and the strong line of his back.

Then, he grins, eyes alight and squinting with it. Like this, the signs of weariness melt off entirely and there Luffy is, a little older, a little more mature and scarred to hell but still the happy-go-lucky idiot Zoro chose to follow two years ago.

“We really made it, huh, Zoro? It felt like forever and I was wondering if I’m just dreaming or something but… We’re finally here.”

Zoro sighs and reaches over and pulls the hat down, the brim briefly covering the amused chuckle on Luffy’s lips before it’s righted again. “’course it’s real, captain. You think we’d all bust our asses to be on time for some dream? Seriously.”

Luffy is still laughing, “I mean, you were early! Everyone was so surprised!”, poking him in the cheek and wiggling his feet in delight. Zoro lets him have it for a second longer than he normally would have before he rolls his eye and gets up.

“C’mon, rubber-for-brains, there’s some sake I brought that’s calling my name. Oi, Usopp! What was that thing with the plant island again?”

And with the sound of stretching rubber and a not-so-distant crash, Luffy is gone and Usopp yells.

>>Read Chapter 2

[foradecision]

‘ the agony of my feelings allowed me no respite; no incident occurred from which my rage and misery could not extract its food. ’ — mary shelley ; frankenstein.

HARRAN COUNTRYSIDE, DAY 175 ; 14:56:23.

     “— goddamn it. of course.” 

     the tank is dry, nothing but stale air coming through the siphon hose. same as the last one. same as the last dozen fucking vehicles he’d checked, gutted, stripped, and abandoned, up and down this fissured backroad to nowhere. from nowhere. this whole place is nowhere. 

     a thin line of trees borders the gravel to his left, curtaining the wide spread of empty fields like a patchwork quilt. farmland, mostly. dead and disused. to his right, past the scrub, the ground slopes gently downward to a rock - lined creek. there’s a spitting toad nearby; he can hear the guttural heave of its bloated throat from here. 

     distantly, high up on a cliffside, an eagle’s cry goes unanswered. 

     the creek is tempting. he’s tired. sore. filthy, to the point where it’s getting to be a concern. where, if he were to walk up to the gates of jasir’s place looking the way he does right now, they might mistake him for a zombie and shoot him on sight. threadbare amusement curls the edges of that chasm in his chest, just for a second: then it’s gone again.

     leaving his buggy where it’s parked, fishtailed at the road’s grassy shoulder — useless, gas gauge riding on empty — crane hangs a right and heads for the water.

     a bolt is loosed from his crossbow. the toad falls before it can hit him with an acid burn. there’s a scar on his neck from the last time, an inch or so of rougher tissue that runs above the line of his collar. 

     he does a quick scan of the shoreline. two or three biters linger maybe a hundred yards away, but they haven’t noticed him. they’re slow. far enough that he’ll see them long before they get too close. 

     fuck it. 

     he unloads his gear. strips off gloves, vest, boots; clothing peeled from his skin layer by layer until he’s bare except shorts and the grime - caked chain around his neck, dog tags sticking to his chest. one set, of the two he was issued. deanna has the other set.

     no. no goodbyes.

     no goodbyes. just hold onto ‘em for me.

     it’s a freshwater creek; murky and tinged green with algae, but clean. uncontaminated. he wades out until he’s waist - deep, takes a breath, and dives beneath the surface. the shock of cold wakes him up like a rush of adrenaline. he stays under until he can’t, and then he stays a few seconds more. when he comes back up, there’s a clarity to it: a sharpness to his senses, focused as the finely whetted edge of a knife. he swims again to the shallows and starts to wash. 

     this is day ten, since the others returned to the slums. since they’d chased a clue given to them by a dying man delirious with fever. since their last - ditch, desperate search for a cure had come up empty and every move he’d made leading up to it — everything they’d done, everything they’d lost — slipped through his fingers like fine sand. he couldn’t face them. none of them. couldn’t stomach the thought of going back, of walking into the tower to tell lena and brecken and everyone else that it was all for nothing. he just needed time. that’s what he’d said. just a little time to work through it all, get it straight again in his head. camden was still working, sure. still holed up in old town in a lab littered with corpses. he’d hit some kind of breakthrough, but his labors since then hadn’t borne fruit. bad samples. limited testing material. crane doesn’t understand the science of it. what he understands is that a month after that radio call, people keep getting sick. people keep turning. people keep dying.

     crane, why do you even give a fuck what happens to these people? you don’t belong here! this is just a job for you!

     no. not anymore it’s not.

     there’s no contract now. no mission objective. no target. there’s just him, and them, and a long stretch of nothing.

     this is day ten. 

     the afternoon sun hikes steadily across the cloudless sky. six hours ‘til nightfall. he fills his canteen, redresses, gathers his gear. shuffling footfalls and the solitary groan of a biter drifts downwind towards him. a pause, mid - step. a glance over his shoulder. 

     she trips up the slope as she tries to follow. he doesn’t glance at her again.

     there’s a gas station up the road, beyond the fields and half a klick east of the creek. a ten minute walk without interruptions. all told, he makes it in less than fifteen. the pumps are a no - go, but he finds enough fuel left in a semi and a rusted jeep to fill his jerrycan two thirds of the way. gnats hum in his ears as he cuts through the tree line and he’s sweating again by the time he returns to the buggy. fucking gnats. fucking heat. 

     fucking harran. 

     the buggy itself is a battered thing. mesh and steel, spikes up front, hood rigged with electrical cylinders to fry at the push of a button. UV lights mounted to a protective cage around the single seat. at some point, the paint job was blue. it’s lost under a spattering of mud and streaks of dust, blood in varying shades: dark brown to copper to fresh sprays of red. she’s not quiet, and her suspension’s been shot halfway to hell since he flew off that overpass near the train tracks, but she’s solid. fast. decent off - road traction, even through the roughest terrain. she gets the job done. 

     crane turns the keys in the ignition. a loud, vibrating rev, a scrape of tires against gravel. behind him, the biter from the creek makes a clumsy lunge for the vehicle’s rear. he leaves her in the dust and drives. 

     he’s been doing a lot of that. driving. maybe he missed it. maybe he likes the solitude, except for that ribbon of isolation that runs through him constantly like a wound spreading poison. no: what draws him is something else. 

     static crackles through the radio hooked to his dash. 

     “kyle, can you hear me?” 

     the skip of his heartbeat drops back to a dull rhythm. he should have known better. communication between here and the slums is shaky on a good day, worse down here behind the mountains. 

     “yeah, bilal, i hear you.” 

     “i’ve got the parts to fix your ride, if you want to come by and let me take a look.” 

     “she’s doin’ fine for now.”

     “you sure? it’s no trouble. hell, i can probably have her running again by —”

     “yeah, listen, i’ll stop by tomorrow, alright?” he says it without the intent to follow through on it. 

     “whatever you say, brother. hey — don’t be a stranger, okay?” 

     “sure thing.”

     he ends it there. veers left to avoid an upended van and a spill of toxic waste. doesn’t correct to avoid clipping the biter crouched over a strewn mess of gore, greedily devouring someone’s remains. or several someones. the buggy jumps a little. his expression stays as unmoved as if he’d just bucked over a speed bump or a pothole. 

     the sun is behind him now, dipping westward. 

     he drives. 

     it’s beautiful out here, in its own right. the kind of place he might’ve visited by choice, before, when the world wasn’t like it is now. the road unspools behind him, twisting south towards the dam. he hears the water before he sees it. rushing noise off to the right. he doesn’t stop. keeps going past the turnoff and down a winding side - road until he pulls over onto a patch of asphalt that used to be a small parking lot. a couple of vehicles, a truck, a trailer hitched to a hatchback with luggage piled high. he’s checked them all before. cleaned out the bags and the gas tanks, salvaged what parts he could from under their hoods. there’s a single building, a two - story cottage converted to a restaurant converted to a safe house, UV bulbs strung along the balcony railing like christmas lights. 

     past it, where the road dips into a curve, the open maw of a half - collapsed tunnel is just visible beyond the scattering of trees and abandoned cars, biters meandering listlessly in the afternoon heat. 

     four hours. 

     he parks the buggy and climbs up to the balcony, barricading the door once he’s inside.

     no one uses this place. that’s why he’d picked it. quiet, deserted, off the beaten path. no one uses it because of its proximity to the tunnel. deep within the reeking darkness, volatiles nest and thrive. they prowl too close after nightfall. no one wants the risk.

     no one except crane. 

     the note was pinned up on an old door used as a bulletin board at jasir’s farm. warning people away from the area, to steer clear at any cost. during the day, the hive is full. they only scatter when darkness falls, emerging to hunt, to feed, to roam the countryside freely and without borders. that’s what he’s counting on. 

     but there’s a trick to it. something he discovered — stumbled upon — when he went looking for sabit and found a nest instead. volatiles can breed. they’re not made exclusively through the natural evolution of the virus, but nor do they procreate in a traditional sense. hive mother is the closest comparison he can make: sentient creatures within the hives that somehow trigger the mutation. again, it’s a science he doesn’t fully understand. he knows the logistics. he knows enough. destroying those things stops the spread. 

     kill the beating heart, and you kill the beast.

     he hefts his duffel bag onto one of the tables and unzips it, a side pocket where a tightly - wrapped pouch is nestled within the folds of a spare shirt. inside, a medical injector and tool slots that used to house five vials of antizin. the final vial is loaded into the injector. the shot is quick. practiced. another four days bought on the calendar; beyond that, the pages are blank. 

     it should worry him more than it does. 

     after he checks the alarm on his watch, crane moves to the sleeping bag unrolled on the floor and lies down fully clothed. he’s trained himself to fall asleep like he’s stepping off a curb. no thought, just muscle memory. 

     four hours, then he can go. 

     dreams are less muscle, all memory. he sees them every time: living faces turned to dead ones turned to taunting, hungry ghosts. children screaming. a little girl and then a little boy, the plush yield of a bloodstained teddy bear under the tread of his boot. you can’t go yet, i thought of a name!

     someplace safe.

     the monsters are gone. 

     semper fi, marine. 

     residual hallucinations blend seamlessly, threading sepia and bronze through the black and mottled grey, the arterial red. jade’s voice brushes the threads like a hand searching for fever; soft, then bleeding, then telling him to let her go, and then jade isn’t jade, she’s deanna, and she isn’t saying let her go — she’s saying let go.

     no goodbyes, remember?

     make it count.

     you don’t know what suffering is.

     there’s an old ache just under the hook of his left clavicle. a starburst of pain sings sharply outward with the waking breath he sucks in, then pushes back out. he presses the heel of his right hand against the scar from rais’ dagger, the one he didn’t dodge fast enough. that’s a running theme. not fast enough. not soon enough. not enough. his other hand lifts, wrist tipping, as the digital numbers on his watch go from 20:59 to 21:00.

     he cuts the alarm.

     night out here sounds nothing like night in the slums, or in old town. there, it’s all infected moans, wind rippling through tarps and rustling trash; it’s all crackling fires and the creak of scaffolding, clangs of metal as virals throw aside manhole covers to scrabble out into the streets.

     here, it’s quiet. crickets chirp, cicadas chitter and hum. an owl hoots from somewhere in the trees off to the right of the cottage. 

     he waits by the balcony door until he hears them passing by. ragged, growling breaths. heavy steps. they come out of the nest in droves but then they scatter. then they fade into the dark. 

     crane hops the railing and heads toward the tunnel’s waiting mouth. 

     years ago, on the ground in fallujah, he led a stealth mission of five other marines to infiltrate a hostile - run outpost at the city’s downtown core. tactics he relied on then to evade detection are called back on now. he stays low. hugs the shadows. mindful of every move, every breath, every beat of his heart. the first biter he kills doesn’t have the time to react. he snaps its neck, fast and clean. drags it off into the cover of the trees and slices a deep line across its swollen belly. then a second line, stem to stern. 

     bandanna tightly secured over his mouth and nose, he reaches gloved hands inside the wound and begins to cover himself in gore.

     the smell is overpowering. sour and almost chemical, thick with rot, seeping through the fabric. but overpowering is the entire point. dahlia claimed she had a magic potion to move amongst infected, to blend in; everyone thought she was crazy. so did he, or delusional at the least — until she’d asked him to gather what she needed to make more tincture. one whiff of those mushrooms, and he understood. 

     she didn’t have a magic potion. she just knew which plants were odorous enough to mask the scent of living flesh.

     and if that worked, crane figures this will too. 

     three measured strides into the tunnel confirms it. the biters don’t turn. don’t react at all. he passes them in silence, a chameleon, unnoticed and undisturbed. this is the easy part. the deeper he goes, the more perilous the risk. virals twitch and mutter, grouped around piles of reeking carnage mounted nearly ceiling - high in some places. he doesn’t turn on his flashlight for chancing exposure. it takes his eyes a few minutes to adjust to the gloom. 

     he has eight hours, give or take, before the volatiles return and this excursion goes from dangerous to suicidal. eight hours is plenty.

     bones. the ground is littered with them, crunching underfoot. some are smaller; animal, maybe — birds, rodents — but most aren’t. bigger things. human. skull fragments that are all teeth. the smell has gotten incrementally worse, distinguishable even through his own cloak of viscera. it’s suffocating and rank. biological. metallic like a slaughterhouse. choked with dirt like a grave. 

     edging a pool of stagnant water that fills the crevice between cracked slabs of cement, he pushes on. 

     he’s getting closer. he can hear it now. an unearthly vocalization that pitches above the rest, echoing off stone. it’s a howl and a groan and a wail and a scream all in one, wordless, feral, made of pain and desperate hunger. 

     he sees it near a blocked door to a maintenance hall, in front of a wide wall of concrete debris. tethered to the earth by flesh and tendon like roots. there’s no lower half: only a head and torso, its other parts impossible to identify. the head is thrown back. spikes of bone push through bloody sinew in odd places, and the jaw is split along both sides, a wide, disjointed yawn. nothing about it is human. nothing about it suggests that it once was human.

     circling behind it, crane braces one hand on its shoulder and draws his blade with the other. the machete is driven clean through, back to front, gleaming point emerging from its chest. 

     kill the beating heart — 

     the death rattle is jarring, a wet, retching sustain, and then it stops. the thing stills, goes limp. he pulls his blade out again. 

     — you kill the beast. 

     there are three more of them, nestled deep within the labyrinth. he finds them by sound, repeats the same routine with each. in a way, it feels merciful. killing sabit was merciful. he wasn’t long in this state when crane had found him; too far gone to save, but with enough human left in him to plead for release. 

     these ones don’t plead, but release is granted anyway. 

     because of how deep the nest goes, of how careful he is in navigating it, it’s coming up on midnight by the time he turns around to work his way back. that isn’t worrisome: sunrise starts washing the horizon in swaths of pale peach at 5:30, doesn’t fully spread her rays ‘til six. he still has a seven - hour window, and all he has to do is reach the cottage again. the camouflage is working. his pulse is steady. 

     everything is playing out accordingly, right up until it’s not. 

     a viral staggers from behind one of the vehicles in the tunnel, an old city bus that blocked it from view. he misses it, focused on a through - path to avoid the others. it knocks into his shoulder. hard. 

     crane stumbles a little. it wouldn’t be enough to throw him had his footing been on even ground. 

     his boot slips off the edge of the crevice. 

     his ankle, the same one roman had fucked up months before, torques harshly in a direction it isn’t supposed to go, skewing his balance sideways.

     “oh, f—”

     the curse is caught before it’s anything more than a breath. 

     he falls. water splashes around him. 

     four feet away, the viral lets out a screech. 

     the noise. that’s all, he tells himself: just the sudden noise drawing attention. but the filthy pool around him begins to turn filthier, a runoff of blood and entrails slipping from his clothes. he freezes. holds absolutely still, unblinking, barely breathing. three more virals and a handful of shuffling biters are starting to congregate around the water. sensing some disturbance, some change in the air. one of them presses in closer. he realizes what’s about to happen a microsecond before. 

     the biter trips over the slab and lands in the pool with him, dousing him in a second wave. he scrambles backward, kicks it back when it lunges, but the damage is already done.

     they smell him now. they see him. 

     crane jumps from the pool and bodies the first viral that comes at him. the tunnel fills with shrieks and groans, a ravenous stampede with a single piece of prey. 

     his machete cuts through the nearest throat. then he breaks into a run.

     the firecrackers he throws behind him buy enough time to clear the tunnel’s entrance, to dip into the trees, to move at a flat sprint until ultraviolet lights wink at him between the black canopy. he vaults the awning, grabs hold of the balcony rail. 

     a volatile’s hunting cry reverberates through the moonlit night.

HARRAN COUNTRYSIDE, DAY 176 ; 6:02:45.

     “lena. lena, do you copy? ... shit.” 

     still nothing, just the static noise of a poor signal. the transmission is weak. he curses under his breath, throws a glance down the ridge behind him, hikes further up the crest. the air thins. he stops and tries again. 

     “lena, come in. do you copy?”

     this time, finally, the static catches traction. 

     “crane? is that you?"

     “thank god. yeah — yeah, brecken, it’s me.”

     “holy shit.” relief, even through a weak transmission, hits him center mass. “it’s good to hear your voice, mate. it’s been too fucking long.” 

     “i — i know, man. i’m sorry. really. i —”

     “nah, nah, save that for later, okay? tell me you’re finally through with this poxy country holiday and you’re ready to come home.” 

     home. that hits, too. emotion swells in his throat. a dammed flood he’s been so diligent to keep at bay. 

     last night was sleepless. he’d kept watch until sunrise, kept alert, because it occurred to him when he’d hit the water: he doesn’t want to die. losing hope is a dangerous thing. and maybe it is hopeless. maybe the antizin will run dry and he’ll turn, and one of them will have to put him down, like he did rahim and jade, and there won’t be any stopping it. no cure. no way out. 

     maybe he thought he did want to die — or maybe it was just that he didn’t care if he lived. 

     home. come back home.

     it’s not about him. it’s not himself that he’s living for. 

     not anymore.

     “yeah,” he manages. “yeah. i, uh — i think it’s past time for that.”

     brecken blows out a breath. “sanest thing i’ve heard you say in a while. look, let me grab the others and —”

     “no. no, don’t do that. i don’t have a lot of time — could lose the signal again at any second. brecken ... listen, just — just tell ‘em i’m on my way, huh? tell ‘em ...” 

     “yeah. i will.” 

     “i’m sorry.” 

     “i know, crane."

     a steady inhale is pulled and released. 

     he hears something. something that seems to shake the air around him, above him; something a lot like the whirring engine of an aircraft. but it can’t be that. there haven’t been any drops in months. squinting against the sun’s rays, crane scans the skyline, searching —

     “hang on,” brecken says, “you hear that?”

     “what? you’re not tellin’ me it’s loud enough t—”

     “there’s a — oi, get ayo up here, right now! — there’s a fucking plane. what the fuck, crane, i thought the GRE weren’t dropping supplies anymore?” 

     “no, they’re not, they’re — wh— hang on, what do you mean there’s a plane? there’s a plane right —”

     “listen, call me again once you’re close, okay? get your ass back here as soon as possible, we’ll talk then.”

     “n— wait — brecken, don’t —”

     the radio goes dead.

     overhead, a fixed - wing transport plane banks left and makes a hairpin turn to circle the cliffside. minimum altitude over rural land is five hundred feet. it’s close. 

     close enough to catch a flash of color from the massive logo painted on its fuselage.

     a medical cross inside a circle, bold letters spelling out GRE.

[laele25]

Now to talk about something inconsequential

As I sit here waiting for an MMO to download, I browse beginner’s guides.  I have been playing WoW for going on 14 years now.  I am almost exclusively a solo playing altoholic.  I like crafting and collecting transmog, pets, toys, and mounts.  I do not raid or even run dungeons unless there’s something I want (like progression on a transmog set or mount) that requires it and I will bitch to my husband the ENTIRE time I am doing it.   I absolutely HATE PvP. But there gets to be a point in every expansion where I am tired of the slog, especially the gated endgame progression Blizz has become so fond of the past few expansions.  I have unlocked flying.  I have nearly completed my transmog collection (until I can get the rep to get more transmog, stupid content gating) and therefore I am bored.  Because of my disabilities (I have nerve damage in my right hand which makes it impossible to use the mouse to drive and often I have to use the mouse to click hot keys because my neuropathy is making the fingers dumb), I have to use a certain key configuration.  My photosensitive migraines do not like first person or super flashy particle effects.  So I have to be able to play in third person and disable or turn down as many of these as I can.  This limits the playing possibilities. I have tried other MMOs.  I loved FFXIV.  It’s a beautiful game that’s a lot of fun classes, races, and storylines.  But required dungeon content to progress every five damn quests is a no.  I have the worst pug and RNG luck and therefore I avoid them both as much as possible.  Not to mention the player housing situation is worse than not having player housing at all. Then there was Archeage.  There is a lot I liked about it.  The combat system was challenging without being frustrating and the endless class combinations were fun to play with.  Everything being a keyboard shortcut was the most neuropathy friendly thing I have encountered in MMOs.  I barely have to touch my mouse and thus don’t end up with pain in my functional fingers from endless mouse clicking.  But the alt limit and open world PvP were turn offs.  I bought Archeage Unchained because while I don’t want to play the game all the time, I do occasionally like to play it and I feel less guilty about a one time fee and not playing it for months. I played SWTOR for about a year.  But after finishing the class storylines, I lost interest.  If I wanted to play ship combat, I would play a ship combat simulator. I also tried Secret World Legends.  Which is buggier than batshit  and has the worst grouping mechanics in MMOs.  Not to mention the snails’ pace of the storyline and the buggy and irritatingly picky puzzles.  We didn’t make it out of the first area because we got fed up with the bugs and the lack of group play support. Now I am trying Blade and Soul, which is supposed to have a fighting game esque combat system.  Back before my disabilities, I was an extremely good 3D fighting game player.  Even now, the first time my husband played ARMS with me, I absolutely owned him from muscle memory alone.  That and I am always up for fantasy genre not based around Western Europe.  Asian fantasy is a personal favorite and it certainly looks pretty (which is important dammit).  I am not terribly fond of the FTP model, because it just encourages trolls and scammers, but I enjoy the ability to try out the game without spending money to see if it fits with my playstyle and preferences. And before any of you helpfully suggest ESO, I have watched my husband play Bathesda games and when the bugs are so prevalent, the company CEO is making jokes about it at E3, I’m gonna pass.  I play MMOs to burn off stress, not make it worse. And this has been a very long, very pointless ramble about one of the ways I burn off steam and waste time.  Now back to my regularly scheduled political memes and articles, cat photos and occasionally accidentally sharing gifs of my favorite Kpop groups. *salutes*

[messinwitheddie]

Sorry if you already answered something like this, but I saw the subspecies ask and it made me wonder; do you think maybe zim got taller on earth because maybe the gravity was lighter on earth, or maybe the oxygen and nitrogen reacted differently to irkens so it makes them “lighter” so their muscles and bones can expand 👀 and the gene just passes down of the irken subspecies to just get taller overtime?? 👁👄👁

(I don't think I answered a question like this actually. It's all good :D ... my memory both long and short term are pretty screwed by this point, so, I honestly forget what I've covered as I go along half the time.)

Dib "Hu...maybe he did get a little taller. I grew to be a solid 6' plus like my dad, so to me, Zim looks smaller than I remember."

Zim *insulted growl*

Dib "If he did grow, it wasn't enough to climb rank, right Zim?" *chuckles*

Zim "Fuck you, human!"

Dib "OW!!"

(I'm hoping the invader zim art book discusses planet Irk a little because I don't know enough about Irk as a planet to say whether or not earth's atmosphere would effect Zim's height-- not to say the theory isn't valid.

Me personally, I prefer to keep Zim (and the average Irken in general) short. One of the most endearing aspects of the cartoon's plot, to me, is the fact Zim is a shamefully short man in a Tallest's world.

For Zim to grow and gain power by becoming taller or even a tallest only validates the unjust bullshit Irken height based class system.

I want my Zim to slay his demons at the height he is.

That, and he's just so cute with all that rage in his little buggy body. I like drawing him short ^^.

But again, this is just a personal preference/ opinion. Fans who write or draw Zim growing over time are welcome to do so and it is an interesting interpretation.

As for Wyn's subspecies smeets; she spends a good portion of her life observing them and taking notes on the differences in their physical and mental development (if any) from Irk-born Irkens. I have not given much thought to this future yet though. I'm still trying to organize my 18-years-later au tbh.)

[hadestownmodern]

Junie Meets Melody

(posting for Annika while she’s in the car...this is her space to say something...this fic made me cry and I love it and I love her. The end)

-----

“Now, baby, what are the rules again?” Persephone prepped, carrying her four year old through the white halls, the sterile smell unsettling at the least. Her grip on her shifted as she held Junie even closer to her. It had been thirteen years since she last stepped foot in a hospital setting, and even so grief wrapped around her heart and squeezed as she took the elevator up a few floors. Even after over a decade, it was a muscle memory, to the labor and delivery floor. This time, of course, was remarkably different. She had always left empty handed, nothing to show for the pain, the suffering, and the heartbreak. There was something empowering in knowing that the first time she stepped floor on this floor in thirteen years, she had her daughter. The daughter, who against all odds, existed. And then, of course, there was the reason they were here: Orpheus, Eurydice, and their new, healthy daughter. 

Junie lifted her head from Persephone’s shoulder, nodding excitedly. “Don’t be too loud and don’t try to grab the baby.” She blinked innocently at her mother, identical brown eyes catching each other’s. “I thought we were bringing presents?”

“Good girl.” Persephone kisses her daughter’s curls, managing to avoid eye contact with nurses who knew Persephone personally, pushing her anxieties further into her chest. “Presents? Oh, well, baby, I wanted to bring Eurydice something to eat but it’s too early for anything to open.” 

Persephone arrived to the room Orpheus had instructed her to, and gave Junie a little bounce. “You ready?” She smiles at her, leaning her forehead against her own as she knocked on the heavy wooden door and waited for Orpheus to open it. 

The door opened within seconds, Orpheus standing there, tear marks still streaming down his face. HIs eyes were puffy from crying, but he had a smile brighter than Persephone had ever seen etched almost permanently into his face. He wasted no time before wrapping his arms around Junie and Persephone both, a new round of tears falling into her hair. 

“She’s perfect, she’s so perfect and Eurydice is incredible and-” He rambles a little, pulling from the hug as Persephone extends a hand to wipe his tears, a warm smile on her own face. “I’ve never been this happy in my life.” 

“Ophie!” Junie giggles, holding her arms up to him, a silent request to be held by him instead. “Ophie I missed you swimmin’!”

He holds his hands out to Junie, who’s lunging at him, and holds her on his hip. He notes mentally what a difference it is, to hold his toddler semi sister, semi niece, now that he’s held a newborn. “I’m so sorry. I hope you’ll forgive me.” 

“It’s okay Ophie, mama said you had to be with ‘Rydice. ‘Rydice is important.” Junie pats his face in understanding, before wrapping her arms around his neck in a hug. 

“Rydice is very important.” Orpheus agrees, flashing another smile at Persephone. “Buggy, you wanna come see my baby?”

Junie nods, clapping her hands excitedly. “Come on mama!” 

Persephone laughs lightly, but nods. “Lets see that baby of yours.”

Persephone is not sure what she was expecting when she followed Orpheus the extra steps into the little hospital room. 

Eurydice, laying back on the pillows, with a tiny baby flat on her chest, her hands both holding her little clothes-less baby to her skin should have been it. 

Eurydice is not looking up, her thumb rhythmically tracing the baby’s cheek as she stares at her, entranced with her girl. Even under the striped hospital hat, Persephone can see the little peaks of dark brown hair peeking out. 

“Hey little mamas, how are you feelin?” Persephone whispers, a soothing edge in her voice that is reserved for her children in their most vulnerable moments. 

She has tears in her eyes when she looks up at Persephone, her voice catching in her throat. “I did it.” Is all she can get out, before the heavy hiccup of a cry bubbles through her voice. “I did it.”

“Of course you did, baby, of course you did. I never doubted that you could.” Persephone’s hand cups Eurydice’s cheek, her thumb rubbing away the tears spilling from her eyes. She leans down and kisses her forehead gingerly, whispering again to her. “I am so so proud of you, Eurydice.”

Persephone leans back smiling at Eurydice and trying to blink back tears of her own. “Does she have a name yet?”

“Not yet.” Orpheus chimes in, bringing Junie from the window where he had been pointing out his apartment in the distance, to hover on the other side of the bed. He kneels, bringing Junie to eye height with Eurydice. Eurydice nods, her hand still firmly planted on the bare skin of her daughter’s back. 

“This is our baby, Junie.” Orpheus whispers, an awe in his voice unlike anything Persephone had heard before. She suspected that awe inspiring love would be all consuming for the foreseeable future of Orpheus’ life.  

Junie’s eyes almost immediately go wide, and she reaches out a little hand. It is impossibly gentle, the way this four year old hovers her hand over the baby’s. Eurydice nods, a gentle encouragement, as Junie reaches a little closer and Melody’s fist reflexively wraps around Junie’s pointer finger.  

“Hi, best friend.” Junie whispers, her other hand ever so gently touching Melody’s hat covered head, eyes going even wider when the baby moves at her touch. She scrunches her nose when she sees Melody’s face, and innocently whispers across the bed to her mother. “Mama..why does she look like that?”

“Like what, honey?” Persephone muses, her hands pushing back Eurydice’s bangs absently as she watches her daughter interact with the baby. 

“I thought she’d look like a baby doll, but she isn’t very cute, mama.”

“Juniper!” Persephone lectures, her voice raising just a little in disapproval. “That's not very nice.” 

“Her face is all squishy!” Junie defends, gesturing at Melody for emphasis. “Rydice is so pretty, why isn’t her baby pretty? Rydice i’m so sorry! You should have a pretty baby.”

“Juniper Beatrice that is enough-”

Eurydice though, is laughing. Laughing in a way that makes her shoulders shake, laughing in a way that has her eyes squeezed shut as she wheezes. “No, no, it’s okay. Junie’s right. I know she isn’t very cute yet, Junebug, but she’ll get there. It doesn’t make us love her any less, just because she looks kind of funny right now.” Eurydice promises, reaching a hand up to hold Junie’s. “She’ll get there.”

“I think she’s beautiful.” Orpheus murmurs, trying not to show offense at Junie’s harsh criticism of his newborn. 

“She’s my best friend, even if she isn’t very cute.” Junie assures, tilting her head to the side so she could be face to face with the baby. 

Eurydice sits up, and looks at Orpheus with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Do you want to hold her, Bug?”

Junie nods rapidly, holding her arms both out expectantly. This causes the adults to laugh, as Orpheus stands. 

“Orpheus is gonna hold you if thats okay..” Eurydice explained, as Orpheus settled in the chair beside the bed, holding Junie on his thigh. “Seph, can you take her over there..” She gestures towards Melody, as she peels her from her chest and cradles her in the crook of her arm, “walking isn’t my friend right now.” 

Persephone only laughs, before gently taking the infant from her mother. She looks at her for a few seconds, already able to see Eurydice in the shape of her mouth or in her nose, something she left out after Eurydice acknowledging her appearance. She revels in the feeling of a new baby in her arms, something she had long since forgotten the feeling of. 

Persephone stands infront of Orpheus and her daughter, watching as Orpheus settles his arms and Junie reaches hers out. He is gentle in the way he instructs Junie to keep her arms down, nodding at Persephone as she starts to lower Melody into his, and therefore Junie’s awaiting arms. 

Junie is enraptured almost immediately, her tiny finger tracing the baby’s nose. “My best friend.” She cooes, leaning down almost immediately to kiss her nose. “I love you, best friend.” 

There is something natural in the way Orpheus immediately responds to fatherhood, in his knowing ability to coach Junie through holding his daughter. It came from the practice of Junie herself, as well as inherent instinct within him. 

“She loves you too, bug, look how quiet she is for you.” Orpheus assures, kissing Junie’s hair gently. “She loves you.”

Persephone has the thought to take a picture on her phone, one of both Junie and Orpheus beaming at her, but another which is more candid, of both of them looking down at the baby with nothing but adoration on their faces. 

She settles on the edge of Eurydice’s bed, running her hand over her arm. “I brought shots, but now is not the time is it?”

Eurydice snorts as she shakes her head. “Not the time. I don’t think the baby needs shots on the first day of her life, do you?”

“I can agree. Maybe next weekend.” Persephone teases, kissing Eurydice’s forehead again before grabbing the throw blanket at the end of the bed from her home and tucking it around her. 

Time passes with idle chat, Persephone inquiring more after Eurydice’s health than anything, even declining the offer to hold the baby herself. “We’ll be back later, Hades, my mama, and Hermes will want to come.” She promises, coaxing Junie to give up the baby. “Come on, we’ll be back soon… lets go back to sleep at home, your daddy should be gone for work.” 

Junie relinquished the baby, and eventually agreed to leave after many rounds of hugs to Orpheus and Eurydice. 

Persephone is carrying her out, heart fuller and happier than it had ever been as she left a hospital. 

“I know what her name is, mama.” Junie announced as they walked out of the building and into a local coffee shop. “But amma says they have to pick it!”

“Amma didn’t let me pick your name.” Persephone muses, but indulges Junie anyway. “And what is her name, baby?”

“Her name is Melody, mama.”