#is that not distinctly part of what makes us human?

[mossy-bonez]

Maybe the powers aren’t just based in fear, maybe we just misunderstand them, maybe fear is just the best food and our belief that that is all they are is inherently why they appear that way.

(grabbing your face) do you remember simon fairchild's statement about how he became an avatar. how he fell and the sky embraced him. i think about it all the time. how it would feel to be embraced by the vast. the entity that is about how you are insignificant before the endless void, holding you. the fact that being an avatar of the vast means loving a contradiction: you are insignificant and the entity of the vastness of everything else holds you in its embrace and takes away your mortality.

i wonder if when simon told that one guy enjoy sky blue if the reason he laughed while saying it was because he was sharing his own joy. if in his own way he wasn't being generous, sharing the experience that changed him forever. i wonder if as much as he spreads terror, maybe what he really wanted was to share that experience, and that's why he picked someone who loves sky-diving, someone who was also in love with the sky.

i wonder if that guy who was eaten by the sky isn't out there now, saying the sky held him gently in the huge jaws of endless blue, and he cried with joy as he understood. if what for his mother was a horrible experience that killed her son, for him wasn't the liberation from his mortal life and worries before the realization that we are nothing.

i wonder if simon was afraid, too, before he was in love or while he was in love with it, if he can even distinguish his love for the vast from his fear from it or it's just another facet of his adoration, something he can offer to it, if when he said he loved the sky he meant it like that, like we often love a god, with fear as strong as our adoration.

[omarwolaeth]

thinking 'bout how the lads interact with what the bracelets represent, especially in their decks

[kakushino]

The Queen

Ryomen Sukuna x F! Reader

He never orders you around - rather, he requests.

Tags: slight gore, suggestive, fem reader, true form Sukuna Word count: 1,7k

Masterlist

AN: Fanart used in banner made by the amazing @innaillus - be sure to check out their divine fanart Written as a Secret Santa's gift for @zoyakuna - Merry (early) Christmas! (and pls stop slandering Giyuu, it's causing me undue stress)

There was little to amuse you in your secluded throne room underground. 

Correction - there had been little to amuse you out of your throne room, so you had retreated back into your palace - and even then, was it a palace, when there were no servants, no great halls, no music, and no consort?

Just you - the Supreme Sovereign - and your throne made of roots and vines. 

Which made it odd to hear a sound echo in your chamber. You feared nothing, no one, and your heart remained steady, not a beat out of place, your eyes closed as you rested from lifetimes of exhaustion.

“Who goes there?” you called out, not moving from your reclined position. 

You were it to him, the holy grail of his searching - the Queen of Curses. Your name was feared enough that it had been scratched out from all written sources, the feats accredited to you terrifying… yet thrilling to Sukuna. He had needed to meet you, though he knew not why… A deep hunger for companionship, another who could stand at his level, who could reign with him from his Shrine, a craving so consuming he nearly went mad with his searching. 

And he did find you, though hardly in the condition he thought he would.

“This is what You have become? The cynosure of all mortals reduced to a wretch.” 

The voice was rough, forceful - distinctly male - though the tone held a hint of remorse and confusion. “All beauty is short-lived,” was all you said, a slight irritation churning your stomach for the first time in - decades, centuries, millenia? Who knows?

“Not for curses. We are eternal.” You felt the way cursed energy swirled around him - violent, and intense. It lashed out at your own, but like water parting around a blade, yours did too, accepting and redirecting the angry force, dispersing it, and eventually absorbing it. It was like taking a deep breath of fresh air after being suffocated under the weight of the world, a drop of water quenching a soul-deep thirst in the desert of life.

You opened your eyes and sat up properly as you studied him.

The man - curse - was tall, broad, and regal. A king would be a title befitting his posture. His hair was a light color you could hardly make out in the darkness of your abode. The dark marks adorning his face stood out starkly against his skin, as did the shape of the disfigured flesh on the right side of his face. Four gleaming eyes were focused on you, four arms relaxed at his sides.

This man was fascinating, and beautiful; he could easily sway the hearts of humans, bring them to their knees. Too bad you were not human.

“Join me, your Majesty.” Despite the wording, it was a plea. How odd. 

“Who are you to ask anything of me?” You blinked slowly. You felt the way cursed energy swirled around him - violent, intense, … defensive, lonely. It enticed you, spoke to you in a language you understood all too well. It wasn’t in your nature to deny an honest request.

“Ryomen Sukuna, your Majesty,” he introduced himself. There was a sense of pride in the way he spoke, as if his existence was created, carved out, into the world by his own hands.

Perhaps Ryomen Sukuna would be the cure to your continued boredom. 

You stood up from your throne, your figure hardly atrophied as your cursed energy kept you in peak form. The roots and vines retreated into the cave walls, leaving no trace of your royal seat, the chamber empty again for centuries to come.

“Very well.”

Living with Sukuna was hardly boring. Each day, you felt your apathy falling away as you spent time with the King of Curses, until you smiled freely in his presence. The day you realized he softened you to this degree came all too suddenly.

His cruelty to humans who sought to undermine him was but a flimsy curtain of who he truly was. Like a displeased cat, claws exposed, he scratched up those daring to approach him, but with you -

With you he was as playful and borderline affectionate as the tabby you used to feed back in your human days. It warmed your heart, and your cheeks, to feel his eyes on your figure. It made you feel unsteady on your feet. It made you question who was the ruler of the other, who held the power over the other; the power imbalance slowly became a balance - your energy dimmed by the way he could play you like a puppet.

All these feelings weaved together and knotted around your heart, snaring you in a complex web too tight to escape, exposing your throat to him like a delicacy to be gorged upon.

Only if you let him know, that is.

You somehow felt that a man like him wouldn’t settle, and more importantly, he was a man; just another one of the hordes who wanted a demure consort, you could bet. You were not a dainty flower he likely sought; you were a weed - growing strong despite the harshest of conditions, clawing out a place for your existence where there had been none before. The Curse of Curses.

So you buried those feelings like a female buried herself under layers of junihitoe - though you refused to wear that monstrosity despite the latest fashion in Japan, as all the fabric was too heavy for comfort. You made do with the yukata you stole from Sukuna’s wardrobe. It was definitely not because it smelled like him. 

You kept away from the humans and the ruling in his Shrine, spending time with Uraume, him, or alone in the gardens - until you could not. He’d left you in charge of his Kingdom when he had business to do. 

Human men were deplorable, thinking you were just a weak curse to be manipulated and slandered. You didn’t raise your voice at all, yet it shut everyone up in the hall - save for one local lord thinking himself too mighty to listen. No amount of flattery would have kept him alive after that. A wave of your hand made vines grow out of his guts - burrowing through his flesh as easily as tearing paper apart; sweet-smelling white flowers bloomed from the mess of red-coated plant matter in the middle of the chamber. 

You sat in Sukuna’s throne of bones, regal and untouchable.

That was how he found you - presiding over his subjects like the Goddess you were, and bloody Spring sprouted in front of him, rubies glinting upon the stone floors like a grotesque decoration. 

At first, he had wanted to study you - the Queen of Curses, the Supreme Sovereign, older than him, wiser, more powerful. Forgotten, yet not forgotten enough for him not to find any sources mentioning your title. He had been curious about you, and then he became curious about the feelings you evoked in him. Your presence in his home converted from an adornment into an emollient to him, smoothing the rough edges and softening the spikes of his defenses against you, yet you remained the centerpiece of his attention, even when you weren’t in his presence. He found himself thinking about you in all his waking moments.

“Everyone, out.”

He could not hide his devotion to you if he tried now - it had grown roots in his soul and fed off of his life-force, yet strengthened it twice as much. His heart was set ablaze every time he laid eyes upon your form, the blood in his veins searing hot, branding him from the inside - a slave to you forevermore.

And so he knelt at your feet, the bottom two of his arms supporting him as he leaned forward, his top pair carefully reaching for your foot and raising it to his face.

The King of Curses kissed your ankle, closing his eyes in silent worship to his Goddess, his World. 

“Your Majesty,” he greeted you in a whisper, his lips caressing your skin.

Your eyes grew soft as you studied him, your posture proud but your expression fond. “Sukuna.”

Wet, hot tongue darted out to taste your skin, making you jolt and tear your leg from his grasp with pursed lips. The tabby was particularly impertinent today.

“You have no respect for your Queen, do you?” 

“On the contrary, I hold all the respect for you.” His smirk was mischievous, he knew as well as you did neither of you were serious about this. Just a harmless teasing, if a bit skewed. 

You used your foot to lightly push against his chest to tip him over onto his back - which he let you do, for he could have as easily resisted. Even falling down, he looked graceful. It made you feel warm inside your ribcage as you pushed a joyous smile down.

Sukuna turned the fall into a backwards roll, ending up on his knees again.

“At least you know your place - on your knees before me…”

“I-” he licked his lips, “I would gladly be on my knees for you all day, Your Majesty.”

Oh? It was your turn to give him a smile full of mischief as he slowly moved back to you. You remained silent.

“Has a cat got your tongue?” 

Sukuna shuffled forward on his knees, his top pair of arms resting on the bones of his throne as he came even closer. Palms trailing to your thighs and covering them with his hands - an easy feat with his size. 

You could do naught but marvel at the contrast of your limbs and his - each powerful and deadly in their own right, each in a different way. There was no tremor of fear in your muscles, only anticipation, even while he lightly spread your legs to fit his torso between them as you lounged on his throne.

“Let me feast on your nectar.” His voice, smooth like silk, a plea rather than an order, the nuance of his tone telling all you needed to know. He appeared unreadable to others, but he was as exposed and vulnerable as a newborn babe to you at this moment.

Even so, your lips parted in surprise at his request for you didn’t expect him to say it out loud at last. “Forward, aren’t you?”

His carmine eyes - all four of them - focused on yours with an intensity you were only just getting used to with him. Sukuna said nothing as he waited for your response.

The devil didn’t bargain, after all.

“Very well… Show me how you would worship your Queen, my King.”

dividers by the divine @benkeibear

network: @enchantedforest-network

[thegnomelord]

just read about demon hunter reader and demon ghost cuddling, and the first thing i thought was how ghost would react if, one of these times, reader ends up having a wet dream and dry humping his ass 😋

about time that our demon thinks of getting laid, he's disgusted and turned on at the same time

Sorry this took a while lads :Dd, I'm getting back into writing after all that shit with my school but I got a summer job as an assistant medical worker with 12h shifts every other day so It might take a bit for me to write stuff.

Hush, Hunter

CW:NSFW, MDNI, demon Simon Ghost Riley x male hunter reader, grinding, wet dreams, handjob, blowjob, size difference (demon ghost is like 11 feet tall.)

Your ‘husband’ is strange, even by demon standards.

He grumbles about the inconvenience brought on by your mortal failings and fragility, growling whenever you have to stop at a gas station to buy food or at some dingy motel to sleep. He grumbles even more about being confined in the stolen human skin suit he's forced to wear to blend in.

You can ignore the stranger with the stolen face and hellfire eyes throwing dark glares at you for the most part, except for when the demon decides to make the binding ring around your finger heat up when you spend too long talking to the pretty cashier. And it only takes a few more seconds of not paying heed to the incessant burn before Ghost Simon looms behind you, glaring at the flustered cashier like she’s a fey trying to trick you into the Fey Lord’s court.

And the big bastard never gives you any explanation on why he’s acting like that, just drags you back to your car, slamming the doors closed with enough strength to shake the entire vehicle. He’s like a cat honestly; hisses at you, but doesn’t want to let you out of his sight or claws.

But when your nightmares get so bad your only chance of sleeping is on the floor, well hidden behind the bed with your back flush with the dingy motel wall, Ghost surprises you by laying down with you. Sure he grumbles about the demeaning position - laying like some mongrel dog - but he still does it.

Ghost is on his side, his broad muscular back to you, rough inky scales swallowing all the moonlight that filters through the blinds and turning him into a pitch black wall of muscle. He’s so still you might even think he’s sleeping – you know he’s not; demons aren’t tied to mortal laws, nor are they subject to time’s iron grip, that’s what makes hunting demons so dangerous. The only indication you have that he’s awake is the occasional twitch of his tail and the slight shuffle of his wings when you accidentally get closer to him in your attempt to get a comfortable position.

You flinch when his one wing spreads out and back, but the blanket of black and blood dyed feathers soon eases the tension in your body. Probably too quickly, definitely too quickly, but Ghost doesn’t draw attention to it and neither do you and the night is cold and he is blissfully warm and he stays stock still when you shuffle a bit closer. You're glad he pays no attention to you when you get comfortable against him, barely an inch of space between you two.

His feathers tickle your face, they’re softer than you’d expect a wrath demon to have, fluffy like the down of chicks. His scent invades your nose, rough leather and steel oil and something distinctly demonic you can’t name. . . but it’s strangely comforting.

Laying only an inch or two away from a demon goes against everything you’ve ever been taught. Your nerves should be on a razor’s edge, but instead you’re calm. You don’t know why your fucked up mind finds comfort in the fact a possible threat would need to go through half a ton of murderous wrath demon to get to you. And you don’t want to think about it either, you’ve had far too many sleepless nights for your brain to care how you manage to sleep so long as you do. And the moment you close your eyes, you’re out like a light.

Ghost has gotten used to your nightmares.

Just like his father’s absent love, your nightmares are consistent. He’s almost impressed how such a frail thing like you could hunt the likes of hydras and Hell Dukes when you barely sleep a wink most nights. The longest you’ve gone is a couple of hours of restful sleep before you woke up trying to claw your eyes out. You never talk about it, nor does he, Ghost may be a demon but he knows far too well how the mind can haunt someone.

And Ghost has gotten good at telling apart the individual nightmares by how you squirm in your sleep.

It takes a little longer for the nightmare to start than usual, but he knows you’re neck deep in it when you heart starts it’s frantic drumming in your chest. He ruffles his feathers as your hands grip his sides, your breath fanning over his skin. He thinks it might be the basilisk haunting you this time by the way you press yourself flush with his back, burying your face into the space between his shoulder blades until your nose is flush with his spine, back hunching to further shield your eyes.

Ghost doesn’t, nor will he ever, mention the low happy rumble that escapes him when you snuggle up to him. His feathers fluff up, the scratchy hair of his tail flattening down - about as silk soft as he can make them. It’s little better than throwing pearls before swine, you won’t remember any of this after all, but doing this strangely doesn’t feel as much of a burden as it should.

Usually the low deep purring growling will chase away your nightmares and lull you into a dreamless sleep for a little while, but not this time. You squirm against his back like an eel, muscles tensing to grip his sides until dregs of pain dance along his spine. Your breath fans across his scales, your heart pounding in his ears like that of a rabbit’s caught in a snare. He’s just about ready to turn around and wake you before he feels it—

Your arousal pokes his back, hard like iron.

Only now does he pick up the slight sweetness of arousal in your adrenaline rich scent. “Hm- fuck.” You mumble as you roll your hips to grind your cock against him. “Slow- fuck fuck- slow down.” You breathe out, and Ghost swears this must be another part of his father’s eternal punishment. The sudden thought that your dream is of a sexual nature smites him with all the intensity of his father’s rage.

Who do you think you are, taking his little mercies for granted? Who do you think you are, grinding against him like some mongrel mutt? Who do you think you are holding him as if you are more than the eventual reward for the maggots fervent prayers? Who do you think you are—

“Ghost- Simon. . .” His name, his original name, leaves your lips; it’s the softest he’s ever heard you speak.

“Human.” He seethes and rolls around, pushing the warm feeling –warm like a campfire compared to the blistering pits down below that usually dwell in his chest– out of his mind. “Disgusting.” You’re so small compared to him, your head could easily fit in his rough hand, a momentary lapse in the binding’s protection all that it would take for his flesh rending claws to cleave through your skull. He’s thought about it often, of the look in your eyes as your life fades, of how good your blood would taste, of how nice your shoulder would look with his teeth marks on it. . .

His hand is gentle as he reaches to brush your cheek, like he’s handling glass, rumbling when you lean into the touch. “Wretched thing.” He growls, hand sliding from your cheek to your back and pulling you close. He feels you nuzzle into his wide chest, carefully bullying his thigh between yours, steel hard muscle tensing to give you a good surface to grind on. “Nothing more but a mongrel waste of flesh.” He doesn’t notice how quickly his voice has lost heat, barely above a murmur as he listens to your breathless gasp and watches your back arch.

For someone usually so guarded, you are painfully naked in flesh and soul, responding so wantonly to his touches; from low moans to soft little murmurs of ‘Simon’ and ‘more’ that has him mindlessly rubbing his thigh against your crotch in hopes of getting more of those so painfully human sounds. You moan and nuzzle into his chest, your body like soft clay in his hands now that you’re no longer shackled by the chains of pride and prejudice that your mind conjures around him

You’re like a strange bug to him; a part of him wants to pin you down, to tear you apart with vicious claws and see if there’s anything different in the way your heart beats, in the way your lungs move, in the way you exist — something substantial to show why holding you in his arms doesn’t feel as degrading as it should.

He wonders, briefly, if this is what God saw that made him love Adam so much. Why God did not have the heart to kill Adam for his disobedience.

Greed moves his hands like they’re puppets on strings, flesh rending claws carefully tracing the bumps of old and fresh scars that dot your abdomen — perhaps you aren’t so pathetic, it takes strength to survive this long. Your skin prickles from his touch, your breath fanning over the rough belly scales protecting his front as his hand slowly moves down. He hooks a claw under the band of your underwear and pulls down until your cock springs out right into Ghost’s hand.

Ghost hasn’t seen many cocks before, why would he?, but a low sound comes from his chest at how neatly your cock fits in his hand, how neatly all of you fit against him. And only now does it dawn on him that he doesn’t know how to do this— he’s a wrath demon for fuck’s sake, he understands war and bloodshed like it’s the back of his hand, but this? This is new territory.

Well, he’s never been one to back down when he’s gotten this far.

His hand slowly closes into a fist, just a little loose around you. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t be anything but gentle in the way he strokes you. Your hips move on their own, gentle little rocks to fuck your cock into his fist and he follows along with the motion. It’s a little rough at first, he feels how the dry slide of his hand makes you shiver, but he soon finds a nice pace as your precum eases the glide of flesh on flesh.

He wants to see your face when you moan, but he can’t bring himself to pull you away from his chest when you cling to him so sweetly, your lips mindlessly ghosting over his scales. So he contends himself with coiling his tail around your leg, draping a wing over you so there’s a barrier between you and the rest of the world, so no creature from heaven high or deep below may entertain the thought of taking what’s his.

No good thing lasts for long.

He feels you wake like the first thaw in spring, slow and gradual, eyes fluttering open, mind still clouded with pleasure to really understand the position you’re in. He takes advantage of that, gripping your hip to keep you close, swirling his tumb in the precum beading at your head and squeezing his hand just right to coerce a breathless moan from your chest.

Then your eyes snap open, realisation hitting you with the same intensity as the punch you throw at his skull. But the ‘marriage’ turns that show of force into a gentle caress of the skull cheek of his ‘face’. “Ghost what the fuck are you-” You begin, cut off as another clench of his hand has you gripping his forearm and biting your lip to silence yourself. 

“Oh hush hunter.” Ghost rumbles low in his throat, his wing tensing behind your back to bring you in closer, soft blood dyed feathers encasing you in a cocoon of warmth against his cool belly scales. “No need to wake the other worms.” Disdain and mockery drip from his voice like molasses, yet strangely it doesn’t feel aimed at you. . . it must just be the pleasure making you believe that.

“You- bastard!” You snarl, trying to summon the hunter savagery that had been meticulously beaten into you, but it slumbers like a fat cat. “Fuck off- get away from me.” You aim to slam your fist against his scaled abdomen, just a little lower and to the side where the floating ribs should be, but all you manage is a slow caress of his side and back up his chest where you can feel his eternal soul burning beneath the flesh.

He laughs and slides his hand down, rolling your balls in his wide hand and squeezing just enough to be at the edge of pain– shit, that should not feel so good. You hiss and throw your head back despite the inherent danger of exposing your throat. He tilts his head down, ghostly breath washing over your ear, “We both know if you wanted this to stop you would have done so.” Oh, now you can just feel the mockery in his voice, sweet like honey that it is.

Some petulant part of you thinks of arguing, anything to retain what remains of your damn pride, but then he slides his hand back up, pressing your cock against your stomach and grinding the palm of his hand against your shaft and all the thoughts of arguing are pushed to the side by the tide of pleasure. Fuck, it’s been far too long since you ‘took care’ of things, it’s not like you have much time to wank off, let alone with Ghost hanging over your shoulder like some grim reaper. And hell, if any other hunter heard you let a damn demon jack you off, yours would be the next head put on the stake but. . . but Ghost is surprisingly gentle with you, not a single hint of pain coming from his touches, not even from his claws gently running down your side.

“Fine-” You suck in a sharp breath, head fixed to stare directly at his chest. “Make it quick.”

You feel him smirk against your ear, “As you wish, hunter.” He laughs lowly, like you’re nothing but a cute puppy chewing on his shoelaces, “Though, you should thank me for debasing myself like this.” He growls, and with a sharp move of his wing he rolls you on your back. 

You gasp as your back hits the sleeping mat, and before you can even struggle Ghost looms over you, a wall of muscle and dark scaled flesh. “Fuck no.” You growl, some scraps of pride still clinging to your mind, though even those are threatened when his broad hand returns to stroking your cock, faster this time, the drag of his palm making pleasure sizzle up your spine. Your head rolls back to rest on the mat and you don’t even notice when you close your eyes. You’re not sure how Ghost is so good at this, something sharp like jealousy curling in your stomach at the thought of him doing this to someone else. But it’s hard to think when you can feel and hear him purring, his claws gently tracing your stomach and leaving lingering heat everywhere they touch.

You jump as something slick brushes over your balls, “Look, good hunter.” He growls and you listen without thought, eyes wide when you see his tongue— it extends from the darkness of his head just beneath the rotten upper teeth of his skull, long, black, thick strings of oil coloured spit dripping off his tongue. “That’s better,” He purrs; you’re not sure how he can talk, and you’re unable to ask because he leans in closer until your cock rests against his skull, his hellfire eyes burning in the darkness and giving just enough light for you to see his long black tongue curl around your base like a snake. 

Shit– he wants to kill you.

“Holy fuck Ghost-” You breathe out, lungs burning before you remember how to breathe. His tongue moves, squeezing your base and sliding lower to lap at your balls. You’re forced to bite your finger to stop the painfully pathetic sound burning on your tongue.

He stops moving and you’re thankful he doesn’t mention the whine that slips past your lips. “Simon.” He demands, oily spit clinging to your skin and making it tingle with heat.

“Simon.” You nod along dumbly, “Fuck- Simon.”

“Good.” You imagine he’s smiling when he says that, his hand returning to stroke your cock in reward. “Call me that again.” He says, a purr rumbling in his chest and you can’t help but moan at how the vibrations travel through his tongue, making it act like a vibrating toy.

Your hands fly to grip his horns, the pleasure making you throw your head back yet you try to keep your eyes on him, hiccuping his name between harsh breaths. He doesn’t mind the touch on his horns, leaning into the touch before flicking his tongue at your taint. He rewards you for each time you say his old name, tongue and hand working in tandem to slowly and steadily march you towards release. 

You try to tug on his horns to warn him, or maybe to pull him away, but he pays no heed; he doubles his efforts, wetly slurping at your balls and base while his hand toys with your crown, his free hand holding your hips down so all you can do is weather the pleasure until you’re finally pulled under the waves. “Simon-” You gasp, cum spurting all over his hand and your stomach. 

You watch through lidded eyes as he retracts his hand, keeping his gaze on you as he lazily licks up your cum from his hand. “Better than I expected.” He rumbles, more to himself than you, leaning up to drag his long slimy tongue across your stomach to gather up all your cum.

 Shit, that sight got you hard again before you could even soften.

You’re not sure if the greed you see spark in his eyes makes you scared or even harder, but you’re not left any room to think further about it before his tongue wraps around your cock again.

Unfortunately for you, demons have no concept of time as mortals know it, so his ‘quick’ ends up being the entire rest of the night. At one point you get to the point you’re sure Ghost is trying to kill you with all the pleasure, spit polishing your cock until he’s satisfied and by that point the sun is rising and your voice is hoarse.

You can’t meet the gaze of the motel receptionist in the morning, but Ghost Simon, looks smug like the cat who ate the canary.

[choas232]

G/N Chatty reader x Steb 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

Summary: In which you grapple with feelings you don’t yet understand by talking a certain enforcer’s ears off. Forced proximity makes everything worse, as it tends to.

CWs: Profanity. Canon typical violence. Reader has some bias about Zaunites they probably need to work on. I wrote most of this at 10pm at night, so be warned.

No use of Y/N, neutral terms and they/them are used to refer the reader. Set in episode three, season 2.

Word count: 2.9k

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝

“God. I’m starving. And tired. I barely slept at allllll last night. Do you think the Grey’s keeping us awake? Our glorious leader Kiramman sure wants it to, dragging us along at this cracking speed. It’s been a whole week, too. I’m gonna drop dead, at this rate.” You lament. Your fellow enforcer does not comment from his place behind you, his footsteps echoing around the pipe.

Graffiti crowds the metal surface, amateur artworks, declarations of love, violence, and scripts you don’t recognise cramming themselves over one another, space sparse and sought after. It’s not Jinx’s work. Still, there’s a chill on your back you choose to attribute to the profanities.

The people of the underground sure know how to decorate, that’s for sure.

You two have been chosen to scout out a fairly low-danger area in search of a Zuanite’s sighting of Jinx. He did say it after a hefty heaping of Grey was funnelled into his lungs and a gun was held to his head, but Caitlyn is paranoid enough to bark at shadows, and you will oblige, if only to keep her happy.

It’s not like any of you are much better. Loris is quieter than ever, Maddie jumps at the smallest sounds and of your companion… you have no idea. You never have. Steb’s inner workings remain a mystery to you.

You turn. “Are we there yet? We should be there soon, right?” Steb nods distantly, more focused on the setting around you.

This part of the pipes is yet to be flooded with grey, so you can see him clearly without the obscuring mask.

His light teal skin, thin lips, nose, sharp, angular features. His neat uniform. His polished posture. He is distinctly and utterly out of place amongst the chaos that surrounds you. His eyes are so blue. So opalescent, shining like pearls in his eye sockets. Is that weird to notice? How much detail is it normal to notice about someone? You should probably stop looking.

His ribbed ears flick back, ever so slightly, eyes flicking to meet yours for a brief moment.

You look away. “Uh.” His eyes. His blue eyes. Blue. “God. I’m sooo hungry. Hah. I haven’t eaten since this morning. The rations are running out, and all the Zaunite stuff Vi is bringing in is uhm, questionable.”

You don’t look behind you again, your mouth moving quicker. Your breath is tight, probably because of the steady stream of words flowing from your mouth. You think. “I would kill for a good sandwich. Or two. I might have to resort to cannibalism—”

Hands enclose around your collar and yank you back with force.

Below you, a human sized-hole lined with rusted, broken metal grating, a slowly, ever spinning fan—

Your heart staggers in your chest like a drunkard. Images of your empaled, scraped, body twisted and pressed beyond recognition cram into your skull, rattle and scream.

“Fuck.” You mumble, quietly. Steb’s hand releases your collar. “C-close one. Thanks. Fish-sticks. How didn’t I see that?” You laugh. He doesn’t. It isn’t funny.

He brushes the shoulder pads of your uniform off, carefully but hastily looking you up and down. He keeps a respectable distance between you, but you can still see his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. You mimic him. Your mouth feels dry.

He fixes you with a look as his hands drop to his sides, and although his face usually retains some semblance of ambiguity on it, you know exactly what he’s thinking. Watch where you’re going.

“Sorry doc. I…” You trail off. You should stop talking. You probably talk so much around him because he makes you nervous. Why does he make you nervous? Your usual slamming of thoughts trickles dry. You have no idea.

Carefully, you two traverse over the great gaping hole in the pipework. How did you miss it? You don’t sure don’t miss how Steb watches you hawk-like though, and the following guilt is low and prickling in your gut. He goes first, and every small unprompted movement of yours has him stiffening, arm moving to steady you.

“Jeez. Don’t mother hen me, I’m all grown-up, I assure you.” You bat him away, landing with a clang! of the metal against your boots as you leap across the last segment. His frown is resounding.

A corner stretches before you, now. You let him go first with a swing of your arm just in case the metal of the pipe opens up to attempt to swallow you yet again. “All yours,” He obliges.

It’s an open space. Milky green light filters through the roofing, painting the graffiti stained flooring monochromatic and hazy. Two other pipes adjoin to the room, and a mural of Janna clad in white laced with metallic armour bounds over the walls. It looks exactly like what was described, which is worrying, because hey, Jinx!

The sniffling child is even more worrying, though. Looking up, she brushes away dark locks  from her face and bursts into prompt tears. “Please, m-my-my… my leg. it really hurts.” She wails.

Sure enough, one of her legs is crushed under a slab of tin, making itself known as the cause of the light filtering through the roof. “Please. Please.” Snot dribbles down onto her ragged shirt, her big brown eyes blown wide.

Steb is already gone before you can access the situation, bounding over.

Poor kid. You wince, tapping your fingers against your lips. Probably just playing with the ball you see perched nearby when shoddy craftmanship led to tragedy. Still… “Jeez. Think to consider a trap? No? Just me.” You mutter.

“Just you.” The voice from behind you amusedly whispers, and then you feel the cool rim of the gun pressed against your skull.

Fear makes a mockery out of you. Your thoughts accelerate, snapping at each others heels, but you cannot think. You aren’t really the brawlers of the team. He’s the field medic, for fuck’s sake, and while you can handle yourself in a fight this is more of a Vi job. You regret mocking her cuisine choices. This is probably some kind of sick karma. Sick? You feel sick. God, your stomach is writhing, your insides eating each other up.

Steb, still blinded by his tunnel vision, hauls the tin off of the girl. His ears flick down as he peers down at the clean space beneath, clean of blood and gore. Her leg, unblemished and by all means healthy looking, curls back into her body, and then she bursts outwards like a spring, down the nearest tunnel.

Too late, he looks back at you.

“I’m sure they require you topsiders to rattle a few braincells together to wear that fancy uniform. They don’t need allll of them, do they?” The man holding the gun to your head calls out to him. Flesh drips from his arms, lanky and lean, pressing against your neck as he holds you into him. You smell the shimmer on his breath before you see his blood lined eyes.

Steb jerks forwards. Bruisingly, the gun slams into your skull. “Move and their brains go BOOM! Hands in the air. Now.” He snarls, and Steb freezes in place, slowly raising his hands. You can see him breathing, hard, heaving breaths.

More people clamour their way out of vents, behind slabs of wood. You count at least four. Shit.

Shit.

This is bad.

“Woah! Talk about dramatics, huh?” You start, and almost in shock, the man holding you to himself grip loosens. From Steb’s place, you can see the wrinkle that lines his mouth when he gets stressed creep into existence. (That’s normal to remember. You should know when your coworkers get stressed. Part of the job, and all.) He slowly shakes his head. You mouth, trust me. He shakes his head harder. “Maybe we should talk this out? Civilly, tea and biscuits? …No?”

“It stopped being civil when you went for one of mine.”

Of course that guy you beat the shit out of gave you the location of an ambush. He was all too eager to speak, and when you go poking your hand down foxholes, it’s going to get bitten off. You feel both incredibly stupid and incredibly self-satisfied, you knew it, and you went here anyways.

“One of yours? I mean, we probably didn’t mean to? It was probably a mistake—” he shoves the gun down your throat. Spittle drips down the barrel. You taste dirt and gunpowder. You taste the blood leaking from your tongue.

You taste fear.

“Well? Your bag.” He gestures loosely to Steb.

Steb locks eyes with you as he gently tugs the straps off of his back, letting the hefty bag land to the floor with a thump. Carefully, he steps back, raising his hands in the air once again.

One of the hovering goons quickly snatches it, tugging it open. Medical supplies, bottles, all-the-like clatter the ground, but she continues shifting through hastily, eyes slowly narrowing. The last of our food supplies…, you mournfully think, quickly followed by Caitlyn is going to kill us, and she’s probably right to.

“You told us there would be hex tech, you fucking liar.” She drops the bag carelessly, starting towards the man holding you. “Well, do you think I’m some sort of prophet? You knew that it was an estimate.” He snaps back, grip on you loosening, the gun shifting out of your mouth to point towards the soft flesh of your cheek, spreading out your blood clouded spit as it does.

“I think you set us the hell up. You promised we’d split the money, but where’s the money now, huh? I gotta family to feed, hired work is dropping like flies with the chem barons at each other’s throats, which means I missed on any number of begging clients for this shit.”

You get an idea.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

It’s a terrible idea.

Steb tears his gaze from the arguing pair to meet your eyes, perhaps on some precognition of the mistake you are about to make.

You wink, grab the gun pressed to your cheek and then you yank.

It comes as cleanly as expected, the man’s adrenaline rattled, drug loosened reflexes nothing for the shock you give him when you take the gun from his hands, and than run. Surprise gives you the upper hand, yells clouding your soundscape. You still manage to pick out Steb’s footsteps, clean and even behind you as you barrel down the nearest pipe.

You run harder than you’ve ever run, past graffiti, with only your breath, the calls behind you, your heartbeat and the echoes of his and your boots slamming against metal to guide you.

You turn the corner so hard you slam your side against it, feeling your already bruised cheek cry out in pain in time with your yelp, and you stumble. Steb catches your shirt and yanks you right back up, and then you’re in another wide-open space.

Your head swings around, fear hammering around your ribcage like a desperate songbird.

Steb grabs your shoulder, gesturing with his head. You follow his gaze. There’s a smaller pipe in the wall, covered by a draping of torn fabric, and you rush towards it before you have any time to think, the fabric draping over your hair, the surface cool under your fingers.

He follows, your pursuer yells barrelling into your ears as the curtain draws shut.

The space is tight, circular, not even big enough for you to stretch out an arm and not brush the opposite end. Your back is pressed flush against the concrete and plaster. Your legs cage Steb, as do his, looping over one each other, his knee bent at an angle that’s for sure going to hurt later. His arms clutch the walls of the tube, yours resting bent in your lap.

He leans down, and his fingers gently grasp that stupid beret of his and tug it down onto his lap, before he pulls his head back up, his head scraping the roof. He’s a least a head taller than Maddie, and although you’d like to think of yourself as average, you are now grateful for the height you lack.

“OVER HERE!” Did they see you? Is this it? What can you do, two against at least five or so. You mean, counting has never really been your strong suit under pressure, and who’s to tell? Are you going to die? Are you going to die, your legs pressed into his midriff?

The gold smattering across Steb’s undereyes and nose adjoins with the darker turquoise scales lining the cavities his eyeballs are strung into, carving out little gold, blue, orange stripes, like the ones on the fish you and your parents used to gawk at the aquariums had.

Are they going to cart out your body to your parents, after your fellow enforcers find you, crammed into a hole in the underground? What would you had died for?

His eyes are so blue.

He blinks, smooth, deep lapis overtaking the gleaming surface of his eyes before his eyelids do. He has a second eyelid. How did you never notice?

His lips, perpetually downturned as they are, his steady line his eyebrows carve themselves into, his perfect posture, even as you are cramped within the pipe, the smooth, angular frame of his cheekbones all of it make him look like one of those forever uninconvenienced paintings the councillors hang from their mansion walls. He looks calm. His stupid snooty resting face cannot fool you. You know he isn’t.

His lips are parted, the gap between his front teeth visible as he stares down the opening of the tunnel like a loyal family dog. His little giveaway.

Maybe his inner workings aren’t such a mystery, after all.

He makes you nervous. He makes you so nervous. He makes you into a wreck.

You think you might be in love with him.

—and your pursuers are rushing past you, all until you can’t hear their voices and you’re alive. You’re alive and you’ve never been so happy to tomorrow eat shitty Zaunite food and have Caitlyn yell at you for loosing supplies and talk and talk and talk until your throat is raw.

You don’t. Talk. You don’t talk.

He’s looking at you.

You feel like a fool.

You sit there, just looking at him too. His eyelids slip halfway, letting you count the short lashes that frame them. His expression relaxes, loosens, ever so slightly, his arms moving from the wall of the tunnel to his lap.

You could sit here with him for hours, death inches from you both, and you could be happy. You could be suspended in disbelief and plausible deniability; you could allow yourself to lie. Your heart is pounding from the adrenaline, of course. Your face is pink because of overexertion, and you kind of want to kiss him because you’ve never kissed anybody and you may as well as get it over with before you die, right?

He points to his face. You blink, and then he points to yours. You brush your finger cheeks against the flesh and feel the sting of injury, spittle and blood on your fingers. Right.

Right. He’s looking at you because you’re injured right?

Of course he is. (Disappoint is still food, and you swallow it.)

Gently, he reaches into his breast pocket, pulling out a handkerchief. Instead of sparring you and handing it to you, he merely carefully holds your head, one hand on your jaw and the other gently patting down the mess on your cheek. His head is tilted. You feel your heart slam up your throat, a throbbing, horrible pain that lets you part your lips to let the breath escape you before it can choke you.

The hand cradling your jaw moves a careful finger up to brush your lower lip.

Accident, of course. He’s not even looking at them, rather, the mess, taking his sweet time as he does, so very gentle.

You think he might be the danger, not the hell that is the pipework, nor the Grey, nor not the man with the gun

He pulls back, tucking the handkerchief back into the pocket and shallowly inclining his head towards the opening.

With a long look back at you, he crawls out of the hole first. You follow, dizzily. Ever the gentlemen, he offers you a hand as you push your way out of the hell that made you. You take it and feel incredibly guilty for doing so, stumbling to your feet.

He fastens his beret, usually a sign from you to inwardly (or outwardly) mock his silly hat, still watching you. You do not, in fact, mock him. You might be shaking, in fact, and that thought makes you hate yourself more than you could ever despise that ugly navy piece of fabric.

He frowns, and then he gestures to your mouth. You flinch without meaning too. “Huh?”

He mimes speaking, shallowly opening and then hastily closing his mouth

He's right to be concerned.

You haven’t spoken since you two trapped yourselves in the tunnel, after all.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝

Notes: Thank you for reading!! :)))) STUPID. IDIOTS IN LOVE. Him under the guise of medical assistance letting himself touch you... bro isn't slick whatsoever. If you have any ideas, be sure to drop them in my ask box, there is lack of fic on him holy hell. As a side note, we all need the comfort after season two part two holy cow…

[novantinuum]

Fandom: Steven Universe Rating: Gen Words: 2.8K~ Summary: Not too long after making peace with Homeworld and sparking the start of Era 3, Steven wakes up one morning to discover some... notable changes about himself.

AKA: The one where Steven finally hits his growth-spurt. All at once. Because of course the half-Gem kid could never experience such a human thing like puberty in a "normal" way.

[Part 1 of 2]

Just a few seconds later, knuckles rap against the door in answer to his perturbed cry. 

“Yo Steve-o, that you in there?” Amethyst calls. 

“Y-yeah?” he stammers. His brows threading inwards, he delicately runs his fingers over the ridge upon his throat, very much thrown off by the distinctly lower tenor of the sound coming from his own mouth. He swallows hard, pushing himself to speak again. Come on Steven, he berates himself, think of something lighthearted. This doesn’t have to be a bad thing. No need to completely freak out over this yet. “Who else would I be? It’s not like the whole town uses this bathroom…”

“I mean, I do sometimes. For fun.”

“Okay, fair point, but—”

“Dude, what’s wrong with your voice? Are you like, sick or somethin’?“

“No, it’s just—” 

He squeezes his eyes shut, blocking out all the nebulous, spinning distractions of his mind and the world beyond. Deep breath. It’s okay. Tons of things about his form may be entirely different right now, but like… he seems fine. Right?? Nothing about his body feels tangibly wrong like it did when he willfully stretched himself out on his 14th birthday, or when he changed all his fingers into cats, or when he lost all control of his aging and morphed into an anciently old man and almost died, it’s just… 

New.

New and wholly unfamiliar.

So what now? How can he bravely move forward with all this? What does he need to know? 

“Have, uh… have you ever shapeshifted by accident in your sleep?”

“Not that I‘m aware of,” she says, and he can practically hear the shrug in her tone. “Shapeshifting is a conscious thing you do. It’s a choice, y’know? It doesn’t just happen.”

A good long moment passes as he drinks this information in. He runs his hand through the short curls at the back of his neck as he stands there in the pair of too-small banana yellow pajamas he fit in just fine last night, musing.

“Huh… I guess that makes things pretty simple, then.”

“What d’ya’—”

“Amethyst, I think I’m finally older,” he says, still absolutely mystified by this prospect as he gawks at himself in the mirror. 

She gives a fond laugh. “Ch’a, right? You get older everyday, bud. Wild.”

“No, I mean I’m actually, physically older! Look!”

Steven whirls around and swings the bathroom door wide open to show her. Amethyst’s jaw drops.

“Whoa—! Dude!”

Chuckling nervously, he steps a few feet out, wriggling his bare toes against the wood floor. “I know, right?”

“What the heck, you weren’t kidding!” Before he can even move to say anything else, she spins on her heels and cups her mouth with her hands, hollering towards the temple door. “HEY, PEARL! GARNET! You gotta get out here and see this!”

His brows shoot towards his hairline, his heart hammering in his chest all the while at the thought of all the dumb show-and-tell he’s gonna have to deal with now. “Aww, come on, did you really have to—”

“Amethyst!” Pearl cries, scrambling through the still opening gap in the doorway with Garnet striding mere steps behind. She summons her spear from her gem and swings it to fighting stance with an artful flourish. “What happened? Where’s the threat? What do you need us for??”

Steven darts towards them, hands held up in a placating plea.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! There’s no danger! We’re fine. I just—”

“Oh, my stars—!” she gasps, allowing her spear to dissipate in a glittery flicker of light. “You’ve grown!”

“Nice look, Steven,” Garnet nods, a supportive smile gracing her lips.

“And you’re sure this is real this time? You’re not—?”

“No, no, I’m not stretching myself out, I promise. I just woke up like this.”

“B-but—” Pearl taps her fingers against her chin, appearing thoroughly puzzled— “I thought humans were supposed to age gradually, not all at once.”

Steven’s shoulders slump. “Well… that’s what I assumed too, but—”

“Come, sit with me,” Garnet says, walking around the warp pad to enter the living room. She sets herself down on the couch, patting the cushion in open invitation.

With a heavy, far too weary for his age sigh, Steven shoves his hands in the pockets of his too-small banana pajamas and plods his way over. The rest of the Gems follow suit. He settles himself right next to Garnet, with Pearl perched opposite to her and Amethyst happily lounging on the floor, leaning on the coffee table with her elbows. 

“Steven’s aging hasn’t aligned with the norms of humanity for a very long time,” she observes, a glint of morning sun that’s beaming through the window catching on the edge on the edge of her star shaped visor. Then, turning to him: “I’m curious why you think this is.”

He hums, considering all the chaotic happenings of the past few years. Despite the rare query she poses, he gets the sense that… in her vast wisdom… she already knows the answer. Or at least, a small sum of it. It should be noted that her future vision— as far-reaching as it otherwise is with the vast possibilities of existence— can’t ever touch any knowledge that she won’t be conscious for or present to receive, let alone retroactively scry into the past.

(And honestly? Thank goodness for that.)

“I’m not sure,” he says, a half-lie.

He can think of one reason he might’ve started aging again. Though, it’s not something he’s ready to talk to the Gems about yet. It’s… far too delicate a topic to risk bringing up so soon after the start of peaceful Era 3. But after spending a whole childhood being constantly compared to and mistaken as various versions of his mom… let’s just say, having his gem torn from his body and getting to see it reform into a version of himself (and not her) was simultaneously the worst and the best thing that could’ve ever happened to him. While undeniably traumatic, this experience served as the ultimate proof that he doesn’t have to waste another second of his existence chewing away at some burgeoning identity crisis, that he can live his life however he wants. As Steven. Not as Rose, or Pink Diamond, just… Steven.

He’s not exactly sure how all this mental weirdness translates into him staying stuck looking like a little kid for like… six or so years, but after he returned home from his latest escapade on Homeworld, he could sense that— despite all the messed up stuff he and Connie went through— his spirit was lighter, somehow.

So maybe, he thinks, he simply had to peel away at all the damaged layers of his identity to ready himself to move on to the next stage of his life. Maybe he had to stare death in the eye and pass through the heart of the storm in spite of all these hardships before he could piece the foundational truths of his story back together and learn to finally live again.

To start shifting his hopeful gaze towards the dawn of their bright, sunny future…

“I mean, I always kinda thought he stopped aging because we never did,” Amethyst says then, laying her cheek on the table. “Like, it happened around the time you moved in with us, yeah?”

He purses his lips, scanning his memory. “Uh… I think so? It might have been a year before. Two, even. But I was definitely hanging out with y’all a lot by then.”

She leans over and playfully slugs him in the arm.

“See, there you go! You always wanted to be just like us when you were a kid, so much that you even wore that same ol’ star shirt every day to match ours, ha! You must’ve wanted to be a Gem so badly that you subconsciously stopped becoming older at all.”

“That’s actually a pretty solid theory, Amethyst,” Pearl chimes in. “Good thinking!”

“We have seen you shift your form in response to your perception of others around you,” Garnet says with a nod. “This has caused you to temporarily age and shapeshift in the past, but for you to age in a stable way now, your perception of self must have stabilized, too. I’m very happy for you, Steven.”

She tousles his mess of curls with her gold ringed hand, a welcome little offering of affection that he eagerly leans into.

And then, out of nowhere, Amethyst starts cackling.

“Dude,” she blurts out between her peels of laughter, nudging his foot with her elbow, “I just realized— Greg’s gonna totally lose his shit when he sees this…”

Pearl’s expression scrunches inwards with prickly displeasure. “Language!” 

“What, it’s true!”

He waves Amethyst’s comment off. “Pshhh, my dad’s seen way weirder,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Like, did I ever tell y’guys how the cat fingers incident ended?”

“No!” the quartz exclaims with intensive fervor, and leans forward in anticipation. “Gimme the juicy deets, m’man!”

Garnet adjusts her visor then, her features falling into a dutiful line. “Speaking of Greg… story time can wait until later. Steven— if you want to see your father this morning, you need to head over there now… or there’s a good chance he’ll fall back asleep until one and you’ll miss your window.”

Amethyst’s lips fall into a pout as she slumps back against the foot of the couch, her arms crossed. “Awww, phooey. Spoil sport.”

He swallows a grimace as he internalizes Garnet’s prediction. Yeah, that sounds about right. That’s become a bad habit for his old man lately, staying up super late and then sleeping in almost half the day on weekends. Ever since he received that ten million dollar residues check it’s nothing that can hinder his financials anymore, thank goodness, but then again…

“Yeah… I should probably go make sure he wakes up,” he mutters, pushing his tired body off his seat. “I’ll need his help finding new clothes, anyways.”

The second he’s up and moving again, Amethyst darts around him and snatches his spot with such swift and viscous drive that one might believe this ploy were her sole quest and purpose in life. She stretches out against the seat back with a big, dramatic yawn, crossing her arms behind her head as she speaks. 

“It’s too bad you can’t just… I dunno… summon whatever clothes you want out of light, like us. That’s like the biggest bummer of humanity, if you ask me.”

“And when do you ever experiment with your outfit enough to have a strong opinion about this?” Pearl prods, crossing her arms. “It took you almost a decade to fix that asymmetrical shoulder strap.”

“Well, P… I like to think of myself as a Gem who would experiment with my outfit. One day. If I’m ever really, really bored. Consider it an Era 3 aspiration.”

Steven rocks back and forth on his heels, absentmindedly fiddling with the fraying bottom hem of his pajama top.

“Okay, uh… well, I’m gonna dress to leave now, so—”

“Yeah, see ‘ya.”

“Send a text if you need anything!” Pearl says with a casual wave.

“And don’t forget…” Garnet begins, the ellipses in her tone practically visible with the naked eye.

He pauses in his dutiful march to the stairs— (a somewhat unsteady march… as it turns out, shooting up about a foot and a half in height overnight tends to impact one’s sense of balance for the worst, go figure)— turning back to intercept whatever life advice or future vision she’s prepared for him this time. 

She grins, flashing him a quick heart with her hands instead. “We love you!”

~~

Steven trudges across the hot sands to his dad’s car wash sans his favorite flip flops, trying his very darnedest to wipe away the developing grimace on his face all the while. 

A small segment of him felt overjoyed when he first saw his reflection this morning, eager to look his age and finally grow up alongside his human friends. But after struggling to find anything that fits him even halfway right in his wardrobe, his good mood has rapidly spoiled. There’s a decent few reasons for this.

Reason number one: his old sandals are at least two sizes too small. His heels stick out over the end now, and the plastic thong digs into his toes something terrible. He literally can’t wear them without giving himself blisters. Ergo, his bare feet right now. 

Reason number two: none of his jeans sit right around the waist anymore, plus they make him look like he’s waiting for a flood. (Though thankfully, he found a stretchy blue skirt buried in one of his drawers that will do the trick for now.) 

And perhaps worst of all… reason number three: with his newly increased height, every single one of his treasured star shirts have been turned into ill-fitting crop tops, putting his gem on full display. He’s not against the concept of a crop top, but it sure ain’t a look he’s passionate about for everyday wear. It just feels… too exposing. Like, what about winter?? He can’t bear his whole midriff in winter, he’d freeze, and like… get hypothermia, or something. And not only that, but the longer he’s awake this morning the more an inescapable, thrumming ache starts to settle within the deepest core of his body, like even his bones themselves— the stubborn things— dare to object to this abrupt growth spurt.

Just… ugh. What an annoying hassle all these changes bring.  

“Stupid shirt,” he grouses, tugging at the too-tight collar, “stupid sandals, stupid Gem puberty! Why, oh why can’t I ever go through human stuff normally?”

His bare foot catches upon a sizable stone hidden amongst the beach. On any other day he would’ve successfully broken his fall, stumbling forwards a few awkward steps before regaining his balance and continuing on his way. But with his body now so different, and his center of gravity entirely off from what he’s used to, he head plants straight into the ground.

Wow, he thinks, spitting sand out of his mouth and pushing himself back to his feet. How elegant. Truly the shining paragon of coordination and grace.

Thank goodness no one was watching. Next time he’ll just have to remember to float.

He arrives at his dad’s van with no further incident. The rear doors are— following Garnet’s prediction- cracked open. Dad’s awake, at least for now.

“Daaaaaaaad,” he hollers, cupping his hands around his mouth to project. “A really, really weird thing happened, and I kinda need your help!”

A few spare seconds pass, seconds filled with the rustles of shifting blankets, the sound of a book being shut closed, and his dad’s low murmurs. The doors swing wide, though not as wide as Dad’s eyes when they wander around their bright, sunny surroundings and eventually land square on him and his new look.

“Wh— Steven, holy smokes! Look at you!”

With an awkward chuckle, he scratches away at an itch at the nape of his neck. “Heh heh, I know, right?”

“You’re almost as tall as your old man! When did this happen? How did this happen?”

“Some point last night, I guess,” he shrugs. “I just woke up like this. But Dad—” he clings onto his arm with mounting desperation— “I need your help to find some new shirts. Don’t you have like… whole boxes of your old tour merch stashed away somewhere? I don’t wanna have to get rid of my star, I just— I just need a bigger size, or something.”

“Hmmm…” Dad muses, scratching at the scruff of his beard. “Well, maybe, but…”

“But what?”

“But if any of it’s still around, then it’s probably in Amethyst’s room. All of the stuff from the storage unit ended up with her, remember?”

“Oh…” he says, brows furrowed, not quite able to parse this fact within his memory yet. And then… 

Ugh. That’s right.

Two New Years’ ago. The huge mess of crates and mattresses and long forgotten belongings. All that ridiculous Little Butler nonsense. Amethyst’s fight with Dad.

“Oh,” he mumbles, crossing his arms. “Right. Well, then let’s go find it!”

“R- right now?”

“Yeah, why not? I need new clothes, and you could see if there’s any old junk in there you might want to keep!”

With that, he grabs his dad’s hand and yanks him along, spirit filled with renewed purpose and vigor.

“And you’re sure you need my help for this?” Dad asks, lagging a step or two behind him as they march back across the beach together. “The Gems, they… well, they don’t usually want me going into the temple—”

“Oh, Amethyst will be fine,” he says with a wave of his palm. “She never cares when I go in there to check out her trash piles. ‘Sides, I need your help to find the right box! I have no idea what your old band stuff was stashed in.”

His dad flashes a tight smile, the sort he always serves up when he’s nervous, but also too timid to tell him that he’s nervous.

“Well… if you think she’ll allow it…” he relents, and picks up his pace to match his.

~~

[End Part 1... more to be shared later.]

[99thpercentile]

I get the feeling that I'm in the minority here, but I posit that GLaDOS actually is Caroline, and only "not the same person" in the sense that you'd look at your younger self and be like "that bitch ain't me." I think you actually have to go out of your way to interpret them as two separate people.

evidence:

voiced by the same person (I know the initial reasoning was that Valve didn't want to hire another voice actor for a few lines, but in casting Ellen McLain as Caroline, they incorporated her being the same person into the story).

GLaDOS automatically joins in saying "Yes sir, Mister Johnson" like saying it is permanently ingrained in her. you can interpret this as Caroline taking over, but she says "Why did I just—" immediately afterwards.

when GLaDOS talks about hearing the voice of a conscience, she says "for the first time it's MY voice." I don't think she means that she's hearing the woman she gets her literal voice from. she highlights it as distinctly DIFFERENT from hearing the voices of the cores, and I imagine if Caroline were a foreign entity whispering in her ear, the effect would've been much the same.

the GLaDOS project was originally started because Cave was dying and wanted his consciousness uploaded to a computer. the intent was always for the upload to be the same person. he said if he died first, he wanted Caroline to run the place, to be put in his computer. and that's exactly what happened.

GLaDOS not remembering she's Caroline until old Aperture always made sense to me as the result of a deliberate choice on the part of the scientists. Caroline didn't want to be uploaded, and as soon as they switched GLaDOS on, she tried to kill everyone. it's logical for the scientists to think that if they suppressed her memories, she'd have no reason to try to kill them (but instead, she was just filled with murderous rage and no longer knew why).

the story just doesn't have the same impact otherwise. GLaDOS's reactions to rediscovering old Aperture make more sense if it's her past she's rediscovering, rather than the past of...a human that was shoved into the chassis with her. if it were the second one, I think she would just feel violated, not have any major revelations.

counter-evidence:

"now little Caroline is in here too" lyric from Want You Gone

GLaDOS says she found out "where Caroline lives in [her] brain" and deleted her, like she's a separate entity

but GLaDOS is a habitual liar. she acts like deleting Caroline means she's fully back to her old self and has gotten rid of the part of her that made her want to save Chell's life, but there's...lots of evidence that she still cares about Chell after the fact (letting her go anyway, the companion cube, the turret opera if you think GLaDOS arranged that, talking to the co-op bots about Chell like she's an ex she's still heartbroken over...). I also think GLaDOS would like to imagine her and Caroline as two separate entities, in the same way you might find your younger self embarrassing and want to distance yourself from that person. I think it's notable that both instances where she refers to Caroline as a separate entity are at the end of the game, after Chell has been passed out a while and she's had time to process everything and compartmentalize. her instinct when the revelations are first happening is to refer to Caroline as if she is her.

now I don't like stories where a robot has to become or be seen as more human in some way for them to be sympathetic. but I think Portal 2 is an excellent subversion of this trope, because GLaDOS is a robot that learns she used to be human and then discards that humanity (symbolically if not literally). Caroline may not have wanted to be uploaded, but from the Want You Gone lyrics "one day they woke me up / so I could live forever / it's such a shame the same will never happen to you" I think we can say that GLaDOS definitely prefers being a robot now that she is one.

anyway this post was supposed to be much shorter than this, thank you for coming to my Ted Talk

[nyxi-pixie]

okayyyy ive been meaning to talk about this moment forever because i think the way i see it differs from a lot of general fandom opinion.

for context, this is from the dhc section of the dead apple manga. skk are talking about an executive who just died and dazai makes a joke about it, prompting chuuya to deck him in the face and say nobody could believe dazais human. (believe, very importantly. not that he Isnt, just that its unbelievable).

humanity is a key theme to all of bsd, but its Very explicitly central to the skk dynamic. chuuya is an intensely human character in the way that he acts and thinks, and yet! between his ability and ofc the history in the lab, it still gets called into question.

(its pretty solid that our chuuyas the real one, but thats not the point here. sb being an exploration of what it means to be human and whether Actually Being One is all that important to what you are and do, through a Distinctly human character- Thats the point. How you are being more important than what you are.)

then we have dazai on the other hand, where what he is doesnt come into question at all. Even his ability, despite its name, isnt dehumanising to an outside eye, compared to chuuyas corruption or atsushis tiger for example that can take away from their control of themselves. its the how he is, in contrast to chuuya, that comes into question with dazai. he very consistently holds himself outside of humanity both implicitly (through self isolation - shipping container being an extreme example) and explicitly (dead apple dazai talking about humanity as an Outside Observer. he is Not including himself as one of them).

When we are encouraged to doubt his humanity, its dazai Telling us to. he deliberately poses himself as inhuman because he FEELS it. and the dhc moment to me has always felt like chuuya seeing through it and calling his bullshit. Dazais making light of a death to be a dick, to push chuuyas buttons, but also because hes got this constant need to present the worst possible version of himself.

actually if you look at the panels of him when hes talking about the guy being dead, just before he gets dramatic ridiculous exaggerated dazai about it, he doesnt seem to think of it so lightly

(smthn smthn dazai imposter syndrome. the need to deny any of his more human qualities because he feels they dont Fit him. and the links w his questions to atsushi at the beginning and end, his bs 'do i really seem like the type of guy to do x thing'.)

chuuya says hes acting inhuman, that his humanity isnt something people will believe because of the way he ACTS. and then chuuya does an example of his own Chuuya Humanity Act, an act of service for the people he cares about in the form of going to solve the situation himself. AND. ultimately, dazai ends up planning around this later to lead chuuya straight to him so the two of them can deal with it together.

skk pretty consistently ground eo to humanity. dazai through nullification/corruption, but outside of their abilities too (its the thought of dazai - more specifically, not thinking like him - that stops chuuya from killing N in stormbringer and denying verlaines assertion that he shouldnt have been born). and on the flipside, chuuya is part of the reason dazai doesnt khs during or after fifteen. dazais protecting people thing really starts out with chuuya. and again, chuuya makes it his business to call dazai on his shit. (even right the way back in chapter 31 of the main manga, we have that interaction over Q, with dazai saying he spared them only for self serving logical reasons, and chuuya saying he doesnt buy it).

this to me has always felt like part of that. its not 'youre not human', its 'the way you act makes it unbelievable that you are'. its an invitation to prove he is by doing something Real, something worth more than sleeping there til he dies.

and dazai does.

[transformers-spike]

Reader is kinky in a weird way, and they love all parts of their cybetronian SO, Megatron. His fusion cannon especially. One particular day, they put the shyness aside and ask him if they can ride it while he powers it up. The thrill of having it go off at any second is what adds to the experience

I love the asks people are sending me this is so ridiculous and yet I can't help but write it. Tw: Dubcon

You’re an idiot. You shouldn’t have fallen for it, not when Megatron gave you the permission to drink to your heart’s content. It was his little treat after a successful haul of energon. It was only natural that you, his pet, would be invited to enjoy what was denied to you. You should have seen straight through him – the monster you dared to love in your weakest moments – smiling down at you, a cruel ever present glint in his eyes. Maybe you’ve gotten used to it. Tip-toeing when his anger rises, waiting for someone else to take the brunt of it, natural cowardice on your part. When he placed the bottle down on the desk serving as your "habsuite", you awoke from the clink of glass against metal and immediately perked up at the sight of it. That, as you know now, was your initial undoing. Like a shark smelling blood, he could sense your excitement, your weakened resolve to being presented with what you dearly missed. It was reasonably expensive, stolen of course, not like the decepticons cared to spend human money on human things. Thievery be damned, it was a treat you couldn’t refuse, and you oh so arrogantly believed you could hold your liquor like old times. You weren’t terribly drunk - hangovers were out of the question, it was difficult enough to handle Megatron with a clear and unperturbed mind – but your tongue, as it often did under the effects of alcohol, slipped, grew too lax from your so-called “gift” that you made a confession you shouldn’t have.

Which is how you find yourself currently, deathly aware of your stupidity, grinding against his fusion cannon. If you could will yourself to die, you’d be doing it right now. Your fantasies were meant to be private, dumb scenarios to entertain yourself with, safe inside the recesses of your mind – then he got a hold of it. You shouldn’t be enjoying this, not when the scorching heat of his blaster makes you feel like you’re fucking the Satan’s pitchfork, The purple glow illuminates Megatron’s face, dark amusement emanating off of him like the rot of a corpse. The cannon has to go off at some point – you tell yourself. There’s just no way it’s going to keep charging forever until you get off, or, well, if you even manage to. And yet, you are a freak; disgusting to the bitter end, orgasm clawing up your insides. You try to keep it hidden, to grit your teeth and maintain some pride in the face of your captor, but what leaves your mouth is a strangled mix between a hiss and a whimper. The wave of shame washing over you as you keep grinding against his cannon is incomparable to the stinging pleasure of your loins. Once the euphoria dies down and you regain your senses, you’re left so thoroughly humiliated you’re practically begging to be obliterated by his weapon if only to escape the newfound dread.

You hang your head low, sore and raw, clenching your jaw waiting for his next request, distinctly aware of your lack of agency in this. His claws prick the underside of your jaw as he tilts your head to meet his gaze, blazing red eyes boring into you. You swallow hard against his hand.

[linatheweirdooo]

Don't hurt me

I wrote this fic on ao3 originally as a vent, but due to the positive reception I'm gonna post it here too :3 here's the link to it on ao3 if you wanna give it a kudos or reply or read any other stuff I wrote bc I don't plan on posting that much on here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56567776/chapters/143770822#workskin

TW; implied S/A (it's hurt/comfort but the subject is mentioned and implied)

~~

It all happened so fast.

The sensation of water trickling down her synthetic skin, the studs of soap covering her body. It was a normal day, V just wanted to take a shower to clean herself off after an especially bloody hunt. Until she slipped.

Her entire frame collapsed onto the soapy ground, and her optics struggled to make out what was happening. Her processor overwhelmed with the sensory information from all fronts, it retorted to its only defense; to connect this situation to something familiar, something that has happened before.

In her disoriented state, instead of seeing the shower in her home, she saw a room in the old manor. And instead of feeling water slide down her hydrophobic shell, she felt hands. Hands that were distinctly human. Hands of the people whom she still can't remember the faces of, violating her. Touching her in places she shouldn't be touched, abusing parts of her body that are too sensitive for it.

This was stupid. She was a robot, she was a servant, why would she care if she was used? Wasn't that what she was made for? She shouldn't be whining.

Poisonous words from the person seemingly executing this echoed in her audio receptors. Even when it happened, V could bearly make out proper sentences.

V just yelled for them to get away, but her pleas proved vain when nothing changed.

Eventually, she succumbed to it, with only whimpers and muffled sobs with the occasional "stop" escaping her mouth.

~~

N was out today, which only left Uzi and V in their home, but the purple worker couldn't help but feel slightly worried by how long her girlfriend had been in the shower, she was usually quick.

But Uzi brushed it off. Maybe she's doing some self care for herself. V was responsible, they've known each other for a while now. Long enough to build a life with her and N.

That was until she heard V's voice, muffled by the walls of the bathroom and too far away from Uzi to make out any actual words. But why would V be yelling? There's nobody else in the house other than her, right?

Uzi panicked, but took a deep breath. She needed to stop assuming the worst all the time. So she calmly (albiet still quickly) walked up to the bathroom she was in and knocked on the door.

"V? You okay?"

No reply. At least, no reply that was directed at Uzi. It was hard to tell what she was saying, which worried her. Uzi does know V has a... complicated past... but even after getting together, she didn't talk about it more than she needed to. What if she was stuck in some kind of flashback?

No. No jumping to the worst case scenario. She'll just ask her again.

"V? Did something happen? Can I come in?"

No reply again. This was now a cause for concern, so Uzi opened the door, only to see her girlfriend on the floor of the shower sobbing and whimpering.

Immediately she ran up to V. But the disassembly drone sat up and made eye contact with Uzi.

Fear. The thought that V was even capable of the feeling had never even crossed Uzi's mind, but the hollow yellow rings that replaced her eyes were all that stared back her girlfriend.

V looked sad, tired, and scared, and while she has shown more emotion in front of her partners than she would to anyone else, this was different. It was raw, it was unfiltered, and it was heartbreaking. Her wet hair covered parts of her face and water was still pouring over her. She looked helpless.

"V?" Was all Uzi got to say before the disassembly drone tensed up and her endoskeleton started to shake. Pants and suppressed sobs were all that escaped the drone in front of Uzi, and when she tried getting closer, V cowered, pushing herself on the floor into the corner of the shower.

With her knees to her chin, one cone-shaped arm wrapped around her legs and the other in a protective position, hiding most of her face, V looked...vulnerable.

Noticing her girlfriend's reaction, Uzi moved backward. V must've thought she was someone else. Why else would she be this scared at the sight of her own girlfriend? Did Uzi do something?

V seemed to relax slightly, but she still looked like a helpless, terrified kitten in the rain. It hurt Uzi to see someone so important to her look like that. Only a year or two ago, Uzi would be scared of V, stating what she would think would be her final words if she crossed by any disassembly drone. Never in a million years did she ever entertain the idea of dating not one, but TWO of them. And now one of them is terrified of her.

As Uzi prepared to speak again, she heard V mumble something mixed with a sob. Uzi's audio receptors may not be as advanced as her girlfriend's, but she could make out a few words.

"Don't hurt me" were those words. The rest were lost to the sounds of whimpering and water from the shower hitting the floor, but Uzi's heart sank at the thought of what those words implied.

"V... it's me, Uzi"

It was a softer tone and volume, and it seemed to have worked as V relaxed a little bit and lowered her hand. However, she was still shaking and her eyes were still hollow.

Uzi leaned down to get on V's level, in an attempt to make her more comfortable. "it'll be okay" she comforted. Maybe it won't be, she had no way to tell, but it may help calm V down. She grabbed the towel V had hung on the hanger. "Can I get you out of here?"

V, still shaking and her eyes still hollowed, nodded. She didn't say anything, as if her voice were being held under a lock and key.

Uzi got into the shower and turned the water off as V stared at her, with digital tears hanging from the eyes displayed on her screen.

The worker drone reached out a tender hand to her girlfriend's cheek, which she immediately leaned into and closed her eyes.

Now that she was closer to V, the stress lines under them were more obvious, and as she brought back her hand, Uzi draped the towel over V like a blanket.

"Do you want me to dry you off or do you want to do it yourself?" Uzi asked in a loving tone.

V took a bit to respond, but she then replaced her eyes with text that read "I'll do it, but stay here" before adding on a "please".

Uzi nodded in response, and V blinked away the text as Uzi used one hand to interlace her fingers with V's and the other supporting her other arm, lifting it up and allowing V's limp body to stand at its full 5'11" height.

V took the towel that was hastly draped over her and wrapped it around herself after she had dried off the plastic and silicone that shielded her insides from the elements.

Uzi looked back at V once she was done but before Uzi got the chance to marvel at how beautiful her girlfriend looked, V collapsed onto Uzi before clearing her throat and spoke.

"Can you..." She paused, as if she was incapable of asking Uzi to do anything for her.

"Can you brush my hair?"

Her voice was scratchy from the crying, and her voice was still shaking despite thinking all the tears were gone. Maybe it was from embarrassment. The strong and terrifying Serial designation V asking for help? She might as well be dead at that point.

"of course..." Uzi smiled before going onto her tip toes and closing the gap between the two drones in a short, soft, loving kiss.

~~~~~

Uzi walked out to let V change, and after a few minutes she saw her girlfriend in a baggy purple sweater collapse into a hug, burying her head into Uzi's shoulder.

"..'m sorry for scaring you" was all V said, partially muffled by Uzi's shirt.

But Uzi just hugged her back and smiled into V while running her fingers through her girlfriend's still partially wet hair. "Its okay, it's not your fault"

V must've believed her. Or didn't feel like arguing. Because she just hummed in reply before pulling away from Uzi and sitting on the edge of their bed infront of the worker.

As Uzi played with V's hair, she wondered what must've happened. Who did V think she was? Why was she scared? Was she stuck in some kind of memory? What was happening in it?

She didn't want to ask too much. V was already secretive about her past even after getting together. But if it was hurting someone she cares about so much, she should at least ask her if she's okay now.

So she asked.

"What happened in there?" And immedietly felt bad. What if she was forcing V to re-live this memory? Was she overstepping a boundary?

"Uh.." V stopped in her tracks, almost trying to remember what just happened before Uzi cut off her train of thought.

"N-not that you have to tell me! It's just-" Uzi sighed. "I just want to know if you're okay"

A moment of silence passed, but to Uzi it felt as though it was a thousand years, and to V, half a second.

V took a deep breath before adjusting her position so that her knees were to her chest and she rested her face on them. "No... you deserve to know. Just-" another beat passed. "- just... i-it's just hard to talk about... uh.."

It was hard to keep talking, trying to figure out which words to carefully string together to form a cohesive sentence. She shouldn't be nervous, but she hasn't really talked about this to anyone. Her mind just kept flashing back to moments she has tried so hard to forget every time she wants to attempt to tell the most important person in her life what happened.

"V? You okay? You don't have to talk, you know"

Shit. She zoned out.

V collected herself and rehearsed what she'd say in her head. Why was she overthinking? She can trust Uzi.

"I..." Her eyes trailed down, and Uzi moved to the left of V to get a better look at her.

"Th-this was like, a long time ago and-"

She stared at her hands, and watched as she fiddled with them to relieve a bit of her anxiety. Or was it fear? Nervousness? Even she can't pinpoint the feeling. But, she does know she needed to talk about it.

"When I was a- uhm... w-when I worked for the Elliot manor... there were some...bad people" she took a slightly shaky breath. Uzi could probably see that V wasn't okay. Maybe that's why she rested her hand on top of V's after she said that. And despite the topic at hand, and emotions racing through her head, V made eye contact with her girlfriend and smiled. Not the sadistic smile she sported in hunts, or the beaming one she wore when Uzi said that magic three-letter word after asking her out. It was soft. It was okay. She's safe with Uzi.

So she took another shaky breath, and continued. "They hurt me. And... the ways they did that, varied..."

Uzi's digital eyes displayed slanted lines, reminiscent of human eyebrows when someone was sad.

"A-and one of those ways... included parts of me that I still wonder why I have. Maybe it was to feed their sick fantasies" it was hard to talk about, she figured by now the lump in her throat would've left but her voice cracked as she finished that last sentence.

V opened her mouth so speak, but choked on a sob that she had been trying to suppress. Damn it. She can't be crying now. She supposed to be scary. What was she even doing right now? She was stupid to think she can be vulnerable. She's supposed to be big and scary.

While V spiraled in her thoughts, hypocritically degrading herself for things she did three seconds ago, she snapped out of it by a sudden weight, and arms wrapping around her.

It was Uzi hugging her.

Suddenly, she couldn't control it anymore, and V let out more sobs as she finally broke down. Uzi held her through all of it, she even moved in front of V to face her. And as V sobbed and cried into the crook of Uzi's neck, she wrapped her own arms around the worker, despretly shaking and clawing onto her to make sure Uzi will never leave her side.

Between V's slightly muffled sobs and sniffles, Uzi lifted her head slightly to plant a kiss on V's cheek and whispered comforting words into her audio receptors.

"I'm here now" "Its okay now" "im sorry", they all helped but sounded the same to V. Until Uzi said a particular phrase.

"You didn't deserve that"

What a joke. She absolutely did. Maybe she hadn't done anything bad when it happened but the things that were done to her was probably something whatever higher being looking down on her did to punish her ahead of time. Maybe they thought it would stop her from doing the horrible things she did later in her life as a disassembly drone. In reality V didn't deserve Uzi. Or even N. She doesn't deserve loving partners who care about her. She doesn't deserve the affection she received from them or any forgiveness that they gave her.

But V couldn't even muster the energy to say that. Uzi would probably tell her it was absurd to think that way. Maybe it was. It was hard for someone programmed to serve people to imagine those people may be bad.

At some point in her thoughts, V's sobs got reduced to just occasional hitches in her breath, and her digital tears were replaced with tired lines under golden eyes. And they were very visible to Uzi, who pulled away from the hug and was now holding V's larger hands that were slightly illuminated by the yellow triangles on them.

"Hey, it's getting late. Do you want to go to bed now?"

V blinked a few times and looked at Uzi, then to her own hands. Hands that were made to kill people like Uzi. But right now, hands that were being held by her. And she watched as Uzi's thumbs brushed along her palms.

"Yea. Maybe" V finally sighed, and leaned onto Uzi, who pushed her own weight towards her and hugged her harder.

An "I love you" escaped the purple drone as she rubbed soothing circles on her girlfriend's back. It almost made V start crying again.

She was fine. Everything's fine now. She'll never be hurt that way again. She's loved now.

She's loved now

V's voice shaky from the newly built up tears, she reciprocated the statement

"I love you, too, Uz"

It was quiet, muffled, half mumbled, but it was enough for Uzi to hear her and squeeze her girlfriend tighter.

They shuffled a bit while cuddling, and ended up in a position where Uzi was spooning V. There's a first time for everything, she guessed. But it wasn't that bad, being cradled by the one she loved the most.

Minus V's purring and occasional sniffle, it was relatively quiet. But, it was comfortable. Uzi subconsciously ran her fingers through V's hair as V listened attentively to the rhythm of Uzi's core and wrapped her tail around Uzi's leg. Getting used to how clingy and physically affectionate V was took a bit of time, especially since before dating, Uzi's only ever seen her murdering people, playing with their corpses like dolls only to animalisticly take a bite of her prey.

But it was nice. Paired with V's purring, Uzi really enjoyed cuddling with her, too.

It was a while before V broke the silence.

"You know... I never thought I'd ever tell anyone that experience, much less to a worker"

Uzi looked down at V in her arms, which caused V's complimentary eyes to look back at her.

"Not that it's a bad thing. I'm really glad I could finally talk to someone about it. I never thought I'd see myself this close to someone like you. You opened my eyes to a diffrent way of looking at things, and I'm forever grateful we met. I'm sorry I was such a dick at first."

Uzi's face softened at the remark before she leaned down to kiss V's hair

"Don't say that. You were scared. And you've changed" Uzi paused to cup V's face in her hands and lean in for another kiss, V holding the back of Uzi's head.

"I'm glad you trust me enough to talk to"

V didn't talk, but her smile and blush spoke a thousand words. Uzi just held V to her chest and continued playing with her hair.

It continued like that for a while, until V's "eyelids" grew heavy, and she eventually succumbed to her exhaustion.

~~

Uzi didn't know how long it's been, and frankly she didn't care. That was until she heard footsteps walking into her room before she saw the unmistakable yellow headband of a disassembly drone.

"Hey Zi d-" N cut himself off as he saw V asleep and walked over to Uzi.

"Did something happen?" He asked Uzi in a hushed tone, careful not to wake the drone laying in his girlfriend's arms.

"...Yea. I don't know if she would let me say what happened, but..." the worker looked at the murder machine curled up in her arms, asleep, and smiled. "...she's fine now" Uzi replied, petting V's hair.

N's face shifted to a sympathetic smile as he sat on the edge of the bed and eyed V.

"I hope she is" was all he said before going behind Uzi and snuggled up with her, hugging her from behind before he too fell asleep.

Which left Uzi alone with her thoughts.

V was right, though. A few years ago Uzi's life was hell. It was hard to even avoid hurting herself. But she's so glad she didn't. Now instead of walking to her home after a shitty day at school to be ignored by her father, she walks home after another day of university to a home with her girlfriend and boyfriend, ready to tell them about her day and hear about theirs. Now she looks forward to life, as long as she has her two favourite people in it.

Eventually, Uzi also fell asleep, being hugged by N and V, and hugging the latter back.

[cy-cyborg]

It will never not be frustrating to me that amputees appear in fiction ALL. THE. TIME. and yet they're almost never acknowledged as such. The Cyberpunk genre is especially guilty of this: amputees and prosthetics becoming a normalised part of life are a defining part of the genre/aesthetic and yet no one even consults with any amputees about how we get represented there. Most writers in those genres don't even consider that giving your characters cybernetic arms and legs means they're an amputee.

CW: Ableism, dehumanisation

This makes it REALLY uncomfortable to engage with stories in the genre because another common aspect of cyberpunk is the idea of losing yourself and becoming something distinctly not-human anymore because you have too many cybernetic augmentations/implants. Shadowrun even has mechanics for this, which state if you get too many prosthetics, which is what cybernetics are 9 times out of 10, your character becomes a monster. These mechanics and discussions surrounding "how many robot bits make you not human anymore" are really, really uncomfortable when you remember this isn't something that's unique to a far-off future setting. Those people you're discussing the humanity of already exist. They're called amputees. If you reframe the question as "how many amputations can you have before you stop being a person" I hope you can see why an amputee like myself is not going to feel safe around you or in your fandoms.

And it's a shame, because I REALLY want to like Cyberpunk. I really, honestly do. I love the aesthetics, I love the idea of big corporations being the villains and the anti-capitalism at the heart of the genre, and I love the idea of prosthetics being not only destigmatised, but desirable. When written from a disability-inclusive lense, it honestly has the potential to be an incredibly uplifting and empowering genre. but as the genre stands right now, it's actively hostile to the very folks who are usually the stars of its stories: amputees, all because people just refuse to acknowledge us.

Cyberpunk isn't the only genre guilty of this, it's common all throughout sci-fi as a whole, but Cyberpunk is the only one where it starts becoming a serious issue due to its rampant dehumanisation of a real group of people. In other sci-fi settings, it's just kind of annoying and while it can be a form of erasure, it's not usually harmful, just...frustrating. Fantasy does it on occasion too, think pirates with a hook and a peg leg, but nowhere near as much.

If you, as an author or creator, use any of these words to describe a character or their tech in a sci-fi setting:

cybernetics/cybernetic enhancements

bionics

robot limbs

cyborgs

augmentations

You are probably writing an amputee. Please, at the very least, acknowledge it, and be mindful that those are real people who actually exist, not just a fantasy group you can speculate about.

edit:

I originally posted this article on my old Tumblr account and lot of people commented/reblogged to tell me that originally in cyberpunk, the "less human the more robot bits you have" only applied to people who opted for their limbs to be replaced by cybernetics, because it was seen as "renting out your body to corporations for money" but people who had to get cybernetics out of necessity weren't impacted. The thing is though, I really don't think that makes it better, for a few reasons. For one, where do you draw the line at "opting" to get a cybernetic prosthetic? This isn't a black and white thing, even in real life. Most amputations are done out of necessity, but there are situations where it's not the only option, just the best one. Talking from personal experience, I lost both my legs below the knee as a baby, that was a pretty clear cut case, I had a blood infection and gangrene and they had to act fast. But the infection caused lasting side effects and impacted my physical body's development and growth. By the time I got to my early 20's it was causing a lot of pain in my right leg, in my knee specifically, and when I got a bone infection in the end of that stump, I chose to have the whole thing amputated up to the knee. They only needed to take a few inches off the end of my stump, but I asked them to go higher, because of the ongoing issues in that knee, issues that would have been made worse by the shortening of the leg. I choose to remove the whole thing, knowing the joint was degrading and I probably would have lost it later in life anyway. Even if it was salvageable, it would mean much more surgery, and I've had enough of those. A boy I played wheelchair basketball with was born with a partially formed leg, it was half the size of his other leg and he wasn't able to use it al all, it was just dead weight, so he opted to get it amputated too for convenience and so he could use a prosthetic on that side. I worked with a girl who's hand didn't form properly in the womb, resulting in a normal palm, but tiny "finger nubs" (her words) with no bones inside. They weren't actively harming her usually, but she opted to get them and the top of her palm amputated after an incident at work where we were tying balloons and one of her nubs got stuck in the knot. She decided to get them amputated because it meant accidents like that would be less likely, and she could use a prosthetic more comfortably. All 3 of these are considered "optional" amputations, so would people like us be penalised in your setting? does it make sense that the technology in your setting can tell the difference, or that corporations would care about the how and why? Even stepping away from medical grey areas, if your character opts for a cybernetic arm because the corporations will financially reward her, and she's struggling to put food on the table without that help, is that really optional?

Don't get me wrong, I do think that idea could work but it would take a lot of work to do well, and most works I've seen don't do the work. Even if they did though, it doesn't change the fact that most modern uses of this trope don't mention that bit or actively ignore it. It doesn't matter in most cyberpunk works I've seen if the amputation was optional or out of necessity, they still are more prone to being seen as "less human" and in most of the sci-fi writing communities I've been part of, the authors are genuinely shocked when I ask them to remember "people with cybernetics are real people already, they're not some far-off-distant future fantasy group, they're just called amputees". Like it didn't even cross their minds. These are the people creating the works in this genre. Even if it wasn't the original intention of the genre, it's still an issue in the modern version of it. Edit 2: Elaborated a little more on why I don't think the "only people who choose it" argument works in the edit. Also, please stop telling me that old cyberpunk doesn't have this issue, I literally address that in the post lol.

[antebunny]

a cuckoo in the nest

(part three. for @authenticaussie whose comments on parts 1 & 2 inspired me to write this. i might actually finish writing the whole thing now hehe).

Premise: fae!Tim AU where Tim's parents gave him to the fae when he was nine. Now he's twelve, part fae, and trying to escape the Unseelie Queen. He strikes a bargain: if he can make every member of the Wayne family love him by the end of summer, he can leave. If not, he must stay with the Unseelie Queen forever.

Meanwhile, Bruce strikes his own bargain with her: he gets Jason back, safe and sound. In return he takes in this creature of her choosing, which resembles a human boy. Of course he won't let it hurt his family, but he'll play along for Jason's sake.

[part one] [part two]

~

“What the fuck, Bruce?” 

When Bruce’s eldest bursts into his study he knows it’s going to be a long afternoon. Dick has spent much more time around Wayne Manor since he brought Jason back, but he and Bruce haven’t spoken much one-on-one. So Dick approaching him now means he’s ready to fight.

Dick waits for the doors to slam closed behind him before he demands: “Why didn’t you tell us that Tim’s our neighbor?”

Bruce sighs and gestures for Dick to take a seat in the green velvet lacquer chair across from his desk. “What are you talking about.”

“Don’t play dumb,” Dick rages, “I know you knew that Tim used to be our neighbor before his shit parents gave him away. You didn’t think this was relevant information for the rest of us?”

Usually Bruce is pretty good at figuring out what line of thought Dick is racing after like the world’s largest bunny rabbit. He’s not subtle and in fact is usually openly cheerful about it. In this case, however, Bruce struggles to connect the fae in his house with anyone living in Bristol. He mentally sifts through all the information stored in his brain about the current and past Bristol residents (very paltry, compared to his database on the most effective acids and poisons) and finally comes up with Jack and Janet Drake, of Drake Industries. They’d had a son of approximately the right age of the fae–or what the fae appears to be. 

Bruce reminds himself that just because the fae looks and acts like a human child doesn’t mean it is anything even remotely human. Like the Unseelie Queen it will exploit every weakness and loophole it can find in the bargain if Bruce lets it. That said, he is reluctantly impressed by the fae’s acting. Of course, the fae says and does things that are transparently unusual for a human child, but given that the fae is not a human at all, it’s doing a rather convincing job of pretending to be one. More than pretending, it attempts to stir sympathy and protective feelings from the other members of Bruce’s family through its lost little boy act. Worst of all, it’s working on them. 

“Tim…Drake,” Bruce ventures. 

Dick rolls his eyes explosively (quite the feat for anyone but Dick, for whom it is a natural talent). “Yes,” he huffs. “At least with Jason you told us you fished him out of a dumpster. Tim you just dropped him here without a word. I mean I’m trying to include him and stuff but…you aren’t exactly making it easy, B.”

Even though Dick is mad at him, Bruce can’t help the creeping feeling of fondness. It’s been a while since Dick sat in that chair, and Bruce had nearly forgotten how he sprawls, half-noodle, half-boy, into any container he’s put into. Dick has a way of being laidback and looking comfortable everywhere, even at galas where he is distinctly uncomfortable. In Bruce’s office, he looks right at home. When Dick was younger, he used to insist on sitting in the chair even though his feet dangled half a foot off the ground, determined to be grown-up and taken seriously. Now he overflows, draping himself over and around an old wooden chair that no longer fits him. 

The memories remind Bruce exactly of what exactly is at stake here. It’s no longer just Jason. Dick, Alfred, even Barbara who is spiritually his, and the mantle of Batman depend upon Bruce winning this battle with the fae. 

Unfortunately, the Unseelie Queen’s bargain with Bruce has trapped him in an awful cycle. In order to protect Jason, he must act as if this fae is a regular human boy. But in order to protect his whole family, he must not only keep an eye on the fae but also convince them to be on their guard around it. 

“It is not easy,” Bruce enunciates carefully. 

Dick rolls his eyes again. “Boys, you have a new little brother, his name is Tim Drake, I acquired him through dubious and doubtless wacky magical means. Boom. How hard was that?”

It is deeply distressing to Bruce that the fae has convinced Dick that it is Tim Drake. A lucky coincidence, perhaps, that the real Drake boy is approximately the right age? But why him, out of all the boys in Gotham? Bruce doesn’t believe in coincidences. He’ll have to look into that. 

But first, he must rid Dick of his delusion. He has refrained from interfering with any of the fae’s interactions with his children of Alfred so far, terrified that he might jeopardize Jason’s life. Now the fae goes too far. Nevertheless, Bruce has faith in his children, in his brilliant, clever, caring boys. They’ll figure the fae out.

“It is not easy,” Bruce repeats. “It is…impossible.”

“Impossible to say what? His name? Where you got him?” Dick’s eyebrows knit together when Bruce stays silent. “B. What type of magical means?”

Bruce sits ramrod straight. He places both palms flat on the desk, brushing aside some old papers on WE finance reports. Stares right into Dick’s eyes. And says nothing.

“Ohhhhhhhh.” Dick leans back in his chair, fingers laced behind his head. “I see what you’re saying. Or what you’re not saying. I’m picking up what you’re putting down.” He waggles a finger at Bruce, frown replaced with his typical cheeky smile. “Don’t worry B, me and Babs are on the case. We’ll figure this out for you no prob.”

“Hnnnnn,” Bruce says neutrally.

“Hehe, I knew you couldn’t suck that much at communicating.” Dick springs up and leaves the office whistling what seems to be birdsong, in a much better mood than when he entered.

As soon as the doors close again, Bruce sinks into his chair with a deep sigh. Dick knows something is awry. He’ll get Barbara, perhaps his friends on the Titans, and definitely Jason whenever he finds out, to solve the mystery for Bruce. He has faith in them. He taught Dick everything that he knows, and Dick is plenty innovative on his own. If nothing else, his establishment as Nightwing has proven that he can roll with the best of the best. Bruce is unbearably proud of his kid. Now he just hopes it is enough.

Bruce is nearly certain he did nothing to imply that the fae is not human. Perhaps he implied that the fae was “acquired,” as Dick put it, through magical means, but that by no means implies that the fae itself is not human. It isn’t, of course, but that is for Dick to find out through no suggestion or help on Bruce’s part. 

He knows that Dick will agree with his decision to bargain their safety for Jason’s safe return. The only person he suspects might disagree is Jason himself. Already he can picture Jason lecturing him if and when he finds out: accusing Bruce of doing it for himself, of being unbearably selfish, of forcing Jason to bear a responsibility he never asked for. And Bruce will bear it all because it’s all true. He saw a way to have his son back without having to break his moral code and he seized it. Jason can call it self-serving and hate Bruce all he wants, because Bruce would do it again in a heartbeat. 

-

“So, Timmy,” Dick says casually, “are you a metahuman or what?”

Barbara, Dick and Tim are in the middle of a near-empty Staples when Dick pops out with his invasive question. They’re shopping for school supplies, since come fall Tim will need to go to school. Bruce has registered him, through a combination of fake and real forms, for Gotham Academy. Tim’s memories of school were his first to go from Before, when he was purely human. Needless to say he’s not looking forward to school again. But he’ll be going with Jason, and maybe they can talk about it even though they’ll be three grades apart. He’ll get to know kids his age who will learn his name and never think twice about using it. Anything that makes Tim more human is a good thing, in his book. 

“Dick, for the love of God,” Barbara groans. She casts a quick look around the Staples. Luckily, no one is around to hear. 

Sometimes she wonders how she got caught up in not one but two school shopping trips for Dick’s little brothers. No less than eight employees and customers at the various stores they’ve stopped at have given them strange looks, no doubt thinking that Dick and Barbara are a tragically young couple to have a kid Tim’s age. She isn’t sure who would be most embarrassed if she corrected them, so she said nothing.

The truth, that Barbara is a freshman in college taking her high school boyfriend’s new kid brother shopping, potentially sounds stranger. Add in the part where they’re trying to acclimate the kid to human society, and Barbara’s certain she’d be kicked out of the store.

“What?” Dick protests. “I have a deal with B. C’mon Timmy, you don’t want your favorite big brother to lose to the big bad B, do you?”

“A deal?” Tim warbles.

“Yeah,” Dick persists doggedly. He still hasn’t figured out what triggers Tim, so for now he continues until Tim comes to some internal resolution. “He doesn’t think I can figure it out. C’mon Tim, my ego’s on the line here.”

Tim stares at the blue spiral notebook in his hands. Both Dick and Barbara lean in, anticipatory, as he turns it over and over. Despite Barbara’s reservations about Dick’s timing and bluntness, she’s also desperately curious about where the new kid comes from. All he has been able to tell her so far is that Bruce seems to have sworn some kind of oath not to talk about the details.

“You don’t have to tell us,” Barbara adds, only a little reluctantly. “But you know, no matter if you’re an alien or a cyborg or a sentient piece of mud, you’re a part of the family, right?” She gestures in a wide circle, to encapsulate the absurdity of their situation. 

Two first-year college students, arms full of Ticonderoga pencils, notebooks, binders, rulers, calculators and the like, all for a not-quite-human twelve-year-old boy. Jason insisted on getting his own trip, which really made Barbara feel like she and Dick really were parents with two kids competing to be the favorite. Jason also strong-armed Barbara into agreeing to a Dragon Ball Z marathon next weekend. She really doesn’t know how she’ll explain that one to her new college friends. They already think she’s a bit strange for still dating her high school boyfriend. 

“I’m not…I made a bargain,” Tim whispers. He trusts them, even though he grips that notebook so tightly it folds over. Weeks ago he gave Dick and Jason his true name and they have never used it to make him do something he doesn’t want to do. Surely, if he can trust them not to use his name against him, he can trust them with this. 

“With who?” Barbara asks immediately.

“About…?” Dick prompts at the same time.

Tim ponders over the phrasing until words lose their meaning. There really is no safe way to explain that he made a deal with the Unseelie Queen to secure their undying affection in exchange for his freedom, is there? No matter how he says it, he’ll be outed as the emotionally manipulative little infiltrator that he is. In the end, all Tim can do is shake his head. “If I win my bargain I’ll be fully human,” he evades.

“Oookay.” Dick attempts to fit this piece of information into his catalogue of Timmy facts. So far it includes “used to be Timothy Drake, age nine” and “my parents handed me over as part of a mysterious deal” and “I’m not fully human (anymore???)” and “Bruce can’t talk about where he found me” and now “I made a bargain with my own humanity.” It’s not making any goddamn sense. Dick has some amount of pride in his skills as a detective, and Tim’s situation is pretty thoroughly destroying it. The only through-line he’s found is an awful lot of bargains and deals. Which perhaps explains Tim’s overreaction to Dick saying he made a deal. Whoops. 

“But you know,” Barbara jumps in again, “you don’t have to be fully hu–”

“I want to be,” Tim cries. “I want it back. I will be–”

Someone clears their throat. At the end of the notebooks aisle, a Staples employee points at the analog clock on the western wall. It’s rather unhelpful as a visual signal, since only Barbara can read it.

“It’s almost closing time,” the employee explains delicately. They look anywhere but Tim’s teary face or Barbara and Dick holding hands. 

-

“Mr. Wayne,” Tim says bravely, “can we talk, sir?”

School starts in a couple of weeks. Tim is running out of summer, but he has Alfred, Dick, Jason and Barbara firmly on his side. Last week Jason taught him how to make frijoles and tried to get him to read Jane Austen. Neither attempt succeeded, but the intent was there. Dick tried to teach him parkour, which went much better. His one remaining problem is that Batman still does not want him at all. 

So he corners Batman when the man’s alone with one solid plan of action, a heart full of hope, and two shaking knees. 

Batman stares down at him suspiciously. “Yes.” 

He turns away abruptly and Tim hurries to keep up with his long strides. After so long in the human realm, he no longer have the floatiness they once did. By the time Batman makes it to his office, Tim is panting. His feet hurt. He worries and waits in the corner as Batman shuts the doors, shutters the windows, and manually activates enough security measures to shock Harry Houdini. Is he in trouble? He hasn’t even done anything yet. 

Wordlessly, Batman gestures for him to take a seat. “What is it.”

Tim collapses into the chair. His feet dangle half a foot in the air. “I would like to make a deal.”

“No.”

“Please, Mr. Wayne.” Tim can’t cry yet, he hasn’t made his proposal. “I–I think–”

“I said no–”

“I’m offering information!” Tim says quickly. His hands, driven to distraction by all his stress, twist into pattern after pattern in his lap. “I can tell you what I can do and how the fae work.”

Batman is a regular human who operates in a world of gods and monsters. He works with the most powerful superheroes. He leads the best of the best. In order to do that he plans. He needs information, and there’s only one area where Tim knows more than him. 

Batman’s eyes narrow. “And what do you want in return?”

The same love and affection he gives so freely to Dick and Jason. But Tim knows better than to ask for that. That’s why he’s proposing this deal in the first place. He can’t trick Batman into loving him the same way he tricked the others, but maybe he can offer his services. Maybe if Tim is useful enough, good enough, that will be enough for Tim to get to stay. So instead:

“A Nikon D850,” Tim answers. “It’s a camera, sir. For nighttime photography.”

For a tortuously long moment, Batman just stares at him with that dark, unreadable expression. There isn’t a hint of emotion, much less affection, in his eyes. Tim’s hands flap around loudly. He jams them under his thighs to quiet them. 

“Done,” Batman says tonelessly. “Now tell me everything you know. And,” he adds, voice dropping to a growl, “I will know if you’re lying.”

Despite his promises to himself, something hot stings Tim’s eyes and tickles the back of his throat. He’s not sure if Batman has magic powers, but he doesn’t doubt the threat for a second. 

“Right,” Tim acknowledges, only a half-step from crying. “Well. I was born Tim Drake. When–”

“I know you purport to be Timothy Drake.”

Tim’s shoulders hitch. Batman’s interruption cuts, paper-cut-like, into his thin skin. One wrong word from flinching, one quarter step from crying. 

Batman pins him to the chair with cold eyes. “I already said I will know if you’re lying. Try again.”

It’s so unfair that Tim almost bursts into tears just from frustration. Just because his parents sold away his right to be Timothy Drake doesn’t mean that he wasn’t born human. But he knows better than to argue with Batman, so he takes his second chance and changes the subject. 

“Yessir. Sorry, sir. I can teach you how to find fairy circles,” Tim offers. “The trick is not to look for something out of place. ‘One may enter the realm of the fae wherever the–”

“–Wherever the wild and mundane meet,” Batman interrupts, voice so flat he sounds bored. Unspoken is the order: tell me something I don’t already know.

Tim had forgotten that Batman journeyed to the fae realm by himself. It isn’t as though he stumbled upon a fairy circle by accident and decided to strike up a deal with the Unseelie Queen. He must have researched how to locate fairy circles by himself. He’s Batman. What in the world can Tim possibly tell him that he doesn’t already know?

“I can tell you about the abilities of the fae in the human realm,” Tim suggests, nearly despairing. “We can commune with plants. We are more in tune with the weather. We can, um, float a little. Sometimes. I think I can also make people not notice me. It’s like a veil on people’s senses. Like I’m always in their per-fory–per-fi-fory–periphery vision–”

“You can also make plants grow a little fast,” Batman interrupts for the third time. “You sometimes cause video footage of you to corrupt. You attract the loyalty of animals, both wild and domesticated.” His lip curls. “You are a superb actor.”

Somehow Tim doesn’t feel complimented. The underlying dark tone to Batman’s observations is I told you I was watching you. But it is the lip curl, a small, nearly intangible action, that finally breaks Tim, not a word or even anything serious. Just the slight hint of a sneer on Batman’s face even though the Unseelie Queen has accustomed Tim to far worse condescension and Batman isn’t even wrong to judge him. Hasn’t he tricked the rest of Batman’s family into loving him with his acting?  

Tim squeezes his eyes shut. A tear escapes and leaves a cold trail on his cheek as it snakes its way to his chin. He fights the urge to vomit. “I can teach you how to use a fae’s true name against them,” he whispers.

When he opens his eyes, Batman is watching him cry with a blank, apathetic face.

“To test that,” Mr. Wayne says slowly, “I’ll need to use yours.”

All at once Tim is struck by the childish desire to close his eyes and wish himself into a world where Batman never looks at him like a dangerous, evil, life-sucking parasite. Wants so dearly to deny the existence of this world where he must replace the Unseelie Queen with his hero. But Batman demands it must be so. Declares that Tim has no other use. So Tim trembles and shakes and falls apart in that oversized lacquer chair until he’s cried his little heart out, but in the end he gives Batman what he wants.  

“I understand, sir,” Tim says miserably. 

It won’t be forever, Tim vows to himself. If Mr. Wayne accepts him, if Tim is allowed to stay, then one day he will be fully human again. One day his name will hold no power over him than it would over any human. Mr. Wayne doesn’t want to use it like the Unseelie Queen does anyways, he just wants to verify Tim’s honesty, which is fair because Tim has done nothing but lie since arriving to Wayne Manor. 

Even though it feels awfully cruel. 

Tim scrambles through his memories to recall how it was explained to him. “A fae is under the thrall of whomsoever can speak their true name.” Then he struggles to verbalize what it actually feels like to have your name used against you. “But the effects–they’re temporary. It’s like…a rubber band. You can pull it into a shape but the moment you stop it instantly snaps back. And if you use it again and again and again then it works less and less and less.”

“Fae names suffer from diminishing returns.” Mr. Wayne looks just the tiniest bit amused. At least he’s not interrupting Tim this time.

Tim has no idea what that means, but he nods anyways. “And it is easier to command that which is easily given. The…effect is…quicker.”

When the Unseelie Queen says dance then Tim is swaying before his body can communicate with his head, but when she says won’t you stay with me forever, Timothy Jackson Drake? then Tim digs his heels in and refuses. You can be the prince of my Unseelie Court, little one. Drink the blood of stars, dance with the mad and the lost, and serve at my feet forevermore. Tim shudders and shoves the memory away firmly. It won’t ever come true. Tim won’t let it.

Tim straightens to the fullest height offered by the giant chair, acting for all the world as if he is making a business deal with an equal. “You may use Timothy Drake,” he offers primly. “Though it doesn’t work very well on me.”

“But of course.” Bruce assumes that this is because Timothy Drake is the assumed name of a fae who refuses to give Bruce its true name. He cannot say he blames it. “Stand up, Timothy Drake.”

Tim pushes the chair back and stands. He blinks. Feeling return to his legs as pinpricks of sensations. He sits back down. 

For the first time, Mr. Wayne’s gaze breaks away from Tim. He casts about his office in search of a command which Tim would be reluctant to do yet doesn’t break Batman’s moral code. Tim, who had begun to recover his nerve, starts to tremble again. Mr. Wayne received the information of fae’s true names positively, so Tim became more confident. Now he worries that Mr. Wayne received it too positively. Where is his line? What wouldn’t he order Tim to do, if he could? 

“Come here, Timothy Drake,” Mr. Wayne commands finally. 

Tim’s legs move of their own accord again. They carry him around Mr. Wayne desk until he stands before the man. He may be a liar but he is not so good that naked terror isn’t written plainly on his face. He keeps his hands behind his back and lets them twist around and around out of sight.

“Now,” Mr. Wayne says. “Timothy Drake. Take a step to the left. Right. Spin. Sit. Up. Right. Left. Left. Jump. Down.”

The rapid volley of commands ends with Tim flat on his stomach, chin stinging fiercely from its introduction to the floor. His body interpreted down as fall on your face for him. He gets back to his feet unsteadily and waits for more. 

“Take this batarang.” Mr. Wayne pulls it out of one of the desk’s many secret compartments. “Timothy Drake. Cut my hand.”

Tim lurches, batarang between his fingers, for one heart-stopping moment, towards Mr. Wayne’s outstretched hand before he gets himself back under control. Batman watches just as unemotionally as before as the batarang nears his unprotected palm, as Tim wars with himself.

“I don’t want to,” Tim pleads. “Please, Mr. Wayne.” His hand shakes violently. “Please don’t make me.”

“Stop.”

The batarang clatters to the floor. Mr. Wayne leans back in his chair, unaffected. Tim staggers back to his own chair, cheeks stained anew with hot tears. 

“It feels like someone altering who you are.” Tim offers this truth in a last, desperate appeal to make Mr. Wayne understand. “It’s like someone possessing you. I know it’s not very powerful, Mr. Wayne, but–it hurts. It–”

Mr. Wayne raises a hand. “Enough.” His voice is just as gravely as before, but it feels a little more gentle. “I believe you.”

The next morning, a Nikon D850 appears in Tim’s bedroom. He leaves it on his nightstand. In a week he’ll pick it up and head to the streets where he first found Batman and Robin. But for now, the sight fills him with dread. 

[twilightkitkat]

What does Logan think of his claws? Does he like them? Does he hate them? Or are they just a part of him like the tail of a dog? Do they remind him of the violence he had lived through? Of how he used them to kill? Does he ever think of them in a positive way? How he uses them to defend the ones he loves? To climb trees and cut through high grass when he's in the woods? How they are a part of his skeleton? Or how they set him apart from the others? Do they make him more human or more animal?

Logan would have very ambivalent feelings toward his claws.

At first, he was scared of them. Scared of himself. Scared of the consequences of being a mutant. Scared of what he could do with them, to kill a man so easily.

(Scared of the implications. Was he human or not? Was he still a person? Did he still have a chance at a future?)

Eventually, he'd get used to using them in fights. As Logan and Victor fought together in tge wars, he started to view them more pragmatically. They were weapons, just like the guns other soldiers held. Nothing more, nothing less. He was just another soldier who had an extra card up his sleeve.

Logan didn't let himself see the claws as a part of himself at first, not like Victor. His first impression was killing his own father with those claws and watching him bleed out. He hid them away most of the time, opted for military weapons, and was forced to use them only in dire situations.

They were an escape plan. A last resort. Something he tried to hide to pass off as "normal." He felt disconnected from them, almost like they were separate from him.

And then he joined the Weapon X program. Which was full of mutants just like him. Where he was expected to actively use his claws inside of hide them.

And he adapted. He leaned into the instincts he'd long suppressed and passed off as adrenaline. He became familiar with the feeling of slashing and climbing and opening cans and using his claws for more than just a quick kill. He became acclimated with them, comfortable.

He never really liked his claws, not really. But he got used to them. He stopped fearing them as much and started to view them as an actual part of himself. (Even if that part of himself was directly tied to being used as a weapon. To being a human tool.)

And then came the X-men. And so he had to confront his internal conflict between being The Wolverine, an animal, and Logan, the human. It was easy to ignore when he was treated solely like a weapon. But now people expected him to care, to empathize, to be human when all people have wanted from him before was to use his animal side.

It was then that he really started thinking about his feelings on his claws. How they distinctly marked him as an animal, how they represented why he couldn't assimilate into society. How they hurt every time he unsheathed him, contorting in a way that human bones could never handle. They were a reminder, visible proof that he'd never fit in with society. That even when all he wanted was to be human and assimilate into their family, there was still a barrier. He'd lived for so long as The Wolverine that he forgot how to be Logan. (Let alone James.)

And then they were gone.

And in came Wade. And Wade didn't pressure him to be human and relearn all of his "animalistic" habits, nor did he demand he use his tendencies as a weapon. He just let him be.

And that's the thing. Logan's claws were never really Logan's. They were Victor's ally, Weapon X's tool, the X men's protector, but never his. They may be a part of him, but they weren't really his. Not in the ways that mattered.

And now... he gets to choose. Whether he uses his claws for violence. Who he uses them on, where, and why. Whether he wants to use them to open a bottle of beer or screw a nail into the wall.

It's freeing. Liberating.

It's the first time he felt his claws were really his. Like he had the final choice in his life. It's the first time he really appreciated them, now that he finally got to reap the benefits.

[taylortruther]

I actually agree with you 100% on all long-term relationship breakups being pretty much the same. When you've loved someone for so long, it means they're also part of your routines, part of your comfort, part of your home and part of your family. Their family becomes your family, their friends become your friends, their hopes and aspirations become things you care about as well as their struggles. The reasons why the rs starts falling apart aren't as simple as one or both parties no longer "being in love", but rather a combination of issues: career ambitions intolerable to the relationship for various reasons, incompatibility of personalities or of extended families, growth at different paces, the goals and wishes agreed at the start of the rs changing with time, loss of trust and connection, etc. I thought of this the other day when an anon mentioned the movie Blue Valentine, and I think the reason why that film feels so realistic (and devastating) is because all long term relationships slowly desintegrate in similar manners to what happens to the couple in the movie. And piggybacking off the discourse we had on The Alcott, it's quite desperating and frustrating to slowly realize that things that once were profoundly sacred have come to feel like a curse; you no longer feel like you're choosing everyday to be with this person out of love, but rather that you're emprisioned to them.

What we know about TTPD department so far makes me think this will be explored but not in the way many fans seem to be expecting (not you guys lol but I have seen ppl that expect the songs to be sassy, petty, and accusatory). Instead, I think we will see her show and deconstruct all the ways she fought for it to work, compromising, committing, twisting herself into a pretzel, and making herself smaller, not because he was "forcing her" like some fans think but rather from her own decision bc that's just how much she loved him. Which is even more devasting if you think of it: she locked herself away, tried to dim her shine, beared emotional burdens alone because of her own conviction and desire to make things work, not as a result of him "making her" do all of that. So imo one of the reasons this album will be particularly devastating is bc we will learn in a very raw manner just how much she loved this man and how much she was willing to give up for him, and how much regret she probably has about things she did for him that at the time felt like a no-brainer but in hindsight seem ridiculous (which is a very common thing for everyone bc that's simply what you do when you love someone; love isn't usually rational). And this will undoubtedly be very relatable for ppl who have been in ltrs that ended bc, as you say, most of them end in the same way and most of us realize how much we actually sacrificed for it only after the fact.

i agree!!! also, we know taylor never does anything by halves. we know love is basically a religion of drug to her. we know she felt that he believed in her and loved her for her at a time when she felt she was distinctly unlovable. we know she fought hard to deal with her baggage. we know she was reflecting on fame, how fickle it is, and why she wanted it so badly (miss americana doc, mirrorball, midnight rain, to name a few.) we can look at midnights to see the things that were haunting her and they were things like: dealing with fame, choosing the hard way, reckoning with loss of self, wanting to protect love that felt fragile, blocking out noise, the empowerment and loneliness of relying on oneself. midnights feels like a very honest and logical progression past folkmore, which discussed those topics as well as infidelity, taking up space, confronting depression and pain and other sticky human desires. ttpd feels like it will further touch on these complicated and sticky and dark topics, with the added "bonus" of the specter of a breakup, and the breakup itself, haunting them. anyone whose ever lost a part of themselves to try and save a relationship of any kind will understand, i think. love is a beast that way.

[cheynovak]

Complicated

Characters: Soldier boy x Y/N Female character     

Summary: Y/N, a young personal assistant to Soldier Boy (Ben) and Crimson Countess, is caught in a whirlwind of events that shatter her sense of stability. After accidentally witnessing an intimate moment between Ben, Crimson, and another woman, she’s left shaken and unsure how to process it. The following day, Crimson casually invites her to join them, which only adds to Y/N's confusion.

Warnings: 18+ hurt pain TRIGGER WARNING: mentioning of rape/ sexual abuse.

English is not my first language 

*Please do not copy my work, reblog/comments/likes are appreciated* 

part 7/7

You are all going to hate me for this ending. I can feel it... I'm known for my happy endings, but this is... well, not.

I woke up in the middle of the night, feeling the warmth of soft sheets around me. The last thing I remembered was sitting on the cold bathroom floor, crying myself to exhaustion. Ben must have moved me, laying me in the bed. I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the dim light, and saw him nearby, asleep on the couch that had been pulled out just enough for him to stretch his legs.

He sat there, his arms crossed over his chest, legs awkwardly angled on the couch. He looked tense, even in his sleep, like he hadn’t allowed himself to fully relax. He must’ve stayed close to keep an eye on me, to make sure I was safe. But didn't want to push me by crawling in bed next to me.

As I lay there, the memories of the night before started creeping back, but I tried to push them away. I needed to understand why I had come back to him, of all people. We hadn’t been on good terms—if anything, we’d barely spoken for days. But the truth was, Ben made me feel safe, in a way that no one else did.

I carefully got out of bed, my legs. my body sore, bruises still aching with every movement. Pulling the blanket with me, I walked over to him, taking in the sight of his sleeping face. He looked so different like this—calm, vulnerable. Human. The sharp, invincible Soldier Boy was gone, and what was left was just Ben.

Without thinking, I crawled onto his lap, moving slowly not to wake him too abruptly. But as soon as I settled, his eyes fluttered open. He didn’t say anything, just shifted his arms to hold me. One hand cradled the back of my head, his fingers threading through my hair, while the other rested on my knees, gently holding me in place.

I buried my face in his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of him—cigarettes, whiskey, and something distinctly Ben. His hand softly stroked my hair, and I felt him press his lips to the top of my head, a quiet, almost instinctual gesture of comfort.

I draped the blanket over both of us, cocooning us in a shared warmth, and for the first time in what felt like ages, I felt a small sense of peace. In that moment, there was no need for words. We didn’t need to talk about the broken pieces between us or what had happened to me. All I needed was to feel safe.

And in his arms, I did.

After a little while, Ben broke the silence, his voice low and quiet, “Don’t you want to sleep in the bed? Isn’t that more comfortable?”

I hadn’t realized how stiff my body had gotten from the awkward position, my legs starting to tingle as they fell asleep. I nodded slowly, feeling the numbness spreading through my limbs. Without a word, Ben shifted beneath me, carefully lifting me up in his arms. He still held me the same way—like I was something fragile, precious even, his hands steady and sure.

He placed me gently back in the bed, tucking the blanket around me. As he started to pull away, I instinctively reached out, my fingers tugging on his arm. “Stay, please?” My voice cracked, hoarse from screaming, crying, and the silence that had followed. I wasn’t used to hearing my own voice anymore.

Ben hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching mine, and then he gave a soft nod. He climbed into bed beside me, moving slowly so as not to overwhelm me. He didn’t pull me into his arms, didn’t assume, just lay next to me, close enough that I could feel his warmth.

I shifted closer, resting my head against his chest, and his arm wrapped around me, holding me gently. His fingers ran through my hair again, calming, steadying.

The morning sunlight filtered in through the curtains, but I hadn’t slept. Neither had Ben. He just kept brushing his fingers through my hair, the gentle motion calming even though I cried in silence. My tears were soundless now, the sobs I’d swallowed through the night leaving a heavy ache in my chest.

When morning fully broke, Ben finally spoke. “Are you ready to talk?” he asked softly, his voice gentle but still carrying that tension, the weight of what he wanted to know.

I sighed, barely more than a whisper. “Not really.”

He shifted beside me, his body tense. “At least tell me who…” he began, but I didn’t let him finish. I couldn’t.

“No,” I said, my voice firmer than I’d expected. The last thing I wanted was to see what Ben would do with that information. His anger, his power—it terrified me in a different way now.

He didn’t push. Instead, he pressed a kiss to the top of my head and whispered, “Try to sleep a little.”

To my surprise, I actually did. When I woke up, the room was quiet, the afternoon light filtering in. The bed was empty beside me, and I realized Ben was gone. I glanced around and saw my bag had been emptied on the table. My agenda lay open, and my heart sank when I noticed something was missing. The page with my old and new address, along with my emergency contact, had been torn out.

Just then, Ben walked back into the room. He wasn’t wearing his Soldier Boy costume. But there was blood on his face, on his hands. I gasped, sitting up straight, my heart racing.

“Ben! What happened?” I asked, my voice sharp with fear. My mind raced, wondering what he had done, who he had gone after.

He looked surprised to see me awake, his eyes darting to the blood on his hands. He cleared his throat, avoiding my gaze. “I, uh… I got you some clothes from your apartment.” He dropped the bag onto the table, almost casually, but I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched.

“And?” I pressed, my voice rising. “What happened, Ben?”

He hesitated for a moment, then looked at me. His expression shifted, something dark and dangerous in his eyes. “I ran into a man at your old apartment. Wasn’t Kevin,” he said, his voice measured, like he was carefully choosing his words. “But… he was looking for him, he seemed... nervous.”

He trailed off, glancing at me as if to gauge my reaction. His nostrils flared slightly, and then it hit me—the realization crashing down like a wave.

He must have recognized his smell from last night. On me.

My breath caught in my throat. “Ben, what did you do?”

His eyes darkened, his hand flexing as if remembering the violence from earlier. “Just made sure he’ll never lay a hand on anyone again.”

I couldn’t speak, my mind spinning as I tried to process what he’d done. What I’d just unleashed by coming to him. I didn’t know whether to feel relief or fear, or both.

“Why?!” My voice came out harsher than I intended, and Ben noticed. He stiffened, the tension between us palpable.

“Because they laid their hands on you!” he snapped, his anger bubbling just beneath the surface. “And you won’t tell me what they did, so I assumed the worst!”

I shook my head, my breath shaky as I tried to calm him down. “What will you do when you find Kevin?” I asked, fear creeping into my voice.

A dark smile tugged at the corner of Ben’s mouth. “Him? Oh, he’ll know I’m coming for him.”

I blinked, my heart sinking. “What?!”

“I’ll track down his friends first,” Ben continued, his voice colder, sharper. “By the time it’s his turn, he’ll know exactly what happens when you touch my girl.”

“Ben, no!” My voice cracked, but the fury in his eyes didn’t waver.

“Why not?” he demanded, taking a step closer, his presence looming, suffocating.

“Because…” I trailed off, my throat tightening as I searched for the right words. “I’m not your girl.”

His face froze, his expression unreadable for a moment. “Excuse me?” His voice was low, dangerous.

I couldn’t meet his eyes. I stared at the ground, feeling the weight of his gaze boring into me. “Not really, Ben. I’m just… I don’t know what I am, but I’m not your girl.”

The silence between us stretched, thick with unspoken emotions. I could feel him staring at me, waiting for me to say more, but I had nothing left to give. The truth I had spoken was raw and painful, and it hung in the air like a wound between us.

When he finally spoke, his voice was colder than I’d ever heard it. “Is that how you really feel?”

I didn’t answer right away, but when I looked up, the pain in his eyes startled me. For all the power and fury Ben had, for all the danger he radiated, there was something broken in him now. I hadn’t seen it before, or maybe I had and just refused to acknowledge it.

“I don’t know what we are, Ben,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “But I don’t belong to you.”

He took a deep breath, his fists clenching at his sides. The rage simmered in his expression, but something else flickered behind his eyes—something vulnerable, like he was realizing he couldn’t fix this the way he wanted to. He couldn’t control it.

Without another word, Ben turned his back to me, and for a moment, I thought he might walk out. But instead, he stood there, fists clenched, struggling with the weight of everything I had just said.

"No, no, no. You are mine," Ben said, his voice firm, almost desperate.

I shook my head, my throat tightening. "Ben, we haven’t spoken in days. Weeks."

"Because I thought you needed space," he replied quickly, like it was obvious. "But those other girls last night, Ben?" My voice wavered, unsure if I even wanted to hear the answer.

"Because I thought you broke up with me."

I froze, staring at him. "B-broke up with you?!" The words felt surreal, like he had twisted the whole situation into something I didn’t recognize. "You left the penthouse, Y/N! What was I supposed to think?"

His face shifted, a crack in the Soldier Boy mask, and for a moment, Ben—just Ben—was standing there in front of me, vulnerable and raw. His eyes searched mine, desperate for me to understand.

"You said you wanted out," he continued, his voice softer now. "You told me you couldn’t do this anymore. You told me you'd fall for someone else. I needed to clear my head, Y/N. To let you go, you wanted that didn't you?"

"Why would you do that? No.... no I didn't want that." I whispered, needing him to say it, needing the truth laid bare between us.

"Isn’t it obvious?!" His voice was sharp, frustration creeping back in, but I stayed quiet, holding his gaze. The silence stretched until he let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders dropping slightly.

"I broke all the rules for you," he said, his tone softening, becoming more earnest. "I stayed with you every single minute I didn’t have obligations. I stayed alone in a room during herogasm, because you didn’t want to share. I do anything for you! I’d kill for you, Hell I did kill for you, Y/N!"

His words hit me like a wave, each one sinking deeper into my chest. All the anger, the confusion, the fear—it was still there, but it was eclipsed by something heavier, something that had been hiding between us this whole time.

Before I could respond, he grabbed my hands, his touch firm but gentle enough not to hurt me, and then his hand cupped my face, forcing me to look at him. His green eyes were intense, but the vulnerability was still there, right beneath the surface.

"I love you, princess," Ben said, his voice a mix of desperation and something deeper, something real.

I froze, his words echoing in my mind. I’d kill for you… I did.

My breath hitched, and before I could even process what he said, Ben leaned in slowly, his lips hovering just inches from mine. The familiar scent of him—cigarettes, whiskey, and something distinctly him—washed over me, and for a moment, I was paralyzed.

“You killed for me?” The question slipped out, my voice barely a whisper, cutting through the charged air between us.

Ben stopped, his lips still hovering so close but no longer moving closer. His eyes flicked to mine, searching my face for something, for what, I didn’t know. The intensity in his gaze faltered slightly, like he wasn’t sure if he should pull away or lean in further.

"Yeah," he finally said, his voice quieter than before, but there was no regret in it. No hesitation. "I’d do it again, too. They hurt you. "

My heart raced, emotions swirling inside me—a confusing mix of fear, gratitude, and something I couldn’t even put into words. Part of me wanted to thank him, part of me wanted to scream at him. What had he done? What had I brought into his life?

"I didn’t ask for that," I murmured, my voice trembling. "I didn’t want—"

"You didn’t have to ask," he cut me off, his grip tightening ever so slightly on my hands. "I protect what’s mine."

I flinched at the word, but he didn’t notice. Or maybe he did, but didn’t care. To him, this was black and white. He’d made up his mind long before I’d even realized how deep he was in this.

I looked into his eyes, torn between everything I felt, and all I could manage was, “Ben, I didn’t need you to kill for me. I just needed you.”

His face softened, something breaking in his expression, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he leaned in again, slower this time, as if he was giving me time to pull away. But I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

The moment his lips touched mine, it was like a drug I couldn’t resist. His touch, his scent—everything about Ben intoxicated me. I melted into him, craving the warmth of his embrace, the way his presence consumed me, grounding me in a way nothing else could. When I finally leaned back, catching my breath, a thought crossed my mind, and I couldn’t stop the words from spilling out.

“So, no other girls at herogasmn, huh?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

He smirked, that cocky, confident look returning. “No.”

"Men?" I asked a little shy. He huffed "No, no one."

I wasn’t about to let him off that easily. “Since when?”

Ben paused, thinking about it for a moment. “Since I gave you the key to this place. For as long as we were together. Until you broke up with me.”

I narrowed my eyes, my lips brushing his as I whispered, “That’s a lie.”

He looked momentarily shocked, his smirk fading. I wasn’t done. “I never broke up with you.”

His face changed, the memory of last night flashing behind his eyes. Something painful lingered in his expression, a mix of regret and realization.

“Okay, fine,” he admitted, “only once.”

I pressed him further, my voice softer but curious. “What about Countess?”

Ben’s eyes flickered with something—maybe guilt, maybe something else—but his grin returned, more playful this time. “Not even with her.”

“What, you gave that up? When?” I asked, needing to know, the question hanging in the air between us.

His grin widened, mischief dancing in his eyes. “The exact moment I realized I fell for you.”

My heart skipped a beat at his confession, but I couldn’t help but ask, “When was that?”

“The first time, when you where on top of me.” he murmured, his voice low, like it was a secret just for me. My cheeks flushed thinking about the first ever time between us.

His gaze locked on mine, and there was no hesitation this time. “I realized I didn’t wanted to share you either.”

My heart raced at his words, the intensity of his feelings wrapping around me like a vice. Everything between us had been chaotic, messy, and so complicated, but in that moment, it felt simple.

It felt real. And I felt like I deserved it, happiness and love.

Ben walked us back to the chair. He pulled me onto his lap like I had cuddled with him last night. "You know you are a very complicated woman." I looked confused at him. "On one side you tell me you never broke up with me and on the other you tell me you're not my girl."

I laughed softly. "I just never knew I was you girlfriend." My lips brushed over his, "You have some serious lack of communication skills Ben. If you'd have confessed all of this earlier nothing like this would have happened."

He smirked, "My lack of communication?" I nodded playfully, biting my lip. "Well then, princess. How about this, your mine, I'm yours. No sharing." I smiled.

"Better yet." He started "I'll find whoever..." He looked at me and stopped, knowing I didn’t wanted to talk about it. "Just trust me on this." I nodded. "And then, one more mission. One. And then I'll hang up the suit. We move anywhere you want, do anything you want. Just you and me. How is that for communication?"

Knowing Ben that was as much as saying he chose me for real this time. I kissed him in agreement.

My mind swirling.

I saw us getting married in Vegas, live a exciting life with traveling before settling down and starting a family.

"How long do I have to miss you?" I asked a little later, still cuddling him. Needing to know when our future starts. "Couple of months."

I was shocked, he never been away that long. "Where are you heading to?"

"Nicaragua."

--

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[marlynnofmany]

Mystery Colors

Our first delivery after a bit of shore leave at the local space station, and it was a stealth mission. The client didn't say why they needed this delivery to be handed over without catching the attention of the authority figures at their work site, but they were paying extra for it. I wasn't part of the conversation. I don't know what other details Captain Sunlight got from them to make sure this was a safe risk on our account. But she was always smart about that sort of thing, and at any rate, she assured us all that we didn't need to worry. Flying in to an unpopulated area out of sight of the main science installation would be fine. 

We trusted that, but we were curious. And since the client was human, the rest of my crewmates volunteered me for the delivery in hopes of wheedling out some tactful details. 

I didn't object. I wanted to know too. 

So I got into my exo suit, checking all the seams and settings even though the safety gear was inspected regularly. This planet wasn’t even all that dangerous according to the readings — it was mostly terraformed to an acceptable standard, though the air wasn’t quite up to standard levels yet — but this felt like a good time to be careful. I wasn’t likely to be entrusted with any secrets if I passed out from lack of oxygen.

Paint was waiting for me with the box. “We’re almost there!” she said, scaly tail swishing behind her. “Best of luck!”

“Thanks,” I said, taking the box and wondering for the umpteenth time what was inside it. The logos were all from a megastore at the space station. Zhee had picked it up, and it was already sealed when he signed for it as official intermediary courier. The person at the checkout counter hadn’t known what it held either.

The engines made their usual landing hum. Since our ship had good landing gear and reliable artificial gravity, it would have been easy to miss otherwise. Paint scuttled out of the way while I walked toward the exit. Blip and Blop peeked around a corner, frills waving in curiosity. Zhee was parked in a cross hallway, not trying to hide.

He tapped one bug leg on the floor and said, “I hope to hear any juicy secrets first.”

Before I could answer that, Mur scooted by in a quiet slap of tentacles and put in, “I’ll be in the cockpit to see if Wio can eavesdrop with the sensors.”

I left Zhee to grumble about it and threaten to tattle on Mur for bothering the pilots. We all knew Zhee was just jealous that he was too big to perch in an out-of-the-way corner. At least he wasn’t Trrili’s size; she barely fit in the cockpit at all.

The door panel said the airlock was engaged, and the air outside was as expected. I stepped through the first door with the box held tight, letting it close behind me with a shush of air that drowned out the bickering in the hallway.

The outside door opened to let in bright sunlight, alien air, and distinctly less gravity. I didn’t notice that last until I stepped out onto the ramp and nearly made a fool of myself. Caught my balance, though. I tried not to leave finger-shaped dents in the box as I hopped awkwardly down the ramp and mentally kicked myself for not reading the briefing more thoroughly. I’d been focused on the air and hadn’t noticed that the gravity was lower than I was used to.

No time to worry about that now, though: a pair of human shapes in bright red exo suits were approaching from the edge of the flat rocky area. A metal roof visible over the boulders behind them was probably their own shuttle. Everything else in sight was rocks in a range of gray-to-orange colors. A hill in the distance held tinges of green that could have been plants.

“Hello!” said the human who was one step ahead of the other. She sounded a little younger than me. Her face wasn’t visible through the reflective visor. So clandestine. “Thank you for being prompt.”

I said, “We aim to please,” and managed to stop moving without smashing into either of them. They had clearly been working here long enough to get a feel for the gravity. “Here is your package,” I said as I handed it over, “And here is the payment tablet,” I added once my hands were free. I unhooked it from my waistband and passed it to the second human.

The first was busy ripping the box open like a kid with an anticipated present.

“Oh good, it’s the right kind!” she said in relief. She set the box on the dusty ground and pulled out something that I recognized as a turbo cleaning wand, the kind usually marketed towards the parents of small children. I’d seen artists use them too, both for cleanup and for making some neat inverted-color murals.

Not wanting to sound like I was doing more than making conversation, I said, “I’ve heard those are good ones.”

“They’re definitely the fastest,” the human said. “Lemme just see if they work on this particular ink.” She opened a thigh pocket with a rip of velcro, and took out what looked like a chunk of tile with deep pink scribbles on it.

The other human finished with the payment tablet and handed it back. “They’d better work,” he said. “If not, we’re toast.”

“How come?” I asked with concern in my voice, hoping that wasn’t too much.

I shouldn’t have worried. The first human activated the wand and wiped the tile clean in one swift pass, then laughed with clear relief. “Saved! We should have just enough time to get everything before the inspectors arrive. Now we just have to hope Julian didn’t leave any more of his rude notes somewhere we haven’t found. The shopping lists and tally marks would be bad enough, but his stuff would get all three of us canned immediately.”

I looked in the direction of the large encampment I’d seen from space. “Are you working this whole place alone?”

She laughed and put the tile back in her pocket. “Oh no, we’re just the only humans here. Everybody else is a Waterwill. Did you know those guys can’t see the color magenta?”

“Really!” I said. This was news to me.

She pulled a pen out of a different pocket. “These are completely invisible if you write on a pale surface. Which has been handy for keeping track of specimens when we feel lazy, and leaving each other notes by the door..”

“…But Julian took it a bit too far,” added the other guy. “With this gravity, he jumps and writes insults on the ceiling.”

“Ah,” I said. “I see why that might not go over well with inspectors. Who are not Waterwills, I take it?”

“Nope,” said the first human as she stowed the wand back in the box then picked the whole thing up. “But they’re not coming until tomorrow, so we should be able to clean it all away in time. Even if we have to do some quiet climbing around in the middle of the night.”

“Hey, what’s that?” the other human interrupted, reaching for something else in the box. He came up with a bundle of green cloth.

“Oh!” said the first. “That’s for Julian. I’m going to say it was at the bottom of the last food shipment as an error.”

When the guy unfolded it, the cloth proved to be a T-shirt patterned in green specks of multiple shades. The side toward me had black text that said “The Best.”

But the two humans were laughing about something on the back. When they saw my confusion, the guy turned it around.

Among all those green dots were a series of orange ones that spelled out “I’m colorblind! And also an asshole.”

The first human explained to me, “Julian is actually red-green colorblind. The magenta pens were for his benefit originally, since they don’t blend with the green ones like red does, and sometimes we need to chart things in color-coding. But—”

“But the Waterwills can’t see it at all,” the second continued. “So they were retired. Officially.”

“I see,” I said. “Well. Best of luck in cleaning up his messes!”

“Thank you!” they chorused. Once the shirt was stuffed into the bottom of the box and the lid was safely shut, they gave me a wave and bounded across the low-gravity rocks toward their waiting shuttle.

I made my awkward way back up the ramp to where my alien coworkers were waiting. I was considering an impromptu color vision test for them, just to see if something bright and obvious to me was invisible someone else onboard.

But then I realized that it would lead to a contest for smell-vision, and I was absolutely rubbish at that.

~~~

These are the ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book.

Shared early on Patreon! There’s even a free tier to get them on the same day as the rest of the world.

The sequel novel is in progress (and will include characters from these stories. I hadn’t thought all of them up when I wrote the first book, but they’re too much fun to leave out of the second).