#his mustache has never been so neat and tidy

[lewiscarrolatemybrain]

Not only should Ace be more of a feral unhinged jungle child who’s like barely wearing a mask of civility for convenience sake, but also: it should be kind of a Bit.

Like, Ace learned the absolute bare minimum of socialization (meaning, wipe your ass and wash your hands) from Dadan and the bandits, but that was literally it until he met Sabo. Ace knew like a sparse handful of words — enough to get his point across, but it’s not like he really wanted to have conversations with the bandits anyway — but the infinite majority of his early childhood was spent alone in the jungle. Then he teams up with Sabo, who arguably has too much socializing, and while they do trade skills and teach each other some stuff, for the most part they comfortably fill their niches. Sabo can do all the talking and manipulating for both of them. Ace is more than happy to stand at his shoulder and bare his teeth like the wild animal he is.

He asks Makino for a manners lesson literally exclusively so he can thank the dude who saved Luffy’s life, and then later when Sabo is gone Ace sticks with the lessons because now he has to be the brother who’s good at talking, and then it ends up being actually pretty convenient a skill to have, so he sticks with it.

But it is all very much pretend to him. Ace is putting on a front.

And I love thinking about the Whitebeards not only realizing the full extent to which their newest littlest brother was Literally Raised By Tigers but also that Ace is humoring them. He thinks they are the ones being ridiculous and crazy for all their societal rules (and they’re pirates! They barely even have those!) and he’s just playing along for his own entertainment. He’s making fun of them.

Ace runs up and playfully bites Thatch’s face as a greeting and while Thatch is yelling at him that people don’t do that Ace is just like oh haha that’s so silly you guys are so silly for that. Anyway. And then he bites Whitebeard, who just laughs.

[meredoubt]

In particular (and it comes up here with the Why Bother), they have similarities in experiencing death quite young (both orphans) and being forced to join groups that frankly frightened them as children. But the way each of them adapted has wholly shifted their outlooks. Even down to appearance!

Like, of course Emmrich fusses about the thoracic vertebrae, look at him, with his carefully coiffed hair and his mustache. He's characteristically neat, tidy. His death anxiety has him being fastidious. I'm early days, but i'm studying this shit. It's textbook in his case. He feels he can manage his terror if he does his rituals.

Whereas Dirge, as a paid killer who was graded on efficiency, has taken a rather different lesson from the world. What matters is his skills, and in order to do that, he's had to push a lot of things down, has like...an awareness that makes him weird and it's easier to keep to himself. People are complicated. But never death. Death is a constant. Death is not confusing. Death is...comforting, at times, given what he's been through and how ragged he runs himself. It's reality. And so, yeah, he doesn't take care of himself and he looks like shit. People are offput by that, even if he's got those pretty eyes and is obviously in shape. He's offputting in a very different way than Emmrich.

And I think Emmrich picks up on that, and is into it, but like...hypothetically. He's testing the waters to see if their freaks line up, if you will.

Really cannot emphasize enough how much Emmrich inviting Dirge to tour the memorial gardens gives "they're both neurodivergent about the macabre from extremely opposite directions." I think it's working for me, tho we're early yet. It's very interesting. I have thoughts starting to form about the dynamic.

I will say, I don't know that it occurs to Dirge that he's in the beginning stages of being woo'd (he starts to get it, at the end of the date scene lmao). He's a traumatized, autistic Crow. He's not great with the living, usually. And I think most people look at a guy warrior who's rough around the edges and assume he'd pursue, but the whole thing confuses him. He's in unfamiliar territory. I mean. For goodness sake, Emmrich starts opining about flowers and Dirge tells him frankly, "if you want to make some cash, the Crows are always looking for poisons." Like NO my guy read the room, the old man's trying to figure out if he wants to fuck your awkward ass

[thetravelerwrites]

Alexei (Satyr) Part 1

Rating: Mature Relationships: Female Human/Male Satyr Additional Tags: Exophilia, Monster Boyfriend, Satyr, Arranged Marriage, Fake Marriage, Strangers to Lovers, Reader Insert Words: 5834

A commission for @thebimess​! A woman escaping an arranged marriage proposes an unusual agreement with a man she just met: marry her for six months to get out of the marriage contract. Please reblog and leave feedback!

The Traveler's Masterlist

Being on the road was rather terrifying for a woman traveling on her own, but you weren’t wavering in your intent. You had to get to Dunmountain and disappear. You didn’t care if you lived in a hovel shoveling shit for a living, you weren’t marrying that man. Not in a million years.

A few days on the road sleeping rough hadn’t done much to deter you, though it was cold and uncomfortable. You managed to get to Chesterfield long enough to buy road provisions and get rid of your old clothes, but you didn’t want to stay there too long. You didn’t know if they’d have people out looking for you.

You ached for a bath and a bed. You didn’t realize how much you’d taken being clean and comfortable for granted. And it looked like rain tonight. You figured the horses wouldn’t mind a bunk mate.

As you were coming around to go into the stables, it began to rain rather hard. As you ducked in, the stablehand shouted at you.

“Oy! Get out of here! No homeless wenches sleeping in here for free. Go get a room or sleep in a gutter!”

“Oh, but sir--”

“No buts! Out with you!”

You had no choice but to duck back out of the stable and into the pouring rain. You went around the back, praying that there was a cart you could sleep under.

Instead of a cart, there was a lovely lavender vardo parked there. The front and rear doors were locked, but there was a window. It was small, but you thought you could squeeze through. And if you got stuck, at least half of you would be dry.

The shutters had a latch on the inside, but it was easy enough to open with a hair stick. Using the wheel as a boost, you threw your bag inside and jumped up. Getting your shoulders through was the hardest part, and your hips were a bit of a struggle, but finally you fell to the floor of the vardo like a spilled sack of potatoes. Slightly bruised, you re-latched the shutter windows and looked around.

It was fairly neat and tidy, looking a bit larger on the inside that it did on the outside, with things secured safely to the walls and inside trunks. The walls had beautiful filigree scrolling all the way up and the roof had a lovely fresco of a countryside near a body of water, the field full of flowers. There were things that hung along the ceiling, making gentle jingling noises as the vardo moved.

There was a small cot latched up against the wall that would fold down. Wearily, you folded it down, pulled out your cloak, which was still dry in your bag, and laid it over the cot to prevent the wet from your clothes from seeping through, and settled down on it. You’d deal with the owner in the morning. If you weren’t arrested for trespassing, that is.

Once you were horizontal, you fell asleep immediately.

You were awakened rudely when you felt water being poured on your face. You sputtered and shielded your face, sitting up abruptly.

“Ah, the stowaway is awake at last,” You heard a masculine voice say. “Since you seem to have had a nice rest, you can get out now.”

You wiped the water out of your eyes and looked up. Standing there was a satyr with deep brown fur on his legs and tan skin. With his short, black horns jutting up just behind his hairline, you thought he might be only slightly shorter than you. He had hair the same dark color as his fur and bright blue eyes, a closely trimmed beard and mustache, and dimples you could see even with the beard. He wore no trousers, covered by his fur, but had on an off-white tunic and a buttoned-up brick red vest with gold embroidery. His cloven hooves were shiny black and dainty.

“I’m sorry,” You said, coughing and sniff the water out of your nose. “I’m sorry, I just needed a dry place to sleep.”

“And so you did,” He said, putting his water skin aside and folding his arms. “I’ve been on the road for hours now, and I didn’t know you were back here until I stopped for lunch. So, you’ve had your sleep. Get out.”

“Which way have you traveled?”

“I’m halfway to Red Landing,” He said.

“No!” You moaned, your head in your hands. “It took me so long to get to Chesterfield from Red Landing. That’s almost a full day backwards!”

“That’s not my problem,” He huffed. “You’re the one who trespassed in what is ostensibly my home.”

“Can I pay you to take me back to Chesterfield? I’ll give you ten gold. That has to be enough to ferry me for a few hours.”

He sighed sharply. “I mean… I guess? I don’t owe you any favors, you know.”

“No, I know,” You replied, fishing around in your bag. “Here,” You pressed ten coins into his hand. “It’s not much for inconveniencing you, I know, but I don’t have much as it is.”

He bounced the coins in his hand, frowning down at them.

“What’s so important in Chesterfield?” He asked.

“I’m not going to Chesterfield, I’m going to Dunmountain,” You replied. “Do you really care why?”

He snorted. “I guess not. Fine, fine. You’ve already taken up too much of my time, I might as well get paid for it.” He snatched up your bag and began looking through it.

“Hey!” You said, grabbing the bag back. “What are you doing?”

“I’m making sure you didn’t steal anything of mine while you were in here,” He retorted. “Let me see or I’ll dump you off right here.”

You scoffed, but held open your bag so that he could see inside, refusing to let it go. He shuffled things around and you waited anxiously until he was satisfied and straightened up.

“You’re not riding in here,” He said. “Get up in the driver’s box. I want to be able to watch you.”

“Alright,” You said, standing and following him out of the back of the vardo and led you to the front. “What’s your name?”

“You don’t need to know my name and I don’t need to know yours,” He said, vaulting up and not offering his hand. You were forced to clamor up the opposite side. “Once we get to Chesterfield, I expect to never see you again.”

“Fair enough,” You said, hunkering down in the driver’s box, sitting as far away from him as you could, and fell silent as the carriage lurched forward.

He pulled out a small bag of puffed grains and dried fruits and began to munch on them as the vardo trundled on, the lone mule’s head bobbing up and down as it took each step. You took out a small amount of hard cheese and nibbled on it.

“I’ll trade you a bite of cheese for a handful of your trail snacks,” You told him.

He shrugged. “Sure,” He replied, taking the morsel of cheese you offered him and pouring some of the grains and fruits in your palm.

“What were you going to Red Landing for?” You asked him.

He looked at you sidelong before answering. “I was going to buy some shells to make paint.”

“Are you a painter?” You asked.

“Yes,” He replied.

“Did you do the scrollwork and the fresco in the vardo?”

“I did.”

“Wow,” You replied, impressed. “It’s really good work. I mean, I’m not an expert, but I enjoyed it very much.”

“I don’t know what weight the praise of a trespasser might carry, but thank you all the same.”

You bristled. “I said I was sorry. And I’ve paid you. There’s no reason to be rude.”

That effectively killed conversation and your appetite. You put your food back in your bag and sat still and quiet, staring at the trees as they passed.

After an hour, the vardo stopped, and you looked at the satyr for the first time since his quip.

“Why have we stopped?” You asked.

“Shh,” He replied. “Listen. Do you hear that?”

You strained your hearing. “I just hear birds and the trees rustling.”

“Stay here,” He said, throwing down the reins and jumping down. “If you run off with my stuff, I’ll hunt you down.”

“I’m not going to run off, relax,” You said in annoyance.

He sniffed and walked into the trees and out of sight. You waited nervously for him to return, clutching your bag against your body, until eventually you heard a sniffling and whimpering. The satyr emerged from the trees carrying what you thought was a dog at first, but on closer inspection, it was wearing a shirt and pants.

“Oh, my goodness!” You cried, putting down your bag and hopping down. “Are you alright, little one!”

He whined much like a puppy. You reached from him, and he crawled into your arms, hiding his snout in your hair.

“I haven’t been able to get much out of him,” The satyr said. “But I remember the sheriff in Willowridge is a gnoll and has a couple of young sons. The crossroads to Willowridge is nearby. We may be making a detour.”

“That’s just fine, isn’t it?” You cooed to the little gnoll boy. “That’s no problem, eh? Let’s get you home, sweet pea. I’ve got some jerky in my bag. Are you hungry?”

“Yeah,” The boy said watery.

“Alright, sweetie pie, let’s get you some food, then.” You popped back up into the driver’s box with the boy clinging to you like a baby possum. The satyr got back up and snapped the reins, pushing the mule to movement.

After he ate, he seemed a bit more calm, and you were able to get him to talk to you. You learned that his name was Declan and he was indeed the youngest son of Willowridge’s sheriff, Feera. He was three years old and apparently a sleepwalker, having woken up in the forest a little while before the satyr heard him crying. How he managed to cross so much land in his sleep was unimaginable, but at least he was heading home now.

It didn’t take long for him to become rambunctious, and the satyr pulled Declan into his lap and let him take the reins. Declan squealed happily as he wiggled the reins back and forth. The mule was patient and didn’t take off when he felt the slapping on his back.

After a while, he fell asleep in the satyr’s arms. The satyr cradled him while still keeping a firm hand on the reins.

“You’re good with kids,” You remarked.

He shrugged. “I grew up around a bunch of kids, so I’m used to handling them.”

“Do you have a lot of younger siblings?”

“Something like that,” He replied.

As you rounded the bend, Willowridge came into view. You’d only been there once when you were ten when your father was still a builder. He’d retired from construction just afterward.

“Hey, Declan!” You said, tickling him awake. “Look, you’re home!”

Declan woke up in the satyr’s arms and looked around, his ears perking up. He yipped excitedly.

“Oy!” The satyr called out. “Anyone missing a kid?”

“Oh, thank goodness!” An older woman said, running out from a nearby trail. She was wearing trousers and had long brown hair with wisps of white in it. “Where have you been, you naughty thing! We’ve been looking for you everywhere! You come to Gramma right this instant!” She took the little boy from the satyr’s arms and hugged him tight. She turned and called to a large centaur that was next to her. “Can you go and fetch Eris and Feera?”

“Yes, Mama,” He said, and he dashed off with a flick of his tail.

“Thank you two so much,” She said, reaching up to shake your hand.

“Oh, it was all him,” You said. “He heard Declan crying in the forest.”

“Keen hearing,” The satyr said, flicking his long ears. “Alexei, pleasure to meet you, madam.” You introduced yourself as well.

“My name is Ryel. Let me buy you folks dinner and a bed for the evening. It’s the least I can do. Who knows what might have happened to Declan if you two hadn’t found him.

As you were about to answer, a large gnoll and a woman with a river of golden hair flying behind her sprinted toward you. The gnoll was on all fours and much faster than the woman, who was clutching her skirts in her fists so she didn’t trip on them as she ran. Running at her side was another gnoll child, slightly bigger than Declan.

“Declan!” The gnoll cried out, and Ryel handed the boy off to his father as soon as he skidded to a stop and reared up on his hind legs. “By the gods, son, you scared the life out of me!”

The woman, Eris, stopped next to her husband, her face wet with tears, and she took the boy without a word, squeezing him tight and crying silently. Feera encircled both of them in his arms and held them for a moment. The other gnoll boy stood with his grandmother, holding her hand and biting at one of his claws in wide-eyed confusion.

After a moment, Feera let go of his wife and approached you.

“Thank you, strangers,” He said, reaching up to shake your hands like his mother had.

“It’s my pleasure, sir,” Alexei replied, shaking firmly.

“Please, let me buy the two of you a drink,” Feera said, waving over a stable boy from the nearby tavern. “We’ll take your mule and cart and make sure they’re both taken care of. Are you folks hungry?”

The family ushered you and Alexei into the inn and sat you down at a table, ordering ale and a meal for everyone. Eris had a firm grip on her youngest son and an arm around her oldest. Declan now seemed to be completely over his sojourn into the woods by himself, though his parents still seemed slightly traumatized by it.

“That’s the farthest he’s ever gone,” Eris said. She was a taciturn woman who didn’t smile much, which made her appear rather stern. “We’re usually good about keeping everything locked up tight. I still don’t know how he got out. We’ve even nailed the windows closed.”

“Who knows?” Feera said, rubbing his wife’s back soothingly. “He could have shimmied out of the slats in the attic. Looks like I’ll have to nail that shut too.”

“Here you go, dearies,” The innkeeper said, laying a key on the table. “Here’s your room for the night. The bed is nice and big, so you’ll both be comfortable.”

“Oh,” Alexei said. “No, we’re not together. I was giving her a ride. I hadn’t met her before today.”

“Oh,” The innkeeper said, dismayed. “I’m afraid I only have the one room available right now.”

“That’s alright, we’ll take it. Thank you for your generosity,” You said, taking the key and smiling. In an undertone, you said to Alexei, “It’s fine, I’ll sleep on the floor, it’s no big deal.”

He grimaced but said nothing.

That night, you unrolled your bedroll and got ready to lay down. He had taken the bed, since you offered it, and was already half asleep. He had taken off his vest but left his tunic on. You stared at him thoughtfully, debating with yourself.

“Alexei,” You called.

He snorted and opened his eyes, looking over at you blearily. “What?”

“I wanted to ask you something.”

“What is it? I’m trying to sleep.”

“Would you marry me?”

His eyes shot open and he stared at the ceiling for a full minute before sitting up to glare at you.

“What?”

“Look, I know it’s a weird thing to ask--”

“It’s a crazy thing to ask!”

“Can I just explain myself before you think I’m crazy?”

“It’s too late for that, but please, go ahead.” He sat with his legs dangling over the edge of the bed and his hands clasped in his lap, looking at you expectantly.

“I’m escaping an arranged marriage,” You began bluntly. “I was only told of the engagement three days prior to leaving home. I met him at a dinner the night before what was to be our wedding day for the first time. You could not imagine a more boorish, rude, inept man.”

“I bet I could.”

You snorted. “He did nothing but drink wine during the dinner, leering at both me and the serving staff and making rather unseemly comments about my face and body, considering he’d only just met me. His parents just shushed him, but in a dismissive, boys-will-be-boys kind of way that made me want to tear my hair out.”

“When was this whole thing set up?”

“I’d apparently been promised to him since I was five years old. His family is rich from textile money, but they have a less that immaculate reputation. His parents need the respectability that my family’s name offers in order to regain many of their clients and trade routes.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s the son’s, my so-called husband-to-be’s, fault. I learned through conversation with his parents that he didn’t work in his family business at all and traveled quite often on his parent’s dime. After they had gotten rather drunk, his parents admitted that he had already fathered two children out of wedlock that they knew of.”

His head rocked back. “That’s concerning. Are your parents still on board with the wedding?”

“Yes. Part of the deal is a large investment from my fiance’s parents; my parents need the money to retire.”

“So you decided to escape in the middle of the night, is that it?”

You nodded. “Thankfully, my parents hadn’t paid the officiant yet, and therefore the wedding hadn’t been formally recorded with the county as a done-deal, so I decided to leave until the contract ran its course. I knew where my parents kept their money and only took what I thought I would need to get to Dunmountain. They aren’t exactly rich, after all, just well-respected. I plan to pay them back at some point. I just pray they understand.”

“So, you’re asking me to marry you to get out of the engagement?”

“Yes,” You said. “The contract is void if I turn twenty five before the wedding or if I have been married to someone else for a minimum of six months with verifiable proof. Meaning I have to have both my husband and the marriage certificate in hand and meet with a mediator to authenticate it. And since twenty five is three years away, the only hope I have of freedom is to marry someone else.”

He folded his arms. “And exactly what do I get out of this? Six months is a long time to be stuck with a stranger, you know.”

“I know. I’ll give you every penny I have. Wherever we end up, I’ll pick up jobs. I’ll pay for everything. I’ll cook and clean. You won’t have to lift a finger. I’ll do whatever I can to make this as painless for you as possible, and then when it’s over, we can have the marriage annulled and you never have to see me again.”

He considered you for a long moment, chewing his lip.

“I know it’s sudden and out of the blue,” You continued. “But I’m desperate and willing to put my trust, and money, in a stranger.”

He sighed and raked his fingers through his beard. “Look, give me a day to consider it. This is a lot for me to process.”

“Alright,” You said. “Thank you for even entertaining the idea. I haven’t done much to endear myself to you, so I appreciate that you didn’t turn me down outright.”

He flopped back down on the bed. “Go to sleep.”

“You still don’t know my name,” You said, lying down.

“If I accept, you can tell me. Just go to sleep. Or don’t, I don’t care.” He rolled over toward the wall, facing away from you, clearly indicating the conversation was over. You covered yourself with your cloak, your thoughts in a roil, and eventually fell into an uneasy sleep.

The next morning, Alexei was gone. After a moment of panic, you packed up your things and rushed downstairs, hoping to ask after him, only to find him sitting and eating breakfast. He looked up when you came stumbling down, but made no gesture of greeting, simply continued to eat. You almost went to go sit with him, but thought, why? You don’t know him, after all. Instead, you went to sit at the bar.

“Getcha anythin’, darlin’?” The barmaid asked. She had a friendly north-eastern Scottish accent.

“You folks offer a breakfast plate or something like that?” You asked.

“Sure do. Mulled cider to go with?”

“Sounds great, thank you.”

She went off to get your food and drink and you sat there, feeling anxious.

“Pardon me,” A voice said to your right. It was Eris, the young mother of the gnoll child. Despite her somber face, she was actually rather lovely when she wasn’t crying.

“Oh, yes, ma’am, what can I do for you?”

“Take this, please,” She said, holding out a small drawstring sack. “It’s not much, but I wouldn’t feel right if you walked away with no reward for what you did for my family.”

“Oh, ma’am, no, you don’t have to do this,” You protested, but she held up a hand to stop you.

“Please, it would mean a lot to me. I don’t know what I would have done if something had happened to him,” She said. She scratched her neck self-consciously. Though she wore a high collared dress, you could see a scar peeking out of the neckline.

“Really, Alexei should get this, he’s the one who found him,” You told her.

“He’s already been given his share,” She said. “Take it, please.”

You smiled and sighed. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Thank you,” Her normally reserved, neutral expression lightened into a smile. “I hope we meet again.” And she took her leave.

The barmaid laid a plate of scrambled eggs and a fried potato hash in front of you along with a large tankard of cider.

You’d eaten half of it when Alexei sidled up and sat on the stool next to you. He didn’t look at you, but set his tankard in front of him and flagged down the barmaid, who refilled it.

“Do you get on with your folks? Are they good parents?”

“Yeah,” You replied, stunned by the sudden question. “They’re nice parents, they’ve never been cruel to me. I supposed I’m closer to my mother than my father, but we all get along well. I’ve never had to doubt if they loved me, if that’s what you mean.”

“But they’re okay with you marrying this pissant, though?”

You sighed. “Their marriage was arranged, and they were fine with it. I suppose they think that my fiance, Gregory, will settle down when we marry, but I doubt it. I don’t see how being married to a stranger is supposed to make someone like him straighten up.” You set down your fork and leaned your elbows on the bar. “Besides, even good parents may not always do what’s best for their kids. Sometimes they do what’s best for themselves. They’re just as capable of being selfish at the expense of others as any other person can be.” You took a gulp of cider and blew out a breath of frustration.

“Do you hate them?”

“No,” You said slowly. “I’m angry at them, but that doesn’t mean I hate them.”

He took a drink and huffed. “It’s all so confusing.”

“How do you mean?” You asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing. What were you going to do once you got to Dunmountain?”

“Hide. Get a job somewhere, anywhere. Sleep in a shed, if I have to. Lie low until I turned twenty five. Maybe go back when the contract runs out. Maybe.”

“You don’t want to see your parents again?”

“It’s not that,” You said, poking at your food. “I didn’t want to leave in the first place. If it wasn’t for the engagement, I wouldn’t have had to. I don’t know what they’ll do if I ever go back. Maybe they’ll disown me. Maybe they’ll force me to work or write up another marriage contract with Gregory or someone else to get the money they need. I don’t know.”

“Don’t you have a say?”

You scoffed. “Of course not. Women are the property of their fathers until they get married, and then they’re the property of their husbands. Property doesn’t get a say.”

He was silent for a long time, every so often reaching over to pick an onion off of your plate.

“I guess I just have one thing left to ask you, then,” He said.

“Which is?”

He turned to you and clicked his tongue. “What’s your name, pet?”

The two of you left Willowridge heading for Dunmountain, stopping for a few days in Chesterfield to have a quick courthouse wedding. He managed to find a simple iron ring in his belongings to use as a wedding band. After the wedding, you gave him half of your money, telling him he’d get the other half after the annulment.

Once in Dunmountain, you left Alexei to handle the mule and vardo, and immediately began to look for work. The bathhouses were your best bet; there was always laundry that needed doing.

You also found a small apartment at an inn made up of a single room with a fireplace one could cook over. It wasn’t furnished with anything, not even a bed, but you figured you could make do with a bedroll and a simple table and chairs. You paid the rent for the next month and got the keys, rushing back to Alexei to tell him where you’d be living.

He drove you back to the apartment on his carriage, and the two of you began hauling your belongings up the stairs to your room.

“I’ll buy furnishings tomorrow,” You told him. “We’re not staying here long, so we won’t need much.”

“Didn’t you say you’d see to my every comfort?” He teased. “I want a canopy bed with feather down and a lounging sofa and--”

You shushed him. “I said I’d cook and clean and pay the necessary expenses. You want anything else, you can pay for it yourself.”

He chuckled. “Did you find a job?”

“I start at the bathhouse adjacent to the inn in two days. I’ll leave you food for the day and cook when I get home. That’ll have to do.” You opened the door to the room and stepped inside. “I have enough provisions to make a simple stew, unless you’d like something else.”

“Stew sounds fine,” He said, setting down a small trunk. “I think I’ll go out tomorrow and look for paint supplies. I sold all of my paintings on my trip and I need to create some new ones. If I go too long without painting, I get irritable.”

“I’d hate to see what that looks like,” You said snidely. The only thing in the room provided by the inn was a bucket for drawing water from the nearby fountain. “I’ll fetch some water for dinner.”

A few months passed awkwardly but uneventfully. Alexei was companionable enough, but the two of you hadn’t made any attempts to bond or become close. You exchanged passing pleasantries, but the two of you didn’t converse much. He sometimes teased you by asking if your “wifely duties” extended to sharing the marital bed, seeing as how your bedrolls had been placed on opposite sides of the room. You merely smacked his backside with a hand towel and told him to get back to his paintings.

“Would you ever consider sitting for a painting, pet?” He asked you once as you were cleaning dishes.

You snorted. “I expected you’d want me to model nude for you or some nonsense.”

He laughed. “Only if that’s what you’d like, dear wife of mine.”

“Don’t call me that,” You said, lobbing a crumb of bread at his head. He didn’t duck, just let it hit him and caught it, popping it in his mouth. “And I will do no such thing.”

“Offer is open, if you ever change your mind.”

“If the earth opened and the devil himself ordered me to do it, I’d still refuse.”

Alexei laughed full-throated. “That’d be a sight worth seeing.”

As annoying as he could be, he wasn’t an unpleasant man to live with. He didn’t do any of the washing or cooking, but you didn’t care since you promised to do it yourself. Even still, he was fairly tidy and didn’t make much of a mess. He liked to joke and tease, but he was mostly harmless. For all his teasing, he never once made a move on you or gave you any reason to fear he might take advantage of you.

You also had to admit, he was very talented. He sold his paintings just as fast as he made them, which was a little bit of a shame, you thought: your room was a little plain and dour, and you’d have liked one or two of them to hang on the wall to brighten the place up. You never asked, though. You couldn’t go asking for favors from the man who’d already promised six months of his life to you.

On your birthday, you got permission to finish work early and decided to go and buy the ingredients to make an apple and honey pot pie to go with dinner that night. Since you didn’t have a stove, you’d have to bake it in a pan over the fire, but you knew how to do it. It was one of the first treats your mother had ever taught you to make.

Apples were in season and would be cheap enough--the cheapest of the fruits available anyway--but honey would be quite expensive. A single spoonful cost several days worth of work. But you figured, you’d been working hard. You’d earned it.

When you arrived back at the apartment, he stood up from his painting stool to take your shopping basket.

“Is that honey I smell?” He said, sniffing. “That’s pricey. What’s the occasion, pet?”

“It’s my birthday,” You told him. “I was going to make a pie.”

“Is it!” He said, smiling. “That certainly is reason for celebration. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It’s not like we have regular conversations, you know,” You said, unpacking the shopping. “Besides, I didn’t think it would matter to you.”

“Well, that’s a bit unfair,” He said, frowning. “Are we not friends?”

“Are we?” You asked, stopping to quirk an eyebrow at him. “Out of the way, please. I need to start the crust now or I’ll be cooking all night.”

He frowned at you still but said nothing, taking two steps back so you could bustle about making dinner.

“What would you want as a gift?” He asked, leaning against the wall and watching you work.

“I don’t want anything,” You replied, not looking up. “If I did, I’d get it myself.”  

“Oh, come now,” He said, tsking. “You may not think of us as friends, but after four months, I would assume we’d have developed some kind of rapport. What would you ask of a friend?”

“I wouldn’t ask anything of a friend,” You said. “I’m not the type of person who expects gifts.”

“Didn’t your parents ever give you gifts?”

“That’s different, they’re my parents.”

“Family, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m family now, aren’t I?” He asked.

“I will throw a plate at you.”

“Just tell me,” He said, his voice a little wheedling. “There must be one thing I can get you that you’d allow.”

You sighed forcefully and stopped kneading the dough, turning to him and looking him up and down. “Are you serious about this?”

“Have you ever known me not to be serious?” He asked, grinning.

You rolled your eyes and when back to work, and he stuttered a retraction.

“No, no, I am, I’m serious. Please, tell me, what would you like?”

You stopped again and wiped your hands on your apron, and then crossed them over your chest. “Well… I’d like a painting.”

He looked like you’d hit him in the head with your baking pan. “What?”

“It doesn’t have to be anything grand, just a little painting of anything, flowers or trees or something like that, to brighten up the room. It’s a bit drab here.” You waved around vaguely. “There isn’t even a window. Just… some color. That’s all.”

“You want me to paint for you?” He asked, incredulous. “That’s all?”

“Well… I know painting supplies are expensive and I didn’t want to ask for anything, seeing as I promised to take care of everything myself. Like I said, I’m not the type to expect presents or things like that.”

“You don’t like to ask for things for yourself, do you, pet?” He asked shrewdly. “Not just from me, huh? In general.”

You turned your back to him and started kneading again. “My parents were both born peasants. Peasants don’t get gifts. When they married, they lived in a one-room cruck house that my father built them as a wedding gift. A house of straw and dirt was all my father could offer my mother, and it was good enough. They both worked their hands to the bone to get where they are. They live in a much nicer house now and don’t have to work as hard as they used to, but they raised me to appreciate what I could do with my own hands and not to rely on gifts. ‘A gift is never free,’ they’d always say.” You stopped working again and stared at your hands. “They used to tell me that I was ‘a gift’ to them. I wonder now if that meant they always saw me as a means to an end.”

“I always thought parents were supposed to put their children above everything else,” He said softly from behind you, continuing to watch you.

“Is that what your parents were like?” You asked in return. He didn’t answer and you looked over your shoulder at him.

“I wouldn’t know,” He said eventually, sitting down at the table and taking an apple from the basket. “Never met them. I grew up in an orphanage.” He took a knife from his pocket and began to peel and slice the apples.

“You know you don’t have to do that,” You remarked.

“Hush,” He said, not looking at you. “It’s your birthday.”

Dinner was pleasant, and the pie was delicious. There was enough left over to to have for breakfast the next morning. Alexei even helped you tidy up. The day had been rather nice.

So why, when you lay down for bed, did it suddenly feel like you couldn’t breathe?

Since my work is no longer searchable, please do me a favor and reblog this story if you enjoyed it. Help me reach a wider audience! To help me continue creating, please consider becoming a Patron or donating directly to my PayPal!

Thanks for reading!

My Masterlist

The Exophilia Creator’s Masterlist

[spareseratoninplz]

More Than Pain Bakugo x Y/N reader insert Ch. 2

“Miss…? Excuse me, miss…?” I was gently shaken awake by a hand, and when I woke up a friendly looking gentleman was smiling down at me.

“You’re miss (L/N), right?” He asked, and I nodded.

“Yes… how is my mother?” I asked, my brow immediately furrowing. He placed a hand on my shoulder to keep me from getting up, and took a seat across from me after pulling up a chair to sit on.

“Your mother is in stable condition… her case however… well, it’s uncertain.” He said, and my heart dropped.

“Case…? Uncertain…?” I echoed, and he cleared his throat.

“Your mother had a very serious seizure. Her brain was deprived of oxygen for too long, and this has caused her to slip into a coma. As I said, she’s in stable condition, but if she’s going to have any sort of chance of recovery, we’ll need to perform surgery…” He said the last few words very carefully, and I swallowed a lump in my throat.

“H-How much…?” I asked, and he hesitated before sighing deeply.

“54,200,000 ¥…*” The doctor spoke, and I felt my mouth go dry.

“Your mother’s insurance will pay for her accommodations here at the hospital until the money for surgery can be raised… with any luck, then surgery won’t be necessary. And she’ll simply wake up. Still, there’s the topic of muscle atrophy, and getting her the physical and psychological therapy to recuperate afterwards…” His voice faded out as my brain grew numb with the same question. How in the world am I supposed to raise that much money? As a middle school student I’m not allowed to have any sort of part time job. Not only that, but how was I supposed to pay for rent, power, water, and food when I had absolutely no income whatsoever?

“Miss (L/N)?” The doctor called out my name, and I snapped out of my stupor.

“Did you hear what I said?” He asked, and after a moment of hesitation, he realized I hadn’t.

“There is a program- a temporary service if you will- one that will place you in the care of a foster home… at least for the time being.” I nodded quietly, not really knowing what else to say.

“Come with me and I’ll introduce you to the program’s coordinator.” He ushered me along, and I followed blindly, my eyes growing heavy with exhaustion.

*One day later*

“Here we are! Oh, you are absolutely going to love this couple!” The coordinator opened the door for me to step out with nothing but my backpack on.

“Oh dear… are you certain that’s all you wanted to bring?” She asked.

“I don’t plan on being here for very long.” I said, walking passed her towards the front door. She followed me quickly, and rang the doorbell as I examined the outside structure of the house. It was rounded at the top with a subtle but elegant grey stone layout. The windows were large and somewhat tinted to reflect the incoming sunlight, and I couldn't help but think how clever that was of the designer to come up with. My attention was grabbed when the front door slowly opened to reveal a tall, muscular  man with spiky brown hair, glasses, and the slightest hint of  a mustache.

“Oh? Hey, you must be (F/N)! Mitsuki, she’s here!” He called behind him, and I could hear the sound of fast footsteps as she made her way to the front door, and nearly knocked the man over in the process.

“Who is it Masaru? Did you say (F/N)?” She asked. She poked her head out, and my eyes immediately focused on two distinctive features, her eyes and hair.

“(F/N)! It’s so good to meet you!” She exclaimed. Before I knew what was happening, she’d already pulled me inside.

“Katsuki! Come meet our guest!” She called out, and the moment she shouted that name, my blood ran cold.

“GO TO HELL!!!” He shouted back in response. Mitsuki only smiled at me briefly as the tension settled in the air. After a moment she turned to me with the same smile on her face.

“Wait right here dear, I’ll  be right back.” She spoke softly and gracefully ascended the stairs to what I could only assume was Katsuki’s room. There were a few light knocks on the door before it sounded like the ceiling was falling in.

“HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO YOUR MOTHER LIKE THAT YOU LITTLE SHIT!” She screamed. She then proceeded to drag Bakugou down the stairs by his ear, much to his protest, and tossed him onto the floor in front of us. My eyes locked onto a coat rack in the corner near the door, and I didn’t dare tear my eyes away for a moment. He stood to his feet and swung around as though he were going to strike his own mother, but instead she smacked the back of his head, and he fell to his knees right in front of me. I jumped back, and accidentally met his eyes. If looks could kill, I’d already be dead.

“(F/N) Is going to be staying here for a little while, and I want you to be the one to show her to her room.” Mitsuki ordered, and Katsuki simply glared at me before sliding his hands into his pockets and walking back towards the stairs.

“You comin’ or not?!” He demanded, looking at me sideways as though I were supposed to read his mind. I glared back, unimpressed before following behind him up the stairs.

We took an immediate right, and he placed his foot against a door before roughly kicking it open and stepping inside. I followed him in, and took a look around. Everything was so neat, tidy, and fresh smelling. They had even changed the bed linens and had a fluffy black bathrobe neatly folded on the bed along with a set of clothes. What was this place? A hotel? “What the fuck are you doing here?” He demanded, and I glanced at him over my shoulder.

“Your parents didn’t tell you what’s going on?” I asked, and he scoffed.

“All they said was we’d have a guest for a couple months. They never said anything about it being some dumb bitch.” He said, expecting to get a rise out of me, but I remained quiet.

“I’ll stay out of your way.” I said, giving him a cold look that he seemed taken aback by.

“The hell’s your problem?” He asked, and I exhaled slowly through my nose before neatly placing my backpack on the back of a nearby chair.

“Why? So you can degrade me on that too?” I asked, my tone just as cold as my icy glare. For once he had nothing to say as he stood there with the same angry look on his face.

“I get that you don’t like me, and I’ll stay out of your way while I’m here, so, just go do… whatever.” I said, my tone bland as I turned to  start unpacking things from my bag. After a moment of silence I assumed he had just left, so when I heard the shuffling of feet, and suddenly found myself pinned up against the desk as his hands gripped the edges at my hips, trapping me in place. His body and face were both very close to mine, and radiating heat that I didn’t know could be generated from a human body.

“Listen here you, don’t come into my fucking house thinking you’re better than me just because you have some stupid-ass quirk, you got it?” He hissed, and my brow furrowed.

“What did I say to insinuate that I think I’m better than you?” I asked, pressing my hand against his chest to move him away, but he quickly caught my hand and gripped it tightly, maybe even painfully if pain was something I could feel.

“What was that shit you pulled the other day in the hallway, huh?” He asked.

“Let go of me.” I hissed, and he smirked in an almost challenging way.

“Make me.” He growled. I felt something swelling up within me. This anger that I wasn’t at all familiar with coupled with something else. I felt my body begin to shake, and I forcibly grabbed his wrist with the hand that he was holding me, and his eyes widened for a split moment before I flipped him onto his back. He grunted as I stood up and moved away from him, looking down at my own two hands as though they weren’t mine.

“Shit…” Bakugou cursed under his breath before sitting up, and rubbing at the back of his head. He shot me a bewildered look before standing straight up and marching over to me. He looked me over expectantly before clicking his tongue, and heading for the door. He froze just before walking through, and glanced back at me over his shoulder.

“Bathroom’s down the hall on the left… dinner’s at 5:30… and don’t touch any of my shit!” He spat before shutting the door behind him roughly. I sighed before shaking my head, and pulling my laptop from my bag. I settled in on the bed, and began surfing the web in hopes of winding down, and ignoring what had just happened with my quirk. I had never been able to use it that way before… then again, no one has ever made me feel so frustrated before either.

“Hm?” I hummed in thought as my eyes caught a glimpse of a flashy headliner. I clicked on the link as the webpage opened completely.

“UA RECOMMENDATION EXAM REPORTED TO BE REWARDING HIGHEST RANKING ENTRANT 55,300,000!”

All I could do was stare at the screen with my mouth hanging open, unable to think or speak. 

It seemed all too easy, enter the exam, pass with the highest score, and win the money that I would need to get mom the surgery she needed… an additional  1,152,320¥ never hurts either… I quickly began looking up anything and everything that I could about this exam, and found out quite a bit about it relatively quickly.

“Let’s see… consists of a written exam, practical exam, and an… interview…? Alright, no problem, but… what would I do about references? That would be the main thing I need, right?” I mumbled to myself and groaned before flopping backwards onto the bed.

I can’t believe I’m even playing with thoughts like these. To think I’d even stand a chance against anyone who’s recommended to UA? It may seem like easy money, but now that I think about it, there’s no way it would be that easy. There was suddenly a gentle knock at the door, and I quickly stood from the bed to answer it.

“Mrs. Bakugou, I’m sorry was I being too loud?” I asked, and she chuckled before waving me off, and shooting me a smile.

“Not at all dear! I just came up to check and see how you were getting settled.’ She said, and I nodded before giving her a thankful smile.

“Oh yes, I’m fine. You have a beautiful home.” I said, and she smiled even brighter.

“Aren’t you the sweetest, thank you!” She giggled before banging her fist once against the door directly behind her before shouting.

“YOU HEAR THAT, KID?! WHY CAN’T YOU BE SWEET LIKE HER?!” Mrs. Bakugou shouted.

“WOULD YOU SHUT IT, YOU OLD HAG?! I’M TRYIN’ TO STUDY!” Bakugou shouted back. So, his room was directly across from mine…? Good to know. I thought sarcastically.

“WHY YOU-” I cut her off before she had a chance to shout again. She looked as though she were about to break down his door.

“Bakugou is actually a pretty nice guy at school!” I blurted out before I could think. She froze, and turned to me with a skeptical look.

“That’s not what I’ve heard…” She said, her brow furrowing.

“What? No, really. He helped me to find my locker and the cafeteria on my first day of school, and he’s always willing to help out when I need a partner during study period.” I said. It wasn’t a complete lie. He had helped me find my locker and the cafeteria on the first day… he just wasn’t super polite about it. As for the study partner thing, really we had just been paired up together by the teacher, and did our own work silently.

“He may seem a little harsh at first, but Bakugou is someone who is really very dedicated to his goal of becoming a pro hero. I admire him for not being afraid to speak his mind about things… it’s a quality I wish I had.” I admitted, and I suddenly found myself wondering why I was suddenly singing Bakugou’s praises when I didn’t really know two things about the guy.

“You’re too sweet, (F/N)... by the way, you’re welcome to call me Mitsuki.” She offered, and I nodded politely. She turned towards Bakugou’s door again, and lifted her hand ready to bang on it once more, but after a moment her body seemed to relax as though she had second thoughts, and she lightly knocked instead.

“Supper will be ready in about an hour, hon.” She said gently. After a moment of silence, Bakugou responded. “Whatever…” His voice sounded tired almost, but it held no anger. Mitsuki smiled gently before giving me a small nod, and heading downstairs. Somehow I felt good about what I did, and turned to return to my room, only to be met by the sound of Bakugou’s door creaking open.

“So what’s your deal, huh?” He asked. I looked up to see him leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, and a bored expression on his face. I shrugged before resting my elbow against the doorframe, and pushing my hair back out of my eyes.

“I don’t know… I guess maybe you just don’t hear it as much as you should.” I said. His eyes lowered to the floor as though he were considering something.

“Hear what?” He asked. I swallowed hard, knowing what it was I was wanting to say, but I wasn’t sure how he would react.

“You’re a good guy, Bakugou… and I know you’ve built this reputation as the school’s hot head or whatever, but… I can tell by how hard you work that you truly do want to be a hero… and I don’t think you’d want to be a hero if you didn’t like people.” I said, and he remained silent, now resting his head against the door frame, and looking off down the hall.

“You’re so full of shit.” He spat, somewhat taking me by surprise, but I didn’t let it show.

“The other day, you were telling me to ‘grow up’... saying shit like ‘you’re not very heroic’- such bullshit.” He hissed, and for some reason an unfamiliar sensation hit me directly in the center of my chest before spreading to the rest of my body.

‘Is this… pain…?’ I thought to myself. Without realizing, my hand had come up and grabbed my shirt directly over my chest. My breathing began to increase, and my skin began to feel warm and flush.

“What is it? Just now realizing I’ve called you out on your bullshit?” He asked, crossing his arms again and smirking in an unnerving way.

“What? No, that’s not-” My breathing only increased, but it felt like all the air in my lungs had left me. I felt my eyes begin to burn as tears began to slide down my cheeks uncontrollably.

“Wh- hey. What’s wrong with you?” He asked, and I felt my body begin to shake as sobs began to rack my body.

“Shit, hey-” He kneeled beside me, and I hid my face from him. I’d never felt this way before in my life. As though someone had lit a fire at the center of my chest, but the rest of my body remained cold as Ice. How is it even possible to be freezing, and yet sweat at the same time?

“Calm your breathing and relax.” He said, his voice lower, and I felt him rest his hand on my back awkwardly, not knowingly exactly where to put it. After a moment I seemed to calm down, but I was still in shock at what had just happened.

“Wh-what… what was that…?” I mumbled to myself.

“You just had a fucking panic attack.” Bakugou said, now sitting on the floor next to me, and resting his head back against the wall. I could feel him watching me carefully, and after a moment he sighed.

“Look I… I’m sorry. Okay? I didn’t think sayin’ that would… cause a panic attack alright? I always thought you didn’t have emotions.” He said.

“I… I usually don’t feel anything. Pain, anger, fear, sadness… I can absorb it back into my body, channel it and use the energy to heal myself or others…” I said, and suddenly realized I hadn’t ever really explained how my quirk worked before.

“So that’s what happened the other day? You didn’t block my attack, you absorbed it?” He asked, and I nodded.

“And that’s how you healed yourself?” He asked, and again I nodded.

“Yes… the stronger the quirk, the faster I heal.” I said, and he just stared ahead at the wall.

“Well… it’s not the shittiest quirk I’ve ever heard of.” He said, and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. We sat in silence for a bit longer before I spoke again.

“I need to get into UA on recommendation.” I said, and his entire body stiffened.

“WH- THE HELL DID YOU JUST SAY?!” He demanded, and I sighed.

“It’s not what you think okay, so don’t blow a fuse.” I said. I passed him my phone with the headline on it, and his eyes quickly skimmed over it.

“Yeah, I heard about that… so then what’s the deal? I thought you weren’t tryin’ to be a hero.” He said, and I ignored the fact that he knew that about me, and took my phone back from him.

“I… I just need the money, alright?” I admitted. I pulled my knees to my chest before resting my arms on top, and then my chin.

“What do you need with a shit-ton of cash like that?” He asked, and I laughed humorlessly. He didn’t respond after a moment of silence, so I sighed, and felt my brow furrow.

“Katsuki, (F/N) dinner’s ready!” Mitsuki called.

“HOLD YOUR HORSES WE’RE COMIN’!” Bakugou shouted back, but I was already standing.

“We should go eat. School in the morning.” I said, and he looked up at me with a stoic expression before standing himself and walking towards the stairs. I walked past him at the top of the stairs, and he grabbed my arm to stop me before I could continue.

“We’re not done yet.” He said, holding my gaze for several moments before turning away, and descending the stairs. I lightly brushed my fingers across my arm where he’d grabbed me, and felt an odd tingling sensation where his hand had been.

“I’m losing my mind…” I mumbled to myself before descending the stairs, and stepping into the dining room.

“Here you go (F/N) I’ve saved you a spot right next to Katsuki.” Mr. Bakugou said whilst drying his hands on a kitchen towel as Mrs. Bakugou finished placing the final plate of food on the table. I nodded silently before taking the seat I had been offered.

“The coordinator gave us a list with some of your favorites, so I made you some kakitama jiru!*” She exclaimed, very pleased with herself.

“It looks great, thank you Mrs. Bakugou.” I said, smiling kindly as I spooned it into a bowl along with some crispy noodles and a spoonful of green onions on top. The aroma was intoxicating, and I felt myself relax somewhat at the familiar smell.

“Would you like some Beef?” Mr. Bakugou offered, holding the plate out to me. I nodded before plucking a few pieces out, and placing them neatly on my plate before adding some steamed veggies and rice. Everything looked and smelled amazing. I couldn’t recall eating in the last few days, so this was more than welcomed.

“Have you had any news on your mother?” Mrs. Bakugou asked, and I felt the color immediately drain from my face. Any appetite I previously had was gone now. I lowered my chopsticks from my mouth before I could take a bite of food, and felt my hand shake slightly.

“Oh… uh… no ma’am. Nothing yet.” I said plainly, hoping she would just drop it.

“Oh… well, I’m very sorry to hear about what happened. We really hope she gets out of the hospital soon.” She said, and I felt my eyes drop to the table, suddenly intently focused on the pattern of the tablecloth, and nothing else. I wanted everything to fade away, and be silent. I wanted to be by myself where no one could see me like this because it was all new to me as well.

“Um… th-thanks…” I silently cursed myself for stuttering. They probably couldn’t tell I was uncomfortable since my body language wasn’t showing it. Would it be disrespectful to tell them that I was uncomfortable?

“Hey, we’re gonna eat upstairs.” Katsuki spoke up suddenly, his voice breaking through the haze of my hectic thought process.

“Huh? But you’ve already sat down.” Mrs. Bakugo said, dejected.

“I’ve been havin’ some trouble with English lately… she said she’d tutor me, so…” He lied, but I kept my mouth shut. Mrs. Bakugou looked utterly dumbfounded, but quickly smiled.

“Oh, of course!” She said gleefully. Katsuki grabbed his bowl, and I grabbed mine. I said my goodbyes as we ascended the stairs once more, and he all but forced me into my room. I placed the bowl down, and took a few deep breaths.

“Shit…” I mumbled to myself once my breath had come back.

“What’s going on with you? Why do you keep freaking out?” Bakugou scoffed, and I swallowed hard.

“Look, I’m not used to feeling emotions like this, okay?” I said, a bit more anger behind my tone than I had probably intended.

“Turn your shitty quirk back on then…” He said, as though it were the easiest thing.

“I… I can’t… I don’t know why but for some reason, I can’t.” I said, and he lifted an eyebrow.

“What you said before… when you said I’m ‘full of shit’... I don’t know how, or why, but for some reason or other, it caused my quirk to dissipate. That’s why I freaked out.” I said.

“So… you turn off your quirk, and you have a panic attack, or what the hell?” He asked, and I shook my head.

“No, no… look, I’ve had my emotions shut off since I was a child… sometimes they slip out, but I’ve always been able to keep them under control until a little while ago. At that time, I dunno…” I trailed off, taking a few breaths before continuing.

“I guess all the emotions that I’ve been holding back hit me at once.” I concluded, and Bakugou continued to sit there in silence.

“Why turn them off?” He asked, and the question caught me off guard.

“What?” I asked.

“Your emotions. Why turn them off?” He asked again, slightly annoyed this time at having to repeat himself.

“Oh… I dunno. It just seemed easier I guess.” I answered honestly. After a moment Katsuki stood with his bowl in hand, and headed for the door.

“Whatever… I’m goin’ back to my room.” He said, and something made me ask. “Bakugou…?” I called out, and he stopped to turn and look back at me.

“How did you know I was having a panic attack… I mean- how did you know how to handle it?” I asked, and his eyes widened momentarily before his brow creased in its usual pissed off manner.

“What the hell kinda question is that, dumbass!” He huffed before throwing the door open and storming out before shutting it behind him. I blinked a few times before sighing and shaking my head. I’ll never understand how this guy’s brain works… but maybe that’s for the best. I sat at the desk with the bowl of soup in front of me, and sighed as I picked at it with my chopsticks. The noodles were mush at this point, and the broth was surely cold. I pushed the bowl away, and stepped towards the bed. After moving my laptop and the clothes aside, I curled myself up on the comforter with my head resting against the plush pillow, and felt my eyelids growing heavier by the second. After a few deep breaths, I felt my body relax into the mattress, and sleep finally found me.

[wolfywordweaver]

Trans Mages Week 2021 DAY 6 - solidarity, pastel/punk

NOTE: this started out with the idea that Baz's dad didn't accept him being gender fluid but has somehow morphed into something a bit more. There's MalMage, a brewing storm, genderfluid vampire Baz, potentially gender confused Simon, biker gangs, magic, fantasy world building, 50s inspired towns, and political intrigue. What a mess. I don't know where I'm going with this, but it's possible that I'll morph this into a full blown thing.

The roar of the motorcycles was a familiar buzz in Simon’s ears, something that usually lulled him into a state of zen. However, this time there was a change in the feel of the roar, and he could catch a different scent on the wind. There was a town up ahead.

It took conscious effort to keep his folded wings from stretching out behind him at the thought of being able to make a stop and maybe even spending a couple of days somewhere. The Mage’s Men had been on the road for a while, slowly making their way to a kingdom out further past the High Mountains.

There had been a few odd jobs here and there to keep them fed and content until they got this big one, and he was hoping that maybe the nearing Watford would have a little something to do. It had been a while since he’d tasted a nice hot scone or something sweeter than a pack of discount sandwich cookies.

Davy threw back a few hand signs and Simon grinned widely. A much needed stop was just what they needed. The rest of the ride into down was a blur, and soon the whole pack was taking a quick tour to gauge the place.

Watford was a lot like most of the little towns hovering outside of capital cities. Coven’s magic signature was over everything, a bond of protection should anything befall the small town. Davy was not a huge fan of Coven, and Simon glanced nervously at the man.

Davy Mage was the leader of their gang, a man with great vision, testicular fortitude, and a willingness to do whatever it took to reach his goals. He’d earned the title of Mage after years of battle with another family, and Simon was quite lucky to have gained the title of Heir.

Whether Davy was his actual biological father or not was up for debate, but Simon tried not to worry himself about things like that. Davy was the closest thing he had to a father, and knowing the truth of the matter wouldn’t change anything. Any curiosity or whisper of discontent was tucked deep down with all the other things he didn’t want to think about.

Right now, the only thing he wanted to think about was finding a nice inn that offered hot breakfast. Freshly cooked food and a soft place to sleep sounded blissful, and he definitely needed a shower. Offing another round of goblins after his head had left him in dire need of getting cleaned up. Even his leathers had gotten messy in that battle.

Thankfully, the Mage didn’t change his mind and direct them out of town. They rode through the town square, taking in the views of shops and concerned looking citizens. It was normal to have people frightened of them until their intentions were made known.

There were a lot of wandering gangs that were carrying out missions from the larger kingdoms, and most towns never knew if they were on a hit list or not. If these guys were under the protection of Coven, they might be less than friendly for the duration of their stay, but Simon didn’t care. It’s not like he planned on settling here or anything.

Just a bit of food and rest was all he needed to be ready to move on.

The whole gang pulled up to a modest looking inn, and then the engines were shut off. Groaning in relief, Simon swung his leg back over and off his bike before allowing his blood-red wings and tail to stretch out. Premal jumped back in annoyance so that he didn’t get knocked off his feet, but Simon couldn’t be bothered to care.

Everyone knew that they needed to keep their distance.

“Simon,” the Mage barked as he pulled off his helmet and ran a hand through his hair, “get up there and scope things out.”

“Yes, sir!”

Flying was one of the only things better than riding down the open road, Simon thought as he felt the wind whipping around his body. The large wings at his back beat loudly, working to bring him up high enough to skim his hands along the underside of a few stray clouds.

Whooping loudly, Simon dipped and rolled through the wind as he examined the area around Watford. There didn’t seem to be any signs of danger and the Kingdom of Coven's capitol was far away enough that they would probably keep their nose out of the Mage’s business unless a fight broke out.

He was surprised to see a rather large school for such a small town, but shrugged it off and made his way back down to the Mage.

“Looks clear,” he panted upon landing.

The Mage nodded and thoughtfully stroked his neat thin mustache. “Good, good. No signs of the Coven moving?”

“Nope.” Those green eyes narrowed in annoyance and Simon quickly corrected himself. “Uh, no, sir.”

“Perfect.”

All of the Men waited outside while Davy and Simon went in to negotiate a stay. Things almost always tended to work better in Davy’s favor when he had Simon hanging around.

Blue eyes took in the modest décor of the place and noted that there was a lot of school memorabilia. These people were awfully proud of their school. The goat on the coat of arms was kind of silly, he thought. Once the negotiations were through, Simon was put in a room with two other Men and they all unpacked their few belongings.

Simon enjoyed a hot shower and washed off the reminders of the past few weeks. He still had a healing wound from a sword to his side a couple of weeks ago, but there was already a scaly patch over it helping it heal.

The scales would fall off after it was completely repaired, another strange bit of the magic that always seemed to be around him.

Once he was washed clean and in fresh clothes, Simon got the Mage to magically hide his wings away so that he could better explore the shops. There had been too many mishaps with his wings and broken goods and the Mage didn’t want to pay for anymore so he would begrudgingly oblige.

With all that finished, Simon strode out on the town in his cleanest pair of jeans and a white t-shirt with his leather jacket over it. Premal had cleaned his leather’s already, a kind gesture considering that Simon had been too scared to try again after catching his first pair of leathers on fire with his attempt to clean them.

Everything about Watford felt clean and quaint. There were perfect rows of homes, perfectly manicured and maintained gardens and yards, and rows of tidy shops he could explore. There weren’t really any children to be seen, and Simon realized that they were all probably still in school.

That thought made him a little sad. He’d never been to school. For the first half of his life he had actually been feral, a wild beast of a thing whose only thought was keeping itself alive. Then the Mage found him and took him in, teaching him the ways of people.

The magic that ran hotly through his blood belonged to the world of people, but the wings and tail were something else entirely. He’d heard the whispers of “dragon” often enough to wonder if that was his origin, but it had been too long since people had even seen dragons much less conversed with them. No one knew anything of dragon children.

Walking through the bookstore, Simon allowed his fingers to drag over the spines of the books, enjoying the different textures and designs. The shop keeper’s eyes were firmly planted on him, but the man said nothing. None of the adults did.

Maybe it was his tail, visibly swaying behind him. It hadn’t ever been as much of a nuisance as his wings, but it was still odd enough to put most people off. It made it hard to even get a date these days, but he still didn’t like hiding away these parts of him, especially for something as fleeting as a one-night stand.

“When does the school let out?” Simon asked with what he hoped was a casual tone.

The man blinked at him in surprise. “Three o’clock for the young’uns,” he replied with a gruff voice. “And 4:40pm for the graduates. Same as all the other schools.”

“Ah.” The man was looking at him even more curiously and Simon found himself leaving the store rather quickly afterwards.

A café called Pritchard’s caught his attention, and soon Simon was happily tucked in a corner scarfing down a pile of steaming hot scones. He’d never had sour cherry ones before, but was beginning to think that he had a new favorite now.

The bell over the door rang, and Simon peeked over the high-backed booth to see a small group of students come in chattering.

“Uncle Pritchard, is it true?” a beautiful person asked. She was taller than everyone else and had quite a striking figure.

Pitch black hair was neatly wrapped in a bun at the nape of her neck. She had a lovely silk blouse with wildflowers on it tucked into a sensible black pencil skirt and very shiny shoes. Simon always liked shiny shoes.

He also quickly noticed her pointed ears and the fangs peeking out over her lovely lower lip. A vampire? In this little place? The fact that no one was staking her meant that she was probably a pet or something, so he settled himself down and observed as quietly as possible.

“Kids, you shouldn’t be out-” the man tried before he was interrupted.

“They let us out early,” another young lady stated with the authority of a warlord. “Are there really mercenaries in town?”

He rather liked this one’s wild hair. It was tied back with a thinning ribbon and Simon wondered if the poor thing would give out and set loose the mane of curls.

“Now, now-”

“A gang in town!” Someone else squealed excitedly. “I can’t believe it! Nothing this exciting has ever happened before!”

“Our town had a showdown of Mages barely fifteen years ago,” the first girl snapped in annoyance.

“Yeah, but we were like babies,” someone else added.

“Kids,” the café owner tried again, his eyes nervously shifting towards Simon.

“Do you think they’re here to challenge Mr. Grimm?” the second girl asked with a grave tone. “He won’t go down without a fight.”

The first girl looked almost ill at the thought and the man quickly reached out and took her elbow. “Now, now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. No one’s challenging anyone. They’re just passing through.”

Simon stuffed the last scone into his mouth and continued to enjoy watching the others hovering around the cash register. There was something quite refreshing about seeing other people his age who were so clueless to things like how gangs operated. Sure, there were a few roving bands of bonety hunters who would ride into places and raze them without provocation, but those were usually taken out by gangs like the Mage’s Men.

It was bad for business all around to have groups destroying villages and cities, so kingdoms wouldn’t put up with behavior like that. Even as a roaming gang with no kingdom loyalty, the Mage’s Men knew better than to get the ire of an entire kingdom pointed in their direction.

“Uncle, are they-”

“Really now, kids,” the man interrupted exasperatedly. “Do you want to order something or not?”

They all looked taken aback by his response and Simon grinned. The man obviously didn’t want them saying anything to offend him while he was sitting right there. It meant that he was scared too. Simon wasn’t easily offended, and really couldn’t care less about what some small-town gruffs thought about him or his family.

Deciding to take pity on the man and give them all a chance to gossip in peace, Simon stood up, his boots hitting the tile loudly. Everyone at the front of the building jumped in shock and Simon kept his most confident smile in place as he stared at them all.

“The food was good, mate,” he addressed the older gentleman and tossed a few bills on the table.

His eyes moved towards the group of young adults and found that tall girl. Her legs were even more stunning now that he could get a good look. With a brazen wink in her direction he strode right up to the front door and decided to head back to the rest of his group.

He hadn’t got more than a few meters from the café before the bell was ringing and there were marching footsteps behind me.

“Pardon me, you brute,” a voice demanded, “but you owe me an apology!”

Turning back in amusement, Simon glanced up into those indignant silver eyes. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” she snapped back.

“What for? Don’t like a compliment?”

A blush burned on her grey cheeks, but she stood her ground.

“Th-that wasn’t a compliment!” she protested. “That was rude! I am not a piece of meat to be gawked at!”

Blue eyes roamed over her more carefully this time and noted the more distinguished larynx and the deeper pitch of voice. “It’s not gawking, doll. Just admiring.”

The sputtering person seemed completely thrown off, caught somewhere between being even more offended and slightly flattered.

“It’s rude to stare!” the vampire shot back, seemingly not understanding why Simon wasn’t apologizing or backing down.

“People stare at me all the time,” Simon replied honestly. “I don’t waste my energy on caring whether they’re being rude or not.”

Those grey eyes looked completely baffled for a moment before the motion of Simon’s tail caught their attention. Eyebrows shot up and that lovely mouth gaped for a moment, allowing a better view of those darling fangs. It was nice to get to admire such things when they weren’t gnashing at you.

“Oh, you’re a...”

Simon shrugged. “They don’t have a name for my type, doll. Are you someone’s pet?”

“P-pet?! Not at all! My father is the mayor of this town!”

“Ah.” Simon gestured towards his ears. “Don’t really see a lot of you out and integrated into the towns. Makes sense with your dad, though.” The vampire self-consciously touched at their ear and Simon stepped forward carefully. “I don’t mean it it in a bad way, doll.”

“I’m...” The vampire coughed to clear their voice and shook their head. “My name is Baz. Please call me that. And it’s they/them.”

Simon jutted out his hand in greeting. “Simon. Good to meet you.”

“He/him?” Baz asked carefully as they took his hand.

“Yeah, that’s fine.” Davy had called him a boy from the moment he captured Simon, and the young man had never given it a second thought.

“A pleasure, Simon,” Baz greeted politely.

Warmth filled his body and Simon enjoyed the feel of that hand in his. Baz had oddly rough hands for someone as posh as they were, but they also had a smokey smell to them that made Simon feel comfortable and almost...safe.

Not one to ever let an opportunity pass by, Simon stepped even closer and put on his most charming grin. “Say, Baz, wanna go out on a date with me tomorrow?” The vampire seemed to choke on their breath, but Simon pushed forward. “I’d like to get to know you.”

He wasn’t certain if this place had certain courting rules, but he was sure that the Mage could get him out of any jam he walked into. The man knew how much he liked holding hands and getting close to other people. He’d tried something serious with a previous Mage’s Man but it hadn’t gone over well and the guy his head smashed in by a Numpty as Davy’s warning to the others to keep their hands off of Simon.

Simon was an Heir and weapon first and foremost, and having people fuck with his emotions was a no-go. So, Simon was limited to random dates and one-night stands any chance he could get.

“Uh, I...” Baz swallowed thickly and nodded. “Okay.”

“Can you come out for lunch?”

Baz nodded and Simon felt a happy warmth fill his body. “Alright. Here at noon, yeah?”

“Okay,” Baz responded shyly. There was a definitely blush burning on their cheeks.

Simon squeezed Baz’s hands and then quickly made his way back to the rest of the gang.

*****

The café owner glanced nervously between the two young people as he set the strawberry milkshake between them, but Simon ignored him and focused completely on Baz. The Mage had struggled to hide the wings away that morning because Simon’s magic was buzzing excitedly, but they were thankfully still tucked away.

While Simon was dressed the same as the previous day, he took the time to admire Baz’s outfit. They looked so polished and put together with their tan slacks, shiny belt, green polo shirt, and a fuzzy sweater neatly hung over their shoulders and loosely tied around their collarbones.

“How long have you been a vampire?” Simon asked dreamily as he leaned forward and rested his chin in one hand. Baz really was quite pretty.

“Since I was five,” they replied softly, a hand automatically coming up to cover the fangs.

“Don’t cover them,” Simon stated softly. “I like seeing them.”

“Oh,” Baz replied with a slight squeak before they leaned forward and drank down a bit of the shake.

There were two straws in the glass and Simon felt his body throbbing with happy energy. Everything about this place was sweet and delightful!

“I think you’re pretty,” Simon added, falling back on his tried and true brashness. He enjoyed seeing the blush light up on those cheeks. “Beautiful really.”

“You’re quite outspoken,” Baz retorted, but the smile remained on his lips. “And a flatterer.”

“I like to speak the truth,” Simon replied honestly. “And if I like you, I don’t see the point in not saying so.”

“Don’t you like to get to know someone first?” Baz asked curiously.

“I’m getting to know you now,” came the laughing response. “What’s your favorite scone?”

And with that, the two of them carried on an easy conversation. The strawberry shake dwindled down between them, and when Simon slid his hand across the table to drag his finger against the back of Baz’s hand, the vampire didn’t pull back. Their fingers hooked together as they talked, and both left lunch with dreamy looks on their faces.

As Simon meandered back to the inn, Davy Mage stood in a hall quite familiar to him and stared at a large portrait. The woman painted in it stared down at him severely, and he couldn’t keep the curl of distaste off his lips.

“What are you doing here, David?” a tired voice asked.

Davy looked over to see Malcolm Grimm, his all-white hair a shock from the memories he had of the man.

“You look old,” he sneered angrily.

Malcolm didn’t rise to the bait. He just stood next to the younger man and stared at the portrait. “Grief ages you, David.” The men stood next to each other quietly, each reminiscing over times gone by. “What are you doing here?”

The truth was dangerous, so Davy danced around it. “Passing through to another job. A Mage’s work is never done.”

Most Mages through history had settled into a town and worked from there, but Malcolm didn’t want to point out the obvious.

“Are you happy?” he asked, a heaviness in his words that had been there for so many years.

“What do you care?” Davy snapped, the irritation bubbling up.

“I’ve always cared.”

“Fuck you!” Davy growled as he wheeled on the taller man and shoved him. “Fuck you!”

The hurt was heavy in the air and Malcolm stared at the white-knuckled fists clenching his lapels. He’d seen that same grip so many times already and it opened up the wounds of his heart.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, knowing that nothing would make it better.

“We’ll be leaving soon,” Davy replied after a few moments, a crack of emotion breaking through the words. “And I won’t ask again.”

“I know.”

Davy stepped back and released the creased material of the suit. He ran a hand through his neatly trimmed hair, a bronze brown that had once hung loose and carelessly over his forehead.

“I’ll be at the same place,” Davy added quietly, almost in defeat. “You’ll know where to find me.”

[livinglikebritishroyalty]

𝐹𝒶𝓈𝒽𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝐹𝓇𝒾𝒹𝒶𝓎

𝐹𝒶𝓈𝒽𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝐹𝓇𝒾𝒹𝒶𝓎 𝒯𝑜𝓅𝒾𝒸

Fashion Rules of the Men of The British Royal Family

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

𝒫𝒶𝓃𝓉𝓈 & 𝒮𝒽𝑜𝓇𝓉𝓈

Boys never wear pants! When a boy is going through his toddler years, he is never allowed to wear pants. Boys wear smart shorts when attending public events, but don’t were pants until they’re about 8 years old. The tradition of young boys wearing shorts, dates all the way back to the 16th century. This tradition is called the practice of breeching, which is when a toddler grows out of wearing traditional gowns & moves onto wearing breeches.

As British Etiquette Expert William Hanson explained, “Trousers are for older boys & men, whereas shorts on young boys is one of those silent markers that that we have in England. A pair of trousers on a young boy is considered middle class —quite suburban. And no self-respecting aristo or royal would be considered suburban. The usual custom is that a boy graduated to trousers around 8 years old.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

𝒲𝑒𝒶𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝐵𝓁𝒶𝒸𝓀

When on a Royal Tour, it is extremely rare to see a royal wearing black as part of their fashion plan. Each royal, must carry a black outfit while traveling outside of the country, in case of an emergency like a family member dying. The black outfit being packed is helpful so that when they arrive back in England, they are dressed appropriately. Outside of a death, wearing black is a major fashion rarity for men. The color is mostly worn on Remembrance Day or in a men’s tux.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

𝑀𝒾𝓁𝒾𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓎 𝒰𝓃𝒾𝒻𝑜𝓇𝓂𝓈

Military Uniforms are the most common & customary outfit worn by the men & women of the British Royal Family. They are worn at the most formal of events like Trooping of the Color & Weddings. This has been a tradition since the 19th Century & Her Royal Highness Anne The Princess Royal is the first royal woman to dress in a military uniform since Queen Elizabeth I in 1588.

Examples of Military Uniform Events:

Weddings: 

1. Prince William (2011) - Tunic of the Colonel of the Irish Guard, one of two Irish infantry regiments in the British Army. The buttons on William’s tunic were arranged in groups of four to show the Irish Guard as the fourth of the Foot Guards regiments to be established. Over his tunic, William wore his garter sash, garter star, his pilot’s wings (to represent his service in the Royal Air Force), & a Golden Jubilee medal.

2. Prince Harry (2018) - A Single Breasted Frockcoat of the Blues & Royals, a a cavalry regiment & the second most senior regiment in the British Army. Harry wore a major’s uniform instead of a general’s uniform, as Harry is the Captain General of the Royal Marines. The now Duke had to seek approval from the Queen herself for permission to wear the uniform. On his chest, Harry wore pilot’s wings, which represent his time serving in the Army Air Corps. Harry’s trousers, were made from blue and black wool barathea & featured red panelling, a leather strap, & a buckle below the boot traditionally worn when on horseback. 

(William 2011)

(Harry 2018)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

𝒟𝑒𝓃𝒾𝓂

Denim: A non-preferred but not forbidden piece of clothing.

Denim is not seen being worn often by British royal men or women, as its a go-to item when attending events or just being out in public. When choosing to be in a more casual outfit, royals typically go trousers & khaki pants. Days spent in the English countryside are always in a relaxed but polished dress code like Wax Jackets, Tweed Flat Hats, or Wool Coats. Denim is fine, if royals are just walking the grounds of the different estates, like for example if they go walking the dogs for their daily walks. Denim is now typically worn in private at home settings.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

𝐹𝒶𝒸𝒾𝒶𝓁 𝐻𝒶𝒾𝓇

It is a rule in most militaries (Australia, Colombian Navy, Finland, India, Iraq, Ireland, Israel, Lebanon, Mexico, Nepal, Norway, Pakistan, Royal Life Guards of Denmark, Serbia, South Korea, Sweden, Syria, Turkey, & United States of America: Most of these countries will let the men grow a mustache that is neatly kept but a beard is only allowed to be grown with special permission for health/religion reasons), the mean must be cleaned shaven. With the British Military, as long as the mens facial hair is neat & tidy they are allowed to have facial hair like beards, sideburns, & mustaches. Prince Phillip & Prince Harry, both grew out their facial hair while in service. Queen Elizabeth is not a fan & intensely dislikes facial hair, expecting royal men to remove it sooner than later. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

𝒞𝑜𝓁𝑜𝓇𝓈

You don’t typically see the British Royal Family wearing bright out there colors except for the Queen. When not at a very formal event, the family is generally wearing muted down colors, mostly in a palette of crisp whites, navy blues, or pale grey. Morning Coats are in either black or charcoal color & trousers must be grey but have a checked or striped pattern. Turndown collar shirts must be white or pastel & can be worn with a grey or buff colored waistcoat. Ties must be grey but can be in lighter colors. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

𝒟𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝒞𝑜𝒹𝑒

Men do follow a dress code for certain types of days. When being out in a more casual setting, royals typically go trouser, cardigans, blazers, polo shirts, button down shirts, & khaki pants. 

Days spent in the English countryside are always in a relaxed but polished dress code like Wax Jackets, Tweed Flat Hats, or Wool Coats. 

For a Morning Dress Day like Christmas, men will wear a Turndown Collar Shirt, a Tie, a Waistcoat, a Cutaway Tailcoat, & Striped Trousers. A Morning Coat is a single breasted coat with a single button closure & peaked lapel. Turndown Collar Shirts, can be replaced with a single-cuffed shirt worn with a detachable wing collar & a waistcoat. Accessories include top hats, pocket squares, & gloves.  

For evening formal events, men will wear tuxedo suits. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

𝒜𝒸𝒸𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈

Each of the royal men have a personal style of their own, that is worked into their everyday wear. These are called Small Accents. For Prince William, it’s his Wellington Boots, for Prince Harry it’s his Persol Sunglasses, & for Prince Charles its locally made attire. 

[bigsteeb]

Jam Bud Week: Day 7 Future

here’s the final piece for jam week,  it’s been fun

steven parked the dondai at the side of the hill, next to his beach house. he hadn't been back to beach city for 3-4 years, well apart from the occasional check in on the gems & his dad. but he hadn't just.. spent time taking in the town. connie got out of the passenger side & closed the door simultaneously with steven. they both looked at each other, smiling.

locking the dondai steven realised it has seen better days. rust around the edges of the body work, needed to be checked up on every 2 months instead of it going for 8 months perfectly fine. he was fine with it, it gave it character. they walked around to the house, hand in hand. not much had changed in the time they weren't here. another curl had fallen from the temple along with pearl's nose from obsidian's head, bet amethyst lost it when that happened. the wood on the house was slightly withered, that'd happen with it being next to the salty ocean.

connie pointed out to steven that no one was in. they both turned around to see little homeschool in the distance, much bigger than they last saw it. lights were raving & music was blasting, it was the end of term for the new students. steven sank into himself a little, no one remembered they were visiting today. connie squeezed his hand. "hey, don't feel like that. y'know what I see this as? a secret visit. no one will know we were here. we can get food & sit on the beach without alerting anyone." steven looked at her & smiled "... yea. yea that sounds nice." he pulled her into a hug, kissing her.

they walked over to the big donut, no one was in. gem & human relationships must have gotten better, everyone was at little homeschool. steven grabbed some donuts from behind the counter whilst connie grabbed some pizza & drinks from fish stew pizza. they of course left the money for the food, they're not theives. steven opened the trunk of the dondai taking a blanket out, setting it down on the sand outside the house. he may not live here anymore, but it's still his home. "the pizza is a little cold, but I'm sure that's ok." he turned to see connie holding 2 boxes of pizza & a bag with cans of cola. "of course it is, I grabbed some donuts too." he held the box he got up to her.

they sat down. steven gave a huff as he sat. he was much bigger than he was last year, a perfect balance of muscle & fat. connie adored it, adored him. she sat down next to him with grace. she worked out a lot more ever since moving out of her parents home. she was toned, strong. steven loved it, loved her. they were both so different since leaving beach city. connie had gotten an undercut with a star shaved into it. she had several piercings in her ears, a nose ring too. she sacked off her space travel major & took up an art major. she really enjoyed it but she of course had days where it was tough. wondering if she was even good enough for it, which steven of course told her she was 10x over.

steven was still steven, mostly. he was still large & had his thick, curly hair. it was much longer though, tied up into a bun to match connie's. he even had a little plait in it. he had grown his facial hair out, along with body hair which was all very neat, but not a mustache. he grew it out once & they both hated it. he too had piercings. a few ear piercings & a nose piercing too. his most.. scandalous piercing had to be his nipple piercings he got to be more confident in himself, it was connie's idea. he really liked them, they were pink to match his gem. he would of got his belly button pierced too but he's got the a* of belly button piercings, explaining it to the guy piercing his nipples was rather funny.

their fashion didn't change all too much either. steven still wore t-shirts & jeans, with rips in them though. he didn't wear sandals anymore however, had a nasty accident whilst lifting the dondai so connie could get her phone. he wore red converse now with matching red laces. connie wore similar clothing to steven, only replacing jeans with jean shorts. she was wearing his flannel today, she wore a lot of his clothes to be honest. it's her right being his girlfriend. they both had matching nail polish too, steven's was very tidy compared to connie's being chipped.

she leaned into steven as he shoveled pizza into his mouth. "ah, this is really nice." "mhmm." she opened a can of cola for steven, then herself. it was autumn in beach city. the sky was a gorgeous, warm orange. it wasn't too chilly either. the sound of the ocean sliding over the sand was incredibly peaceful. they couldn't remember the last time they just sat on the beach, taking in the air. connie grabbed a slice of pizza, well what was left. steven took a drink of his cola, then turned to connie.

"hey connie. you know I love you right?" she stopped eating to reply to the silly question he asked her. "of course I do you donut, I love you too." "no it's just.. I feel like I don't tell you it enough. you've put up with & been through so much since we met. I feel like I never express how proud of you I am, because I really am." he was choking up. connie set her pizza down & sat on his lap, holding his face. "you being in my life has been the best thing to ever happen to me steven. you don't need to tell me all of this, because I know you do. you being here tells me you do." she placed her hand onto his sword tattoo & he placed his on to her sheild one, even when they were apart they were together.

"I love you, steven universe." "I love you too, connie maheswaran." they held each other, staring into each other's eyes. steven leaned in to kiss her, & connie reciprocated. the lowering sun shone on them, engulfing them in a warm glow. they started to pack everything back into the dondai shortly after, discarding the trash into the bins. steven left a little note for the gems, doing this he braced himself for the future phone call from pearl apologizing profusely. they both got back into the dondai, seat belts buckled. steven turned the ignition & set off whilst connie plugged her phone into the stereo. they took one last look in the review mirror. "till next time, beach city."

[itsagrifthing]

One Door Closes

A/N: Oof it’s been a while since I’ve written an rvb fic, but I’ve been going through my WIPs and I really liked this one

Summary: Grif, alone on the moon after the Reds and the Blues went off to save Church with Dylan and Jax, is forced to fend for himself. He comes to terms with each of the Reds as he learns to adapt. 

Tags: Anst, nightmares

Misc: Takes place during season 15, Carolina is red team you can’t change my mind!!! 

DAY 18 SINCE THOSE CRAZY FUCKERS DECIDED TO GO OFF ON A WILD GOOSE CHASE AND KILL THEMSELVES

It had been the second fucking night in row that Grif couldn’t sleep. Which is ridiculous.

Sleeping was his thing, after all. Laziness and sarcasm and food and all that shit. The sole purpose in his life is to seek better naps, darker horizons. He has dreams of sleeping on some faraway island, in a hammock, in a place Sarge or Simmons or all the rest could never find him (except maybe Lopez. Grif always got the feeling that Lopez was kinda cool).

Instead, tonight he roamed the empty, quiet hallways of their stupid makeshift fort. Alone.

He passed Sarge’s room, but still couldn’t bring himself to look inside. Grif had closed that door the day they all left, and it stayed tightly shut to this day. Simmons’s room was a whole other matter, of course-- Grif already raided it for leftover food, and graffitied all over the posters of Sarge and, horrifically, Transformers, hanging up on his wall (he also added a nice handlebar  mustache on every picture of Simmons in Red base. Gotta have a little cultural diversity, right?)

Grif automatically made his way to the kitchen, winding between the beat-up cutout of himself that Sarge propped up in the living room, and the blow-up AirChair Grif smuggled out from Chorus, and stopping right in front of the refrigerator.

He opened the door, licking his lips, eager for something wholly unhealthy and equally delicious. He expected to see Oreo’s (which were definitely better cold), or Cheese Sticks, or leftover pizza, or hell, he’d even settle for some chocolate syrup.

But it was empty. Completely empty. The lettuce was gone. They were even out of goddamn soy sauce!

Fucking hell, Grif thought to himself. He had forgotten that the food had run out about a week ago, and he was always too lazy to go out and find more. His poor, neglected stomach rumbled. There were only so many times one could eat those blue Meth-meth shrooms, after all.

So, instead, Grif turned back down the hallway and began walking.

Walking.

Here was Dexter Grif. Alone. On a little paradise island. Without Sarge or Simmons or any of the fucking Blues here to ruin his life. He could be doing literally anything he wanted.

And he was walking? Fuck that.

But he guessed it calmed him down a little bit. It cleared his mind, and sort of made the dark corners in the base seem a little less dark. And besides, it gave him time to talk with his friend.

“So, I think I’ve figured out the secret to life,” Grif said as he walked out of the base and down toward the beach.

Simmons, keeping up step by step with him, rolled his eyes. “Let me guess, fatass. The secret to life is Twinkies.”

Grif considered this.

“I guess those could come pretty close, with the sweet, sweet cream filling and spongy exterior…” he close his eyes briefly, imagining it. He could almost taste the calories. “Yeah… I’m gonna call those a close second.” He opened his eyes and shook his head. “But no. The secret to life is…” He trailed off, hesitant to say it out loud.

“The suspense is killing me,” Simmons interjected sarcastically.

“I’m pausing for dramatic effect.”

Simmons sighed. “Please, just tell me. I’m dying to know.”

“Alright, here goes. It’s… perspective.”

“Perspective.” Simmons quieted for a moment, considering it for a second. “Explain.”

“Think about it. For years, we’ve been in life-threatening situations, fighting enhanced super-soldiers, or robotically fucked up A.I.’s. We’ve thrown ourselves into the middle of bullshit wars, gotten dragged along on the Blue’s stupid drama throw-downs, and it was the most important thing in the world to us.”

“So…?”

“But look back on it. We’ve been to the very edge of colonized space and back, and I’ve seen it all. It’s all so fucking enormous… There’s so many planets and people and lives and stories and drama. Put into perspective, we… we really haven’t done jack-shit.”

“That’s not true!” Simmons protested. “Stopping the war on Chorus, we’ve saved lives! Stopping the director--”

“We didn’t stop the Director, Carolina handed him a pistol and told him to go fuck himself! And Chorus… well, you heard what Locus and Felix said. It’s just one meaningless planet in a universe of millions and millions of meaningless planets.”

They were quiet. Grif realized that he had stopped walking, caught up in the heat of the moment. He had sunk slightly in the sand, and the waves crept up slowly around his bare feet, sparkling in the bright moonlight. Wind ruffled his hair.

“You don’t mean that,” Simmons said softly. Grif sighed.

“Don’t I?” He could barely bring himself to meet Simmons’ reproachful gaze. The look of disappointment, of pity. The look Grif saw on his face the day they left, and he stayed. The look that screams ‘you’re better than this!’ But he really wasn’t.

“You’re not even real,” Grif muttered, waving his hand, and Simmons disappeared.

He was alone again.

DAY 24 SINCE THOSE ASSHATS LEFT GRIF ALONE ON AN UNINHABITED MOON

Grif hadn’t been talking lately. What was the point? There wasn’t anyone to talk to anyways.

Simmons hadn’t returned since that night, good riddance. Grif didn’t think he could bear to see that look on his face one more time, at least not in person. The look was still etched in his mind, seared into his memories. It ached constantly, a reminder.

Grif shut Simmons’ door last night, and locked it from the inside. The graffiti wasn’t funny anymore.

On the bright side, though, Grif managed to find more food. He’d finally reached the point where he was so desperate for anything that didn’t send him on one hell of an acid trip he raided Blue base for some rope. He collected some leaves and branches too, and sat himself down on a rock for an hour, teaching himself how to make traps.

It wasn’t too hard, he learned eventually, and it was actually an ideal way to hunt. You literally set something down on the ground, and wait for the food to come to you. It was almost too good to be true.

But he soon found out the equalizer the first time he caught a rabbit in his trap.

He watched the creature struggle in vain, it’s limbs flailing helplessly. He stared into its beady, desperate little eyes. He watched as the little creature never stopped trying to escape from its predator in its lost and hopeless battle, and Grif, sickly, felt a little bit of what Locus must have felt when he stalked his prey.

Perspective, Grif thought glumly, then let the rabbit go.

He decided to try his luck at fishing.

He still managed to find other ways to avoid work: he dug a roomba out of the Blue’s basement so it could vacuum up the crumbs that Grif spilled (he never really cared about that before, but it attracted ants, which then stole bits of his other food--and he needed that, desperately), and found some fire-starters to cook the fish with. He burned the books from Wash’s bookshelf instead of gathering sticks (he figured that if the guy ever came back, he would have been through enough shit to not worry about a few lost books too much).

But the obstacle he often ran into was heat.

Sure, the fire-starters started the fire (duh), and, sure, the books kept it going. But it never burned long enough or hot enough for the fish to cook decently.

He needed some sort of fuel, some kind of accelerant, something to make the flames bigger. He racked his mind. They had run out of gasoline ages ago, since Sarge used it all in his stupid war against gravity, and Grif drank all the cooking grease once they ran out of soda. No, he needed something different. Something like… something like… something like…

Perfume.

After much debating, Grif decided to raid Donut’s room that night. The main detractor was, of course, whether or not he could handle seeing whatever pink and lacey monstrosity was in Donut’s room. It was very likely filled with various cleaning products, and nice-smelling chemicals and pretty things.

The very thought disgusted him.

But his need for properly cooked fish out-weighed his apprehension, and, besides, who knows? Maybe Donut’s hiding some spices or shit in his room.

So that was how he found himself standing outside the room of the mildly-frightening, pink, frivolous member of Red team, his hand resting lightly on the doorknob.

He hesitated for a second. Do I really want to do this? he thought. But his stomach rumbled.

He opened the door.

Immediately, bright, flashing lights blinded his eyes, and the scent of grapefruit and vanilla cream overwhelmed him. Grif rocked on his feet as a wave of sensory overload hit him, making him double over with nausea. Lace poured from the ceiling, and the clouds of smells clogged his airway, choking him. Grif gasped and coughed and sputtered, covering his eyes, his mouth, his nose, and he began to feel all his organs beginning to shut down, one by one, as all things pink weaseled its way into every pore, every orifice, taking over Grif’s body and mind--

Okay, it wasn’t really that bad.

Actually, the room was fairly mildly decorated compared to what Grif expected. The walls were a soft shade of coral, accented with neat, white trim. The room was tidy, too-- Simmons would have been impressed-- and a few smartly placed candles sat nicely by the coral-pink bed.

Sure, the room smelled more than slightly of grapefruit and vanilla, but it wasn’t overwhelming. It was actually… kind of relaxing.

Of course, Grif will never admit that. To anyone.

He cautiously walked into the room and made his way straight to the vanity. Perfumes and little bottles of lotion were arranged neatly by both size and color (again, Simmons would be proud), and Grif peered at them. He wondered which one, if any, would work the best. His hand hovered a smaller bottle, then over a large one, then one with an amber liquid, then one with a lilac liquid. There were too many to choose from…

In his indecision, his eyes strayed over to the other side of the desk, where a picture frame sat.

The picture frame was probably the most normal thing in the room, not outfitted with bows or lace or pink decorations, and Grif was surprised he didn’t notice it earlier. It was simple and brown, and though it had a ragged design, he got the feeling it had more heart behind it than anything else.

Grif picked it up and looked closer. Inside the wooden box was a picture of them-- of the Reds and Blues and Wash and Carolina and the Trainees-- all on Chorus. It was clearly a candid photo; in the foreground was Simmons, both clearly startled by the picture being taken and the close proximity of Jensen in all her braces and freckles and pimply teenager glory. Sarge was gruff, his arms folded over his chest and glaring at the camera (but there was a twinkle in his eye). Tucker was arguing with Palomo in the background, while Wash stood a little farther away, eyeing the two of them apprehensively. Grif saw himself sitting on the floor next to Bitters sharing, sharing, a candy bar. Caboose pranced about happily in the background, while Carolina was mid-eyeroll. Kimball and Doyle stood neatly in the background (a little farther apart than necessary), and in front of it all, grinning widely and throwing up a peace sign, was Donut.

Grif could barely remember Donut’s face, but he was pretty sure that was the happiest he had ever seen the guy (and that's saying something).

He set the picture down gently on the vanity again after dusted off the glass. Sunlight bounced off the gleaming frame, scattering particles of light onto the wall behind him, the vanity, and, oddly, a small bottle of orange Chance perfume as if were a spotlight. Or possibly a big arrow saying “this one here!”  

Grif grabbed it and got the hell out of the room.

He hurried downstairs and out onto the lawn where his firepit was set up. His fish were still set out on a clean rock, though he did have to chase off a fly or two. Grif tossed in a few of Wash’s books and pulled out his fire starter. Within seconds, the fire had started and caught, but it still wasn’t as high as Grif needed it to be. He pulled out the tiny bottle.

He unscrewed the top and held it over the fire, hesitating. Would this work? Fire was never something Grif was particularly experienced with. He didn’t want to accidentally burn off his eyebrows or something else important.

He sighed and began to tip the bottle. At the very least, maybe the fish would smell good.

Immediately, the flames caught the liquid and lept into the air. Grif stepped back quickly, startled by the loud woosh the flames gave off as it grew. But the fire continued to stay hot, high and controlled. Grif studied the bottle in his hands. The perfume had worked perfectly.

“Good choice,” Donut said, sitting on the log next to him. Grif glanced at him and began to skewer the fish onto sticks.

“You helped,” he muttered, placing on over the flames. His voice was a little raspy from being unused. Donut beamed.

“You got my message!” Grif sighed.

“Could you have made it any less dramatic?”

Donut shrugged good-naturedly. “A little flair for the dramatic is good for the soul.”

“Says the hallucination.” Grif didn’t look at Donut when he said that, but he knew, just knew, the guy was pouting.

“I’m as real as you want me to be.”

Grif didn’t respond to that, only sat by the fire, turning the fish over and over again. His method was a little slow, but it brought out the juices in the meat. Grif learned that by trial and error, after many dry and undercooked fishes. Though he’d have to change his technique a little with the new heat.

“So,” Donut started again. “You’re learning to cook.”

“If this is cooking,” Grif snorted, gesturing to his setup.

“Well, what else would it be?”

“I don’t know.”

Conversation with the pink guy never came easily to Grif. They were just too different, and unless they were both teasing Simmons, or Grif was yelling at Donut to quit hanging up lace in his room, they never really talked. Not like he and Simmons did.

“Grif? You know you can  always spill your load on me, right?” Grif rolled his eyes. Donut sat straight up, eagerly and sincerely. “I’m serious! I’ll listen to whatever you say. What’s going on?”

Grif didn’t respond for several minutes, focusing instead on the fish. But Donut sat perfectly straight the whole time, his young and honest eyes boring a hole on the back of Grif’s skull.

He sighed.

“Look, I’m just… I…” He hesitated, unsure of what to say.

“I miss you guys,” he blurted out, immediately turning away. Donut didn’t reply, only sat there. Watching.

“It’s been… it’s been so hard by myself. I mean, at first it was awesome. I got to sleep all day and watch TV and eat all the food. There wasn’t any Sarge or Simmons or… or you. No Blues, no Church. Nobody to make my life hell. I finally got a break from it all, all that bullshit.”

Grif took a deep breath and shook his head.

“But now I can’t sleep and this is the most I’ve talked in a long time. I have to fucking hunt for my food. I’ve had fish for breakfast, lunch, dinner for nearly a week now, and I’m sick and tired of it! And…” He paused. “Well, it’s boring here. Like a repeat of Blood Gulch, except now I’m by myself.”

He caught his breath, shocked by the sudden avalanche of words that had come tumbling out of his mouth.

Donut blinked.  “Oh.”

“I miss you guys,” Grif repeated, and that sentence was so heavy he had to sit down on the log just to keep it from crushing him. He buried his head in his hands, and Donut scooted over to pat his shoulder comfortingly.

They sat on that log for what must have been minutes, or hours, or days, or years. The time that passed was non-existent, the breeze that fluttered past the two of them was endless and the night was eternal. It had been forever since they had left; it had been forever since he left them. How long had it been since Grif had someone to talk to? How long had it been since he last saw Simmons, his friend? His family?

It must have been forever.

“You know…” Donut started, breaking the silence. “We’re still here.”

Grif lifted his head slightly, and Donut reached over. He tapped a spot on Grif’s chest over where his heart was. “We’re still right here. We’ll never really be gone.”

“But…” Grif sniffed. “What if you di-- don’t come back?”

Donut laughed quietly. “Even then, we’ll still be with you. As long as you remember us. We’ll sit by the fire with you, we’ll talk with you, we’ll live with you. Just as long as you remember.”

Grif held on to Donut’s words, pulling them tightly to his chest. He pictured each of his friend’s faces, wrapping them in a little bundle and locking them in his heart. Each detail, each little mark, each little stray piece of hair, Grif etched into his mind. He’ll remember them. He goddamn better.

He sighed.

“I’ll tell you what,” Donut said. “You know that picture on my vanity? The one you found today? Why don’t you keep it. It’ll help.”

Grif nodded seriously. “Thank you, Donut.”

Donut laughed softly.

“Now who’s being dramatic?”

And then he was gone.

Grif went in later that night. He placed the empty bottle of perfume on the vanity, and picked up the picture frame. He took one last look into the horrifying, pink room, and smiled before he closed the door, locking it forever.

DAY 32 SINCE HIS FRIENDS BETRAYED HIM

“Grif!”

The scream was loud, long, painful. It grated on Grif’s ears, and stung his throat. Dust covered his eyes, sucking out any moisture. Grif wanted to call back, but his voice was stuck, it wasn’t working. His limbs ached with incredible pain, like he was being ripped apart. A gun was held tightly in his hands, but he couldn’t feel a thing.

“Grif…” The call was more of a whimper now, at his feet. The smell of gunpowder in the air, the taste of metal in his mouth. Someone had been shot.

Grif looked down, past the gun shaking in his hands, and at the body lying beneath him.

Maroon armor.

Simmons was curled up in pain on the ground, clutching at a gaping hole in his abdomen. He gasped and sputtered, while blood seeped through the cracks in his armor.

He blinked.

Pink armor.

Now it was Donut at his feet, it was Donut who was curled up in a ball, it was Donut who was dying, again, and the smell of blood was so strong, so strong.

He blinked.

Red armor.

Sarge.

And he wasn’t moving.

Grif shot up in his bed, sweat pouring down his back. He panted, shoulders and chest heaving, hands shaking. The dark was confining, but all Grif could do was sit there and listen to the voices calling his name over and over again.

He ran a hand through his hair once he could finally move and sighed.

He was cold.

He threw back his covers and left his room. The darkness was too small, so he made his way to the living room. There, he flicked on a lightswitch and dropped down on the couch.

Eager to distract his mind anyway he possibly could, Grif turned on the TV.

He flipped through channel after channel, from the news station (who watches that anymore?) to the sports station, to food network, to the comedy channel, and back to the beginning. He cycled again and again through the channels, but nothing was a good enough distraction for him.

Grif groaned. “Damn it…” he muttered aloud, tossing the useless remote to the floor and flopping back on the couch.

He covered his face with his hands and tried to remember just exactly how his life turned to shit.

It was smooth going for a while, as smooth as it could be. Just Grif and Kaikaina, fending for themselves on some rundown moon, living day by day, flying by the seat of their pants. Of course, there was always money troubles and Grif could distinctly remember sleeping in an abandoned warehouse for a while, so it wasn’t completely amazing. But back then, Grif didn’t need to worry about killing anyone, or aliens, or robots or a corporate conspiracy that went so far as to try to massacre an entire planet.

“It was so much simpler back then,” Grif muttered aloud, not fully aware of even saying it until he heard the response.

“Hmph. Tell me about it.”

Grif became aware of a presence next to him, and between the gruff voice and the stench of diesel, he didn’t have to guess who it was.

Grif rolled his eyes. “What are you talking about? Weren’t you just always in the military? You fought in the Great War, didn’t you? How is that easier?”

Sarge sighed. “Son, when you get to be my age--”

“Jesus christ, here we go,” Grif muttered.

“--you begin to believe you’ve learned everything there is to know. Back in the day, it was black and white. We were good. The Covenant was bad. We had to win, or die trying. Simple.”

Grif snorted. It didn’t sound so simple.

“But now…” Sarge said with a shake of his head. “Red vs. Blue, Blue vs. Red… it’s all the same. I was given a gun and told to fight. I put my faith in the Chain of Command! But it turns out it was all just a lie... It was all some big elaborate scheme cooked up by a couple of greedy scientists. I didn’t know what to think anymore… Without something to fight, there can’t be a Sarge.”

Grif was silent.

“Wow, Sarge. I guess I underestimated you. I never knew you could be so… heartfelt.”

Sarge, not about to insulted like that, cocked his shotgun. “And that’s why I declared war on Gravity! Our true enemy was right beneath our feet this whole time, and we never knew it! Oppressed, by ourselves! Where will the torment end?”

Grif sighed. There was the Sarge he knew.

“Whatever, Sarge. I’m gonna go back to bed.”

“Hah! I always knew you were a coward Grif!” “Hey!”

“I always knew you were a lazy, good-for-nothing--”

“Come on, man, you aren’t even real.”

“But this is too far! What in Sam Hell do you think you’re going to accomplish by just running away?!”

Grif snapped, whirling around and storming right up to him. “I am not running away!” Sarge glared down at him through his thick white beard. “You were the ones who ran away! AGAIN. You were the ones who went off on a stupid wild goose chase, the ones who aren’t gonna come back because for some goddamn reason you are all so bent on throwing away your goddamn lives for some asshole!” He was screaming, spittle flying everywhere, but he didn’t care, he didn’t care, he was so angry. “And you aren’t gonna come back ever, and it’s just gonna be me all by myself, stupid Grif alone on a stupid moon, stupid lazy Grif who can barely even feed himself--”

“Son.” The word, uncharacteristically firm and final, stopped Grif in his tracks. “Now you listen here. You aren’t gonna get anything done by pitying yourself like this!” Sarge’s voice was gradually rising, and with it, his presence was growing larger and larger until he was practically towering over Grif. “Stop this whining and get on with it! Boy, you ain’t gonna make it a minute like this. In my day--”

“Sarge?”

“In my day, we didn’t have the luxury of complaining! So you’ve only eaten fish, so what?! At least you have fish! In fact, I’ll be damned, you have a whole island full of food! So stop moping around for Eisenhower’s sake, and get off your ass. So you don’t like it? Change it! Because whether we come back or not, you can’t depend on us to save your sorry behind anymore. And I’m sure as hell not gonna come back to find my Private dead.”

It wasn’t until the silence hit for at least a good few minutes that Grif’s head stopped reeling.

“I’m technically a Captain now,” he said meekly. Sarge exhaled heavily and began to shrink down to a normal size.

“Does it really matter?” Sarge asked. He sat down on the couch. “There aren’t any ranks on this island. That’s why I couldn’t stay.”

“Because you need action?”

“Because I need purpose.”

It was funny. Only a few seconds ago, Sarge had been so extraordinarily large, literally and metaphorically, but now on the couch he looked so very small and tired. Grif sat down next to him.

“Purpose, huh.” He chewed on it for a second. “I don’t think I know what my purpose is anymore.”

Sarge turned to look at him. “No one does. That’s why you gotta make your own.”

So maybe that was why the Reds and the Blues left. Because on the moon, without someone to fight, someone to save, they felt as small as Sarge looked now. Because they were purposeless, so they needed to find something even if it was as ridiculous as saving Church yet again.

“Ehh, tell you what.” Sarge scratched the back of his neck, as if he were starting to realize how different he was acting. “I left my old hunter’s manual back in my room. It’ll teach you how to set up traps, or find nuts and berries you can eat. And maybe you could make up some maps, or keep track of animals or something. Just, you know. Something to do.”

Grif met his gaze appraisingly, and though he appreciated the kindness his old C.O. was showing him, he couldn’t resist a jab.

“You know that’s what the internet is for, right?”

Sarge hmphed. “Internet. The cheater’s tool! Maybe one of these days I’ll declare war on the internet too!”

“Good luck with that.”

Sarge’s room was about as military-like as he expected. A plain cot, an empty gun rack, a barrel which, Grif assumed, was used to hold ammunition. A packet of cigarettes sat on the desk, next to a small pistol and another object. Grif pocketed the cigarettes and picked up the book.

The hunter’s manual was old and leather-bound, filled with detailed pictures and descriptions, notes in painstaking cursive and more. It was worn, and some pages were falling out. Holding it, Grif could just barely picture a younger Sarge, trekking through the jungle with his shotgun, carefully tracking a deer. He flipped through the pages, pages covered in these illustrations all the way until he reached about two-thirds of the way through.

The rest was blank.

Grif’s stomach rumbled.

He snapped the book shut. Tucked away the pistol. Pulled out a cigarette.

And shut the door behind him.

DAY 56 SINCE THEY LEFT

The nightmares were getting worse every night.

And they were different every night, that was the thing. If they were the same over and over again, maybe Grif would have been able to brace himself for the images to come. Somehow, he could prepare himself, block out the screaming.

But it wasn’t always screaming.

Sometimes it was cursing as his teammates surrounded him in a circle of hatred, stabbing him with insults like they were knives, blaming him for their own deaths, blaming stupid, idiot, lazy Grif for screwing up again.

Sometimes it was cries as his friends and family were being slaughtered right in front of his eyes and there was nothing he could do. Sometimes he was frozen. Lately, he’d been asleep. Again.

Tonight, it was silence.

Never before had he ever heard a silence so empty, so devoid of life and love and meaning, so dark, so… completely… quiet.

He stood alone on the hill overlooking their bases--on the moon--the Gulch--Chorus--Valhalla--as the sun set in front of him.

Waves washed silently on the shore--sand blew across the canyon--the beacon pulsed--the engine whirred--and he reached for the bases, the bases where his friends should have been, smiling or laughing or bickering and so, so alive.

But no one was there.

His own heartbeat throbbed in his ears, the bases flickered--GulchChorusValhallaMoon--and he opened his mouth to shout, to scream, to say anything at all, but he couldn’t even make a sound and all the while…

Silence.

Grif woke up for the nth time clutching at his sheets, drenched in cold sweat.

Light streamed through the cracks of the hammock in which he slept outside (the base was too empty for him to sleep at all) and he shielded his eyes as he slowly unfolded the fabric that surrounded him.

Sunrise never seemed fresher than this cool morning on the moon, as the breeze glided through the rustling trees. The air never smelled cleaner; the salty smell of the ocean, crisper.

He stepped out of the hammock, carefully watching his footing. His armor was strewn on the ground before him, bright against the green grass which had regrown since the RedBlues last set the bases on fire.

An alien creature, a mix between a bird and a dog, lay curled next to the pieces, soaking up the newly-risen sun. Grif had found him one day while hunting, and in the midst of a bout of loneliness, decided to keep him as a pet. He still couldn’t think up a name for him, though he toyed with naming it Simmons just to see the look on his face if he got back, so he just called it ‘it’ or ‘you’ or ‘pet’ or really any word that would indicate he was talking to the half-dog.

His rifle leaned up against the tree next to Pet. Grif, needed to fill his days somehow, had created a routine of cleaning it every morning it.

Cleaning it. Grif. In a routine.

Yeah, the Redblues were sure to get a kick out of that if they came back.

He wasn’t really sure when he stopped saying ‘when’ and started saying ‘if’, but now his life had more important things to do.

“Come on Grif, come on, come on, get up,” he muttered as he fell out of the hammock. He had changed much on his time alone here. His hair now unfurled down to his shoulders. He’s got the stubble of facial that desperately wants to grow in, but doesn’t have the genetics to back it up. He’s considerably leaner and tanner, hunting for food just to eat every day would do that to a person. His body looked like almost a new person.

His mind hasn’t escaped unharmed either.

“Busy today. Busy busy busy. Busy as a bee. Bzzzz. Buzzy bee-body. Busy buzzy beezy bodies.” His armor took exactly sixty-point-zero-two seconds to put on. He knows, he counted every one. His record was forty-five-point-five seconds. “Bees buzz. Flies buzz. No, flies fly. Busy bee bodies busy and fifty flies fly far...far… far away.”

To be fair, there really wasn’t much else to do but talk now.

“Come on, come on, come on, Pet.” He gently pushed the half-dog up. “Lots to do today. Lots and lots and lots of stuff do to.”

They trudged through the wilderness, today like every other day: him gripping his rifle, Pet plodding alongside him. They went through one by one and methodically checked the traps.

Still empty, a relief. Grif had long since forced himself to start eating the small creatures caught in the traps, but he still hated seeing the creature struggle like it did. It still sickened him. But beggars can’t be choosers.

“Nah, who can choose?” Grif laughed as he brushed the leaves back over the rope on the ground. “Cheaters. Cheaters can choose. I’m not a cheater. I’m Grif. I’m not a coward. Well, not all the time. Right Sarge? I’m not a coward all the time. I’m just doin’ my purpose, y’know? Just my purpose.”

“What is your purpose, Grif?” Carolina asked as she stepped quietly next to him.

“Oh hey, Carolina,” he greeted cheerily. He liked Carolina. Cool Carolina. Not-a-coward Carolina. She made him feel strong. “Today it’s to get this damn deer to stop eating my garden.”

“And tomorrow?” Silly Carolina. She’d always do this. Always try to make him think about tomorrow, the tomorrow that might be sad, the tomorrow that didn’t matter to him right now.

“Nah, just today,” he said to her.

“Grif,” she pressed. Together they crouched down behind a bush. “You need to start thinking about a tomorrow.”

“Why?” he asked. “Why do I have to? Why does tomorrow even matter?”

Carolina frowned. “How could it not? Don’t you want to get off of this moon? DOn’t you want to see your friends again?”

“My friends?”

“The Reds and the Blues.”

“Oh. Right.” In the distance, a creature raised its head. Grif shifted slowly to get a better view. “Nah. They’ll come back. I just have to wait.”

“Grif…” He heard her sigh behind him. “What if waiting doesn’t work? What if they’re in trouble and they need you save them?”

He mulled that over, then waved it off. “They’re the Redblues. They’ll be fine. They’ll come back. They’ll come back for me.”

“What happens when they don’t--”

“If!” With sudden force, Grif whirled around. Carolina leaned back in surprise. “It’s ‘if’ now, don’t you know?! If they don’t come back! If they do! ‘If’!”

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I didn’t mean--”

Grif slammed his rifle down angrily, and the deer in the distance, spooked, sprinted away. “Because I see them! In my dreams! They’re sad and hurting and if they don’t come back, then I’ll know the dreams are true and I did nothing! I stayed behind! Like a coward!”

“Grif,” Carolina said, placing her hand on his. “It wouldn’t be your fault. You did what you thought was right--that doesn’t make you a coward.”

He sniffed. “Yes it does.”

“No, it doesn’t. You know why? Because every night you face the darkest dreams and your deepest fears. Anyone else would have gone insane by now, but you face the worst possible outcomes every night. That doesn’t make you a coward. It makes you the opposite.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Carolina… I miss them. But I’m scared to see them again.”

“The Reds and the Blues are your friends,” she told him firmly. Carolina knew what he meant. “Whether they come back or not, they’ll will always love you. Love you. Do you get that?”

No they won’t, Grif thought, but he couldn’t say that to Carolina. Simmons won’t. He won’t forgive me. He couldn’t bear to think of a tomorrow in which Simmons didn’t forgive him. He couldn’t bear to think of a tomorrow in which Simmons didn’t come back.

“I just…” he sniveled. “I just wish I could say sorry to him.”

“Take a deep breath,” Carolina soothed. “And I’ll tell you what. I don’t have something from my room to give you, but I think I saw some volleyballs in the garage.”

Grif looked up at her, eyes wide. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Maybe you can use them to practice saying sorry. You know, for if they come back. You can make things up with Simmons.”

He nodded. “I do miss him a lot too.”

“Alright then, it’s settled.” She stood up and dusted herself off. “I’ll show you where they are.”

In the end, he still got to go in Carolina’s room.

It was pretty and neat. Nothing personal. Just a couple of dog tags resting on a letter from Kimball on the nightstand. The clothes and other objects (typically running gear, that was what she did now) she didn’t take with her were folded neatly in the closet.

But the dresser was different story.

Her dresser was littered with half-full paint tubes and brushes and crayons and markers and pastels and all different art supplies. Paint stains covered the smooth wood finish, and the drawers were crammed shut with papers of all colors and sizes.

Grif took some glittery gold paper and red paints of varying colors and retreated out of the room.

“Thanks for letting me use these,” he said to her, his eager hands clutched with the supplies. “You’re cool, Carolina. I wished I talked to you more before you left. You aren’t that scary after all.”

She laughed, a nice sound, a pretty sound. “Any time. And who knows? Maybe you’ll get another chance soon.”

He smiled and reached for the doorknob, but she stopped him quickly.

“Are you sure? I’m the last one. I won’t be there to talk to you after nightmares anymore.”

“I know,” Grif said. “But I’m not a coward. I think it’s time I take those on myself.”

She frowned then, when she was supposed to smile, supposed to be supportive for him. “You know… you don’t have to take them on all alone.”

“I’m already alone,” he replied, surprising himself a little. “But I’m done talking to ghosts now.” He gestured to the paints. “I’m ready to write the script now.”

Carolina nodded with cool respect in her eyes. Sometimes he didn’t remember that Carolina, cool, nice Carolina used to be a hardass Freelancer. Now, however, he wondered how he could have ever forgotten.

She stepped back and saluted formally. “Good luck, Captain Grif. Make yourself a better tomorrow. And… when I get back, stop by once or twice, okay?”

He nodded. “Okay.” He saluted back.

And shut the door.

DAY ZERO

“Listen Simmons. Shhhh, I got… some things to say. To you. Some things I’ve gotta get off my chest buddy. Buddy? Nah, not buddy. Stupid. Friend? Friend. Fr--no, definitely friend. Anyway, I’ve had a bit of time to think about some things. Lots of time actually. Oodles of time. Oodles of buckets of times of time. Tempo de mucho! Mucho de tempo! Now, listen Simmons. Simmmmmons. Sim--Sim--Cinnamon--ah! Focus Grif!

“Now things ended really bad out there, buddy--no, friend!--and I’ve been thinking. Thinking, thinking, thinking. I need to tell you that I am super duper, I am so incredibly--”

[ostensiblynone]

"BLACK BART."

The Los Angeles Daily Herald, Los Angeles, California, United States Sunday Morning, January 27, 1889.

A Sketch of the Notorious Highwayman.

HIS HABITS AND METHODS.

He is Believed to be at Work Again in California—Badly Wanted

The detectives have been advised to keep a sharp look-out for "Black Bart," the famous stage-robber, who it is believed, has resumed his nefarious calling, and is suspected of being the lone highwayman who has been so successfully stopping stages up North recently. The last daring feat, whereby two stages in Mendocino county were robbed within half an hour by the same man, shows that the individual who is at work is an expert at the business, and throws still further the shadow of suspicion on Bart.

...

Since that date [20th of November] up to the present time there have been several other similar affairs in each of which the business was done by one man, and we have reason to believe that all of the robberies were committed by the notorious C.E. Boles, alias C.E. Bolton, alias Black Bart. Between July 1885, and December 4, 1885, he robbed twenty-eight stages in this State alone. He was released from the State Prison at San Quentin, January 23, 1888; spent two weeks in San Francisco, then went to Modesto, Maders, Merced and Visalia, leaving the latter place on February 28th under the name of "M. Moore."

HIS DESCRIPTION is as follows:—Education, liberal; nativity, New York; age, about 60 years; occupation, mining; height, 5 ft. 8 inches; complexion, light; color of eyes, blue; color of hair, iron-gray; heavy mustache and imperial nearly white; size of foot, No. 6; weight, 160 pounds; size of hat, 7 1/4; does not use tobacco in any form, nor intoxicating liquors, nor opium; he has been troubled with throat disease, and his voice, at times, seems somewhat impaired; is a person of great endurance, a thorough mountaineer and a remarkable walker, and claims that he cannot be excelled in making quick trips over mountains and grades; when reading without glasses, holds paper off at arm's length; is comparatively well educated, a general reader and is well informed on current topics: cool, self-contained, a sententious talker, with waggish tendencies, and during his arrest on several occasions exhibited genuine wit under most trying circumstances; made his headquarters in San Francisco for eight years; made but few close friends, and those of first-class respectability; is neat and tidy in dress, highly respectable in appearance, and extremely proper and polite in behavior, chaste in language, eschews profanity and has never been known to gamble, other than buying pools on horse races and speculating in mining stocks.

A SMOOTH WORKER.

During the time that C.E. Boles was engaged in robbing Wells, Fargo & Co., extending over a period of eight years, he lived in San Francisco at a respectable lodging-house, and reported or gave people to understand that he was engaged in mining—owned a mine, in fact. His brief absences from the city when he would rob a stage were supposed to be necessary visits to his mine, and his daily associates never dreamed of his true character.

[lewiscarrolatemybrain]

I said it in the tags of a previous post but it's too cute and funny to stay hidden there and I'll take any opportunity to spread my Feral Ace Agenda, so:

Ace likes to perch on Whitebeard's shoulders and groom his mustache like a little monkey, and Whitebeard 100% just Lets Him. His 'stache has never been so perfectly neat and tidy! Usually it's a little worse for wear by the end of the day but now a single hair gets rumpled out of place and Ace climbs right on up there to rake his little fingers through like a man on a mission.

(Ace also grooms the other wbp of course, he likes to finger-comb peoples' hair and neaten their clothes and clean their hands and faces for them, but it def looks funniest when he does it to Whitebeard. Marco, who has been fighting for his life against the bird instinct to do exactly that since he was like fifteen, is lowkey kinda jealous even though he is absolutely also welcome to preen Whitebeard if he was willing to put up with his siblings' teasing about it)