#deliberate practice not that i get scared often

[ozymoron]

saw my own reflection in my phone why am i kinda beautiful id be so good at being an autistic coded quiet shy character who gets scared often in a show or perhaps a movie thats unrelated to the beautiful part i just think im pretty

[puckstories]

Forever ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Quinn Hughes

Pairing; Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Reader is mentioned having curly hair/wearing glasses. Fluff. Kinda cringe but it’s a proposal so I’d consider that acceptable (: Established relationship. Not edited.

Summary; Quinn proposes

Word Count; 2k

Author’s note; Didn’t realize this is my second fic that takes place on the living room sofa, but it’s written so I’ll just dump it here. Would love to hear your thoughts if you have any + reblogs are appreciated. -Honey

Quinn had been captivated by you from the very first time you said his name. There was something about the way it fell from your lips—soft and velvety, with a subtle rasp that sent a shiver down his spine. It wasn’t just the sound of your voice; it was the way you spoke to him, with a warmth that wrapped around his heart like a favorite song. Every time you said his name, it made his chest tighten, his pulse quicken. And you said it often.

You didn’t rely on the usual pet names his past girlfriends had favored—sweet nothings like "baby" or "babe." No, you chose his name, always. When you called for him, it was, “Quinn, can you grab this?” or “Quinn, come here.” When you told him you loved him, you didn’t let the words hang abstract in the air. You made them personal: “I love you, Quinn.” Each syllable was deliberate, an anchor tying you to him.

It wasn’t long before he realized he couldn’t get enough of it. Just six months into your relationship, his mind began wandering toward something far bigger. He found himself daydreaming about the future—your shared future. He pictured you standing across from him, framed by flowers and sunlight, saying his name again, but this time in wedding vows that would bind you together forever. The thought of hearing you say, “I do,” in front of your friends and family was enough to leave him breathless.

You hadn’t just made him feel loved—you’d made him feel seen, known, and completely yours.

“Quinn.” Your voice cuts through his wandering thoughts, pulling him sharply back into the present. It’s not loud, but it carries—a perfect mix of warmth and clarity that only you could manage. He blinks, momentarily disoriented, before his gaze finds you.

There you are, a vision that steals his breath all over again. He can hardly believe his luck—that he gets to see you like this, so at ease, so unencumbered, and utterly captivating. You’re seated at the kitchen table, papers scattered around you in a casual chaos as you focus on grading. The soft, golden hue from the overhead light bathes you in a warm glow, making you look almost otherworldly.

His lips twist into a small smile, like he hasn’t already seen your outfit today—though, of course, he has. Worn sweatpants, and his old UMICH shirt, the one you stole and now practically live in while at home. Your curly hair is piled into a loose bun, and your glasses sit low on your nose.

It had been two months since he’d first thought about proposing—two months of tucking that desire away, hiding it behind everyday moments and careful smiles. He’d never been in this deep with a woman before. The idea of marriage had always felt like something distant, meant for other people. But now? Now it sat in the back of his mind like a quiet ache, present in every thought, in every small moment with you. Eight months together. Was that long enough? Was it too soon? He wasn’t sure. The last thing he wanted was to scare you off, to move faster than you were ready for, and somehow ruin this thing between you. It terrified him, the possibility of misstepping, of losing you. But it also terrified him to wait, to let too much time pass and risk you thinking he didn’t see forever with you.

These thoughts came and went, like tides he couldn’t stop. But it was moments like this—simple, domestic, and probably boring to anyone else—that hit him hardest.

"Earth to Quinn." Your voice rings out again, light and teasing, amusement flickering between your brows.

Quinn blinks, startled back to the moment, and clears his throat as though shaking off the thoughts had stolen him away once more. His gaze refocuses on you, a small, sheepish smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, baby. What is it?"

"You okay?" You ask, tilting your head. "I can hear your brain working all the way over here."

"Just zoned out." He says, with a dismissing shake of his head. He leans back against the armrest, running a hand through his hair to push it out of his face. "Yeah, just zoned out," he confirms, his voice low and a little distracted. "Sorry. Just... thinking about a few things."

You study him for a moment, noticing the way his teeth graze his bottom lip, and the way his hand lingers in his hair, like it’s searching for something to hold onto. You nod. "Wanna talk about it?"

His expression softens, the quiet earnestness of the question reaching into the place where that familiar ache still lingers. Almost instinctively, his hand stretches toward you—palm open, a silent invitation. He hesitates for just a breath, his fingers curling slightly as though unsure if he should follow through, before he nods. "C'mere a sec?"

You slide your glasses off and set them on the table, the quiet clink barely audible in the stillness of the room. Pushing back your chair, you cross the small space to Quinn. He’s waiting, his arms already lifting to pull you close the second you’re within reach. He tugs you down into his lap with an ease that feels like second nature, his thighs shifting apart instinctively to make room for you.

The moment you settle against him, his arms wrap tightly around your waist, and he buries his face against the curve of your neck. You feel the faint warmth of his breath on your skin as he exhales a deep sigh. The soft, sweet scent of you—the one he’s come to think of as home—floods his senses, easing some of the tension in his chest.

He pulls away, and leans his head back against the couch. For a moment, he just looks at you, his gaze lingering as though trying to memorize every detail, even though he knows he already has. The soft slope of your nose. The curve of your mouth. That small, almost invisible freckle just beneath your bottom lip—the one he always kisses when the warmth in his chest gets the better of him. His throat tightens, and he swallows hard, a nervous flutter building in his chest.

“What is it, Quinn?”

He takes a deep breath, his fingers brushing over your hips in gentle, absent strokes, the movement more reflex than thought. The rhythm steadies him, but only just. His mind churns, the weight of what he wants to say pressing hard against his chest. This is it, he thinks. He can’t hold it in any longer—the waiting, the second-guessing, the holding back. It’s all become unbearable. Whatever happens next, he has to let this out.

“Just thinking about us,” he begins, his voice quiet but steady. “Our relationship. How much I care about you. How lucky I feel to have you like this.” He pauses for a moment, like testing the ground beneath him before taking another step forward. “It’s been on my mind a lot lately.”

Your lips curve into a soft smile, the kind that makes him feel like gravity tilts toward you. "Yeah?" you say, your voice gentle, encouraging.

“Yeah,” he replies, barely above a murmur. His throat feels tight, his pulse hammering beneath his ribs, but he keeps his gaze locked on you. There’s something grounding about the way you look at him—like you’re holding the door open for him, not rushing him, just waiting. It gives him enough courage to keep going. “It’s just…” He exhales, his breath light and shallow. “You mean so much to me. More than I think I’ve been able to say out loud. And I keep thinking about what it would be like to make this permanent. To have this—us—be something that lasts forever.”

Your breathing hitches, the words catching you off guard, your chest tightening as his meaning begins to settle over you. Your eyes widen slightly, searching his face, and you can see it there—devotion, hope, and just the faintest hint of nerves. Your heart skips, and it feels like the entire room is holding its breath alongside you.

Quinn’s hands shift from your waist, moving up with slow, deliberate care. His fingers trace the curve of your cheek, brushing softly along your skin, his thumbs lingering just below your cheekbones. “Marry me?” he asks, the words soft, almost reverent, yet steady and sure in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. It’s not a question tossed lightly into the air; it’s a truth he’s been holding onto, waiting for the right moment to share.

Your lips part, but for a second, no sound comes out. “M-Marry you?” The words tumble out unevenly, caught between shock and something else—something overwhelming and impossibly warm blooming in your chest.

“I want forever with you, baby,” he says, pausing for a moment before speaking again. "I know this is a shitty proposal, we're both at home in our pajamas, and I don't even have a ring yet, I just...I don't want to wait anymore. I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life loving and taking care of you."

You swallow hard, your heart racing. Tears prick the corners of your eyes, and a tremulous smile starts to curve your lips. “You… you want me forever?” The words are quiet, as though testing them out, wrapping your mind around the enormity of what he’s offering.

His lips twitch into a soft, almost shy smile, his forehead resting against yours now. “Forever and then some,” he murmurs. “If you’ll have me.”

A sudden, uncontrollable squeal escapes your lips, the kind you might have been embarrassed about in any other moment. But here, it feels perfect—pure, unfiltered joy. Before you can stop yourself, you’re leaning in, your lips crashing against his in a burst of energy and love. The kiss is messy, hurried, but it’s full of all the things you can’t quite put into words.

Quinn smiles against your lips, his arms wrapping tightly around you as he leans back against the sofa, taking you with him. The movement is unhurried this time, deliberate, as though he’s savoring every second. His hands settle firmly at your back, holding you close, like he never wants to let go. The kiss deepens briefly, his lips moving softly against yours, before the two of you finally break apart, breathless but smiling.

Your forehead comes to rest against his, your eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. His breath mingles with yours, warm and steady, and his thumbs brush tenderly along your sides as though grounding himself in the moment. You press your hands to his chest, feeling the rhythmic pounding of his heart, and it feels like it matches the erratic beat of your own.

“Yes,” you whisper, the word spilling out of you before you even realize it. Then it comes again, louder, stronger. “Yes, yes, Quinn. Yes!” The words are wrapped in laughter, your voice trembling with happiness.

Quinn exhales a shaky breath, relief and joy flooding his expression. His hands slide to your waist, his grip firm and steady, as his eyes meet yours. They’re shining now, soft but full of something deeper, something that makes your chest feel impossibly full. “Yeah?” he murmurs, his voice low and quiet, as though still needing confirmation, still needing to hear the word from you one more time.

“Yeah,” you say, grinning so wide your cheeks ache. “Forever, Quinn. I want forever with you, too.”

His lips curve into a broad, radiant smile—the kind that makes him look younger, freer, like every weight he’s been carrying has fallen away. He lets out a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest. “You don’t know how much I needed to hear that,” he says softly, his thumb brushing along your cheek now. “You’ve just made me the happiest man alive, you know that?”

Tears prick your eyes, your laughter softening into something quieter, more emotional. You reach for his face, your fingers brushing against the rough stubble on his jaw. “I think we just made each other the happiest people alive.”

[moonlight-joy]

In the Hunter's Arms

Fandom: Kraven the hunter

Summary: As rain pattered against the cabin windows, you cleaned Sergei’s wounds, his fierce protectiveness evident in every glance. Despite his injuries, he promised to try and temper his recklessness for your sake. When the bandages were tied, he pulled you into his lap, his arms a protective shield. In the warmth of the cabin, surrounded by firelight, you found comfort in his unspoken vow to always keep you safe.

Pairing: Reader/Sergei Kravinoff

The cabin was quiet except for the soft patter of rain against the windows and the occasional crackle of the fireplace. Sergei sat slumped in a wooden chair, his shirt discarded on the floor beside him, revealing his battered torso. Angry red gashes and bruises marred his skin, a testament to the brutality of his most recent hunt. You knelt before him, a bowl of warm water and a cloth at your side, your hands trembling slightly as you prepared to clean his wounds.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said softly, dipping the cloth into the water. You wrung it out and pressed it gently against a particularly deep cut on his side. Sergei flinched but remained silent, his jaw tightening as you worked.

“He was going to harm you,” Sergei finally replied, his voice low and rough. His piercing gaze locked onto yours, and you could see the fire burning in his eyes. “I would do it again without hesitation.”

You sighed, your movements careful and deliberate as you cleaned the blood away. “But at what cost, Sergei? You can’t keep putting yourself in harm’s way like this. It’s not sustainable.”

His hand shot out, catching your wrist mid-motion. The strength in his grip was undeniable, but his touch was controlled, deliberate. “You think I care about that?” he asked, his voice softening slightly. “Your safety is worth any price. Do not ask me to stand by while someone threatens what is mine.”

You frowned, your heart aching at the conviction in his words. Sergei was many things—ferocious, unyielding, and proud—but he cared deeply for those he held close, even if his way of showing it often came at his own expense.

“I’m not asking you to stand by,” you said, your voice firm but laced with emotion. “I’m asking you to think. To take care of yourself, too. Because I can’t lose you, Sergei. Not like this.”

His gaze softened, and for a moment, the fierce hunter before you seemed almost vulnerable. He released your wrist, letting his hand fall to his side, and nodded. “I’ll try,” he said, though the words sounded foreign on his tongue. “For you.”

You gave him a small, relieved smile and returned to your task. The wounds weren’t life-threatening, but they were deep enough to require stitches. You set the cloth aside and reached for the needle and thread you’d prepared earlier. Sergei watched you intently, his expression unreadable as you threaded the needle and prepared to begin.

“This might sting,” you warned, though you knew pain meant little to him. He nodded, his jaw tightening in anticipation. As you worked, sewing his skin back together with steady hands, Sergei remained silent, his only reaction the occasional twitch of a muscle or a sharp intake of breath.

“You’ve gotten good at this,” he said after a while, his voice breaking the comfortable silence. “Too good.”

You glanced up at him, a wry smile tugging at your lips. “You’ve given me plenty of practice,” you replied, finishing the last stitch and tying it off. “Maybe you should stop getting into fights you don’t need to win.”

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that made your chest warm. “Every fight is one I need to win. But I will admit…” His eyes softened, a rare vulnerability slipping through. “I’d prefer fewer reasons to make you worry.”

You reached for the salve and began applying it to his wounds, your touch gentle but firm. “Then stop scaring me,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Sergei’s hand found yours, stilling your movements. He looked at you, his expression earnest. “I’ll try,” he said again, and this time, you believed him.

When you’d finished treating his injuries, you leaned back, surveying your work. His wounds were cleaned and dressed, the stitches neat and precise. You were exhausted, but relief washed over you knowing that he’d be okay.

“You should rest,” you said, rising to your feet and gathering the supplies. “You’ve been through enough for one day.”

Sergei caught your hand as you turned to leave, pulling you gently back toward him. “Stay,” he said, his voice soft but insistent. “Just for a while.”

You hesitated for a moment before nodding. Setting the supplies aside, you allowed him to pull you into his lap, his arms wrapping around you protectively. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear was soothing, and you felt the tension drain from your body.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your skin. “For always being here. For taking care of me.”

“Always,” you replied, your voice soft and full of promise.

The rain continued to patter against the windows, the fire crackling in the hearth, and in Sergei’s arms, you felt safe. Whatever challenges lay ahead, you knew you’d face them together. For now, though, you allowed yourself to rest, content in the knowledge that Sergei was here, and he was yours.

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[floylia]

— your highness, my princess

The thrill of danger lingers in Childe’s veins more often than not. Bloodshed does not scare him. His blades have known him for almost a lifetime as he holds them dear day and night. He had once sworn to be used as a machine in battle, and he intends to keep it.

At the moment his blades swing against a wooden dummy as it holds on for dear life. From anyone watching his aggression is not something to be taken lightly. There’s blaze in his eyes, replaced by the lack of sparks. Sweat drips down from every direction of his body. But his stamina doesn’t break. He doesn’t stop. Because once he does, he’ll be back to reality.

A reality where he’s born to protect the crown and its heir.

To protect and serve someone that’s far from his grasp: you.

It haunts him, how his loyalty will forever be yours, but he can’t say the same for you. One day you’ll take up the crown, marry someone of the same status and have children of your own���all while he watches, so close yet so far.

So he swings. For every battle in the field. For every battle against himself to stop his heart from beating for you. For every time he forgets his place. For every time he lets go as only Ajax in your presence. For every time he wishes to be just a boy helplessly drowning in feelings he doesn’t deserve to have.

And for every time you visit him practicing privately in the early mornings.

“How long are you going to keep staring, your highness?” He was trained for this. He would know someone else’s presence, especially yours. It’s always you.

“How long are you going to keep practicing?” You cross your arms, borrowing his smile.

He can’t tell if his heart is beating rapidly from adrenaline or from the sweet smile of your face, “All day if that means I get to have your attention.”

“I didn’t see you this morning.”

“You’re incredibly needy, my princess”

“You’re aware of that.”

It’s bittersweet. How you can talk to each other acting like there’s no consequences. As if you’re walking in a limbo not caring if you fall. If only it was that easy. To cross the line. To push you off the edge so he can catch you and hold you in his arms like he does in his dreams.

He’d stay there for an eternity if he could have you.

“What’s wrong?” You tilt your head and reach up to his head with a cloth, swiping the drops of sweat from his forehead.

He closes his eyes and leans into the touch, “Did my princess miss me that much that she’d take her time to visit me in my quarters?”

“Aren’t you over-doing it?” You ask and he sees the evident concern form in your eyes.

He loves it. He loves your attention.

“You sound concerned, your highness. Do I take it you’re doubting my abilities?”

You shake your head, “It’s hard to find you around the palace. It’s as if you’re deliberately ignoring me.”

“Who would ever ignore the princess?” It almost sounds sarcastic, because maybe it is.

He has been avoiding you, rather he’s been ignoring his feelings and thoughts enveloping only you as he wakes. It’s hard to hold back when every silhouette he sees reminds him of you.

Then he sees a frown on your face. He hates that—that he’s the reason for your pain.

He clears his throat, “Would you like to go anywhere today, your highness?”

“I hate when you call me that.”

“It’s your title.”

“I’m your princess.”

“What difference would it make, your highness?” He’s riling you up the way you do to him as he inches closer to your face, until he can see the blush on your face down to your neck.

You stay there for a minute before you move away from him, “There’s a ball this evening.”

“Yes, I’ve heard. Anything you’d wish for me to do?”

“Don’t attend.”

He laughs but it’s an empty one, “One minute you’re looking for my attention and the next you’re pushing me away.”

“He’s going to be there.”

He flinches. He—the one you’re set to marry. At least that’s everyone’s expcrations, whether you pull through with it or not, only time will tell. He swears there’s an invisible knife twisting itself in his chest, agonizingly slow to make it more painful than it has to be.

“Why does that matter?” He asks and his eyes are burning brighter than before. He leans towards you once again, but this time it’s with purpose. Almost predatory. He’s backing you up in a corner until his arm stretches to the wall, trapping you in, “Why should I care about him?”

“Ajax.” You whisper, staring into his eyes as if you’re not fazed by his sudden action. Perhaps you’ve wanted this, and that thought excites him.

He tilts your neck upwards and his fingers rest there, tracing your jaw, “Why can’t I be there?”

He leaves his hand on your jaw and focuses on removing the strands of hair covering your neck line to get a better view—a part of him wants to dig into it, to claim it and tell the whole world that you’re reserved for him, “Are you afraid, your highness?”

He traces your body—his touch is hot and desperate as he snakes his hands along your waist and on your back, playing with the short ribbon holding your dress together as he loosens it slightly, “Will you let him touch you like this?”

You lean into him, hoping to feel his lips, but his only hovers above yours, “What would you do if I did?”

He chuckles, dangerously low. His hands lowered down your body, passing your dress, now caressing your legs in ways you enjoy—in ways he’s memorized before, “I’d kill him.”

You put your hands against his cheeks, “You’re killing me too.”

“Is that true, your highness?” His hands rest at the back of your thigh, lifting one leg up as he leans in, nipping at your ear. You gasp at his hot breath.

“Will you let him get this close too?” His attention moves to your neck. You tilt your head so he can have access to it, as he trails wet kisses along the side.

You wrap your arms around his neck as your fingers weave through his soft hair.

“You’re not giving me an answer,” His voice is hoarse.

“You’re not giving me a chance to answer.”

“If I didn’t, my lips would be on yours the whole time.”

“Why isn’t it?”

“Impatient and needy. What would the people say if they found out the princess acts like this in private?”

You intertwine your hand with his and places it on top of your chest, so he can feel the rapid pace of your heart rising up and down, “You won’t let them see.”

“Don’t be so confident,” He moves up to your jaw.

“I didn’t take you to be someone who shared.”

His lips continued to hover yours. For a minute it feels like time surrendered their hands for the two of you, lending you a moment of peace in each other’s arms where birth given titles are replaced with vows of love.

This, out of all the life-threatening battles he has experienced has to be the most difficult fight he doesn’t think he can survive. But if it’s you holding the blade, if it’s you twisting the knife, then he’ll die happily.

If it means he can hold you like this. Touch you in ways another cannot.

“You’re right, I’m not.” He replies after the prolonged silence.

Then his lips are on yours, finally giving in to his urges. It starts off slow and patient, opposite of what he is. Then he wills your mouth open. He holds onto the back of your neck like a lifeline, pulling you closer each time you gasp for breath. It feels like hours passed, before you broke off the kiss, and he appears as if he’s desperate for more.

“You’re killing me, my princess.”

“Guess we’re even. Shall we continue in my chambers?” You say accompanied by a sweet smile and an innocent flutter of your eyes as you pull him closer, arms around his neck.

And who is he to refuse.

After all, you’re his princess, and he’s your knight—lawfully and willfully worshipping the cathedral of your chest, treasuring the heart that also keeps his beating.

[the-labyrinth-of-me]

I don't know if that has been discussed in the past, but I wanna talk about a few things that stand out in the apartment of the Wakes, at least for me. First off, it's absolutely weird that the apartment looks nothing like the one from the first game, neither interior nor floor plan wise. Before Alan was trapped in the Dark Place, the apartment looked drastically different. Photos for comparison:

Seems like a regular home of a best-selling crime novelist, right?

The apartment in Alan Wake 2 has, as already mentioned, a different floor plan and weird structure. Like you leave the elevator and there aren't even any further doors, let alone a hallway. As if the Wake apartment was the only one on the whole floor. Then there's the entrance area with the cameras from Alice that set off once Alan leaves the elevator, with a few paintings on the wall (like graffiti) that seem to have replaced the skyline posters.

Then you enter the actual apartment. It holds a layout that doesn't make much sense. There's also no bathroom / toilet and Alice's studio seems to be missing. Some other paintings of graffiti on the wall mix with really old, outdated, simple furniture. Nothing that displays wealth for the cozy feeling of a real home, it's rather minimalist.

If only the furniture would be outdated, though...

A collection of old files, devices (seriously, who has a telephone like that in the 2010 and upwards years?), and old toys. Since the Wakes don't have children and there wasn't any mention that they, at any point, planned to start a family, one can assume these toys weren't bought for children to be born and they seem to be well-used as well. Maybe Alan's toys from his childhood?

The books all seem to be really old as well.

All that old stuff and the composition, how things are placed and displayed, rather give me the feeling I'm walking through a museum rather than an apartment.

(wtf why is there even an accordion??)

And if we take a closer look at the kitchen...

... we see a weird oven and coffee machine. Stuff we'd expect to find in restaurant, maybe. Or a diner. A very specific diner.

Moving on, what catches the attention in the living room isn't only the lack of a television (although the Wakes had one in the first game), despite the TVs can be found practically everywhere in the Dark Place in the most odd spaces. But not in an actual apartment, of all things? Hmmmm. As if someone deliberately choose not to have one. Maybe the one who is imagining that whole stuff?

Which would be my conclusion to the weirdness of the apartment: dream logic mixed with whatever is left of the apartment in Alan's memory mixed with what is necessary for him to move on. TVs is what he might be kind of scared of, since often he sees another version of himself speaking insane rants. Nothing he could use that close to escape. The old furniture and books and toys could really stem from his longterm memory, his childhood home blended in with his actual one, from his subconscious. His mother seems to have a key role because she was the one who gave him the Clicker. And he never got to know his father. There definitely is some pain in his childhood years. Maybe he has a box somewhere in which he keeps some of his toys?

In dreams our brain processes what we experience throughout the day, sometimes memories mix in, or things we suppress / are in denial about bc we're too afraid to confront them. That could be one explanation of the interior of the apartment. His childhood even gets a small section in the musical since we walk through his old bedroom. So, early memories are covered. Brings us the next subject - striking what isn't necessary to move to. Alice's studio apparently isn't necessary (and something he doesn't have a connection to. Makes even more sense considering her work didn't contribute much to their income, as she says in the video. So her office might be kind of invisible to him. His work being the "more important" one.) Bathroom? Not necessary. Interior replaced with old stuff bc its more important to him, maybe? But what about the industrial oven and coffee machine? That really seems to be a nod to the Oh Deer diner, where his journey (and demise) practically started. Where he got the keys for the Bird Leg Cabin and met the Dark Presence for the first time. It seemed to have left a mark. Rose, the superfan waitress who helps him from the real world. Rusty, the first major Taken he had to fight (iirc Stucky came after Rusty). The Old Gods and their stupid jukebox. I'm not gonna link Coconut here don't worry. There's also a pack of the Bright Falls Blend coffee on a shelf.

Summarized, we can say that dream logic blends all kinds of things together whenever Alan visits the apartment in the Dark Place. Not to mention that it even looks different each time he goes there, during each draft. If I find the time I'll try to draw floor plans of each version. I think it's very interesting.

If you made it this far, thanks for coming to my Ted talk.

Edit for additions / stuff from tags (holy shit is this a long post now)

- @taniushka12 yes you're right of course, the bathroom appears later however and not during the first draft. It seems Alan readjusts the apartment due to what he needs to go further, or Alice had a say about this. Idk. The bathroom appears in the next draft I think, with the expedition. He remembers they have a bathrooms yay! But it still looks completely different.

- @omena-perkele thanks for elaborating on that. I was planning to go into more detail about Alan progressively forgetting how his home looks like but only put it in half a sentence lol. It's my interpretation of how empty the apartment actually is, like not much personal belongings, if any. Bedroom is almost empty. There are pieces of furniture he remembers or remembers there should be some at certain walls in the rooms, but many empty spots. The rest is mixed with old stuff and dream logic / dark place fill-ins.

Thanks for each comment on this!

[zeroseuniverse]

Even Pillars Fall

Word Count: 1.4K Summary: “You’re... not afraid of me?” Mingi asked quietly. She glanced up, their expression softening. “No, Mingi. I’m not. I see a man who gives everything he has to protect the people around him. That doesn’t scare me—it inspires me.” Pairing: Mingi X Fem Reader

Disclaimer: Please be aware that this is apart of the from the ashes series. This series will have aspects of violence, weapons, angst, blood, injuries, killing, and will heavily focus on oppression and segregation of mutants, Look after your mental state if any of these make you uncomfortable please.

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The room was filled with the sharp, acrid smell of disinfectants and the faint metallic tang of blood. Mingi’s massive frame lay across the makeshift cot, his breathing uneven as she worked tirelessly to stem the bleeding. The resistance didn’t have the luxury of proper medical facilities, just repurposed warehouses and scavenged supplies. Yet Her hands moved with precision, her focus unwavering despite the odds stacked against them.

Mingi groaned, his hand twitching as if to push her away. “I’m fine,” he rasped, though the tremor in his voice betrayed him. He didn’t want to be here—pinned down, powerless, and vulnerable.

“You’re not fine,” She shot back, her voice calm but firm. “You’re lucky you’re still breathing. Let me do my job.”

His defiance faltered under her unwavering gaze. Mingi prided himself on being the resistance’s pillar, the one who shouldered the burden of their most dangerous missions. Yet here he was, reduced to a man bleeding out on a cot, utterly dependent on someone else.

Her touch was surprisingly gentle for someone who had been dealing with life-or-death situations every day. She wasn’t  just treating his wounds; she was silently telling him he wasn’t alone, that his pain mattered.

“Why do you even bother?” Mingi muttered, more to himself than to her. “You’ve got a dozen other people to save.”

She didn’t pause, her hands steady as she stitched a deep gash along his side. “Because you’re worth it. And because I refuse to lose anyone if I can help it.”

The words struck something deep within Mingi. Worth it. It wasn’t a sentiment he heard often, not when most people saw him as a weapon rather than a man.

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the faint hum of machinery and the muted voices of resistance fighters outside the tent.

“You’re... not afraid of me?” Mingi asked quietly.

She glanced up, their expression softening. “No, Mingi. I’m not. I see a man who gives everything he has to protect the people around him. That doesn’t scare me—it inspires me.”

The warmth in her voice disarmed him, more than any wound ever could. For the first time in a long while, Mingi felt seen—not as a mutant or a fighter, but as someone who mattered.

As she finished bandaging him, she placed a reassuring hand on his arm. “You don’t have to carry everything alone, you know. Let someone else be strong for you, just for a little while.”

Mingi’s throat tightened. The weight he carried felt lighter, if only for a moment, under her words.

Mingi watched her for a moment, her hands now busy cleaning up the bloodied tools on the nearby table. Her movements were deliberate, practiced, but he couldn’t help noticing the way her brow furrowed in concentration, or how the faint glow of the overhead light caught in her hair.

“You don’t have to stay,” Mingi said, his voice quieter this time. “I’ll be fine now.”

She turned, meeting his gaze with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. “Is that your way of trying to get rid of me?”

He smirked faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I just... i don't want you to waste your time.”

“That’s not your call to make,” she replied firmly, stepping closer. Her tone softened, a playful edge slipping in. “Besides, I’d hardly call saving your life a waste of time.”

The closeness made him hyperaware of everything—the warmth of her body, the steady rhythm of her breath, the way her eyes lingered just a fraction longer than necessary.

“You’ve got a habit of being stubborn,” Mingi murmured, his gaze locking with hers.

She chuckled, the sound light and unguarded. “And you’ve got a habit of pretending you don’t need anyone.”

For a moment, the world outside the tent seemed to fade away. Mingi’s usual bravado cracked under the intensity of the moment, leaving him exposed. His fingers twitched, resisting the urge to reach out, to let himself lean into the comfort she offered.

“Why do you do it?” he asked, his voice a shade rougher than he intended. “Put yourself through all this—patching us up, seeing the worst of it. You could have walked away a long time ago.”

She tilted her head, considering him carefully. “Because someone has to. And because I believe in what we’re fighting for.”

She paused, her gaze softening as it held his. “But you? You’re the reason we even have a chance. You might not see it, but you inspire people, Mingi. You remind us why we keep going.”

The words hit him harder than any blow he’d ever taken. He wanted to deflect, to downplay what she had said, but the conviction in her voice made it impossible.

“And what about you?” he asked, his tone quieter now. “Who reminds you to keep going?”

She hesitated, the faintest flicker of vulnerability crossing her face. “Sometimes... I remind myself. Other times, I find reasons in the people around me.”

Her gaze dropped briefly, as if debating something, before rising again to meet his. “You’ve been one of those reasons lately.”

The air between them grew taut, charged with unspoken emotions. Mingi swallowed, his heart pounding against his ribs. He wasn’t sure if it was the lingering adrenaline, the exhaustion, or something else entirely, but he found himself leaning forward, his voice dropping to a murmur.

“You’re a dangerous person, you know that?”

She arched a brow, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Oh? And why’s that?”

“Because,” he said, his gaze flicking down to her mouth for just a moment before meeting her eyes again, “you make it hard to remember where the fight ends and... something else begins.”

The words hung in the air, a quiet confession wrapped in layers of tension and uncertainty.

Her breath caught in her throat at the weight of Mingi's words. The intensity in his eyes was almost too much to bear, and for a split second, she forgot how to respond. She wanted to say something clever, something that would deflect, but instead, she simply stood there, heart pounding in sync with his.

Mingi's gaze softened, his usual bravado slipping away like a mask he no longer wanted to wear. He could see the hesitation in her eyes, the way she was struggling to keep the distance between them, even though every part of him—and perhaps her too—longed to close that gap.

"You should go," Mingi said, his voice hoarse, the words coming out softer than he intended. "Before I do something stupid."

She didn’t move immediately, her hand still resting gently on his arm as she studied him. There was something raw in Mingi's eyes, a vulnerability that spoke volumes more than words ever could. He was the strong one, the one everyone relied on, and yet here he was, asking for a little kindness, a little moment of care.

She shook her head slowly, her hand still lingering, almost as if she needed the contact as much as he did. "You don't get to tell me what to do, Mingi," she replied with a quiet but firm determination. "But I will tell you this—you don't have to be alone in this. Not now. Not ever."

The air between them seemed to pulse with the unsaid, the weight of their connection hanging heavy in the small tent. Mingi’s chest tightened, his heart threatening to betray him, and he let out a slow, shaky breath.

"I never wanted to be a burden," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "I don’t know how to be anything else."

Her eyes softened, and she moved closer, her hand finally slipping away from his arm as she crouched down beside him. She met his gaze, her voice steady but full of warmth. "You’re not a burden, Mingi. You’re a person—someone who needs others, just like everyone else. And that’s okay."

Mingi blinked, the words sinking into him in a way he hadn’t expected. He had spent so long pushing people away, thinking that if he kept everything buried deep enough, he could protect them from the danger that always seemed to follow him. But in this moment, surrounded by blood and chaos, her unwavering presence gave him something he hadn’t realized he needed—peace.

"Thank you," he said, his voice rough, not just from the wound but from the emotions he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in so long.

She smiled softly, her hand resting briefly on his shoulder before she stood up, looking down at him with a glint of something unreadable in her eyes. "You’re welcome. Now get some rest, okay? We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us."

As she  turned to leave, Mingi watched her go, the tightness in his chest loosening just a fraction. There was something about her—something that made him believe he might be able to carry on after all, not alone, but with someone by his side.

[qqueenofhades]

Hello! This is kind of a weird ask, I'm sorry to bother you, but seeing as you're a very intelligent studied historian that I deeply respect, I was hoping you could offer some advice? Or like, things i could read? Lately, i feel like my critical thinking skills are emaciated and its scaring the shit out of me. I feel very slow and like I'm constantly missing important info in relation to news/history/social activism stuff. Thats so vague, sorry, but like any tips on how i can do better?

Aha, thank you. There was recently a good critical-thinking infograph on my dash, so obviously I thought I remembered who reblogged it and checked their blog, it wasn't them, thought it was someone else, checked their blog, it also wasn't them, and now I can't find it to link to. Alas. But I will try to sum up its main points and add a few of my own. I'm glad you're taking the initiative to work on this for yourself, and I will add that while it can seem difficult and overwhelming to sort through the mass of information, especially often-false, deliberately misleading, or otherwise bad information, there are a few tips to help you make some headway, and it's a skill that like any other skill, gets easier with practice. So yes.

The first and most general rule of thumb I would advise is the same thing that IT/computer people tell you about scam emails. If something is written in a way that induces urgency, panic, the feeling that you need to do something RIGHT NOW, or other guilt-tripping or anxiety-inducing language, it is -- to say the least -- questionable. This goes double if it's from anonymous unsourced accounts on social media, is topically or thematically related to a major crisis, or anything else. The intent is to create a panic response in you that overrides your critical faculties, your desire to do some basic Googling or double-checking or independent verification of its claims, and makes you think that you have to SHARE IT WITH EVERYONE NOW or you are personally and morally a bad person. Unfortunately, the world is complicated, issues and responses are complicated, and anyone insisting that there is Only One Solution and it's conveniently the one they're peddling should not be trusted. We used to laugh at parents and grandparents for naively forwarding or responding to obviously scam emails, but now young people are doing the exact same thing by blasting people with completely sourceless social media tweets, clips, and other manipulative BS that is intended to appeal to an emotional gut rather than an intellectual response. When you panic or feel negative emotions (anger, fear, grief, etc) you're more likely to act on something or share questionable information without thinking.

Likewise, you do have basic Internet literacy tools at your disposal. You can just throw a few keywords into Google or Wikipedia and see what comes up. Is any major news organization reporting on this? Is it obviously verifiable as a fake (see the disaster pictures of sharks swimming on highways that get shared after every hurricane)? Can you right-click, perform a reverse image search, and see if this is, for example, a picture from an unrelated war ten years ago instead of an up-to-date image of the current conflict? Especially with the ongoing Israel/Palestine imbroglio, we have people sharing propaganda (particularly Hamas propaganda) BY THE BUCKETLOAD and masquerading it as legitimate news organizations (tip: Quds News Network is literally the Hamas channel). This includes other scuzzy dirtbag-left websites like Grayzone and The Intercept, which often have implicit or explicit links to Russian-funded disinformation campaigns and other demoralizing or disrupting fake news that is deliberately designed to turn young left-leaning Westerners against the Democrats and other liberal political parties, which enables the electoral victory of the fascist far-right and feeds Putin's geopolitical and military aims. Likewise, half of our problems would be solved if tankies weren't so eager to gulp down and propagate anything "anti-Western" and thus amplify the Russian disinformation machine in a way even the Russians themselves sometimes struggle to do, but yeah. That relates to both Russia/Ukraine and Israel/Palestine.

Basically: TikTok, Twitter/X, Tumblr itself, and other platforms are absolutely RIFE with misinformation, and this is due partly to ownership (the Chinese government and Elon Fucking Musk have literally no goddamn reason whatsoever to build an unbiased algorithm, and have been repeatedly proven to be boosting bullshit that supports their particular worldviews) and partly due to the way in which the young Western left has paralyzed itself into hypocritical moral absolutes and pseudo-revolutionary ideology (which is only against the West itself and doesn't think that the rest of the world has agency to act or think for itself outside the West's influence, They Are Very Smart and Anti-Colonialist!) A lot of "information" in left-leaning social media spaces is therefore tainted by this perspective and often relies on flat-out, brazen, easily disprovable lies (like the popular Twitter account insisting that Biden could literally just overturn the Supreme Court if he really wanted to). Not all misinformation is that easy to spot, but with a severe lack of political, historical, civic, or social education (since it's become so polarized and school districts generally steer away from it or teach the watered-down version for fear of being attacked by Moms for Liberty or similar), it is quickly and easily passed along by people wanting trite and simplistic solutions for complex problems or who think the extent of social justice is posting the Right Opinions on social media.

As I said above, everything in the world is complicated and has multiple factors, different influences, possible solutions, involved actors, and external and internal causes. For the most part, if you're encountering anything that insists there's only one shiningly righteous answer (which conveniently is the one All Good and Moral People support!) and the other side is utterly and even demonically in the wrong, that is something that immediately needs a closer look and healthy skepticism. How was this situation created? Who has an interest in either maintaining the status quo, discouraging any change, or insisting that there's only one way to engage with/think about this issue? Who is being harmed and who is being helped by this rhetoric, including and especially when you yourself are encouraged to immediately spread it without criticism or cross-checking? Does it rely on obvious lies, ideological misinformation, or something designed to make you feel the aforementioned negative emotions? Is it independently corroborated? Where is it sourced from? When you put the author's name into Google, what comes up?

Also, I think it's important to add that as a result, it's simply not possible to distill complicated information into a few bite-sized and easily digestible social media chunks. If something is difficult to understand, that means you probably need to spend more time reading about it and encountering diverse perspectives, and that is research and work that has to take place primarily not on social media. You can ask for help and resources (such as you're doing right now, which I think is great!), but you can't use it as your chief or only source of information. You can and should obviously be aware of the limitations and biases of traditional media, but often that has turned into the conspiracy-theory "they never report on what's REALLY GOING ON, the only information you can trust is random anonymous social media accounts managed by God knows who." Traditional media, for better or worse, does have certain evidentiary standards, photographing, sourcing, and verifying requirements, and other ways to confirm that what they're writing about actually has some correspondence with reality. Yes, you need to be skeptical, but you can also trust that some of the initial legwork of verification has been done for you, and you can then move to more nuanced review, such as wording, presentation of perspective, who they're interviewing, any journalistic assumptions, any organizational shortcomings, etc.

Once again: there is a shit-ton of stuff out there, it is hard to instinctively know or understand how to engage with it, and it's okay if you don't automatically "get" everything you read. That's where the principle of actually taking the time to be informed comes in, and why you have to firmly divorce yourself from the notion that being socially aware or informed means just instantly posting or sharing on social media about the crisis of the week, especially if you didn't know anything about it beforehand and are just relying on the Leftist Groupthink to tell you how you should be reacting. Because things are complicated and dangerous, they take more effort to unpick than just instantly sharing a meme or random Twitter video or whatever. If you do in fact want to talk about these things constructively, and not just because you feel like you're peer-pressured into doing so and performing the Correct Opinions, then you will in fact need to spend non-social-media time and effort in learning about them.

If you're at a university, there are often subject catalogues, reference librarians, and other built-in tools that are there for you to use and which you SHOULD use (that's your tuition money, after all). That can help you identify trustworthy information sources and research best practices, and as you do that more often, it will help you have more of a feel for things when you encounter them in the wild. It's not easy at first, but once you get the hang of it, it becomes more so, and will make you more confident in your own judgments, beliefs, and values. That way when you encounter something that you KNOW is wrong, you won't be automatically pressured to share it just to fit in, because you will be able to tell yourself what the problems are.

Good luck!

[queenjunothegreat]

The Tumblr link thing won't work so have an ugly ass hyperlink, I GUESS

Alrighty! It's time to ring in the new year, and I think it's only appropriate that my first post of the year is HoJ! :D @demigod-shenanigans and I were talking about what scenes I should do from MoA and we talked about Charleston and Jason not really remembering (or really even knowing) what happened there with Reyna but he DOES know that his best friend kinda got weird and distant, so he's got all this anxiety about Piper going to talk to that very same entity. Instead, I wrote this. Sorry, bestie <3

Now, may I present LEO Takes a Tumble: A Mark of Athena Scene

As Leo fell once again, he realized that he hadn't been scared when he was falling before. He hadn't been scared because he knew Jason was there and he knew with every fiber of his being that Jason would catch him. Jason wouldn't let him fall. But now they were both falling, and Leo wasn't really sure whose job it was to catch Jason. *** Leo free falls to his certain death. This is only really about half as dramatic as it should be.

As Leo fell through the air following Frank ‘Butterfingers’ Zhang’s spectacular performance (seriously, how did a giant eagle manage to drop him? Leo was suspicious of a deliberate attempt on his life) his only thought was a deep, heart-aching regret at the thought of the salsa he'd made the night before. It had been good right after he'd finished it, obviously, but after a night of letting it rest? Of letting all those flavors marry and meld? There wasn't much that could beat that. But now he'd never get to have it because Frank had gone and dropped him right above a demigod free-for-all throwdown. Somehow, the crew of the Argo II was managing to hold their own against the platoon of soldiers who'd attacked them, which was honestly a little embarrassing for the Romans, come to think of it. 

Before he could think too much about that, he was tackled in midair and brought in close to a remarkably familiar chest. He looked up to see Jason, all of his features sharpened with concentration, and he couldn't help but bite his lower lip in a grin and waggle his eyebrows. “Well, if it isn't the one and only Superman himself. Come here often?”

“Focusing right now,” Jason chided, ignoring the pink on his cheeks. “Be quiet.”

“You know me, Mr. Serious here. I'm practically stoic.”

Jason scoffed. “Yeah right.”

Unfortunately, even that brief moment of distraction was enough to sign the warrant on their certain doom. There was an explosion in the air right in front of them (Leo blamed Hedge) and Jason didn't have time to react. He didn't drop Leo, but he did lose control of the winds and the two of them were suddenly tumbling through the air like abandoned dolls. 

As Leo fell once again, he realized that he hadn't been scared when he was falling before. He hadn't been scared because he knew Jason was there and he knew with every fiber of his being that Jason would catch him. Jason wouldn't let him fall. But now they were both falling, and Leo wasn't really sure whose job it was to catch Jason. 

“Jason! Hey, man! Can you hear me?” Jason just continued to stare at nothing with that same dazed expression on his face, so Leo squirmed one of his hands out from where it was crushed between their chests and gently smacked Jason’s cheek until blue met brown. “Wake up, Jason!”

Jason blinked hard a few times to focus his vision, and when he did his eyes widened in terror at the sight of what Leo assumed was the rapidly approaching ground beneath them. “Hang on! This is gonna get rough!” he ordered over the sharp whistling in Leo’s ears. Then he tucked Leo’s head under his chin and squeezed him tight right as a powerful gust of wind slammed into them from the side. 

Leo clung tight to Jason, hands fisted in the front of his shirt, as the two of them tumbled through the air like one of Leo's failed projects. They were headed straight for a nearby hill, which Leo assumed was Jason’s plan, and Leo braced himself for a very hard landing, followed by getting squashed into a pancake by 230 pounds of solid Roman demigod muscle. Only, that didn't happen. The landing was hard, even harder than Leo had originally assumed it would be, but at the last second, Jason jerked in midair, making sure he hit the ground first. They rolled a few times, which did definitely squeeze the air out of Leo’s lungs but left him otherwise unharmed, until they settled with Jason sprawled out flat on his back and Leo on top of him.

Leo blinked hard a few times to get the stars out of his eyes before his attention turned to Jason. He was lying there, completely still with his eyes closed, and Leo was horribly reminded of the sight of him in the infirmary bed after New Rome. Panic welled in the back of his throat and he started smacking his cheek again, a little harder than he had in the air. “Jace? Jace, you there? C’mon, man, please? Houston to Superman: Come in, Superman!”

“Superman to Houston: Stop hitting me, please,” Jason groaned, weakly batting Leo's hand away from his face.

Leo didn't care. He grabbed both of Jason’s cheeks up in his hands and gave him an absolutely blinding smile. “Jace!”

Jason just smiled back at him for a moment before his eyes went wide and he sat straight up, forcing Leo to sit up with him. His hands started patting Leo down before he desperately raked his fingers through Leo’s hair and cupped his hands around his jaw. “Leo! Oh my gods! Are you okay?”

“I'm Gucci, bro,” Leo grinned through his forced fish face. Jason just wrapped him up in a hug so tight, Leo couldn't help but wonder if they were going to start their free fall again. He frowned when Jason started trembling. “Jace? Are you okay?”

“You were falling,” Jason muttered quietly from where his face was hidden in Leo’s shoulder. “I don't like watching you fall.”

Leo felt his heart twinge in sympathy, and he patted the back of Jason’s head. “Hey, man, don't sweat it. I never do. I've got my own personal Superman to Lois Lane me when I need him, remember? He'd never let me fall too bad.”

Jason huffed out a quiet chuckle before he emerged. He carefully pushed Leo off of his lap and got to his feet so he could scowl down at the demigods fighting below. “Dammit. This is not how I planned for this to go.”

Leo’s eyebrows shot up. “Yeah? How did you plan it? Were you looking for a hot date down in Charleston? Gonna hold somebody's hand while you walk them through the fort and gush about Civil War battle formations?”

Jason flushed maroon and he scowled at Leo, which just made him grin. “Shut up.”

“It's okay, buddy,” Leo comforted, patting him on the arm. “Next time we find a historical site, you can hold my hand and tell me stuff I won't listen to, if you can't find a real date.”

Somehow, Jason got even redder. “Shut up.”

Leo mimed zipping his lips, and Jason rolled his eyes. “Come on,  Houston. We need to get back to the ship.” He held out his arm like he was offering Leo a side hug. “You ready?”

“For you, Superman? Always,” Leo grinned as he took up his position. Jason's arm wrapped around him, and they shot off into the sky.

[spelllingandthemysteryschool]

i have a really difficult time feeling confident in my grasp of certain practical skills that are necessary to, like, survive as an human being in this world & i really cannot tell if a) other people are as uncertain as i am when performing these tasks and it’s something they’re better at breezily pushing through in a way i’m not able to do even if the task feels high-stakes and insurmountable or b) they’re not as uncertain about it because it comes more naturally to them and doesn’t require a detailed script like the kind i prefer and therefore seems less high-stakes and insurmountable. like either way i can tell there’s something wrong with the way i move through the world but i can’t tell what that thing is. for example, whenever i’m cooking an elaborate new meal or driving a longer distance than i’m used to with someone else, i tend to defer to the other person who’s there with me and ask them about each step i’m meant to take in a way that usually culminates in me pissing people off because they don’t conceptualize tasks in this detailed step-by-step manner i need to make sense of things or because they think i’m feigning incompetence or anxiety and deliberately asking them these things to get out of doing it. in reality i know i can’t fuck up a meal (i will waste ingredients and therefore money) or fuck up driving (my life is at risk as well as the lives of those around me) so i really want to make sure i get it right because the consequences scare me, but usually no one else is receptive to this notion and they get very exasperated or even angry, which makes me extremely frazzled and more prone to fucking up, which pisses them off further. this really makes me sound like that tweet that’s like ‘omg you people can’t do anything’ which is kind of really embarrassing. by no means am i a new hand to any of the (non-comprehensive) examples i’m talking about here tbh so it’s sad that i still struggle with such basic skills despite all the practice i’ve had—in addition to practical tasks i’m newer to, like the ones i now regularly perform within my work environment. i guess i probably need to try and do these things on my own more often so that at least the element of someone else hovering over me and yelling at me for being useless is removed, but i do not have my own space in which to move about as i please and i know that this frantic and pervasive sense of fear and consequences looming over me and this need to have some kind of step-by-step to refer back to when i’m at a loss for how to proceed will remain with me for a long time or maybe even forever. i feel so stupid and i really wish i could just be a normal person like everyone else

[adm-starblitzsteel-4305]

Based on your post @sassyassblog 😁:

P.S. I'm using the MonsterVerse Kaijus as humans since this is also from my GenAU MV Edition. So no worries.

Here's the scenario:

"Man..." thought Godzilla as he walked tiredly towards his mansion, "I need a quick nap..."

Turning around making sure no one was sneaking at him, he knelt down to the front door and snag a key he secretly kept from a carpet. He opened the door and enter before closing it shut.

The man took off his shoes and socks before putting it on a casket beside the door. His darkish black to navy blue hair is in mess due to the extreme heat back from where he work at a city and also in due course of his job. As usual, he often comes late at home since his wife, Mothra, usually is first to arrived home shortly before himself.

Still, she's not here, so maybe Godzilla need an extra free range of their cozy house. Once his wife arrived home, he smirked at the deal that he told her a few days ago.

He needs to arrange a few things.

It was already 5:15 PM, Godzilla thought about his best friends. Most likely, Rodan, Anguirus and Kong were sometimes having a sleepover with him (which Mothra denies it for their unruly manners, something that Godzilla feared for her anger), only for 2 days. Or even a week if there's an activity going around the mansion he and Mothra owned. Currently, Rodan had finally found a job as a chef from a local restaurant, Anguirus deliberately needed to pass an exam to be a history teacher, and Kong...well...he's still a policeman and work tirelessly to earn some savings for his adoptive deaf daughter Jia and her adoptive mother Ilene Andrews.

Success earns hardwork and support, that's something Mothra - yes, she is a science and art teacher - reminded them for their lives.

Anyway, just as Godzilla was about to head upstairs...

"LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOKK AT ME~"

He jumped from a sudden breakout of a familiar voice that scared the shit of his pants. Well, whoever broke in to his home without permission shall get the beat out of their shit in no mercy, he swore it.

Instantly, the man heard a sound of a running water coming across the bathroom (the door was practically open slightly). Carefully not to make any noise, Godzilla tiptoed from the source, only for his eyes scanned from something he just ever seen in the entire motherfucking world.

"WHAT THE FU-"

"TELL ME WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATT YOU SEE~"

Standing in the middle of a shower is none other than RODAN!

By the looks of it, his back was on a curtains, showering by himself, and practically naked (well, half naked to be exact). The fiery red haired Mexican man didn't seem to bother that Godzilla was there peeping. In his hand was a brush used to scrub on a skin, preferrably the ones that Mothra used it.

Damn, of all places...

"AM I GOOOOOOOOOOOOOODD OR BAD~"

Godzilla had never been slack-jawed of how fucking awesome Rodan's singing voice is. I mean, he had seen Rodan singing crazily after drinking a shot too much back from their old times sake, which he and even Kong dragged him all because of his violent manner after having a fight with some unwanted men from a bar. But this one...

"Woah..." Godzilla breathed, "Rody's not so bad with that voice, I bet some girls would swoon over him if he was a celebrity."

"DON'T YOU JUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUDDGGEE SO FAST~"

But as Rodan twirled around...

"Hey, hey, hey-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!"

Rodan let out a mightiest girlish scream of the entire mansion, almost shook off the ass out of his confidence. His eyes wide as dinner plates when he saw Godzilla on the door peeping, who was indeed startled by the redhaired man's scream.

Knowing he is caught red-handed, and indeed naked, he covered himself with his arms and hands, purposely snagged a towel beside the sink and wrapped it around his waist, before marching towards Godzilla and slammed the door shut.

"What was that for, Rodan?!" Godzilla growled.

"Like indeed you are peeping me without knocking!" Rodan bites back.

"Oh really? Then you should've closed it before your bird-brain of yours!"

"You just entered my-our own house without texting me?!" Godzilla said angrily, "You know what happens when Mothra finds out just like what happened to you and Ghidorah!"

"That's in the past now, we'll never do it again! I promised!"

"Then what are you fucking doing here?!"

Rodan slowly opens the door with a dull expression...

"...I'm running out of water back from my apartment and I haven't pay a rent so..." He gave him a puppy eyes.

Oh great. Just fucking great.

Rodan had barely payed a rent just to avoid himself kicked out by the landowner. Many times, he would got himself into trouble, and Godzilla and Kong even needed to bail him out because of that.

Godzilla sighed heavily, massaging his temples just to avoid 10 times headache and all.

"Okay, fine! I'll gave you a cash."

Rodan beamed.

"But! I'm not taking any chances! You need to worked harder, and you're already hired as a chef. I'm counting on you, Rody."

"Gracias mi mejor amigo."

"Now hurry up before Mothra finds out and gonna beat you out of your daylights."

"Okay!"

"BTW, Rodan..." Godzilla leaned over the wall, "I didn't know you have a wonderful singing voice."

"R-Really?"

"Yeah, good thing nobody would notice your quite voice and good looks..."

"And that you are indeed a good singer."

Godzilla and Rodan are startled by another voice, because that voice was no other than Godzilla's wife and His Queen, Mothra.

Sweat trickled down their foreheads, seeing the expression of the white-haired woman...

"Now..."

Oh boy.....

Outside, infinite babblings and pleading were heard followed by a loud smack as Godzilla and Rodan are deserved to be punished.

But at the same time, Mothra quitely likes the singing voice of the red-haired man, but hated the fact that Rodan dared to enter their house without permission.

Lesson learned, Rodan, the Fire Demon.

~✦~

From @adm-starblitzsteel-4305

Also, the song Rodan sang in the bathroom was titled "Good Tonight" by Daniel Pemberton and Anthony Ramos from the movie The Bad Guys.

Also, my MV Rodan's voice actor is Anthony Ramos. I thought that would be fun since Ramos voiced Mr. Piranha. 😁

And I am still looking for MV Mothra's voice actress while my MV Godzilla's voice actor is Keith David.

Well anyway, have fun reading it!

😉

[juju-or-anya]

Season one from Eloise’ perspective must have been so scary. Imagine one day all of your sisters are children (the concept of teenagers being separate from children comes in the 20th century) and the next your older sister is in the marriage mart. The marriage mart was never a tangible thing to you before because your brothers do not have the same pressure to marry. But now your sister will soon have a different name. She will move away. She may marry someone awful who uses her as a baby machine until she dies. And all you can think about is your mother almost dying in childbirth. Then your brother arranges her marriage with some old creep. And when that is finally over a prince starts courting her and he might take her to another country entirely. I just don’t get people who say she was being a brat. As if they wouldn’t be scared and emotional.

Additionally, it is crucial to remember that young women like Eloise and Daphne were kept completely in the dark about fundamental aspects of adult life, such as marriage and sexuality. This lack of information and preparation not only exacerbates their fears and sense of vulnerability, but also leaves them defenseless against the challenges the future holds. Education on these topics was practically nonexistent, and open dialogue was virtually unheard of. These young women were thrust into an unknown world without the necessary tools to face it with confidence and security.

For all these reasons, it is completely unjust and simplistic to label Eloise as spoiled. Her behavior is deeply influenced by fear, concern for her sisters' well-being, and a lack of control over her own future. It is a human and understandable reaction to an overwhelming situation filled with uncertainties. Eloise not only faces fear for her sisters' well-being, but also the existential terror of an imposed and unknown future.

Moreover, Eloise is acutely aware that marriage, in many cases, means sacrificing everything she loves and everything she is for her husband. This often means giving up her freedom, her thoughts, her desires, ambitions, and passions to become the perfect wife and mother, a submissive figure to her husband. This is a daunting and suffocating prospect for a young woman with her own aspirations and dreams. The imposition of these expectations is an immense and unfair burden that obliterates any possibility of self-determination for women like Eloise.

It is truly appalling that society expects her to stop being herself to "mature" and to willingly accept a fate she sees as a gilded cage. The social pressure to conform to a role she does not want is immense, and her refusal to marry, seen as foolishness and selfishness, is actually a form of resistance against an expectation that nullifies her individuality. To dismiss her struggle and fear as a mere childish tantrum is a profound misunderstanding and lack of empathy towards her situation. It is utterly despicable to expect her to sacrifice her essence and her dreams to fit into a mold imposed by a society that does not value her true self.

For those who criticize Eloise, it is essential to remember that she lives in a society that forces her to fit into a rigid and oppressive mold. Criticizing her behavior is to ignore the immense pressures and unjust restrictions she faces. It is easy to judge from a position of privilege and freedom, but for Eloise, reality is a constant battle to maintain her identity and desires in an environment that systematically denies them. Every moment of resistance on her part is not a display of immaturity, but of incredible bravery and determination.

Furthermore, we cannot ignore that the lack of preparation and education about adult life is a deliberate strategy to keep women in a state of submission and dependency. Criticizing Eloise for reacting with fear and resistance is, in essence, supporting a system that perpetuates ignorance and oppression. It is an act of extreme cruelty to expect a young woman to meekly accept a fate that dehumanizes her and reduces her to a mere object within a marital contract.

People who dare to judge Eloise should first attempt to understand the magnitude of her struggle. It is easy to call her spoiled from the comfort of a modern context where women have more rights and freedoms. But in her time, resisting marriage and the destiny imposed by others is a sign of exceptional strength. The real foolishness and selfishness lie in those who cannot see beyond their own prejudices and understand the validity of her fears and resistances. Eloise's struggle is not just personal; it is an act of defiance against an oppressive social structure that seeks to extinguish her spirit and aspirations.

In summary, any criticism of Eloise must be reevaluated in light of a deep understanding of her context and the terrible pressures she is under. Her apparent rebelliousness is nothing more than a natural and justified response to a system that tries to strip her of her humanity and her future. Let us defend Eloise not only for what she represents but also as a symbol of all women who fight for their right to be themselves in a world that often denies them this.

[bloody-bee-tea]

Beetober 2024 Day 4 - It's just me

This follows after No more soup and You're not a pet and I suggest reading those first.

Shouta is marking the papers in front of him, distantly aware of the show Hizashi is watching in the living-room but not really paying attention to it. It’s a nice background noise that washes over him with familiarity.

It isn’t until he hears the almost silent pitter patter of Hitoshi’s steps in the hallway that Shouta pays a little bit more attention to his surroundings.

He hates how silent Hitoshi is, hates to think why a ten-year-old knows how to hide his steps better than any aspiring pro hero Shouta trains but before the thoughts can consume his mind–again–he forces himself back into the present.

Hitoshi briefly stops in the doorway to the kitchen and Shouta can practically feel his gaze on him before he goes on, clearly aiming for the living-room. Shouta slightly turns his head, just enough to be able to spot the back of Hitoshi’s head and he sees how he hesitantly stops at the entrance to the living-room.

He watches the kid bounce on the balls of his feet before he seems to make a decision and step fully into the room.

It’s progress, Shouta knows that, no matter how hesitant Hitoshi appears to be. When they first took him home he wouldn’t leave his room for anything, and then only when they asked him to but recently he’s coming out of it more often and always of his own volition and it makes something warm and proud swirl in Shouta’s chest to see him finally start to accept that maybe he’s safe here.

“Hey, kiddo,” Hizashi greets Hitoshi as soon as he sees him, much more quiet than Shouta is used to, and this too has been a work in progress.

Hitoshi is skittish, loud noises and voices enough to send him running, just like fast and sharp movements are, and while Hizashi struggles with being quiet, Shouta struggles with making his presence known more.

It’s an adjustment period for all three of them and Shouta does not care to think about how often he or Hizashi have scared the kid inadvertently.

But it’s clear that at least they haven’t done any lasting damage, not if Hitoshi’s ventures out of his room are anything to go by and with that thought he focuses back on the papers in front of him.

Hitoshi very deliberately made his way to the living-room, so he either wants to be distracted or be with Hizashi and Shouta is not going to budge in on that.

“What’s up?” Hizashi asks next when Hitoshi stays quiet and of course Shouta can’t keep his attention on the grading he has to do.

It has been a struggle to get Hitoshi to speak once he revealed his secret to them and so it’s always a delight to hear the boy’s voice in the apartment. 

“I wanted to–” Hitoshi cuts himself off, prompting Shouta to make a face at nothing, as he has to remind himself that it’s a work in progress.

Always a work in progress. One day Hitoshi will feel confident in stating what he wants, he simply has to believe that.

“You said your quirk is dangerous,” Hitoshi goes on, clearly aiming for a different approach to this and Shouta frowns.

It takes him a moment to remember that Hizashi mentioned that when Hitoshi practically begged them to give him back, as if they only thought of him as an animal to kick out once they grew tired of him and that memory still makes Shouta want to tear his hair out.

“I did,” Hizashi softly agrees and when Shouta glances over again he sees Hitoshi’s mob of purple hair nod but when nothing else follows Shouta frowns.

“You’re allowed to ask questions, Hitoshi,” Hizashi reminds him, completely unnecessary, since Hitoshi doesn’t even need that to activate his quirk but habits that have been beaten into you are hard to break, Shouta knows that.

“Can you tell me about it? About how it was growing up with that?” Hitoshi finally asks and Shouta doesn’t need to see Hizashi to know that he freezes right up.

So much for grading then, Shouta thinks with a sigh as he gets up, scooping up Egg as he goes to join Hizashi on the couch.

Hitoshi’s wary glance follows his every step and the kid seems close to bolting even though Shouta gives him a wide berth as he walks around the couch.

“I can do that, kiddo,” Hizashi finally softly says as Shouta deposits Egg into Hizashi’s lap, and even though nothing has even happened yet, Hizashi buries his fingers in the soft fur of the way too docile cat.

They had kind of expected this; they knew that ever since Hizashi had mentioned it, it would only be a matter of time before Hitoshi came asking more about this. That still doesn’t mean that this would be easy on Hizashi, though of course there had never been any doubt that he’d tell Hitoshi as much as he can should he find the courage to ask.

Hitoshi doesn’t seem convinced at all, his eyes darting between Hizashi and Shouta, who tries to give him a reassuring smile. The disbelief is still clear on Hitoshi’s face but before Shouta can say something Hizashi goes on.

“Shou is here because this is not easy for me to talk about and sometimes I go somewhere in my head when I do. Shou is really good at getting me back out of it, so he’ll just sit here in case that happens, alright?”

“Like when I have a panic attack,” Hitoshi states, and Shouta bites back the reminder that he is allowed to ask questions.

If they push too hard Hitoshi is likely to clam up on them and that’s the last thing they want.

“Not quite,” Shouta corrects. “Hizashi goes very quiet and very still and his eyes go vacant. I think it looks a little as if he’s under your quirk, actually, but he won’t be. It’s just something his own mind is doing to him.”

“And you can’t find your own way back,” Hitoshi mutters, barely audible and Hizashi nods. 

“Yeah, I get all lost in here,” he says as he taps his temple. “I do eventually find my way back but it takes a long while and it leaves me all panicky when I come back on my own. It’s quicker and easier when Shou is there to help.”

“And the cat,” Hitoshi adds, staring at Egg who is still currently curled up in Hizashi’s lap.

“And Egg, yes. It helps sometimes to touch something that is grounding.”

Hitoshi is quiet for a moment, clearly thinking things over and Hizashi and Shouta share a look as they let him ponder over this.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Hitoshi finally says, straightening his shoulders, clearly determined to take it all back, but Shouta knows Hizashi too well to even think for a second that he’ll agree to this.

The kid asked a question and Hizashi will do his best to answer him.

“It’s fine, kiddo. It might not even happen,” Hizashi softly says and Shouta tries to hide his frown as best as he can.

It happens more often than not, whenever Hizashi remembers something from his childhood and he’s already been on edge for a while with everything that’s been going on with Hitoshi.

Hell, he found the kid with a muzzle on and then proceeded to have a very long panic attack once the kid was taken care of, so Shouta is really not too optimistic about this.

But it’s Hizashi’s decision, and he clearly has his mind already made up, so all Shouta can do is be there for him and try his best to guide him back home when he inadvertently loses himself.

“And even if it does, we’re right here, aren’t we?” Shouta asks as well, catching Hitoshi’s gaze, to let him know that he’s included in this.

He’ll probably help Hizashi come back better than Shouta ever could, if he’s being honest, even though Hizashi almost seems outraged that he should enlist Hitoshi’s help in this.

Shouta ignores it as best as he can and instead prompts Hizashi to finally speak because the kid asked a question and Hizashi decided to dig his own grave, so they better get on with it.

“What–what do you want to know?” Hizashi asks and Shouta graciously doesn’t comment on his obvious nerves, because for now his role is to be a silent observer.

Maybe they all get lucky today and that is all he has to be for this conversation.

“Your childhood,” Hitoshi hesitantly starts. “I was just wondering, what it was like for you and if you can–” his voice drifts off and Shouta watches the kid wring his hands in his lap, desperate to reach out and pull him into a hug, but he keeps to his side.

He’s just here as an observer. This is Hizashi’s moment.

“If I can relate to what happened to you?” Hizashi carefully asks and Hitoshi nods, his purple hair fluffing around. “I can, kiddo,” Hizashi tells him with a sad smile and reaches out to take one of Hitoshi’s hands in his.

“I was born with my quirk, so you can imagine the amount of control I had when I was just born. I deafened my birth parents and the staff present and was then promptly abandoned. They, uh,” Hizashi swallows heavily and Shouta reaches out for his other hand.

This is already not looking good, if he’s stumbling over his words already.

“I’ve been told they kept me in a special facility for the first three years, isolated from everyone, to limit the damage I could do. I don’t actually remember that part, but when I turned four they brought out the–” 

Hizashi’s voice breaks over the word and so instead he simply taps his lips. Hitoshi nods, his eyes wide and Shouta squeezes Hizashi’s hand.

“I spent the better part of my childhood with it on,” Hizashi admits and then leans forward, extracting his hand from Hitoshi’s to push his glasses up.

It takes Hitoshi a moment to understand what he wants but when he spots the faint, silvery scars on Hizashi’s face his hands fly to the bridge of his nose, tracing the mirroring ones there.

“You’re like me,” Hitoshi breathes out and Hizashi nods.

“Yeah, kiddo, we match!” The usual cheer is missing from his tone and Shouta wishes they could stop talking about this.

He hates it when Hizashi pushes himself to talk about this.

There’s already a faint trembling in Hizashi’s hand and even though he’s trying to smile at Hitoshi he can’t quite make his smile reach his eyes and that’s always a bad sign with Hizashi.

Hitoshi seems to notice that Hizashi is not doing too well, too tuned in to the emotions of adults around him and instead of asking what he so clearly wants to know, he bites his lip instead, his eyes flitting over to Shouta.

Shouta would love to tell him to stop, wants to spare all of them this, but Hizashi has made the decision to talk about this, and Shouta is not going to interfere with that.

So he nods encouragingly at Hitoshi, urges him to keep going but he still hesitates. He hesitates for long enough that Hizashi notices something is off, too.

“It’s okay, you can keep asking,” he tells the kid and by now even his voice shakes. Still, he seems determined, and Hitoshi must notice that, too, because he takes a deep breath.

“Your foster families. Were they nice to you or were they like mine?”

Hizashi’s hand jerks in Shouta’s and Shouta fights the urge to flare his quirk just to let his emotions go somewhere. They know that Hitoshi suffered abuse at most of his foster families, and even though they don’t know the details, they know enough to hate that he even has to ask that.

That there is even cause to ask that.

“Oh, kiddo,” Hizashi breathes out, his face falling. “They were like yours,” he then admits, because what else is there to say.

He did not wear the muzzle until he was eight for nothing, Shouta knows that. It still makes him furious to think what happened to Hizashi, what happened to Hitoshi.

To know that nothing has changed, not really.

“Some were–not quite as bad,” Hizashi goes on and Hitoshi nods in understanding and Shouta hates, hates, hates this but he bites it all back.

This is not about him. He has a role to play here and it’s not to get angry. Shouta forces himself to breathe evenly, to not tighten his grip on Hizashi’s hand beyond a steady comfort and he resigns himself to watching silently.

“Some were–worse. School was–bad, always bad,” Hizashi mutters and he’s slipping right through Shouta’s fingers, he can tell.

“I was never good enough, never quiet enough, even though they had–” His hand goes up to his face again, tracing over where the muzzle used to sit and Shouta doesn’t need to look at him to know that he’s gone inside his head now.

It’s not that noticeable if one doesn’t know what to look for, if one has no experience with this; Hizashi could just be lost in thought, spacing out for a moment, but Shouta knows better.

He knows Hizashi is caught up in all of his bad memories, all at once, trapped and unable to come back to them.

“Aizawa?” Hitoshi carefully asks, keeping unnaturally still and Shouta forces himself to give him a smile.

“You can move, he’s not going to notice. It’s fine, remember, this is why I’m here,” Shouta tells him and gently squeezes Hizashi’s hand.

“Hey, ‘Zashi,” he softly calls out and he’s grateful when Hizashi’s head twitches into his direction.

It means he’s still trying to be aware. It makes this easier. Sometimes, Hizashi doesn’t react to anything and those times are always so, so hard.

“I’m here, remember? It’s just me,” Shouta reminds him. “You’re in our home, yours and mine and Hitoshi’s, where no one can hurt you. You’re safe with us,” he goes on and his eyes flit over to Hitoshi for a moment.

“Remember Hitoshi? He’s right here with us,” Shouta goes on, nodding encouragingly at the kid who bites his lip briefly before he takes a deep breath.

“I’m here, too,” he then says, almost too quiet to be heard but Hizashi’s head slightly turns in his direction.

“‘Toshi,” Hizashi mutters and Shouta almost wants to laugh at how big the kids’ eyes get when he hears it.

“Take his hand if you want, it will help him,” Shouta whispers at him and after a moment of hesitation Hitoshi reaches out for Hizashi’s hand.

Shouta is glad to see Hizashi respond to that, his hand not entirely limp in Hitoshi’s, because that’s a good sign. Maybe Hizashi will be back with them before they even know it.

“See, Hitoshi is here and I am here, too. And we want you to come back. Even Egg is here, waiting for you to cuddle her like you always do,” Shouta says, placing Hizashi’s hand in Egg’s fur. “Do you remember how you usually cuddle her?” he asks and watches how Hizashi slowly, so slowly starts to pet her.

It’s not even close to what he normally does, but it’s so much better than it usually is when Hizashi gets like this.

“That’s right. Think you can come back to us? We’re waiting here for you, waiting for you to speak and to laugh like you normally do. It’s just not the same without you, you know, we miss you.”

“You miss me,” Hizashi mumbles, words barely understandable but Shouta nods anyway.

“Yeah. It’s real boring without you here, isn’t it, Hitoshi?”

Shouta almost feels bad to bring attention to the kid, but he’s still watching with big eyes, his hand around Hizashi’s and he hasn’t bolted yet, so maybe he wants to help.

“I like it when you hum while you cook,” Hitoshi admits and Shouta nods at him to keep going. “Do you remember the song you hummed yesterday? You wanted to tell me what it was but then Egg nearly jumped into the pot and you forgot,” Hitoshi says and Shouta has to bite back a snort because that is such an Egg thing to do.

They will never train her out of jumping into steaming hot food; food she doesn’t even want to eat, no less.

Shouta doesn’t know what he expected but it wasn’t for Hizashi to start humming, awareness coming back to his eyes faster than it ever has before. Going by the delighted look on Hitoshi’s face it’s the very same song he hummed yesterday. 

Shouta knows it, it’s one of Hizashi’s favourite American songs, but he can never remember the name of it.

“Yes, that one, it was that one!” Hitoshi excitedly says and Shouta sees a smile curl around Hizashi’s mouth.

“Welcome back,” he quietly says, squeezing Hizashi’s arm once and when Hizashi’s eyes move over to look at him, Shouta has never been happier to see him alert and there. 

“Hi,” Hizashi breathes out and leans in for a quick kiss, before he turns his attention back towards Hitoshi. “Hi, kiddo.”

“You’re back,” Hitoshi says, expression cautiously delighted and he doesn’t let go of Hizashi’s hand for even a moment.

“I am,” Hizashi agrees. “Thanks to you.”

“Excuse me, I helped,” Shouta drily says, more than relieved to see Hizashi’s smile and hear Hitoshi’s laugh.

This really has been one of the easiest and most painless episodes Hizashi has ever had and Shouta is glad for it. He hates to see his husband go where he can’t follow him, where he can’t protect him.

“I’m sure you did,” Hizashi teasingly says and moves his hand out of Egg’s fur to pat Shouta’s, before he goes on, more serious now. “You always do.”

“As long as you remember that,” Shouta teases him, before he reaches out to ruffle Hitoshi’s hair. “But you did really well, that was a good idea with the humming,” Shouta says and Hizashi nods.

“Yeah, that was really smart,” he agrees and Shouta watches a contemplating expression flit over Hitoshi’s face before he schools it back into his usual indifference.

“What is it, kid?” Shouta asks, tilting his head in question and Hitoshi shuffles where he sits.

“I’m just–do you think–”

“What, huh?” Hizashi gently prods him when he trails off without finishing his question and Hitoshi squares his shoulders, clearly gathering courage.

“I know counting breaths is supposed to help in a panic attack,” he starts and fiddles with the hem of his shirt, “but I always get confused and lose count and then–” he shrugs but Shouta can fill in the gaps.

Because if he’s being told to count and he loses count it would undoubtedly make him panic even harder, because he’s not following along like he’s supposed to.

“But maybe the humming could help?”

“Maybe it can!” Hizashi immediately agrees. “It’s worth a try.” Hizashi’s face briefly falls. “I’m sorry we didn’t realise that counting didn’t help,” he then offers but Hitoshi shakes his head. 

“You asked me before, what I think would help, but I couldn’t–I didn’t think I was allowed to say,” he admits and for all that it makes Shouta furious again, to hear that the kid has never been allowed to ask for things, to even simply state things, it also makes something warm surge in his chest, because clearly now Hitoshi knows that he’s allowed to say something like that.

“You’re always allowed to say anything you want, kid,” Shouta still reminds him, because he thinks it can’t hurt if Hitoshi hears it again and again and again.

Hitoshi only nods at that before he ducks his head again, slumping in on himself.

“What is it, kid?” Shouta asks because by now he knows the tells of his family and the position Hitoshi is in means that he’s got something else to say, something he doesn’t feel comfortable saying.

“I don’t want to upset Yamada again,” Hitoshi mutters and Shouta and Hizashi share a look before Hizashi carefully pulls the kid closer.

“It’s not you who upset me,” he gently tells him as he tucks him into his side, “and even if that should happen, I have you two right here, don’t I? You’ll make sure I’ll be fine, I trust that.”

Hitoshi’s breath hitches in his throat and Shouta shuffles closer until he can put a hand to Hitoshi’s knee.

“He’ll tell you if it’s too much,” he reassures him as well and Hitoshi still doesn’t look at them, but he does speak up.

“It got better for you, right?” he asks, his voice thin and wavery and Hizashi drops a kiss to the top of his head and Shouta relaxes, because this is easier for Hizashi to talk about.

“It did, kiddo, it got so much better. My moms found me when I was eight and they took me in without hesitation. They got rid of the muzzle and pulled me out of school and even when I deafened one of them, they never faltered in their love for me.”

“You hurt them?”

“I did. I had basically no control over my quirk, because no one bothered to teach me or even let me talk. But my moms took care of that. They sent me to a specialist, had me training my quirk until I could sing at the top of my lungs without hurting anyone and then they moved us to a different city, far away from everyone who only remembered me as the dangerous kid. I never had problems in school again and my moms never hurt me. I got real lucky and I had a really happy childhood from then on.”

Shouta sees Hitoshi process that before he opens his mouth and promptly closes it again so fast that his teeth painfully clack together.

Shouta doesn’t need to be a mind reader to know what Hitoshi wanted to ask.

“Just like you will now,” he whispers, leaning in close and catching Hitoshi’s eyes. “We have you now, and we’re going to make sure that you never get hurt again. We’ll make you as happy as we can, I promise you that. You’re always safe with us.”

“We wouldn’t let anything or anyone hurt you ever again, kiddo,” Hizashi says as well and Hitoshi slumps against his side, hiding his face away in his sweatshirt.

“Is it okay if I move to your other side?” Shouta asks after a moment because he’d really like to hug the kid now, too and he moves as soon as Hitoshi nods his consent.

Shouta sits close and brackets Hitoshi in by putting his arm around Hizashi’s shoulder and no one says anything when Hitoshi quietly cries into Hizashi’s sweater. It’s not necessary that anyone says something, because people have lied to Hitoshi all his life and so now it’s important that they show him that it’s okay, that he’s safe with them.

That they are never going to hurt him.

It will take time, Shouta is under no illusion there, but when he looks up at Hizashi he sees nothing but determination and love in his eyes and he knows that they are in this for life.

There is no way they are ever going to betray the fragile trust that was placed in them.

[blainehasregrets]

Some Wardrobe/Color Symbolism

are all these observations incredibly obvious and don’t even need to be stated? probably! did the show even care this much? …probably not!

Throughout season 1, Rachel and Quinn are constantly being presented as complete polar opposites of each other. But in Sectionals, after Rachel tells Finn the truth about Quinn and Puck, Rachel goes to talk to Quinn about it. She apologizes and says she understands if Quinn wants to hit her, but Quinn says Rachel just did what she was too scared to do. Despite the difference in everything about them, they’re both dressed in blue (which is a color I think glee tends to use to symbolize unity? Team work? A sense of sameness?) As of this moment, they’re on equal level now. Quinn even states a reason why out loud: “now neither of us have [Finn]”.

However, because Finchel is pushed so heavily throughout season 1, there’s never any doubt in our minds that Finn likes Rachel more lol. (I feel like the will they or won’t they have Finchel in season 1 is pretty weak because the pacing was just soo fast for them.) But, regardless of the Finn connection between them, Quinn and Rachel are the same deep down: just teenage girls. They can be selfish, and catty, but at the end of the day they’re both girls just trying their best. Quinn lied about Finn being the father out of fear and self preservation, even if it was selfish to do. Rachel told Finn about the lie because it was genuinely the right thing to do, but as well out of her own self interests and she herself admits this (“I wanted to break you two up”). It’s not about who’s right or wrong, in my opinion, obviously there’s a difference in weight in both their actions, but we can understand where both were coming from and I think this moment showed a new understanding between them.

Compared to their duet in Born This Way, where they’re represented by blue and red, and glee has a wholeee blue vs red theme they use often that I’ll get into one day (and usually the use of both is meant to show a character’s mind being at a halfway point between a decision). Even though they’re both feeling insecure, neither really understands the other’s POV yet, especially Rachel towards Quinn because in Rachel’s mind, Quinn is everything she’s not and she doesn’t get that Quinn can be just as insecure as she can. Even the distance between them where they sit in the choir room is greater.

In Mash-Up, Ken takes out his frustration towards Will on the members of the football team who are also in the glee club by scheduling conflicting practice. During this scene where Will goes to talk to him, they’re both wearing light and navy blue. Considering Ken usually wore single color (usually highlight bright) polos, so this I think this was deliberate for this reason:

They’re both teachers who ultimately want to put their students first. Despite the childishness of his actions before this, Ken still realizes how he can’t let his personal issues get in the way of his student’s happiness which is why he ends up moving practice so the football players can still attend glee after this.

And, maybe a lot less purposeful but something I got out of this season:

As for Will, while his clothes are more “professional”, and at this point of the show Emma idolizes him in a way that puts him in a different league from Ken, he’s no stranger to putting his own petty drama above the kids needs come season 2 (Britney/Brittany, Rocky Horror Glee Show) either. As much as Emma despises Ken and wants Will, Will’s going to end up breaking her trust by cheating on her in Hell-o, which will result in her losing her hero worship of him and seeing him as a person instead of an idealized version of him, which puts him back on the same level of Ken as “just some guy” and it’s not until season 2 does Emma start to see Will as an option again.

[blackbird5154]

A new fic translated!

Many thanks for @osiris-iii-bc and @mazeofspades who, despite her busy schedule, took the time to help me with it!

@cityofmeliora you might be interested

Characters: Papa Emeritus III, OC, Original Child Character

Summary: What if we imagine that Terzo was not only a Papa, but also a papa...?

Her full name was Annabel Lee. To everyone, she was just Anna, but her dad called her Tinkerbell.

When asked why he gave his daughter the name of a dead girl from a poem by Edgar Allan Poe, he would usually reply, “I wanted to name her Lenore, you know, like…” and then, straightening up and folding his hand in a pinch, he would begin to recite, ”'Ah, broken is the golden bowl, the spirit flown forever! Let the bell toll! A saintly soul glides down the Stygian river!’ My wife wanted to name her Anna, after the suffragette Anna Elizabeth Dickinson,” he changed his tone quickly, "So it was some sort of a compromise.”

When Anna asked what a compromise was, he said it’s when people gave up their privileges to become closer. And then, as if having remembered that she was a child, he squatted down to be at eye level with her and added, “You see, Tinkerbell, sometimes daddy wants to have a barbecue and mommy wants to go to In-N-Out. And that's when we make a deal to get hot dogs.”

As dad's departure approached, he began to smell different. On his shelf in the closet, in the company of a shaving cream, some gum paste, and a box of lenses, stood a bottle of perfume, the one that was brought out whenever talk of a new tour began. A couple of times, in his absence, Anna spritzed the perfume on her hand; that was how she became convinced that it was the intricate glass bottle that was responsible for dad's special scent. Dad was trying to be someone else for a while, so he surrounded himself with a cloud of fragrant, fresh, tart-grassy scent.

There was no secret to his work. Sometimes mom and she even attended his concerts. On those days dad would ask her to put a lens on her white eye, so it matched the color of her left, green-brown one. “It is simply the right thing to do,” he would say. The first time he brought her her personal box of lenses, she was scared. They practiced applying it for a long time, and in the process he would distract her with various stories, make a show of placing the lens in his eye as if to demonstrate how it’s done while deliberately picking the  wrong eye, and they would laugh together about how much of a dummy he was. And so, with the help of silly jokes and play, she finally learned to put the colored circle on her iris.

There was one more rule: she could not talk to the masked people or to the short, gray-haired woman who often accompanied dad at concerts.

Mom would always worry before these trips. Squatting down in front of Anna and combing her hair with a soft, springy rubber brush, she would remind her not to attract attention. "Of course, I understand you want to boast to the other kids and people at the concert that it's your daddy up there on stage,” she would say. “But you have to pretend you're just a regular girl, just like the other kids who came to hear him sing. Under no circumstances could it occur to anyone that you are his daughter.” If dad did everything in a joking manner, mom was strict in moments like these, and Anna could feel the tension in her voice, could see the worry in her eyes. She didn't know why there was a need for such secrecy, but she suspected that the answer would be, ‘It is simply the right thing to do’.

The last day before he would leave was always a long one. Dad would push her on the old wooden swing he had made when she was still a baby. The whole world soared in a dizzying flight. Rising and falling! Up and down! Of course, she would show him how she could jump off the swing while in motion. His daughter was the bravest. That's what he would always tell mom when she was in doubt and then remind her of real examples, as if flipping through a photo album. Here's Anna growling at the dog. And here's the time she kicked the neighbor boy’s ass when he tried to take the klaxon off her bike (we don't say ‘kicked ass’, we say ‘gave him a black eye’, because we don't use bad words, tut-tut, daddy, wash your mouth out with soap!).

Soon after, they would be flipping through the comic book version of ‘The Wind in the Willows’ for the umpteenth time, all together, while seated on a bench on the veranda. Mom would remark that Mole looked like some politician from TV, and both parents would laugh at something of their own. Anna had read the original book a long time ago. “Every child should have one”, dad said, and bought her first the book, followed by a watercolor comic book based on it. Then, as if he couldn't stop himself, he gave her the coloring book, and she spent long evenings in his absence filling in the empty outlines with pencils - the characters in their nifty English costumes, the river, the flowers, the houses.

The last day before he would leave was always a long one. There was paprikás for lunch and asparagus with mushrooms for dinner. They brought out the table and chairs to the lawn under the trees for the occasion and sat down, enjoying the fact that today they could still eat together. In the middle of the table was a large bouquet of flowers. The wind rustled in the crowns of the ash trees, ruffled the edges of the tablecloth and tried to blow the napkins off the table. Cutlery was placed on them so they wouldn't fly away. “The napkins think they’ll be eaten too,” dad joked, “So they try to escape.”

In the evening, mom and dad drank wine while Anna watched “Shaun the Sheep.” She sat on her favorite spot, on the floor in front of the screen with a pillow under her, and her parents were on the couch behind her, talking quietly as usual. There was a bottle of wine on the coffee table in front of them. Anna wasn't invited to join, but it didn't offend her at all. There are things meant for kids, and there are things meant for adults. The wine was for grown-ups. The cartoon was for her. When the episode ended, she turned around. Mom was sitting with slightly flushed cheeks, glass in hand, head resting on dad's shoulder. Her gaze was sad for some reason, frozen in thoughtful contemplation. That's how people usually look at a fire. Dad, with his arms around her, was lightly stroking her shoulder, covered with a light home sweater. He turned his head to her and whispered something in her ear. She nodded.

At the end of the day, when mom had already put her to bed and left the nightlight on, Anna heard her parents in the room downstairs talking in loud voices. ('fighting', it's called 'fighting').

"Do you realize how rarely we see you now?" mom said. "If you only knew how much Anna misses you." 

"Well, this way she doesn't get tired of me," dad answered softly, but Anna could hear every word through the thin ceiling.

"Three months is a long time for a child. It's a lifetime."

"But she's happy when I come back. And... I try to create good memories for her when I'm here."

"She's got school coming up."

"You're doing a great job."

Long pause.

"They're not your family. All these people you're reaching out to, they're nothing to you. You don't even know them. They have families of their own. And we don't have a second you, you know,” Anna caught a sarcastic bitterness in her mother's words.

"You don't understand. It's a calling. A mission!"

"A year ago you didn't have that mission. You had a normal job and we saw you every night. And now you're consumed by it. It’s your second life... where we don't belong."

"You do realize,” dad's voice became hard and irritated, ”Why I have to differentiate between you and the Church."

‘It is simply the right thing to do,’ Anna heard in her head.

"It's not about that. It's not about safety. It's just that you're all there. Even when you're here..."

"No, it's not true!"

"Even when you're here, you're slipping away. And you can't make it up to me with all those flowers! It's not even close to a compromise!"

Dad was silent in response, and Anna clenched the corner of the blanket between her fingers. Then, mom's voice came, much quieter.

"You know I'm not yelling because I hate you. It's because I love you."

"Of course. I know. I know..."

It was quiet downstairs for a long time, the only sound being that of tree branches scraping the wall of Anna's room. After a while, she heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. The door was ajar, and dad came in quietly.

"Are you awake, Tinkerbell?" he ran his hand over the touch-sensitive nightlight making it a little brighter, and warm yellow light lit up his face.

"Three months?" Anna pulled the blanket up over herself. 

“Yep. In a blink of an eye,” dad sat down on her bed, and she felt the mattress sag slightly, moving out from under her knees. He gently tucked the blanket around her body, wrapping her up in a cozy cocoon. When he's gone, there won't be anyone to do this, she thought.

"Want me to read to you?"

Anna nodded silently. A smile tugged at the corner of dad's mouth. 

"Okay. Hmm... Well...” he clicked his tongue, as if giving himself the go-ahead to begin. “'It was many and many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea...'”

"No, not that." 

"Which one? Of the raven?"

"No..." Anna licked her lips quietly. "About the city."

"About the city..." dad looked up, and his face, illuminated by the warm light, became dreamy for a second. "Okay..." and he began. "Far, far away, under the godless skies, stands the city of Meliora..."

He spoke of a vast metropolis with gilded spires and buildings so tall that sunlight never reached their footing. About the Mysterious Spectre and his beautiful beloved, about the evil Madam Satan of the dark cult, about the magical Demi-Surge with his lightning bolts. Anna listened, and gradually her eyelids grew heavier and heavier, and the meaning of the words began to slip away. Finally, sleep crept into her consciousness, plunging her into a soft darkness where there was only the warmth of the bed and her father's voice. When she was already in a pre-sleep slumber, the voice stopped; she felt his lips touch her forehead before the mattress creaked, releasing his weight.

[butmakeitgayblog]

i really enjoy your blog so much that I had to write, after I saw all the questions marks about Alycia Debnam-Carey's height. There's been too much speculation over the years and it some of it is downright hilarious.

I'm not giving any personal information so you'll have to take this with a pinch or a good dash of salt, but I've worked with her. Her eyes are a clear green (lighting really makes a difference) and she is 5'7". Her body has changed a lot over the years giving her a more hourglass like figure and along with how cameras work, makes her appear a little smaller. She is almost always around people who are 6' or better and that also makes her appear smaller. In a lot of her photos and selfies she exaggerates certain poses especially with other people (leaning, bending) and this also makes her look smaller. Eliza, on the other hand, in almost always wearing four or five inch heels. She rarely wears flats or trainers.

On the set of The 100 they wanted Eliza and Alycia to be eye-to-eye and again, if you notice how the camera is set whenever they are in a two-shot, this is accomplished almost seamlessly. Eliza is 5'4 and a half and usually wore heels and lifts that were easily disguised by clothing/camera angles. Sometimes this is for practical reasons, like keeping everyone in frame or creating a certain effect. In the episode where she has Lexa backed up to a table, Alycia drew herself up to her full height and you can see the difference.

Sometimes these differences are considered a little comical and that's not what they wanted, so it didn't happen again. Not even in the scene when they're both barefoot in Clarke's room. Alycia is leaning forward as she walks (diminishing her height somewhat) again, to keep them close in the shot, which is quickly cut to them being seated.

How actors fit in a shot is important for focus, lighting and composition. Tom Cruise often appears much taller or at least of the same height as his co-stars through these means and he's the same height as Alycia. Watch for it in films and TV and you will simply never know someone's actual height, unless they are so blatantly tall, someone like Chris Hemsworth can even look to be close in height to Robert Downey Jr.

Take another scene with Eliza and Alycia, outdoors, during the pauna scare. Alycia's legs are constantly bent, which seems practical, on her guard, ready to run. She's standing next to Eliza whose legs are not really bent, and they appear to be the same height. Again, they are being kept closely in the frame. This happens too during Finn's funeral but if you notice in the long shot, Alycia's mark is deliberately right in a small divot and Eliza is standing about an inch forward. during season 3 they are always kept at the same eye level to emphasize these are twin commanders, two sides of the same coin.

Another little note on filming: women are almost always made to look smaller than they are, especially when paired with a male actor. If they are taller than the male actor, lifts or flats will be used, body posture, stance and the camera. Rarely is work done to make them look taller. One exception is Gal Gadot who wore wedges and lifts in her Wonder Woman costume, and she's already about 5'10" but again this was mostly for the camera as she was surrounded by actors her height or taller.

Hope this gives some insight as to how it works in filming and why.

Listen I am both shook, but also not at all surprised. And yes I am taking it with a grain of salt because idk you lol but you didn't say anything ~scandalous~ so I don't particularly see why you'd have any reason to lie.

1. Fuuuuuck you about the eyes 😩 fuck off noooo I don't— I didn't— I don't remember reading that part shhh shuuush shu— shut your mouth shut—

2. Yeah ok so, I had always heard she was 5'7 and that was the general... idk, feel that I always got from her. But like you said cameras always lie in the interest of getting shots and also she is,,, always gd surrounded by people taller than her. I mean take Laura for example. Her in flats vs Alycia in heels, even then she still looks tiny so it's always so hard to tell unless you're right there. But I checked out the scenes you mentioned and it seems at least at a glance that you're right. She does duck her head and somewhat rolls her shoulders forward when she walks into Clarke's room, and that gives the illusion that they're roughly the same height for a second, but even then she still has a touch of height on Eliza if you pay attention and account for the distance between them and the angle. And with the pyre scene

That sure does look like a bit of a dip in the ground with Eliza on a higher, flatter surface compared to it. It's minimal to not the draw the eye plus the draping of Lexa's coat, but I think I see the difference you're talking about. Alycia's foot even looks slightly tilted on the slope of it.

And even still, side by side they're not the same height. If they were shoulder to shoulder it'd be even more obvious.

I mean objectively I always knew they played visual tricks and fucked with wardrobe (lifts) and stuff to make scenes work. I've heard of the whole thing with making actors stand on boxes and having dudes practically in high heels to create height, so none of this seems out of place in the slightest, and it does fits more into what I had previously always thought about her height.

Sooooooo it was TLFOAH flyer that was the liar saying Alice is 5'5 (I know I know, the character is 5'5, whatever you know what I mean.)

I do appreciate this input! Even though obviously I have no idea if you're just talkin shit, but again I mean, what would really be the purpose. There's nothing to really gain.

[mamamittens]

Glad I scaled down my event, already looking at Sunday-Friday next week with an extra hour Monday-Friday. And it's not even Black Friday yet. Or Cyber Monday...

Got in two asks so far, finished uploading the Spooktober fics to AO3, and am already in bed an hour early. Not that I'm going to sleep yet, never works like that when I want it to lol

So! Rambling time!

I had more thoughts about the Omega verse/yandere au with Nikia, Thatch, and Izou!

So, I was thinking about some of the cultural whiplash Nikia experiences in this new world. She has zero context for all these new instincts, nor the assumed instincts people have adopted.

Like, how much contact is appropriate with a stranger and where. Luckily for her, the scent glands are in pretty intimate places already. How often do you touch the base of someone's neck/shoulder? A total stranger at that? So she doesn't usually step on any toes--not that any of the WBP would hold it against her or think too hard about it since they know she's not from their world and is very new to the ABO stuff.

And Nikia has a few unconscious biases about assumed behavior, usually centered around wings, so she's confused a lot by accident. Like, a lot of the time, she doesn't register flirting because she's used to it being accompanied by deliberate displays of the other person's wings. Typically slight flutters, extensions to show off well groomed edges of their feathers, or a hidden display of colors. Or if they're bold, wing contact as soft brushes and puffed up feathers to briefly interlock with the other person's wings. Like grabbing someone's hand and kissing their knuckles--its so intimate and viewed as romantic in her world, but also stupid bold for strangers.

She's even naturally capable odd vocalizations and her pupils act... Very odd sometimes. (Briefly debated how bird like she should be and tbh, I'm giving her more bird eyes than human eyes... She still needs glasses but instead of very close vision like normal, it's because she's got REALLY GOOD distance vision but it's... Really really far distance. Not practical day to day indoors). She pins her eyes a lot without meaning to, so she constantly looks startled and scared, when it's actually the opposite and she's curious or invested! She can coo, chirp, and screech very loudly but hates being so noisy and has learned restraint over the years. Combined with her new Omega instincts, her growls and snarls are... Very piercing and give anyone that hears them pause.

Though only Marco knows about it at first, Nikia's body is also a lot hardier than expected. Meant to handle at least basic flight with modest covering, her skin is pretty durable and doesn't bruise or get pierced easily. Compared to them, where certain parts of their body has thinner skin but they heal up very well with minimal scarring.

Anyway! Social shit!

This divide is made pretty clear when they stop at an island for restocking and there's the obligatory 'threat but not a real threat just a test to the relationship' scene. Fueled by Izou and Thatch being... Well, handsome, famous, Pirate Commanders. They usually have a few hopefuls flirting with them, either hoping for a eventful night or an easy in with the crew. Having a very well scented, new mate does not deter some of them.

A few ladies trying their best to scent their interest and test compatibility by brushing their scent glands (the light ones on the wrists) across theirs. Izou and Thatch ain't having it, concerned that Nikia would flip since she's struggled with territory issues for a while now.

But Nikia is just lost in thought like

Ah, they're pretty confident to get so close to pirates -- I mean, they're great, obviously, but I'm pretty sure pirate still means criminal here. Oh, but they are famous, maybe Whitebeard has a good reputation so this isn't as risky as it seems. They're kinda touchy as fuck though, is everyone this bold or is this desperation? Wait, Izou and Thatch look uncomfortable, should I say something? Do I need to? They don't seem too bothered but they keep looking at me... Weird.

The ladies in question are smug as shit at first, certain that Nikia is threatened by them. But as the 'testing' goes on, they get weirded out by her intense stare and how... Detached she smells. Her scent not communicating anything but polite interest and then mild concern. The boys are equally thrown.

Turns out, being super snappy when other people do light scenting in a social context is a learned behavior. Not ingrained. Marco takes very interested note of that.

But when an alpha tries to flirt with her, doing more or less the same thing as earlier, her literal everything is just looking at him like

She's leaning away from them, nose wrinkling as the outdoor space no longer diffuses their purposefully flexed scent. Wings snapping close to her back, eyes wide as they try and press harder for a positive response.

Her body language a tad confusing in this context. Pupils flashing rapidly. Her scent potent in confused inquiry.

She seems to be very loudly, without words, asking "What the fuck do you want?" But her body is screaming "You have the sex appeal of a manure farm in summer rain". Very startling.

Luckily, Izou and Thatch are quick to (literally) soothe her feathers and shoo away the stranger. It takes a bit for her to relax again.

Oh! Speaking of wings! It takes a while for her to start instinctively attempting to 'bond' with people. But they have no idea that's what she's doing and she's too thrown by the lack of reciprocation or denial to explain properly.

Mainly, when she starts to feel for them, she instinctively tries to lace her feathers with Izou and Thatch's non existent wings. Only to meet only air. When they're debating someone else, she hovers an open wing behind their back, just shy of touching and is disappointed when she doesn't feel the light push back and settling of wings. When she's startled or anxious, feathers quivering and shuddering out of place, no one idly preens her.

She wasn't the most social, but she's close enough to several people that, had this been her home dimension, they would have done any number of these gestures. But she knows they can't, so she just tried to curb her expectations and disappointment. Much to the bafflement of everyone in scent range cause she's smelling increasingly like a kicked puppy and no one knows why.

Until one day she happens to be taking to Ace when he passes out mid conversation. And she knows the game by now, so she just settled down and waits patiently. Her wing draped over his back as she idly braids his hair. Finally, her original instincts are being soothed, though still not reciprocated. Izou and Thatch both being invested in their personal appearance enough she hadn't gotten the courage to ask.

Ace ends up sleeping for a while and hard at that, feeling oddly settled when he wakes to several braids in his hair and soft feathers over his shoulders. He definitely blushes when she smiles and asks if he rested well.

He did.

Very much so.

Thatch seethes in the background with jealousy and Izou is no better when he hears. Still, they barely manage to control themselves and ask wtf that was about and why she smells so content.

She's embarrassed but is eventually able to explain how big mutual grooming is back home. Even strangers would settle ruffled feathers if someone was having a breakdown.

Thatch immediately offers to preen her feathers and she goes bright red. (Doing it is one thing, but asking is equally romantic and intimate, because usually it implies something more than just sorting out feathers). She caves and they cuddle in her bed (Thatch is so fucking smug to be covered in her scent and leave his own in her space). Thatch encouraging her to lay on his chest while he handles the rest. It's not ideal, which is why she protests, but he reaches a good bit of it all.

Taking the time to play with her hair as she falls asleep absolutely boneless. Later, he stared in the mirror. Izou confused until he breaks down.

"....I want her to play with my hair too~! But--but my style--it cant--i want...." Sad baby hours while Izou rolls his eyes.

"Then do it before bed, dumbass."

Suddenly all is well.

Had the fun idea Nikia was pulled mostly by her hand or maybe soul mates are indicated by glowing bite marks depicting their future mates' teeth and shes yanked by that. And she fights it. Really hard. Izou and Thatch having to physically assist in pulling her through where she fights it the entire way. Luckily for them, she's super out of it once she's pulled through and starting to get hit with Super Puberty. Also really good ears, not that she's in a state to notice anything being said at the time.

Thatch ends up with her hair ribbon and is super normal about it while she recovers. Izou stealing it every other day impatiently.