#it is physically impossible for me to line and color something and then just not shade it

[toiletshit]

imagine tho if Zentis actually brought back their old mascot and turned them into a waifu for no fucking reason

[minnaci]

fushiguro toji x gn!reader · nsfw · wc: 1.4k

no pregnant, just breed.

contents: HEAVY BREEDING KINK (no pregnant, just breed, as the title implies), cumming inside (reader receiving), heavy daddy kink (reader calls toji "daddy", no age-play), penetrative sex (reader receiving), unrealistic cervix stimulation (reader receiving), one (1) brief check-in, self-aware over-the-top dirty talk (which both toji and reader semi-begrudgingly enjoy), gratuitous descriptions of cum, it's just self-indulgent smut i am cringe but i am FREE

reader details: reader has a vagina (referred to as a "pussy"), a clitoris, and a cervix. they are physically unable to become pregnant, which is implied to be a deliberate choice.

a/n: thank you to my beloved monty @shibaraki for sponsoring this truly self-indulgent flash-fic through @ficsforgaza! i got a little carried away... this was supposed to be around 500 words... ahsdkjf gg no re

"i don't wanna get pregnant, daddy," you choke the words out through every devastating, soul-wrenching thrust. his cock throbs inside of you. ah, there it is— toji's ever-reliable breeding kink.

you both know you can't get pregnant. it's no longer biologically possible for you, nor does toji actually want another kid. but damn if pretending you don't want to be bred full and heavy doesn't get toji going.

"mmm, i know, baby, but your body is just begging for it..." he pushes your thighs further against your chest, making your muscles ache with the stretch and letting him get impossibly deeper. the tip of his cock kisses your cervix, and you yelp— a real one, a pained one, nothing like the sugary-sweet sobs you fake when you really want toji to wreck you.

toji pulls back immediately. your pussy gapes, mourning his loss. "color?"

"green," you say. the loss of his touch sends tremors through your skin. you reach for him, and he comes to you easily, blanketing you with his weight and pressing a sweet kiss to your temple. "why? you?"

"you sounded like you were hurting, but i'm green if you are."

"you know i like when you hurt me," you say, letting your breath wash over the shell of his ear. you can feel the way his spine shudders, arches into you— all that power, all that desire, brimming under your hands. "and you were so deep, daddy, you were fucking my cervix. it hurt so, so good."

there's a tense silence. the beginnings of embarrassment make your cheeks warm. did you finally reach the limits of toji's depravity? was the dirty talk finally too cringe?

"baby," toji growls— a real, actual growl, what the hell— and captures your lips in a bruising kiss. "you're so fucking hot. what the fuck. why was that so fucking hot?"

with an internal sigh of relief, you mentally check "cervix kink" off on the list in your head. bingo.

"can you please kiss my cervix again?" you pout and cup his face in your hands, playing up the part of sweet, spoiled pet. "it misses you, daddy."

if his hands weren't occupied with lining his cock up with your needy entrance, you're sure toji would be pulling his hair out. he makes a hopelessly aroused noise— something close to a whimper, though you're sure he'd deny it if asked— and sinks back into you, inch by unyielding, unforgiving inch.

the tip of his cock finds your weakest spot again without much trouble. you can't help but clench tight, muscles contracting against your will as he circles his hips.

"there," you gasp, chest trembling. "right— right there, again, yes yes yes—"

his gaze sharpens as you sob and writhe on his cock. honestly, it's almost concerning how easily he makes your brain go fuzzy. pleasure clouds your consciousness, and you melt around his cock. any semblance of an act dissolves into nothingness as he fucks you with deep, devastating thrusts. "are all of those pretty noises for me, baby?"

"nnngh," you whimper through a truly devious roll of his hips. you're so full you can hardly stand it.

"mhm, very eloquent," he says, an amused crinkle at the corner of his eyes. for all that you know how to push his buttons, he know how to push yours right back. there's a deliciously patronizing edge to his tone when he speaks again. "there's my baby, using their big, smart words, like 'nngh' and 'ungh'."

"stop," you whine, protest breaking on a pitchy moan. it sounds enough like toji's mocking imitation of your noises that your cheeks flush with warmth. "you're being mean."

"i am, aren't i?" he purrs. the rough pad of his thumb finds your clit. your body instinctively tries to move away, overwhelmed by the sensation, but toji's weight keeps you trapped underneath him. there's nothing you can do but accept it— accept the firm circles against your clit, the aching pressure of the tip of his cock against your cervix, the heavy slap of his balls against your skin. "but you like it."

"no, i— i don't." an obvious lie. you both know it, based on the way toji grins at you, all teeth.

"silly thing." he tilts your hips up a bit, enough to bully his way deeper inside of you. "of course you do. look at you— just a few mean words and you're making a mess all over the sheets."

he's right— you're dripping. the slick, lewd sounds of your pleasure fill the room every time he moves his hips against yours. it's messy, filthy, wet— a perfect cocktail of hormones and arousal that makes your brain melt and leak out of your needy pussy.

submission comes easily enough when all you can think of how good toji is to you, how grateful you are to have a lover who knows your body even better than you know yourself. toji tears you apart with the hunger of a feral wolf, and the parting of your flesh under his fangs is sweeter than sin.

"feels so hot, daddy—" you gasp, clinging to him. heat pools between your legs, burning through the last of your sanity. he's your lifeline, your rock, the only thing preventing you from getting lost in this wildfire of pleasure. his cock is thick enough to rub up against every sweet spot you have without trying, but the sensations only grow more intense when he grinds his hips, stirring up your insides. "please, 's too hot, 'm gonna—!"

"go ahead, honey. give it to me."

his thumb catches against your clit just right, and the heat in your core boils over. you tumble over the edge, mind whiting out and eyes rolling back into your skull. toji's cock is big and heavy inside of you, and your pussy milks him shamelessly. the tip of his cock presses against the hungry mouth of your cervix in a lewd, aching kiss.

toji fucks you through your orgasm, letting you grind and ride out all of your shakes and shivers on his thick cock. he huffs a laugh as you finally flop back into the pillows, gazing up at him with a sweet, tired smile, even as your pussy flutters around him, aching for just a little more. "there you are. there's my baby, going all soft for me. you gonna let me breed you now?"

his cock feels so good that you can hardly think, much less speak, but raw, unfettered greed claws at your ribs, loosens your tongue just enough for you to mewl out a soft, "please, daddy."

to your dismay, he pulls out, leaving just the tip of his cock inside. he strokes the part of his shaft that he can reach, using your cum as his lube. the wet sounds are sickeningly hot, and your pussy reacts, kissing and milking at his fat cockhead as if to try and coax him just a bit deeper.

"fuck." his eyes lock on place where your body welcomes him in, still so eager, so wet. his stroking speeds up, a lewd little fap-fap-fap as his jaw hangs slack. "baby," he gasps, hips trembling. "baby."

"please," you say, mustering the strength to cup his face in your hands. he looks at you, looking nearly drunk on his pleasure. the sheer bliss in his dazed expression nearly makes you cum again. "please, daddy, please cum in me. my pussy needs it."

"fuck," he groans, capturing your lips in a messy kiss as his cock throbs out spurt after spurt of cum into your wanting pussy. with the way his cockhead sits at the mouth of your pussy, you can feel his cum leaking in deep, dripping down your walls to warm your aching cervix. finally, some fretful, restless instinct inside you settles, appeased by the warm, creamy dribble of his seed.

"so good." he squeezes his cock in his fist, milking out the last drops of cum. his fingers tremble as he guides his softening cock inside of you, using it to push his cum even deeper inside. "look at you, so sweet now that you've been bred. i should keep you like this all the time— spread open in my bed with my cum in your fucking womb. would you like that?"

"no pregnant," you say a familiar sort of sweet, post-sex giddiness washing over you. you giggle. "but okay."

he laughs, sounding a bit delirious himself. "of course, baby. i know. no pregnant. just breed."

networks: @houseofsolisoccasum @interstellar-inn

[bakugoushotwife]

kinktober day five: size kink

>>> so obviously there is no other option size kink and toji fushiguro are synonymous in my book! i do call him zen'in in this so i guess we can be mama fushiguro lmao! i hope you guys are having a good time with kinktober so far :D

>>> starring toji (zen'in) fushiguro x curvy!fem!reader >>> cw: size kink duh, daddy kink i'm not apologizing anymore, reader is stuck in a washer, doggy, oral (fem receiving), reader is used to shit men lol >>> wc: 2.3k >>> event masterlist

toji is massive, in every form of the word. he’s tall, towering over most people he comes across at his looming stature. most of the time, tall people were lanky and lean, slender with limbs that stretch for days. he didn’t fit the stereotype. toji was beefy, his biceps were the size of your head and his hands could cover your entire face. his arms aren’t where it stops either, his chest is broad; he’s so impossibly wide, always struggling to find clothes that fit him right. not that you mind too much of course, watching those poor t-shirts try to contain him rile you up to no end every time. he was always there to grab whatever you needed off of high shelves, changing lightbulbs and dusting the ceiling fans because it was all too easy for him to do. he was ridiculously strong, able to open even the tightest of jars and sweep you into his arms like it was nothing. it wasn’t like you ever overlooked toji’s size, it’s just that you never thought yourself all that small. 

in fact, you struggled with your figure a bit, never quite knowing where you fit in for most of your life. boys either made you feel too insecure over your size or only ever wanted you for that curvy and voluptuous figure. at first, toji was no different, knowing how to talk at a beautiful girl when he sees one. he approaches you, lays out some dirty and cheesy pick up line that’s not even remotely close to original, and is honestly surprised when you snort through your nose and roll your eyes. 

“i had more hope outta you, you were actually cute.” you sneer, quickly turning to keep walking down the quiet streets without any more trouble. and that was it–you really weren’t going to give him a second glance even though you admitted he was attractive? he had never really been turned down before, his looks alone enough to open any door. seems with a body like that you were used to gross one-liners. 

“hey, little lady, wait.” he said, his voice a little softer than it had been when he was hitting on you before. you had already walked a few feet away, but noticing the slight change in disposition, you halted. “maybe that was a bit much, i got ahead’a myself.” he says, tilting his head down in an apology. “let me make it up to ya?” 

your eyes narrowed at him. his arms were folded over his chest, the fabric of the struggling shirt expanding to its fullest potential. his hair ruffled a bit with the warm breeze that blew through, the color of his locks as dark as the night sky—though his eyes shone like the stars above too, something in the green expanses of the hazy orbs twisting your gut and making you decide that if anybody deserves a second chance, it was this sexy stranger. could you even be that angry at him for his lewd comment when you were eyeing him down too, only thinking of his physical attributes?

at your hesitation he speaks again. “let me walk you home. it’s late, and like i said, you’re very pretty.” he raises his brow as if asking one final time. you breathe some air out through your nose, suspiciously looking him up and down at the offer. “no funny business, just protection, little lady.” he swears with his hands by his head. 

you hum, nodding your head for him to follow you as you start walking, hips swinging and hair swaying. when he thinks back on it maybe he fell in love right here, watching you stomp towards your house with way more attitude than your tiny body should contain, doing your damndest to try and play hard to get. but toji’s no fool. he follows you, he increases his strides to catch up with a small effort, but he’s walking beside you with a smug look on his face. 

he makes meaningless chit-chat, learns about some of your hobbies and about your job. he gets your phone number, and apologizes one last charismatic time before you shut the door of your apartment and he’s walking back home, thinking of how he rarely plays the long game for a woman. but he knew you were worth it, the perfect little thing to brighten his days. 

unlike you, toji realized how tiny you were immediately. sure, you were curvy and your chest and ass definitely were not small–you even had a little tummy to you, but you were just so short and compact, he knew he could manhandle you like a toy. not to mention how cute and bratty you were, he was all but compelled to be your man and fuck that attitude right out of you. 

so the long game he played, talking to and courting you like a proper adult, though it isn’t long until you’re accepting him into your home and letting him tame that bratty streak of yours. 

and you’re so glad you decided to give the ginormous stranger another go. he earns his place in your heart and in your home in under a year, and you’ve been grateful for his presence around the house. he makes you feel safe and protected, your own personal security guard. no place could be safer than those hulking arms trapping you to a chest at least two times as wide as yours. his hands always felt so warm and rough against your frame, seeing them against your body always made you feel like the daintiest thing in the whole world. god, and the way those enormous fingers moved inside your little hole—

maybe that’s why you thought you thought you could rely on the burly man you’ve come to love to be the perfect boyfriend he’s shown you he can be, despite the weird looks you get walking around in public with toji zen’in. you never minded the whispers or the rumors of his reputation, you knew him better than anyone, another reason you thought that when you screamed out his name for help, that he’d come running to your rescue. 

to which in part, he did, to his credit. when he heard your voice far away in the laundry room hollering for him, sounding a little too afraid for his comfort, he was there in an instant. but rescuing? nah. he couldn’t help but laugh at your compromising situation. you’re face first in the top load washer, your top-half completely invisible, ass and legs squirming in the air. of course you’d fall in, the height of the washer was something you often complained about; you had to basically crawl inside the machinery to get clothes in and out, and it annoyed you to no end. now, the worst had happened and here you are. you couldn’t even just push yourself out due to how high your legs dangle, you’d surely fall. 

you know what they say, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, and as good as toji has been to you, he can’t repress the perverted fantasy his mind drums up at the sight of your tiny body stuck in the washer. you kick your feet harder at the sound of his laughter, to which he can only belly chuckle harder.  

“you need some help, darlin’?” he teases, large hands wrapping around your ankles, halting your kicking immediately. he holds your legs there by his thighs, standing between them. he smirks down at your fat ass jiggling and recoiling as you try to squirm your way up the washer. he chuckles at your failures and the sounds of frustrations that follow, until you finally whine out for help. 

“toji— just get me out of here.” you pout flatly, folding your arms over your chest inside the barrel. he chuckles deeply again, sliding his hands up your bare legs until they came across the mounds of your ass. he squeezes the flesh almost tenderly. 

“but little lady,” he hums as he hooks his fingers under the waistband of your shorts and slowly drags them down your legs. he has to kneel to get the garment completely off, but he doesn’t mind. he decides kneeling is advantageous for him, especially once he sees your pretty little hole clenching around nothing, just eager to be filled. “ya look like a little toy from down here,’nd i’m thinkin i oughta play.” he has to spread your ass cheeks a little bit to see you in all your glory before he leans in to lick a stripe from glistening slit to your puckering asshole. he growls at the flavor, something he just can’t stop himself from doing no matter how many times he gets to taste you. you can feel the soft tickle of his hair against the insides of your thighs, the searing heat of his tongue making your squirm back against him in a desperate search for more. 

you should have known toji would be greedy, taking advantage of your inability to move and abusing that to the fullest. he laps at you, shoving his fat tongue into your tiny little hole, fucking it wider for his cock to use. after all these months of him fucking you open, you were still so tight and small. you hug even his tongue, silky wet walls making his eyes roll back a little bit. his large hands hold your asscheeks, kneading like a kitten making biscuits, even though it felt more like a lion pawing at you. you taste so good, it has his cock jumping against his zipper and begging for freedom. he decides to deny himself that simple pleasure, focused on driving more of those cute little whimpers from your lips. the tunnel of the washer was amplifying all your sounds, and he felt the torture of not having your tiny cunt wrapped tight around his cock every passing second. 

you were panting, beginning to feel dizzy from being nearly upside down. every stroke of toji’s tongue massaging your fluttering entrance and the intensity of his deft fingers flicking your clit combined sent you spiraling, both physically and literally, towards the edge. he can’t help but lean back and watch the way you fuck yourself back on his mouth for more, picking up the pace of his fingers to send you over your limit. it’s so cute to watch your thighs clench down and shiver as you cum, screeching and begging for his dick next. 

and who was the feared sorcerer killer to deny such a sweet request from his beloved? his pants are off, belt clinking against the floor. you ready yourself, feeling the rough warmth of his hands envelop your sides and his hips cleave your thighs apart yet again. he’s so strong, he doesn’t even have to use his hands to toss you around, positioning you exactly the way he needs you to fuck you into pieces. his cock splits your lower lips and he unceremoniously bottoms out, eyes clenched shut at how your tiny cunt grips him. your jaw drops with the feeling of being so full at once, his cock just as broad and long as the rest of him. he kisses your cervix before he’s even started moving and you’re already squirming and crying like always. the stretch burns, every time feels like your first with toji. especially like this, you’re bent in half and he’s so deep in doggy that you’re seeing stars—though that could be due to the dizziness swirling around your head. 

“so tight f’me like always, gorgeous.” he chuffs, drawing back to the tip and plowing his length back in, entranced by how you clench and release around him. you mewl your acknowledgement, your hips eagerly moving back against him for more friction, his strokes deliriously slow. 

he notes your impatience, amused. 

“need more, little thing?” he teases, licking his smirking lips at the sound of your pathetic whines and kicks. you nod eagerly, realizing he can’t see it. 

“yes, daddy, please! need you to make me cum–” 

before you can finish your sentence, he’s punishing you for asking for it. this angle is so unforgiving, you can feel every vein decorating his shaft as he destroys you, the tip colliding with your womb so hard it has your toes curling and vision going white. his grunts are so low and delicious, a reward for the perfect pussy you offer him nightly. it’s so good, he can’t stop until he beats your insides into the shape of the dick making you scream right now. 

your ass bounces around his thrusts, absorbing every snap of his hips into your unsuspecting and fragile body. he loves watching you break, like his own personal little doll.

“cum–daddy oh my god i’m gonna cum so hard!” you whine, thrashing. 

“oh coat this cock, babygirl.” he groans, feeling himself letting go, unable to fight back against your vice grip anymore. “cum with me, need to feel it.” his head falls back as you spasm around him, the vision of your little pussy accommodating his size too much to bear. 

“god, please toji!! cum, cum, i need it so bad.” you whimper, your voice so breathy and tired, so beautiful as you beg for his load. it’s already established that he can’t deny you, so he doesn’t. he slides his cock in and out of your slick one last time, hissing as his balls tighten and explode into your cunt, white-hot and heavy. it fills you to the brim like it always does, even when his enormous dick withdraws from you and the mix starts to escape down your thighs you still feel impossibly full. 

finally, he rights you onto your feet, his strong steady hands keeping you upright as you wobble a bit. when your vision stops spinning and you bring yourself to open your eyes again, you’re met with toji’s smirking face. his eyes are lazy with amusement and love as he looks at you, giving you an affectionate pat to the head. 

“kinda wanted to leave you there ‘nd keep usin’ ya like that.” 

[cuubism]

physical therapy part 4

--

It takes some time, but finally, Dream's hand starts to feel better when he's painting. Granted, his grip strength still needs some work, and he's had to adjust the way he holds a brush to accommodate the lingering stiffness he gets in some of his fingers, but he's finding it hard to care when a few months ago he couldn't draw a straight line without it turning into a scribble. He'd known Hob was good at his job, but it still feels like a miracle.

The only downside is that once he makes enough progress Hob will surely decide to end their sessions. And while he had said that he liked Dream, that he cared about Dream... Dream is finding it hard to feel assured of those feelings. Someone's feelings can change on a dime, and it's impossible to predict.

But finally the day does come when Hob deems him progressed enough to simply continue his exercises at home. "At this point I think you've regained enough mobility that it's just a matter of gradually increasing how much you're using your hand," he says. "You've made a ton of progress."

"Have I?" Dream is less sure. Some things are certainly easier now, like doing tasks around the house, and picking things up. Art is another matter. Though perhaps he is simply making excuses because he doesn't want to stop seeing Hob.

"Yeah, look." Hob pulls out a folder from amongst his files, and shows Dream several sketches--the ones Dream's made in session, which he's apparently kept. Dream picks up the oldest sketch, the cats he'd doodled at his first appointment. They're shaky and uneven, like something he might have drawn when he was barely four. He supposes he can't deny the progress since then. He's torn between wanting to tear the drawing up, for it's too wretched a reminder--and wanting to hold it close to his chest.

"It's not that I think there's no more room for improvement, or anything," Hob says. "I just don't think continuing these frequent sessions is going to offer more than a marginal benefit."

Dream thinks that the benefit he is receiving at this point is more in being able to look forward to seeing Hob each week, than the physical therapy itself. He needs something to look forward to. He's put Hob's objectively terrible finger painting on his fridge. It's still the only spot of color in his empty flat. He needs that.

"So," Hob continues, "I thought I'd take you out to celebrate."

That pulls Dream from his head. "You... will?"

Hob winks at him. "Promised you, didn't I?"

Yes. Dream supposes he had promised that if Dream's feelings held true Hob would act on them. Is that what he's doing? Dream's growing disappointment swiftly morphs into something else. Hope.

"I--" he swallows hard. "I. Would like that." It's still strange, to have something he wants. And to feel like it may be okay to express it.

"Perfect." Hob grins, gets up, holds out a hand.

"Now?"

"You got somewhere else to be?"

Dream never has anywhere else to be, and doubts he would go there if he did. He takes Hob's hand.

Hob takes him to a Chinese restaurant nearby, and Dream looks at him suspiciously as Hob passes him a pair of chopsticks with a cheeky grin. "Now you are just testing me."

"Yup. 'Course if you can't use chopsticks in the first place then it's moot."

Dream can use chopsticks. Could. No, can. Death would say that he should think positively.

So he takes the chopsticks.

Once their food comes, Hob, the absolute bastard, puts down his own chopsticks and picks up a fork instead. And Dream knows, somehow he just knows, that it's not because he can't use them. He's teasing Dream. Or perhaps ensuring that Dream won't compare himself if he struggles. Or both.

He should feel hurt by the teasing but... somehow he's not.

"See?" Hob says when Dream manages to eat his noodles with the chopsticks. It's... not that hard. It doesn't even hurt. Maybe Hob is better at his job than Dream even thought.

It makes him tear up. Such a silly, small thing to start crying over when he's barely cried at all, even when he'd first hurt his hand.

"Hey, it's okay," Hob soothes him, wiping away Dream's tears with his thumb. "I think the noodles are salty enough without the addition of tears, hm?"

Dream laughs, wiping at his eyes when the tears keep falling. "Good tears," he manages to say.

"I know," Hob says, and smiles at him.

Dream surprises himself by having an actually nice time. He hasn't had a nice time doing something in so long. It feels good. He doesn't want it to end.

Of course, it does end, and he finds himself lingering outside the restaurant, hesitant to go home. Particularly as he no longer has a set time when he will see Hob. He feels aimless without that, but. It is hard to ask.

"Dream..." Hob starts, likewise lingering in front of the restaurant. The lights of the signage above cast his face in shades of violet. Dream has thought him handsome before, but never so much as now.

Hob hesitates over what to say, then finally just steps over to him. "Come here."

And before Dream can decide how to react, Hob folds him into a hug.

Dream goes still on instinct. Then, gradually, relaxes into Hob's strong hold. He... can't remember the last time someone hugged him.

He lets himself tuck his face into Hob's shoulder.

"Hey," Hob says. His voice is so close to Dream's ear now. "I'm proud of you."

Dream hears himself make a tiny whimpering sound. He. He does not know how to be proud of himself. He thinks he would only be proud of himself if he could go back in time and stop himself from getting in that terrible relationship to begin with. But he does like how it sounds when Hob says it.

Hob gives him one more squeeze, then, disappointingly, releases him. "I almost forgot. I have something for you."

He digs around in his bag and comes back with a box that looks rather like art supplies of some kind. "It's modelling clay," he explains. "So you can play around and work on your hand without just doing, you know, boring exercises all the time."

Hob is too considerate of him, truly. Dream holds the box close.

"You okay to get home?" Hob asks, and Dream nods. His ex has not bothered him again, and Dream is now hopeful that he won't. Though that does not necessarily mean he doesn't want Hob to follow him home.

"Good," Hob says. Then, while Dream is still thinking about the hug and the clay and everything else, Hob leans in and kisses his cheek. "Goodnight, Dream."

Dream stands paralyzed until Hob is gone, and it's only then that he realizes he failed to set another time for them to meet. He supposes he does have Hob's office contact info. Still, it is disappointing not to have something to look forward to.

But when he gets home, and opens the box of clay, he finds a note inside. It has the name of a coffee shop, and Tuesday, 3pm?, and Hob's personal number. At first he's confused. Why wouldn't Hob simply ask him while they were together? And then he realizes that Hob must be trying to give him a chance to comfortably back out if he wants to by letting him decide in private. It makes him want to cry again. Hob truly is too considerate of him.

But he takes out his phone and types in Hob's number, and a simple reply. Yes.

[science-lings]

okay this has been going through my mind for days and I have to get my thoughts out before I explode

Disclaimer, this is not talking about a specific artist/person and would never condone or participate in anon hate or online bullying for any reason but especially this one. 

I get why people are mad about Link being portrayed as this buff, hypermasculine, tall guy. I am too (again don’t fucking attack people over it though) and it seems like such an infuriating way to change the character just to fit into some ideal of hypermasculine attractiveness or to make a ship fall into a more hetero lense by making him a decent foot taller than whatever girl he’s being paired with. 

The world of video games and action movies and every form of media ever is extremely saturated with male characters that are swole and manly and whatever other descriptors people are trying to push onto Link that don’t fit into his actual character. There are so many characters out there that already fit this male standard and having a clearly androgynous elf guy was like a breath of fresh air. 

Link was literally designed to be a character whose lines on gender were blurred, ‘a girl with a masculine touch or a guy with a feminine touch’ so that anyone could project themselves onto him. His physical design in botw/totk was specifically made to be feminine enough to wear a certain outfit to pass as a woman (which includes a nearly mandatory cutscene where he puts on the clothes and blushes after being called pretty, like you have to be blind to think that its an experience that he doesn’t like at all) and in totk there are a bunch of outfits made for Link that are blatantly gnc, ones that are practically dresses, include nail polish and lipstick, you can even dye his hair bright and vivid colors and that’s half way to giving him new pronouns. The whole reason Linkle isn’t included in more mainline loz games was because her existence would force Link into a gender dichotomy, if there's a clearly female version of the main hero, that means the main hero has to be a man, and they would rather abandon a potential reoccurring character than make Link conform to a gender binary. 

So pardon me when it feels disingenuous and even malicious for him to be morphed into these clear masculine ideals, where he towers over any female romantic partner (even when in canon he is regularly depicted as noticeably shorter than her) or even in m/m fanworks he’s really beefed up, perhaps to make the scene feel more gay or something. 

Perhaps it’s because his more twink-y/ femboy body type is so heavily sexualized (though obviously when people are sculping abs on him it’s totally not because they’re horny about it) and that’s an issue in itself that bothers me. But it’s just so tiring to see one of the very few popular main characters who is short and feminine and androgynous be molded into just another bland muscle-headed action hero over and over and over again. 

I’m not mad at the creators for portraying him differently than how I like him portrayed, I’m mad because we really do get so few characters like him in good popular media, and to be honest, I really like him the way that he is. I love that he’s tiny and has long hair and has the option to dress any way the player likes. It seems a little distasteful to make him taller than a female love interest just because that’s how straight couples have to be, there’s just never been a real straight couple where the guy is shorter than the girl, that’s just Impossible! (/s) 

[tempo-tales]

"L-Lance...Tempo is...."

In a long, fast walk, the Negatis arrive at La Madriguera. On the shimmering powdered floor lay Balan holding the unconscious Tempo. The top-hatted maestro's eyes were glittering with despair and his breathing was labored.

"L-Lance...Tempo is...."

Lance looks at the young master, and definitely thought the same thing...Tempo is deceased.

"It's...it's impossible! She's a maestro just like us!" Balan's scream echoes in the area and with his heart aching and holding back his aura, he hugs the young lady and resting his head on her chest to look for some heartbeat.

Lance almost falls into the same hopeless situation as Balan, as King Negati notices something that caught his attention.

"Idiot! The WonderWatch is gone! IT WAS STOLEN!"

"What?!" Balan raises his head and fixes his eyes on Lance.

"Wanky'u saw a visitor who took the watch and escaped in one of the holes in La Madriguera!"

"Then on another... alternate line it must be..."- Balan expresses looking at Lance-"...Damn it! If that's why ,then Tempo, get at least some of my energy!"

Balan squeezes Tempo's right hand and transmits his energy, positivity energy. The pink-haired lady receives this energy and manages to recover the clear color of her bright makeup, but such energy causes spasms that make her scream from the pain without waking her up.

"What is happening?" Balan exclaims when he sees his dear companion screaming in pain.

Little Timmi approaches Balan jumping and screaming, as if he knew the reason for the situation "Tiii mimuuuuutuuuumuuuuuuuuuu..."

"Is it too much positive energy? So it's not working?"

King Negati approaches and crouches down to the maestro level. He takes Tempo's left hand and transmits the negative energy to her. Finally, the young girl recovers and her pain-laden face becomes neutral, but still, she does not wake up.

"With this, at least she'll be able to hold on a little, won't she Lance?"

"But still...our own energy is being absorbed with no return, careful we must be."

Timmi and Wanky'u approaches the maestros, knowing that they will have to start an important mission to save their beloved Maestro of Opportunity.

The Maestro of WonderWorld looks at Tempo's two little companions with a sadness on his face-"Timmi, Wanky'u, forgive me for this, but we cannot walk away from Tempo or her rotting body will be and her 'essence' will not be able to return. So I ask you..."

Balan could not continue speaking with grief and sobs from the pain of seeing his dear companion in the state that you could bring in the future if the valuable pocket watch is not back.

Lance looking at Balan, arms courage and after many years, contain his painful feelings of anguish, to stand firm before the little creatures and help them as best as possible.

"Little ones, for the watch go, and , that at this time this place is becoming distorted, it will be easier for you to find at least, the presence of the watch."

La Madriguera is physically created by Alicia's heart, therefore, without that heart, the environment is distorted in a worse way and more space-time holes will open than usual.

Maestro Negati pulls out a few strands of Tempo's hair and said hair transforms them into two beautiful stones the color of Tempo's hair and hands them to each other.

"This stone will at least react with a glow as soon as the clock is near. You must be attentive to the holes. If it is the right one, go in there and recover the watch. Back..."

Wanky'u looks at Lance with a serious expression and sad eyes, almost on the verge of tears. The little Negati rabbit didn't think about it and runs to find in the holes.

Timmi follows him but is stopped by the king's voice.

"Timmi...you are not just any Tim...you have taken good care of Wanky'u."

The little creature's reddish eyes glow with hope, with a gesture of thanks he turns his back on the maestros and runs after Wanky'u.

[studywgabi]

Anyone Else?

I am 18 years old and I just found out I am intersex.

I started puberty at an earlier age than average. I had severe acne, oily skin, and hirsutism in second grade. I remember my dad telling me to wash my face because I was getting "a type of pimple called a blackhead" (he had to explain to me what it was, I had never heard of them) when he dropped me off at before-school daycare at 7 years old. When I told my mom I had hair under my arms that same year, she flat-out refused to believe me. She simply said I did not, that it was impossible.

I started shaving my legs in third grade, after begging my parents to let me for a year. My mom said I should only have to shave every other day, and again denied the truth when I told her that wasn't enough. Once I started shaving my legs, I noticed the hair everywhere else: my back, my chest, my face, all over.

I googled my symptoms over and over, scouring the internet for a documented experience of any other woman who was like me. I questioned my gender identity over the years. I had wondered if it was possible for me to be intersex, but I had a very limited view of what that could mean, and I assumed if I was, it would be very physically, externally, obvious. At that time, I didn't think it was possible for my doctors, my parents, and everyone else in my life to miss something so important.

For about a year, I identified as non-binary and used they/them pronouns. I think that part of this came from a place of being young and exploring my identity, but it also came from deep insecurity. I didn't feel like being a girl was an option for me because of the way I looked, so I thought it would ease my pain to pretend I wasn't a girl. I want to make it abundantly clear that I am in no way saying questioning one's gender identity is only about being insecure. That was my personal experience, and I am in the minority. I am the exception to the vast majority of experiences.

I bought plain, solid-color, clothes 3 sizes too big and wore pants and long sleeves all summer to swallow me up. I always wore my hair down and I always had bangs to cover as much of my face as possible. I wanted to make it impossible to see my face at all, and, between bangs, glasses, makeup, and a mask, I was fairly close.

By the time I was 12, I had developed a four-hour daily routine for removing all my hair. After a year of seeing my therapist, I finally broke down and told her about my hirsutism via pen and paper and through tears. I was so, so ashamed that I couldn't even say the word "hair" out loud. She immediately told me I might have PCOS, something I had never heard of, and it turns out she was right.

It was only recently, six years after my PCOS diagnosis, that I found out there was any discussion at all about PCOS being considered an intersex condition. I am ashamed to say my first reaction was one of more fear and insecurity. I have been chasing womanhood all my life, and this felt like yet another barrier to it. Even if I didn't identify as intersex after reading about this, it's taught me I have quite a bit of unlearning to work on.

I am in no way qualified to declare PCOS to be an intersex condition, and I am not telling other people with PCOS that they have to be intersex, but I now identify as intersex. I love that PCOS awareness is a trending hastag on tiktok, but there is still so much more research that needs to be done, especially into this particular area. I read peer-reviewed journals from scientists and blog posts about individuals' real experiences and I found a term that feels like home for me, that fell in line with the way I had always felt about myself. I will still use she/her pronouns, because they also feel right for me.

When I experience things like this, I don't know what else to do but write about them. I hope we learn more about this, and I hope I can talk to someone who has also had this experience. Thank you.

[arafergirl-artdump]

(ENG) Queer and Neurodivergent community around Nintendo (an Essay)

(Was peer reviewed by native English speaker!)

Let me start with a little backstory. I talked with someone when I learned they were neurodivergent. I was surprised because of my own reasons, but they said their friends who were interested in Miis/Nintendo were queer and/or neurodivergent. This became a kickstarter for this.

First of all, hey, I'm queer and neurodivergent! My identity in details doesn't matter right now.

This was interesting because my hyperfixation for nintendo was the fastest hyperfixation i ever diveloped, now it’s DJ Yellow and Student, who is from Nintendo game. I got my switch in 2020-2021 with Animal Crossing and Just Dance, my first ever Nintendo console and first games respectively, so I have little to no personal history with it, even watching gameplay didn't make me interested in it. Yet, I still got into it. So I want to understand why it happened.

Before I'll start: It’s heavily based on me and my experience. Of course, I DON'T speak for every queer and ND person who is interested in Nintendo with my limited sources and knowledge. Also, it’s NOT a sientific research, i will use things from psychology, but it doesn't make me a specialist in it, which i don’t.

Neurodiversity

I think it’s easier for me to explain. I planned to talk about console design first, but I think most people know that Nintendo isn’t really competing with Xbox or Playstation, so of course it's consoles will be different. Well, most people aren't interested in consoles themselves! It’s games! And here’s the kicker.

Of course, big companies like this will be hiring good character designers, any company would. But there is something interesting I found in only nintendo games.

For me, it’s how much they use vivid colors. Well, Nintendo consoles are targeted to Family auditory, so of course it should appeal for kids and adults. But Nintendo games use those 

colors in every game they create, no matter of style or targeted audience.

Well, of course just having vivid characters doesn’t automatically make it appeal for neurodivergent people. But how they’re using it.

I’ll be using examples from Rhythm Heaven not only because of my hyperfixation/special interest/whatever this is on it, but also because it's a pretty good game to show my point.

There's an interesting thing about those covers. They are vivid, have a lot of details and colors, but it’s not overwhelming. Of course it’s not, there’s professionals who work on those games. Still, pretty rare to see that much details (i’ll return to it later)

Games themselves have much less details, of course, if there was the same amount of details as covers, it was impossible to play, but colors are still vivid and… Hey. The picture is moving.

In short: I think that Rhythm Heaven (and other Nintendo games) are pretty good visual stim. Well, of course everything that moves can be used as a visual stim, but let me try to prove things about covers.

I have 4 physical copies of Nintendo Switch games, two of them are by Nintendo.

There's proof. Let’s compare it.

Both covers are definitely detailed, Just Dance has levitating things, patterns on the floor (?) and list or songs, Layton has minigames, characters and this big diamond. But it’s not enough. There’s nothing really to pop up, no visual path. Those details not feels like they’re connected with each other.

Animal Crossing and WarioWare, on the other hand, have this. ACNH has a visual path made out of characters, Warioware has sort of barriers. Also there’s a lot of items on the ACNH cover like woods, lamp, flowers, fish, ect. WarioWare has filters and action lines over it (also can be a visual barrier). All elements have some sort of connection: Tom Nook goes to players, villager is close to Tommy, from villager to C.J., and from C.J. to Issablelle and villager talking. Wario is close to the character, so some sort of connection is here. Also, they are still vivid.

(Of course, it doesn’t mean that every non-Nintendo game doesn’t have the same rules or use them! One of my favorite game is Katamari, that is originally was playstation game)

Even in the Wii period with gray shaders, it didn't made vividness more dull.

(About Miis later)

Queerness

There’s a bit of a complicated thing. Now, there’s a bit of representation that may bring some queers here, but it happened very recently, with DLC for Splatoon 3 “Side Order”, Where appears character Acht, that goes by they/them pronouns and uses “Boku”, written in katakana, “Boku” being masculine version of “I”, that’s also being using by tomboys and gender nonconforming people. (I can’t say if this is specifically katakana or just used like that, but i started using it before this DLC so i guess it might be a katakana thing). Also, nothing beside their pronouns is explicitly queer, so it can't be this reason (at least until recently). Also I think they wouldn’t risk being banned entirely in some countries just to have one character (Hello from Russia!), but there’s coding.

If you don’t know - Coding is when you hint that a character has some trait, usually with design, personality and manners, but don’t show it explicitly. There’s some queer-coded characters in the history of Nintendo, but if i’ll list them all, it’ll be too long. Let’s just say - There’s a lot of Fire Emblem accusations, Birdo, C.J. and Flick, DJ Yellow and Student (of course i should put them everywhere!) and Pearl and Marina, who seems to be canonized and at the same time not.

There’s also stereotypes, of course, like Gracie, who in the Japanese version was presented as a crossdresser man or trans woman. I can understand why it was changed in American and European releases, but really, I wouldn't mind sassy character in new AC game, especially with the rising popularity of such.

Also, I can assume that one of the reasons is character’s that you create become more androgynous, like the difference between inkling boy and inkling girl is almost non existent, especially in splatoon 3. Octolings got the same privilege in Side Order. By the way, about creations…

Mii

Mii’s have no visible differences between genders. Of course, it would be strange and cost-y, but still. Also, there’s no gender lock features. Also, in both versions, you can change anything about your Mii, even gender! Eh? Eh? See what I did here? Uh, nevermind. I thought it was funny.

I can also add neurodivergent and visual stim part, colors are vivid and, well, it gives a lot of creative creation, so you can do faces of neurodivergent people with different face structure (it’s probably have no sense in brouder meaning, i talked about down syndrome, as i know it’s considered neurodivergent. Maybe there’s something else, but i don’t know)

There’s nothing I can say about games. Occasional crossdressing in japanese version of tomodachi life and randomized dialogues isn’t really do anything, maybe one dream where two same-sex Miis can be in the end of a red string and that relationship meter in Miitopia may have some points about queerness, but there’s nothing more about ND thing.

Conclusion of this chapter: Miis are more fruity than got that tism.

Conclusion

There’ll be a lot of my experience.

I still think I haven't come to my main reason yet. I think that the main reason why queer and neurodivergent people are in Nintendo games is because they are safe. What I mean by this is in mainline games, there’s no oppression towards the player. Like Animal Crossing, a game literally about making friends.

When I got this game, I was yet to see social isolation and bullying. Even when it started happening, I was into this game, well, I was addicted. I can be pretty easily attached to someone, so when I had no friends, I was just thinking of villagers as my friends. I just was… comfortable in its world, welcomed even. It was a world where people cared and weren’t judgemental to me. I had this feeling even with games without a player as the main character. Maybe I just got insane, who knows.

Of course I can't speak for everyone, but let’s be real, some of you may have experienced this feeling too. Positive world with absurd problems, where nobody is gonna be mad about if your features would’ve changed or you act differently. In the process of writing this I had a thought that this may be why Animal Crossing’s mean characters were less mean in NH. Just a thought.

It’s funny in some way, if you think about it.

I don’t know how to end it, so let’s end here. I hope I wasn't too much of a mad theorist.

[leaentries]

🎄let’s go make gingerbread houses w Jamie!

this is adorable!

lea’s christmas special!

It was officially Christmas time in the Drysdale household.

Colorful lights had been strung from high and low. Paired with a giant Christmas tree in the living room, all decked out with bright ornaments and garland.

The entire house smelled of the delicious cookie architecture that now sat upon the cooling racks in the kitchen. Bags of many colored icing laid patiently on the table, waiting for tonight’s activity.

You decided that Jamie needed a little pick-me-up since both him and Trevor were out for time being. You had helped occupy his mind with decorating early, but now that you have seemed to buy every decoration known to man; you needed an alternative.

Homemade Gingerbread Houses

After Jamie had left for his physical therapy, you quickly rummaged up a gingerbread recipe and went to the store. Luckily, since it was still pretty early in the season, all of the ingredients were stocked and ready.

Once you got back home, you immediately started baking the soft brown dessert. Wanting to ensure the perfect consistency for your building, you followed the recipe to the last dot.

Although, premade icing was definitely a better option since Jamie would be home any second and the gingerbread was fresh out of the oven.

You continued to set up the kitchen table, putting out all sorts of different candies and treats to use for the houses.

Finishing up the final touches, you heard the front door open, signaling Jamie’s return. He set his bag down, before making his way over to you.

“Hi, baby” He placed a gentle kiss on your lips, “What’s all this?” He asked with a small smile gracing his lips as he looked around.

“I wanted to do something fun with you tonight,” You beamed up at him, “Let’s make gingerbread houses!”

Jamie laughed at how exited you were, love swimming in his eyes. He truly did love you.

After you guys brought the racks over to the table, you began making your gingerbread houses. To spice things up, you and Jamie decided to make it a competition.

Yet, when you looked over to see how Jamie was doing, you noticed he was failing…miserably.

His cookie walls would not stay up right and his icing was going everywhere. At some point, he had even thrown on some m&ms to try and help but they just looked sad.

You stopped putting the finishing touches on your own house, moving to sit closer to Jamie.

“Jams, do you need some help?” You tried to hide your laughter, avoiding his eyes.

“Stop laughing y/n! It’s not funny,” Jamie pouted, “I’ve never been good at making gingerbread houses. They just don’t make sense!”

There was no hiding your amusement after his rant.

“Doesn’t make sense? Jamie it’s basic knowledge! You just line the edges with icing and lean them against each other.” He gave you a unamused look, “Would you like me to help you?”

Jamie bit the inside of his cheek, clearly debating whether or not he wanted to be stubborn with you. He reluctantly nodded his head, accepting your help.

You grabbed a new set of cookies, guiding his hands to place them delicately. By the end of the night, you had successfully helped Jamie make the perfect gingerbread house.

Jamie helped you clean up the mess, wiping down all of the countertops and the table. He walked back over to where you were displaying the delicious house.

“Thank you for helping me, baby,” He wrapped his arms around you from behind, placing his head on your shoulder, “You earned a reward for the best gingerbread architect.”

You smiled, spinning around in his arms.

You met your lips with his, swiping your tongue along his bottom lip. His grip on your hips tightened, pulling you impossibly closer. But before he could deepen the kiss, you pulled away.

“I’m still telling everyone you don’t know how to make a gingerbread house.” You placed one more quick peck on his lips, before skipping away happily to your shared room.

“Don’t you dare!”

[lpsotd]

i think gen 4 lps are just a reallll mixed bag for me, there are some i really like!! a good chunk of my childhood lps collection are gen 4 pets, i absolutely LOVE all the fairy pets!! but then there are some real stinkers in there, just some real ugly fellas. blind bag pets are just singular colors but i think that applies to other gens so i wont rag on g4 for that, but then there are guys like sheepdog 2829, pig 2859, pretty much every dachshund tbh, and tiger 3054 for some examples where its like… yeah i cant defend these guys JDVDISHSGHSHSG its mainly a curse of the tv show artstyle not translating well into 3d i think, the sorta “sharper” designs dont really work well as physical toys imo, plus the big ol eyes can look kinda creepy sometimes, the pets that use the older g2 molds that showed up later in the gen 4 lifecycle look pretty good tho!! i like them :-]

same here !! i've mentioned before (i think?) that i grew up in the 2010s, so a handful of the lps i bought in-store were gen 4 lps like the ones seen above or late down the line gen 3 pets like the 'cutest pets' line. gen 4 pets like these guys really ticked me off because they could not stand. some designs are really really cute, but because of their sharp pointy feet, they cannot stand and it really made me angry !! they were often impossible for me to play with because they would tip over when i tried to make them stand, and would fall onto the ground ... so i would just give up and move on to something else 😭

the dachshunds were absolutely repulsive to me. i had this one, #2735, i hated them. i doused it in my mom's nail polish (i don't think she ever found out?) and threw it on the carpet. by the time i was done torturing it, it was covered in red nail polish and hair ...

[ckret2]

Sooo... did Bill always know that there was more beyond the second dimension? Or did he discover that at some point later in life?

The short answer is yes, he knew about it from childhood. And also (this is relevant) he was raised in a cult.

The long answer is a lot more interesting—but bear with me, because the answer is a combination of New Age spirituality and non-Euclidean geometry. That isn't a joke, non-Euclidean geometry is literally involved.

New Age spirituality

Now, a solid 95% of modern New Age concepts are the five-generations-removed brainchildren of con artists, cultists, perennialists, and white people who like to steal ideas from India and claim they came from aliens; but New Age concepts and conspiracy theories are all part of the body of ideas that Gravity Falls likes to treat as real for the purpose of parody, so let's take a look at 'em anyway.

Amongst the many concepts that have been drawn into the New Age movement, there's the idea that multiple (spiritual) planes exist beyond the physical plane, and it's possible to reach them psychically—via astral projection or out-of-body experiences or the like. Often you'll hear about inhuman or formerly-human teachers that come from higher planes to educate particularly spiritually gifted & enlightened humans.

(For those of y'all that have read Flatland: it's easy to imagine this as something similar to the sphere descending to the second dimension in order to raise up and teach the square about higher dimensions.)

The terms "indigo children" (kids with an aura the color of the third-eye chakra) or "starseed" (alien souls reincarnated in human bodies) get tossed around to describe strange, sensitive, strong-willed, intelligent/intuitive children. These kids are claimed to be "special" psychics and sensitives, destined for great spiritual purposes, and typically thought to have an easier time learning New Age concepts or accessing higher planes. (In reality, these terms are usually claimed by parents who would rather believe their kids are special aliens than admit their kids have ADHD/autism/trauma.)

Now, so much for New Age beliefs! Let's move on to non-Euclidean geometry. Time to learn about biangles.

Non-Euclidean geometry

If a tri-angle is a shape made of three angles (and three straight lines), then a bi-angle is a shape made of two angles (and two straight lines). Draw three random points and connect them and it's easy to make a triangle:

But it's a lot harder to make a biangle. If you draw two straight lines, it just looks like a line instead of a shape. The only way to draw it so that you see a shape is to curve the lines like a football, but then it's not a correct biangle because it's not two STRAIGHT lines:

So, it's impossible to draw a biangle on a flat piece of paper.

But it's easy to draw one on a ball.

Just take a sphere, pick two opposite points—like the north and south pole—and draw two different straight lines from north to south.

In the field of Euclidean geometry—the kind of geometry we all learned in school, with perfectly straight lengths & widths & heights—this biangle is clearly made of two curved lines wrapping around a sphere. But in the field of spherical geometry—a form of math that treats the surface of a sphere like it's a flat surface—those are two straight lines, relative to the sphere's point of view.

You can also draw triangles in spherical geometry.

Now let's talk about Bill's folks.

Flatlanders

If an alien read or watched Lord of the Rings, they'd learn what a human being looks like, they'd observe how sunlight and gravity work in our universe, they'd see mountains and plants and rivers, they'd learn about some concepts humans value like loyalty and perseverance and territory and war—but they wouldn't learn anything about real human history and they'd get a very inaccurate idea about what humans use rings for.

I headcanon that the book Flatland is the same when it comes to Bill's backstory: it gives you an idea about the physics of Bill's dimension and the biology of his species, but it's a bad source to learn about the history or politics.

Nobody was getting thrown in prison for suggesting a third dimension exists. In fact, at the time Bill lived, the third dimension was widely accepted by mathematicians and physicists, and many experiments had scientifically proven the existence of a third dimension by measuring the behavior of light.

(Think Einstein's theory of relativity: even if you don't personally understand what Einstein was talking about, you probably know he was famous for being real smart at physics and other smart physicists think he was right. "There's a third dimension" was not a controversial idea in Bill's time, even if most folks didn't understand the scientific implications.)

And Flatlanders had their own New Age-like ideas about strange, "sensitive" kids born psychically attuned to higher dimensions. And recently, modern medicine identified a condition that let parents medically diagnosed these special kids.

New Age Non-Euclidean Flatlanders

Take a triangle, for instance: if the doctor measured him to have three perfectly straight lines, but also measured the sum of his angles to add up to a sliver of a degree more than 180º... well, something weird was going on here. In less advanced ages one could have said that maybe one of the triangle's sides was curved too slightly for the doctor's tools to measure, or maybe the doctor's measurements of the angles were imprecise by less than a degree.

But modern medical tools were precise enough to eliminate that possibility. Some children, despite having perfectly straight lines, were triangles with angles that sum over 180º, or quadrilaterals that sum over 360º, etc. They're flat shapes, all right—but they're flat relative to spheres, in a dimension where spheres can't exist. Something about these kids... bends into another dimension.

Doctors said being born with spherical geometry was a newly-discovered birth abnormality that was strange, and worth studying, but by all appearances harmless. It had probably existed for centuries, perhaps millennia, undetected due to the lack of tools precise enough to confirm its reality.

Parents deep into woo-woo parapsychology and grifters with self-help books to sell said it was a sign that the child would be a prophet, a prodigy, a guru, a world leader. All of history's shamans and psychics and oracles and spiritual leaders had probably been in touch with spherical geometry, receiving messages from higher tridimensional beings.

In reality, just like humanity's "indigo children" or "starseeds," spherical children weren't special superior emissaries chosen for a spiritual mission to help enlighten the planet: they were just normal awkward kids.

Normal awkward kids who happened to be able to see the dimension that light comes from, but were surrounded by people without the mental framework to understand the sights they described.

It was a cool weird trick, but in terms of how cosmological important this weirdness was, it was about on par with any other random genetic oddity, like having six fingers.

But if you're a kid who can occasionally see a sun that nobody else can see, and adults have told you your entire life that this means you're unique, important, meant for greatness, destined to enlighten the ignorant masses and liberate them from their shallow two-dimensional perspective...

Eventually, all that talk might just go to your little triangular yellow head.

[listenheresweaty]

BURGER VAN BURGER VAN—- Top text, Bottom text. ——— REVIVEBUR X READER - omg guys it’s here can you believe that I took four months to post something I had already written out

——-

Warnings: copious alcohol consumption, mentions of ableist remarks, allusions to underage drinking, jokes about alcoholism by people with drinking problems (addiction is a mental illness guys. Please be respectful about it.) The alcoholism stuff started off as humor based on my own experiences*. I had intended on expanding on it and making it into a larger plot line about recovery/etc but I do not know if I’ll ever continue this work.

*alcohol has played a role in my life but I am not technically an addict. If anything in this fic is offensive, please let me know and I’ll change it/ take it down.

Reader is called “guy” but is otherwise gender neutral. 

There are a couple jokes about Beeduo flirting but it is intended humorously, not with any romantic intent. 

—————-

It was a blisteringly, stupidly hot day, made only more intolerable by the long expanses of hot sand and lack of vegetation. Although, you supposed it was your fault for deciding to get a job in the Las Nevadas Casino- quite literally smack dab in the middle of a desert. Fortunately, just in the edges of the desert territory, where the sands met fresh green grass, sat a quaint, almost minuscule burger van. It received very few customers, partly due to the uninhabited nature of the area and partly because of the owner’s less than appealing reputation. 

You believed that the owner’s— his name was Wilbur--  reputation was mostly undeserved. Sure, he had done some extremely questionable things in his past, and continued to carry himself with a madman’s easy grace and confidence, sending people scurrying out of his way— it was fair to say that most of the people you knew were afraid of Wilbur, despite his lack of physical strength. You, however, could never find him intimidating. He was too much of a loser complete dork. 

Wilbur certainly wasn’t imposing as you walked up to him, eyeing his tall form awkwardly making its way through the van that was clearly too small for him. 

He looked so silly, leaning over the burgers as they cooked, that it was hard to imagine that this was the same man everyone spoke about with such fear. You had to laugh. 

Wilbur stood up straight at the sound, bumping his head against the van’s ceiling and letting out a stream of curses that stopped abruptly when his eyes landed on you. 

“Quite the colorful vocabulary you have.” You teased, approaching the vans window with a playful smile. “Perhaps we should wash your mouth out with soap.”

Wilbur stood still for a moment, hand still braced against the van ceiling, before he relaxed and sent you a lopsided smile. “Only if you do it, darling.”

“Oh shut up.” You laughed. “Why in the world would you make the van so small, anyway? It’s not like it benefits your coworker- the kid’s even taller than you are.” 

“Never question the logic of a genius.” Wilbur sighed like a cat stretching out in the sun, leaning out of the van with his elbows against the windowsill. “What are you doing all the way out here, anyway? You should be working. Don’t tell me-“ he grinned impossibly wider, leaning even closer, “that you missed me that much?”

You snorted. “Absolutely not. You must be concussed. How hard did you hit your head?”

Wilbur’s bottom lip pulled downwards in an exaggerated pout. “Quite hard, actually. I think I might need to see a doctor.” He sighed, dramatically. 

“Awww, poor baby.” You cooed with false sympathy, reaching up above to run your fingers through Wilbur’s brown curls. “Where’d you hit yourself? Here?”

Wilbur was struck dumb, mouth opening and closing without any sound coming out—clearly, he wasn’t used to being flirted with. He regained his composure quickly, leaning into your touch with a self-satisfied smirk. 

“Mhmm.” He sighed, keeping up the act. “I’m afraid it’s terminal. They’ll have to pull the plug on me.”

“Is that so?”

“I’m already hallucinating.” Wilbur announced, ever so dramatically. “Oh, [Name], sweetheart, will you cry at my funeral?” 

“Of course.” You snickered, trying hard to keep a straight face. “Hallucinating? Really?” 

“Hm.” A smirk pulled at Wilbur’s lips. “I’m already seeing angels.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Must every sentence you utter twist itself into a pickup  line?” 

“Only for you.” The corners of Wilbur’s mouth pulled upwards to form an uncharacteristically genuine grin. The smile disappeared as fast as it came, making you wonder if you had only imagined it. 

“Why don’t you come inside?” Wilbur offered, leaning back into the van (and nearly hitting his head, once again, against the top of the window frame).  

You hesitated. 

“I have air conditioning in here.” He added. 

“Open the door.” You said immediately, making your way to the back of the van and jiggling the doorknob. You heard Wilbur laugh and cross the threshold quite quickly, almost frantically unlocking the doors in order to grab your hand and hoist you in. You sighed in relief at the feeling of the cool air washing over you, whisking away the sheen of sweat that the heat had formed on your skin. 

Wilbur patted the counter next to him and you complied, sitting on the cool marble surface and letting your feet dangle as she observed the world outside the van window. It was a beautiful day outside, all things considered. 

Wilbur gestured to the burgers that were still cooking (actually, at this point, you were fairly certain that they were burnt). “Do you mind if I continue churning out my mediocre meat meals?” He asked. 

You snorted. “Go ahead.” After a few beats of silence, you spoke again. “You know, your burgers aren’t that bad.” 

Wilbur hummed, but maintained focus on the dark slab of burnt meat he was trying to chisel off the grill with a spatula. “Is that so? They sure don’t seem to be bringing in many customers, do they?” He leaned in with a teasing grin. “Flattery isn’t going to get you anywhere, darling.”

“It isn’t flattery.” You said. “It’s not your burgers that—“ 

You cut yourself off abruptly, cursing your mistake. 

Wilbur clearly understood what you had been about to say, and raised an eyebrow. The quality of his business wasn’t what customers were avoiding- people avoided him. 

“I suppose your right.” He said shrugging. His easygoing and flippant attitude had returned, but there was a more sullen, guarded undertone to his words. You wracked your brain for something to say, but nothing surfaced. 

A clinking of glass broke you out of your thoughts. “Want a drink?” Wilbur offered, eager to change the subject. 

You nodded absentmindedly.  The sun was setting in the horizon, marking the approach of closing hours for most businesses in the area, including the van. Wilbur rummaged through a wooden cabinet before pulling out two expensive-looking bottles and handing one to you. “Help yourself.” 

You raised an eyebrow. “Vodka? Where did you get this?” 

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Just a little place I know. Tiny little store far from here.”

“Hm. And this tiny little far-away store sells vodka with the Las Nevadas logo on the cap?” 

You heard him curse softly. 

“Damn.” Wilbur chuckled. “I forgot to remove those.”

You held out your glass as Wilbur filled it, before leaning back against the wall of the van. Wilbur leaned against the counter next to you. 

You swirled your cup around, eyeing the moving liquid before tilting your head back and taking a rather large sip. 

“So, what have you been up to?” You asked him. “When you’re not stealing expensive liquor from the casino?” 

Wilbur shrugged. “Well.. not much honestly. I’ve just been working here at the van. There’s not much I can do on most days— since my fry guy either forgets to come to work or is out flirting with the rival fry guy across the street. Then, I… ‘visit’ the casino.”

You hummed, draining your glass and gesturing for Wilbur to refill it. Wilbur complied. 

“Aren’t you permanently banned from the casino? My boss would kill you if he caught you on the premises.” You continued, only half joking. 

Wilbur laughed. “Oh, he could certainly try. But if a few bans can’t stop me, neither can he.” 

“Can’t he?”

“Of course not.” Wilbur snickered. “He’s like half my height.” 

“He could still snap you like a twig. Hell, I could snap you like a twig.” 

Wilbur smiled. “Oh, I know. It’s hot.”  

You raised an eyebrow. “What’s hot? The fact that I can  beat you in a fight or that my boss can beat you in a fight?”

Wilbur choked on his drink. “Wh- YOU. Not- I’m not-“ 

You burst out laughing. “Damn, okay. I didn’t know that’s the kind of relationship you had with him.”

Wilbur spluttered. “N-no—!”

“I guess there’s more to your rivalry than meets the eye.” You sighed, grabbing the vodka bottle to refill your glass yourself since Wilbur was too busy coughing to oblige. “How romantic.”

“NO. I-I meant YOU—- I don’t have the hots for Quackity, for Gods sake. “ Wilbur looked somewhere between abashed and scandalized. “I hate the man!��

You drained your third glass. “Mm-hmm.” 

Wilbur huffed. “Well, going back to the topic of whether or not Alex— sorry, ‘your boss’—could beat me up-“ 

“He could.” You interjected. 

Wilbur sighed. “Don’t interrupt me. Anyway, YES he could beat me in a physical confrontation— stop smirking!—but you’re forgetting something important. Our rivalry is based on genius. On cold, calculated planning, ALWAYS staying one step ahead…” 

“…and burgers.” You said. 

“And burgers.” He agreed, finishing another glass. “Whew, I should quit drinking for today.”

“You should.” You found yourself saying, the vodka having greatly loosened your tongue. “We wouldn’t want one of today’s beautiful minds to go to waste for a pint or two of heavy liquor.” 

Wilbur stiffened, turning toward you slightly to look at you with wide eyes. His cheeks looked darker than usual, although that might have been the alcohol he had consumed. 

You blinked. “…What?” 

Wilbur paused before speaking, raising an eyebrow. “‘Beautiful mind’?” He repeated, trying to portray smugness but the waver in his voice betrayed some other emotion. “Me?”

You nodded, watching a crimson blush that certainly had nothing to do with the alcohol settle on Wilbur’s cheekbones. You continued speaking. “Yeah. I’ve never met someone who views the world like you do, or has the same talent with words as you. You’re like a poet, honestly. .. you’re pretty incredible.” 

Wilbur stared at you, caught completely off guard for the first time in his life. He opened and closed his mouth, trying to form coherent words, but failed. Oh, the irony. 

It was the last thing he had expected to hear, you realized as you studied his flushed face. After his return, people had been whispering about Wilbur, using several adjectives to describe him-- none of them pleasant. “Insane” and “a ticking time bomb” had been some of the nicer ones. To hear someone compliment the very same thing that everyone had chosen to pick apart and belittle must have moved him greatly. 

You wondered how people could be so foolish. Wilbur had done some reprehensible things, and continued to be morally gray at best, but he was still human.

“Broken mind,” they had all said as he walked past, thinking he wouldn’t hear.

“Beautiful mind,” You had told him. 

Wilbur looked like he wanted to cry, glancing away from you with a poorly suppressed, wobbly grin.

You wanted to hug him. Perhaps he’d appreciate that, after having been isolated and despised for years. 

“I mean that, you know?” You hastily added as Wilbur tried to scoff and brush it off.  

His head tilted.  “…Of course.”

You actually moved to hug him, startling the both of you. Standing a few inches in front of him, you hesitantly opened your arms, praying to the gods that you hadn’t made anything worse. 

He shuddered slightly, nodding, and sank against you, wrapping his arms around your waist and leaning his forehead against your shoulder.

⭐️⭐️⭐️

The next day, you forced your way through the casino, with sluggish movements and a pounding headache. You must have drunk more than you thought yesterday. Regardless, you took off towards Wilbur’s burger van as soon as you had the chance. This time, there were two tall figures moving about in the van. Wilbur’s fry guy, a shy kid named Ranboo , had finally returned. 

Ranboo dipped his head in greeting as you approached. Wilbur remained facing towards the grill, seemingly determined not to burn more meat and unaware of your presence. 

“Hello Mx., what would you like to order?” Ranboo asked. 

“Hmmm… I’m a bit indecisive today. What do you suggest?” You responded. 

At the sound of your voice, Wilbur whipped around, swiveling the upper half of his body toward you and Ranboo. 

You met his eyes and smiled, eyes soft. 

“Well, our five-spice burger is pretty popular right now. If you, uh, aren’t a fan of spicy foods, then the chicken patty is also a popular option.” Ranboo was saying. You turned your attention back towards him. 

“Spicy burger sounds great, thank you.”

“And to drink?”

“Just a water, please.” You didn’t think you could handle alcohol after yesterday. Wow, you were a lightweight. 

“Water?” Wilbur asked as Ranboo turned to prepare the ingredients for your burger. “That’s kinda lame.”

“Shush, you.” You retorted. “How are you holding up, anyway?” 

Wilbur hesitated, and Nadia saw Ranboo glance at them curiously. He probably didn’t want to discuss his moment of weakness in front of his employee. 

“The hangover, I mean.” You added. “With all the alcohol you consumed yesterday, I’m surprised you came to work.” 

He relaxed a bit. “Yeah, I’m alright. Doing better than last night at least, but the headache’s a killer.” He frowned in mock offense. “And don’t you twist the story around! You drank almost as much as I did.”

You frowned. “I did not!” 

“You did too. Alcoholic.” 

“I am not an alcoholic. I’m not the one with three bottles of stolen vodka in a drawer.” You pointed out. Ranboo handed over your burger and water. “(Thank you, Ranboo.)”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Wilbur snorted. “You seem more of a wine person to me. You probably have a stash of Pinot noir under your bed or something.”

“Under my bed? Why the hell would anyone store alcohol under their bed?”

Wilbur shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s a wine aunt thing.”

“I give you wine aunt vibes?” You asked. “I don’t even have any nephews or nieces. Or have ever been responsible for any kids.”

“Thank god for that.”

You grinned and halfheartedly slapped his shoulder, ignoring his last statement “Silence, fool.”

Ranboo coughed. “Uhh… if you guys are done flirting… it’s my break now. Can I go across the street?”

Wilbur waved his hand. “Yeah, yeah, go ahead.” When Ranboo was out of earshot, he turned to Nadia and sighed. “Hypocrite. As if he isn’t heading to do the exact same thing.”

“Kids.” You shrugged, ignoring the part about the two of you flirting. 

“He’s seventeen.”

“Still a child. Until he turns eighteen, he’s still a child.”

“Fair enough.” Wilbur stared off towards where Ranboo had run off to before turning back to you hesitantly. “So… since he probably won’t return for the rest of the day, how about you and I go somewhere? Together? You can finish your burger along the way.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Go where?”

“I-I don’t know.” Wilbur’s confidence seemed to falter, his metaphorical mask slipping and revealing the nervousness beneath. “Just… walk? In general? I-I know some nice places— or, well, I know that there are nice places around here-“ 

“Sounds nice.” You interrupted, placing a hand on his arm. “Should we go now, then?” 

Wilbur froze. “Yeah. Now. Now sounds good.” 

That’s it I’m done I can’t with this pacing

[littlemisspascal]

The After

Pairing: Ruescott Melshi x Female Reader

Word Count: 7k+

Summary: There is a story before, when, and after Keef Girgo enters your life. This is the After.

Rating: M (18+, minors please do not engage!)

Warnings: Prison/Narkina 5 storyline but an AU where woman inmates are assigned to each unit as ‘peacekeepers’, language, established relationship, references of dead bodies, violence + blood + injuries, talk of having children but no pregnancy, angst, near-death experiences

- Reader has no official name and no physical traits described in detail. However, she is implied to be shorter than Melshi.

Author Note: Thank you everybody for the kind support of this story from beginning to now! Unbelievable this is the end! What was supposed to be such a little thing has turned into this epic journey with characters I've come to love so much. Hope y'all enjoy 💜

Special thanks to @beecastle for beta reading and encouraging me 💜

Series Masterlist

You find yourself floating in a realm of total darkness. No colors, no sounds, no warmth. And it should scare you, being trapped here in this unnatural stillness, unable to move or scream, but numbness prevails over the alarm pinching faintly at your nerves. It swaddles your limp body, from your head to your toes, like you’re something fragile. Something in need of care.

You could get used to this. 

~~

A strike of pain hits the center of your chest, disturbing the numbness with the same force as an unexpected slap across the face. It startles you, whole body convulsing, and your lips part to release a wordless gasp but—

—you can’t—

There’s nothing in your lungs to exhale. 

Odd, considering you taste smoke on your tongue. Bitter. Ashy. Almost like…almost like you’re burning alive.

“Come on…”

Fire, hungry and vicious, laps at your tender insides like they’re made of paper. It bites most cruelly above your hip, almost feeling deliberate in nature. As if an invisible enemy is pressing a lit candle there against the flesh.

And yet all you can think about, the only thing rattling around inside your panic-stricken mind that you can focus on, is water. Gushing. Rippling. A beast gobbling up whatever it yanks beneath its surface.

“…breath, damn it…”

There’s a voice somewhere, far away yet impossibly close. They sound upset. Panting harshly like they can’t find their breath either. 

And beyond the voice, faintly roaring over the rush of blood in your ears, the sound of waves crashing upon a shore. 

Then another sharp pang connects with your chest, putting an abrupt end to your musings as your peaceful realm of darkness explodes into light and an abundance of colors.

Your vision swims, and there’s a split second of wild incomprehension, skin tingling and lungs full of flames, heart thumping hard in your chest. And then you feel it, something wet and salty rising in your esophagus. Up, up, up until there’s nowhere left to go but out.

There’s no strength left in your body, and yet the second your lips part you’re retching up a disgusting blend of saltwater and stomach acid onto the sandy floor. There’s a shout of your name from nearby, familiar in its cadence, but it’s impossible to focus when you’re choking on brine, every muscle constricting with agony.

“Thank the Maker,” the voice says next, a quiet heave of relief.

You manage a shuddering breath, tongue heavy in your mouth and the taste of salt and iron fighting for dominance. There’s still a fiery burn throbbing from your hip. The kind no amount of water will douse. Your head’s too heavy to look, eyes wanting nothing more than to roll back into darkness.

“No, no,” a hand pulls at your shoulder, rolling you over just enough for Jemboc’s face to slide into view. Water droplets slide down his skin, along the anxious lines marring his expression. “Now’s not the time for sleeping.”

A shiver wracks your frame. You’re soaked to the bone, clothes sticking uncomfortably, and slowly, oh so unbearably slowly the pieces start coming together. A timeline of memories settling into place. It’s hard to tell if the nausea cramping your stomach is from your harried prison escape or nearly drowning to death.

I was shot, you think to yourself. There’s a sharp twinge from your wound, as if it’s pleased to finally be remembered.

“What happened?” Your voice comes out barely louder than a weak hiss between clenched teeth, whole body strenuously protesting the effort. 

Jemboc’s grip on your shoulder tightens. The intensity of his stare drills into your bones, adding to the desperation thrumming beneath your skin. “Pure pandemonium once everyone hit the water. Felt like it was every man for himself; fighting the current, scrambling for land. But I saw you sinking and I-I didn’t think, just grabbed you and pulled you with me to shore.”

You blink at him for a long moment, fatigue pulling at your eyelids, then gingerly tilt your head to take in your surroundings for the first time. The sky’s a canvas of orange, purple, and dark blue overlapping one another, the last beams of sunlight fading fast. You’re on a beachy shore, sand so white it could pass for snow, dotted with sharp rocks and leafless trees. And it figures, of course it does, that the outside of the prison is as dreary and spiritless as the inside.

“Hey.” There’s a new softness to Jemboc’s voice, drawing your hazy attention back. His gaze isn’t on your face anymore, staring someplace lower on your body with grimly pursed lips. “Your wound…It’s–it’s not looking too good.”

Doesn’t feel too good either, is the automatic snappish retort that comes to mind first, but then the true meaning of his words sinks in like the jagged edges of a trap springing shut. 

You’re not making it off this beach. 

You can’t move, and even if Jemboc carried you along with him you can’t fight. Can’t help him find a way to get off this damn moon. All you’ll be is a useless burden weighing him down.

“Should’ve let me drown,” you rasp.

Jemboc bites harshly into his bottom lip instead of responding, hand still grasping your shoulder, as if letting go meant watching you dissolve into sea foam. 

You think you’d actually prefer that over the alternatives. If the dropping temperature doesn’t kill you first, you’re going to bleed out here, a stain of scarlet on the snow sand swept away by the midnight tide. You’d fought for a softer conclusion, asked the universe for a little more time, and this…this is what you received.

What a load of bantha shit, you think, snorting a quiet huff of air that has your sore lungs smarting. It isn’t funny, not even a little bit. It’s fucking tragic. But you bet Melshi would laugh too, that low, husky chuckle of his if he were here—

Your heart stops.

“I–where–” Panic wraps around your vocal chords like a noose, tightening by the second. Your fingers curl into loose fists at your sides, sand gathering beneath your nails. “Rue,” you spit out with strangled urgency. “Where’s Rue?”

You can remember your last moment with him so clearly up there on the landing bay. The feeling of his calloused hands on your face, holding you like his most precious treasure. How his brown eyes blazed with such fervent emotion, voice drowned out by the encompassing maelstrom. If those had been his last words—fuck. Fuck, don’t think like that. 

Jemboc won’t meet your gaze, glancing towards the waves. “I’m not sure.”

Something sharp punctures a hole behind your sternum.

No. That won’t do. That won’t do at all.

“Jemboc, what do you mean you’re not sure? Where the hell is he?”

“It means I don’t know,” he chokes. He gestures vaguely at the beach, the water, frowning deeply. “I told you: it was pandemonium. I just saw flashes of faces, there and gone. Running as fast as they could. Taga, Ham, Kino, Keef, Melshi—I lost sight of all of them. I…I don’t even know if they made the swim.”

You’d always known escaping prison would be hard. That there’d be losses. Sacrifices. But this—this specific kind of pain of unknowing is excruciating. Gaping black holes of uncertainty eating away at your hopes, leaving behind nothing but fear and increasingly catastrophic thoughts. You almost think it’d hurt less, being able to actually see the corpses of your tablemates right in front of you, lifeless and briny. At least then you’d know their fates, be able to firmly close their stories and make peace with their endings.

Jemboc rubs a hand over face, then sniffs quietly, and it only hits you then he’s probably feeling just as lost as you are. With no routine, no instructions to follow, the sudden abundance of options and lack of fellow support is overwhelming. Even worse, every second he spends at your side, his odds of successfully avoiding being caught again continue to dwindle. Like hell are the guards going to let everyone go without a single attempt of recapture.

Maker help any unfortunate souls they find. Those inmates will be dragged back kicking and screaming, if they’re even conscious after a severe beating with a zap rod.

“You’ve got to go,” you say, even though the thought of being totally alone makes you sick. But he deserves better, deserves to have made it further than this point. “You have to leave me behind.”

“I know,” Jemboc says. And it’s the closest to an apology that you’ll ever receive. 

Everything will be alright, Melshi had told you. A lie you’d asked for. A lie you’d swallowed as a future painkiller in case what you feared most came to pass. 

Melshi’s always been your safe haven. Your shield of protection. But he’s gone now. And it’s such a selfish desire—selfish and unfair and so damn greedy—to want him here. To hold your hand and hear his voice one last time before you fatally drift off into the unknown. 

Worse than that, deep down in a place of sharp teeth and possessiveness, half-feral from years spent trapped in a toxic cage, you want him to drift away with you. For your last breaths to be taken together…so in sync your dying souls leave the world behind as one, entangled force. Indivisible.

Jemboc murmurs a quiet goodbye, short and sweet, but you’re lost in your head, somewhere far, far away beyond the stinging pain. Even as your former tablemate leaves you, his figure growing smaller and smaller until there’s nothing left of him to see, you feel so distant from it all, watching from another place. Another realm. Familiar, yet different. More…permanent, somehow. A door which once shut can never be opened again.

Your body’s cold, no feeling in your legs. The hole in your side continues oozing, edges caked with sand, furiously irritated by the saltwater and trauma. It just—it seems so easy, reaching out your hands, to finally let it all go.

~~

And yet.

And yet…

Something—some nameless, shapeless thing—tells you to wait. 

So you do. Your only company a vicious hybrid of heartache and caustic pain who thrives on catching you off guard with its teeth and talons. It can’t be much fun, playing with somebody who’s barely breathing by the narrowest of margins, but that doesn’t seem to lessen the ferocity of its attacks. 

If time passes, you’re blind to it. There’s no change here. No growth. Just you and the monster in the shadows, waiting for you to give up.

But still you wait. For what? No clue. It must be important though, that much you know. That much you cling to. There’s a part of you, a tiny segment tucked away in the same chamber as your sluggishly beating heart, that even thinks the ache emanating from every piece of your body is good. Pain is proof of life. And living, staying alive…that’s good too, isn’t it?

Your answer comes in the most unexpected form.

“Mysie my. A prisoner escaper. Bleeding like a stuck pig, haye. Killing’s all they know, Freedi. Spoiling our water.”

An answering grunt.

A short pause. A decision reached.

“Naye this one. Naye today.”

~~

When your eyes next open, it’s a very slow process reconnecting with your senses. Brain function coming back online like a dusty old datapad finally recharging after years of neglect.

You’re in a ship cabin, that much is obvious from the metal ceiling and how the bunk you’re lying on has been built into the wall. You blink up at the orange bulb overhead for a moment, unable to summon any thread of familiarity.

Did the guards find you? Are you on your way back to your cell, or, worse, the box?

The flutter of fear in your stomach is doused as quickly as it arouses when you shift yourself upwards, noticing for the first time a red blanket with fraying edges covering your body. The prison guards wouldn’t be so kind, offering such a comforting item, you’re certain of that much. 

 So, if you’re not with them, then where…?

The cabin smells like the sea, salty and crisp, with a hint of distinctive fishiness making your nose scrunch up. There’s a line of cargo boxes pushed against the wall across from you. An opened one reveals a bundle of nets intertwined. Above it, small box-shaped wire traps hang from a shelf. Doesn’t take a genius to recognize the equipment of a fisherman.

It’s such a quaint space. So quiet. A complete contrast to the chatter and noises of prison and yet equally unnerving in its own eerie way.

You look down at your lower body still concealed and slowly peel away the blanket, taking in the dried blood stains on your scrubs with a grimace. Those won’t be easy to wash out–hell, you’d burn them in a millisecond if you had any extra clothes available. Lifting up the hem of your shirt, your eyes widen, taken aback by the sight of a large bacta patch neatly covering the blaster gash. Exactly what Melshi had said you needed…

The screeching of the rear hatch door opening startles you out of your musings, heart falling somewhere deep inside your stomach. You sit up straighter, acting on instinct, only for fatigue and soreness to cripple your movements, limbs feeling like they’re weighted down with sand.

It’s two aliens, hulking and dark-headed. One has a cybernetic eye peering straight into your soul, while the other’s even more menacing with an extendable blade serving as a replacement for his right hand. You stare at them, at a loss for words, and there’s a lengthy moment where the pair simply stare right back.

Who the hell are these guys?

“Awake finally, haye?” the one with the cybernetic eye finally says, bobbing his head as if he’s amused. His gray hat impressively remains fixed in place. “Ye be a lucky one. Lost half your blood ye did.”

“I, um. Thank you.” Your voice comes out sounding like you’ve swallowed rocks. Maybe you did, not like you can remember anything in-between Jemboc leaving you behind and waking up here. Hopefully you haven’t lost much time. “I-I don’t know how to repay you for the kindness.”

The other alien says something in another language, deep and throaty. Not a single word of it makes any sense to your ears, but it elicits a chuckle from Gray Hat that’s a little too mocking for your liking.

“What?” you ask, gaze flicking back and forth cautiously. “What did he say?”

Gray Hat takes a closer step, just a small one but in this little of a space he might as well be looming over you. “Freedi saying there be an offer on escapers. Alive or dead. A thousand credits each, haye.”

The response hits you like a physical blow, every piece of you that isn’t struck speechless is bristling with frantic alarm. Fuck. Fuck. You aren’t safe. You were never safe. What are you supposed to do? You can’t fight them, especially not the one wielding a knife. Maybe, and that’s a big fucking maybe, you could outrun them if you made it outside. Think. Use your damn brain and—

“No need to look worried. They not be getting ye.”

“Th-they’re not?” you stutter, panic still raging in your veins. It feels like a trick, a mean scheme to make you lower your guard, but the corner of Gray Hat’s mouth is curling up in what you think is a semblance of a smirk.

“Prison spoiled our water,” Grey Hat says emphatically. “Not much squiggly left. Not anymore. Care not a snod about who they kill. We say scob the Empire and scob their credits, haye, Freedi?”

Freedi agrees with a grunt.

Is this some kind of weird, convoluted hallucination? What are the chances, that of all the strangers in all the galaxy you just happened to be rescued by two who would reject a massive sum out of mutual hatred for the Empire? Infinitesimal, surely. And yet…

Seriously, who the hell are these guys? 

“Oh, yeah,” he continues, as if he’s heard your thoughts. “Dewi be my name. Dewi and Freedi.”

~~

Your new companions are fishermen, just like you’d assumed. Though with the worsening water conditions on account of the toxic waste produced by the prison, they’ll soon have to find new fishing grounds if they want to catch healthy squigglies. The way Dewi explains it, the moon was a beautiful place once upon a time. You believe him, despite the lack of evidence when you look out the ship’s window at the bleak landscape, because if anyone has the power to turn paradise into a nightmare it’s the Empire. 

Dewi’s the chattier of the pair, switching between Basic for you and Narkinian for Freedi. You learn it’s a language uniquely native to the moon, developed by the once-large fishing community of dozens of species, and you can’t help but compare it to the prison’s sign language. Makes you realize just how important communication is for survival.

They feed you—not a squiggly or anything else caught in their nets, but some pieces of meiloorun fruit cut into little cubes. The sharp burst of citrus on your tastebuds has your lips immediately puckering, hitting you like lightning. Maker, it’s good. Better than that, it’s real food. Real flavor. Real smell. No tubes in sight. 

Juice dribbles out the corners of your mouth, swiped away by your tongue, and you probably look a bit like a starved animal with how quickly you sink your teeth into another bite. But neither Dewi or Freedi so much as bat an eye.

Swallowing the last piece, there’s a moment you almost forget about the ache in your chest screaming for Melshi’s presence. 

Dewi told you you’re the only escaped prisoner they’ve seen so far. There haven’t been any reports over the coms from other fishermen saying they found anyone either. No news is good news, so the old saying goes, but in this particular case you think it might actually kill you to never see Melshi again. To never have the chance to tell him you love him one last time. To never know what he’d been trying to say right before the fall.

A bacta patch might be able to heal a blaster shot, but it can’t do anything to fix your suffering heart.

It only really occurs to you that you may have to leave Melshi behind, that you can’t stay here indefinitely, when Dewi asks, a curious lilt to his voice: “Where ye be looking to run now, eh?”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. What do you do, when the only person who you dreamed of a life together with is gone? Where do you go when nowhere will ever feel like home without them? 

“I don’t know,” you eventually say. “I didn’t plan this far.”

I didn’t plan to be alone.

Freedi mumbles something, low and surprisingly soft for such a large fellow, dark eyes sympathetic. You smile at him, a weak, trembly thing but a grin nevertheless. Turns out some things don’t need to be translated to be understood.

“One last squiggly pool there be to check tomorrow,” Dewi replies, cybernetic eye whirring quietly as he glances towards the sky outside. “Ye welcome to ride with us to Lothal, haye.”

You don’t know anything about Lothal. You don’t know what you’ll do for money, how you’ll create a new identity for yourself, not a single clue. You nod your head, accepting the offer anyway, even as your fragile heart collapses in on itself. 

~~

As morning transitions into afternoon, glimpses of a blue sky peek through the cloud layers, so pale it hurts to look at directly.

With squinted eyes, you turn your attention across the quarry where Dewi and Freedi are hauling their nets out of a polluted lake, water black and foul-smelling. You can’t see the contents from where you sit in the shade of the quadjumper, but judging from their grumblings it doesn’t sound like a big success. Something tugs sharply behind your ribs, knowing as soon as your companions have finished you’ll be leaving Narkina 5 behind and everything connected to it. Taking with you only your memories, some bloodstained scrubs and a new scar as mementos of your stay.

You know you’re luckier than most, know that there are inmates who bled to death in the prison halls and drowned in the sea and never tasted one breath of freedom, but the thing is—you had hope. More than that, you had dreams.

Maker, you had so many dreams.

Keef had once said escaping Narkina 5 was your and Melshi’s best chance at staying together. How strange it is, how funny, how tragic that escaping is exactly what split you apart. 

You look down at your hands, the water-worn pebbles smooth against your palms. You’re luckier than most, it’s true. But it’s also true you’ve lost far more than you’ve gained.

Exhaling through your nose, you lean back against the quadjumper, stones slipping free from your grasp as your eyes fall shut. You listen to the slicing of Freedi’s arm-blade cutting through rope, the wind stirring up the grit and sand, the beeping of your pulse.

Wait.

Beeping?

You turn your head just in time to see two figures knocked to the ground by the sheer force of a trap ensnaring them in thick, white netting. 

What the hell? 

Crouching behind the protection of the ship, you watch Freedi and Dewi approach the strangers flopping about, not unlike a couple of beached squigglies struggling to escape. Thoroughly wrapped in the sticky net though, it’s impossible to identify the intruders—if they’re friend or foe.

The unexpected surprise has blood whooshing in your eardrums, muffling Dewi’s voice as he ambles along, not in any hurry to let them loose. It reminds you of your own first encounter with him, initially believing him to be a threat before he dropped the facade and revealed his true character. The unknown figures can’t be too dangerous then, you reckon, for Dewi to be so calm. Still, your feet remain firmly planted, hesitant to expose yourself just yet.

A second wave of surprise catches you off guard though when Freedi abruptly presses a button on the sensor trap, reeling the netting back in as quickly as it was launched. You have to blink a few times to make sure you’re seeing things right because that’s Keef pushing himself up on his elbows. That’s Keef, right there, caked in dirt and grime and the slimy residual substance of the net. 

And next to Keef, there’s—

All air leaves your lungs at once in a gasp, or a sob maybe, you don’t know because it doesn’t fucking matter, you just move closer on instict. Melshi turns at once, registering your emergence into the light, and your eyes lock with his, brown and beautiful and so unbearably haunted. 

Melshi slowly shakes his head, the look on his face rapidly shifting from bewilderment to such blatant relief it nearly sends you to your knees, choking out a quiet, “Dream?”

The moment is frozen, disconnected from the flow of time, and then he’s moving, scrabbling onto his feet to reach you, but you’re faster. You collide with his chest, sending you both tumbling onto the ground, though you’re too consumed with reuniting your lips with his to feel the impact. 

It’s a desperate kiss, open-mouthed and hungry, with clashing teeth and panting breaths. And fuck, you can feel him, all of him—his chapped lips, his heaving chest, the frantic throbbing of his heartbeat matching yours—and still he isn’t close enough. You don’t think he’ll ever be close enough, not even if he crawled beneath your skin, nestled between the gaps in your ribs.  You’re terrified that he’ll vanish the moment you pull back, taking the heat buzzing in your veins with him, but your shaking hands can’t hold onto him tight enough. 

Can’t stop Melshi from physically forcing you away with hands on your shoulders, looking utterly wrecked with shiny eyes and spit-slick lips, words spilling out of his mouth so fast they bleed together, “Wait, wait, wait, lemme lookit you. Dream, lemme see.”

The sound of your nickname breaks something inside of you, and suddenly you’re crying, tears streaming down your cheeks, lungs shuddering with unrestrained sobs. “Rue.” It’s more of a whimper than name, scraping against your throat, pulled from the depths of your core.

“You’re alive,” he murmurs, a low rasp, his gaze flickering over every detail of your face. “When I saw you fall—fuck, dreamer, I’ve never been so scared. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, so fucking sorry—”

“No,” you gasp out, shaking your head madly because he needs to know, “not your fault.”

“Thought I lost you. That I’d never get to tell you—”

“Tell me what?” you ask hoarsely, gripping onto his wrist like a lifeline. 

Melshi’s thumb ghosts over your jaw, catching stray teardrops before they fall. “What I should’ve told you every day we were together,” he says, soft yet firm. He kisses you again, like he can’t help himself. A quick peck on the mouth, then another, then one more. And then—

“I love you.”

“Rue,” you whisper, eyes widening and heart fluttering like a damn butterfly. You shove your face into that warm, safe nook between his neck and collarbone, uncaring of the streak of slime smeared on his skin. “I love you too. Always, always, always.”

Your voice is muffled, thick with snot and tears and the wellspring of emotions overflowing inside of you. 

Melshi understands you all the same. He always has.

~~

Even within the safety of the quadjumper, you and Melshi refuse to separate from each other. Sitting on the bunk, you can imagine it must look a little funny how closely you’ve managed to intertwine your bodies in such a small space. Keef sits on a cargo box, carefully watching Dewi and Freedi up in the pilot seats. Despite the dark bruises of exhaustion beneath his eyes, his gaze is razor sharp, observing every movement for the slightest sign of deception.

Reminds you of the first day you met Keef, what feels like years ago but in reality is closer to a handful of weeks. Quiet and watchful. Mind like a sponge soaking up Table Five’s movements. 

You try not to think too hard about your missing tablemates or how much you wish they were here too. The universe's cruelest of lessons is that life isn’t fair. Not to anybody. But coming in second, so dangerously close the lines blur during moments of distress, is the self-awareness you can’t save everyone. 

You’ll never forget your boys. Ham, Taga, Jemboc, Ulaf and Xaul. You’ll never forget Kino either, alpha wolf of Unit Five-Two-D right up until the end of everything.

They’ll stay safe in your memories. The Empire can’t touch them there.

“What’s in Niamos?” you ask, causing Keef’s head to swivel your direction.

Unlike you who didn’t have any idea where to flee, Keef knew exactly where to go when asked. Dewi and Freedi had simply looked at each other, nodded in recognition, and agreed to make the flight without any fuss. 

“Palm trees and beautiful beaches,” Keef replies. “More importantly, it’s where I left my stuff before they arrested me.”

Your eyebrows lift, thinking it must be a helluva hiding place for him to believe his belongings are still there. “What kind of stuff?”

He looks towards the front again, but not before you catch a brief shadow of his crooked smile. “The kind of stuff that’ll get us anywhere we want.”

Us, he’d said. We. 

Not me. Not I.

Keef’s loyalty to both you and Melshi continues to surprise you, even though by now it shouldn’t. Not after all he’s done. He fulfilled his vow. He got as many people out of Narkina 5 as he could. He kept Melshi alive for you, dragging him away from the waves they’d been certain you drowned in.

Your heart has yet to stop fluttering helplessly whenever you look at Melshi—from love, from disbelief. He’s tired and bruised and emotionally strung out beyond his limit. But he’s also tangible and warm and here. 

You take one last glance out the window at the water covered moon, finding it amusing how Narkina 5, a place that had felt so huge and imposing while trapped inside, is such an imperceptible speck when viewed from amongst the stars. The Empire’s still an ever-present threat on the horizon, but you don’t feel their phantom strings anymore. 

No, you just feel Melshi’s fingers gently tracing the edges of the bacta patch beneath your shirt. It’s stopped bleeding. It’s stopped hurting too, just a little itchy as the bacta helps your body regrow the missing skin. And even if there was any pain, the heat radiating off Melshi is pleasantly soothing enough to forget about it. Like your own patch of sunlight, melting away the last lingering traces of soul-chilling loneliness.

For all your precious dreams of a life together outside Narkina 5, for all the years you’ve shared a bed—nothing can change the fact that real life is a whole other beast compared to prison. There will be new sides of Melshi you’ve never seen before, yet another alternate persona buried deep beneath the familiar layers. 

And maybe that would have worried you before—before you were shot, before you nearly bled out on the beach, before you faced the most terrifying form of reality where Melshi wasn’t by your side—but now? Now there’s just a sense of giddy anticipation. It means you can fall in love with him all over again. 

Again and again and again…

Outside, the stars stretch and morph as the ship enters hyperspace, silver streaks slicing through the heavy blackness.

Inside the ship though, Melshi’s arms are your safe haven, and his lips are whispering those three special words against the shell of your ear. 

…again and again and again…

~~

Niamos is exactly how Keef described it. Beautiful beaches and palm trees galore. As close to the definition of paradise as a place can be if one ignores the Empire’s occupation and their security droids.

Stepping off the quadjumper, a tropical breeze sweeps over you, lifting up your clothes to tickle at the skin beneath. It’s close to evening time, hardly a soul in sight along the walkways. Which is good, Keef says. Less witnesses means less trouble. 

While he heads off to recollect his things, you say your goodbyes to Dewi and Freedi. They’ve only been figures in your life for such a short fraction of time, yet their impact has been monumental. There aren’t enough words in the galaxy to thank them, nor enough credits to repay them.

“All we ask is a favor,” Dewi says, offering another one of his sly smirks.

You nod your head, eager to express your gratitude however you can. “Name it.”

“Ye were lucky once, don’t be testing it,” he tells you firmly. “Keep your blood in your body, haye.”

“If I have any say in the matter,” Melshi chimes in, squeezing your waist, “she’ll never lose another drop again. Not even over a damn papercut.”

You tuck the crown of your head beneath the underside of his jaw, hiding your smile.

~~

When Keef returns, he’s changed into a striped shirt and dark pants, a canvas bag hanging on his shoulder. He pulls out extra clothes, shoving them into your and Melshi’s arms with instructions to get dressed in the nearby public restroom. You don’t pause to ask him where they came from, if they’re stolen or not. Clean clothes are clean clothes, that’s all that matters.

Stripping out of your dirty, paper-thin scrubs feels good, but putting on something else besides orange and white is another heavenly pleasure entirely. Your new outfit’s a little big on your frame, a dark blue floral patterned shirt tucked into matching colored pants, but you’re too happy about the newness of it all to complain. It’s the slip-on shoes that are the hardest to adapt to, so used to being barefooted you feel like a toddler learning to walk again the way your toes are all scrunched together.

You wash your hands, indulging in the cool water running over your wrists, then wipe your face with a wet towel. Maker knows you’d trade one of your limbs for a hot bath to soak in, but Niamos is merely a stepping stone, not a place to settle down and produce roots. Maybe the next destination will be better, safer, wherever that happens to be.

Wadding up your scrubs into a ball, you toss them into the trash and leave the restroom to find Keef and Melshi. The fading sun rests on the horizon line, sky the color of honey, beautiful and sweet, bathing the world in golden light. Melshi, too, standing at the pier’s edge with his hands clasped behind his back, seems to glow against the backdrop of the ocean.

He turns as you go to him, brown eyes shining like solar flares and dark hair tousled by the wind. He’s the most beautiful thing in the galaxy you’ve ever seen. You’re so in love with him it’s—it’s exhilarating. An adrenaline rush. A force of nature, immense and infinite.

“All this space. Fresh air,” Melshi murmurs, looking out across the water. You press yourself against his side, arms crossed over your stomach. “Like a dream, right?”

“The best dream I’ve ever had.” You cast a glance at Melshi out of the corner of your eye, at the blue-and-gray pattern on his shirt. Circles connected by lines sprouting from their centers. There’s something about it oddly mesmerizing. Almost familiar somehow. “View’s gorgeous, too.”

The tips of his ears burn red once he realizes you’re not talking about the sunset. It’s so cute you think you might melt. There’s a bit of smugness, too, knowing you’re the only one who has that adorable effect on him. 

“Where’s Keef?” you ask, suddenly noticing the other man’s absence. 

“Over there on the transmitter.” Melshi nods to a structure behind you next to the restroom. “Said he had to make a call. Family, I think.”

Looking over your shoulder, you can see Keef, leaning in so the transmitter picks up his voice over the sounds of the splashing waves. I have someone waiting for me, you remember him confessing late one night in the sleep block. Remember him saying she’s the greatest.

“Do you have someone to call?” you ask, curiously blinking up at Melshi.

“No.” Melshi doesn’t sound upset by the fact. He flexes his hand, the scar there flashing gold this time instead of silver. “You’re everything I’ve got in this life, dreamer.”

“Yeah?” you breathe shakily, watching as he takes your hand in his with such delicate gentleness. The laser burn along your knuckles has long since healed, but that doesn’t stop Melshi from pressing his lips to the spot, as if he can still see the mark there. You wonder if it would turn golden in the fading light too.

You feel more than see the upward curl of his mouth. “Yeah.”

~~

Keef’s quiet as a mouse when he finally rejoins you. You don’t like it—how utterly blank his expression is, the way he tries to bury his shaking hands in his pockets, the emptiness in his eyes. You don’t like any of it.

And you’re not the only one who notices the shift in attitude. You can tell Melshi’s concerned as he licks his lips and tentatively breaks the silence, aware of the fragility of the moment. “You got through? It’s okay?”

Keef doesn’t look either of you in the eye when he nods, too jerky, too reflexive. “Yeah.” The next words are choked out, a hushed hitch to his breath. “Everything okay.”

Two things quickly become apparent to you. 

First: he’s lying. 

And second: you’re not looking at Keef Girgo anymore. You’re looking at the man beneath the illusion. He’s right there, the real him, within arm’s reach, and there’s so much you want to say to him but your mouth refuses to speak any of the words aloud.

“How many do you think made it?” Melshi asks, out of nowhere. There’s something sharp about the question. An undercurrent of desperation that unsettles you. “How many of us made it out alive?”

At that, Keef finally meets your gazes. There’s a distantness in his brown eyes, like his body’s here physically but his mind is miles and miles away. You want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Want to ask what’s wrong with him. But your hands stay at your sides and your voice stays mute.

After a long beat, Keef blinks and comes back to himself just enough to manage a limp shrug of his shoulders, faintly replying, “Not enough.”

“What if it’s just us?” Melshi presses, unsatisfied with the answer. “What if we’re the only ones?”

“Rue,” you say, faltering at the heaviness in his stare, weighing down on your lungs. You swallow, unable to understand why it’s there, what’s rattling around inside his head. “What are you saying?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, pursing his lips before his narrowed gaze shifts away, half of his face edged in dim shadow. You can sense he wants to tell you, he’s just debating whether he should. Meaning whatever it is, it’s something big. Something that will have consequences.

“Somebody’s got to tell people what’s happening back there,” Melshi says at last, but he isn’t looking at you anymore. He’s looking straight at Keef.

Glancing at the other man reveals he’s still quiet, withdrawn, but there’s wrinkles creasing his forehead that weren't there seconds ago. And the steady way he’s staring back at Melshi—it’s like he’s already started putting the puzzle pieces together and he’s waiting for Melshi to confirm it’s the right picture. 

“Guys,” you huff, fully aware there’s a silent conversation going on right in front of you and hating every second of it. “What’s going—”

“We need to split up,” Melshi interrupts, voice strained. “Increase our chances.”

“What? No.” You shake your head, mind whirling. The beginnings of dread start stirring at the bottom of your stomach. “No way. You-you don’t mean that.”

“One of us has to make it,” he continues, as if you hadn’t spoken at all, ignoring your subsequent tugging on his shirt. “People have to know what’s going on.” 

You keep shaking your head, unable to stop yourself, because it’s everything you don’t want to hear but at the same time, in the deepest part of yourself, you know he’s right. 

Staying silent about the horrors you witnessed means being complicit in the Empire’s crimes against the prisoners. Against Ulaf and Xaul, every lost soul and every one still locked away. You owe it to them to speak up and get the word out. To be brave when all you want to do is run to the farthest, most remote corner of the galaxy.

You owe it to them to try.

“I know,” Keef agrees. Another nod of his head, less jarring, more certain. “I hear you.”

On impulse you wrap your arms around Keef, pulling him in for a tight hug, hooking your chin over his shoulder. There’s a beat of hesitation, his arms awkwardly hovering in the air, and then he hugs you back.

“This isn’t a goodbye. It's a see you later,” you tell him, squeezing for emphasis. His chest rumbles with an inaudible laugh. “Repeat after me.” You look him square in the eye, leveling him with a challenging look. “Say it.”

“This isn’t a goodbye. It’s a see you later,” Keef echoes dutifully, but there’s warmth there that settles your rousing dread and replaces it with something softer. Something lighter.

Something a lot like hope.

“Here. Take this.” Keef digs around in his bag, retrieving a blaster that he gives to Melshi. Caught up in watching Melshi’s hand grip the weapon, secure and steady, no trace of nervousness as he tucks it behind his back, you miss noticing Keef’s second rummaging until he startles you with your name. “Take these too.”

He deposits a stack of credits into your hand. Surprised, you nearly spill them onto the ground, eyes widening as you take in the large amount. Understanding kicks in, that this must’ve been why he was so determined to come back here. This really is the kind of stuff that can get all three of you anywhere you want.

“Dank farrik,” you breathe. “Where the hell—actually, nope. You know what? I think I’m better off not knowing.”

“What dream means to say,” Melshi cuts in smoothly, shooting you a fond look as you stuff the credits into your trouser pockets before his expression changes into one of pure seriousness, “is thank you.”

The two men clasp hands amicably, leaning in closer to pat each other on the back. It’s a brief and wordless gesture, but the meaning’s still understood by both. Take care of yourself out there.

Melshi then inclines his head at you. “You ready, dream?”

You nod, giving him a small smile.

The pier is long, the path beyond even longer. But walking with Melshi, shoulder to shoulder, hands locked together, you find it easier to look forward to the future’s possibilities rather than fear its uncertainties. A future full of golden sunsets, fresh air smelling of fragrant blooms, an abundance of blankets on a plush bed, bites of meiloorun fruit exchanged between kisses, laughter, hot baths, even more kisses, perhaps a little dreamer or two to keep you and Melshi on your toes. 

It won’t be easy. It won’t be soon. But it’ll be a good one.

Because it will be yours and Melshi’s.

You stop walking, ignoring the concerned furrowing of Melshi’s brow as you abruptly spin around. Before taking another step into the unknown, there’s one final thing you’ve got to know for certain.

“Hey!” you call out, catching the attention of the man at the end of the pier. “What do we call you when later comes?”

A second of silence follows, your ears straining for his answer.

“Cassian.” The response is carried on the wind, a smile stretching across your face. And if you look hard enough, there in the last fading beams of sunlight, you swear he’s smiling, too. “My name is Cassian.”

[pinkest-nekomata]

I understand what "A bad workman blames his tools" is supposed to be, but y'all, I've gotta tell you--sometimes it's the tools.

Maybe this is intuitive for most people but if you're autistic like me and took this Too Literally (tm) then this one's for you.

Like, I thought I was hopeless at doing makeup until I got a good eyeshadow primer. It turns out it's literally impossible to get eyeshadow to blend smoothly without a primer. And them omg, when I got some higher quality shadows that were more pigmented, all of a sudden it takes 1/3 the time to get the effect that I want.

And paint. We're taught the basic "primary colors" and "through mixing you can get any color!!" and this is A LIE. It's not until you get into color theory and actual pigment physics that you learn that there are orangey-reds and a purply-reds and finding a physical pigment for a true, neutral-as-possible red is actually quite rare and expensive.

And if you mix an orangey-red with blue to try to make purple, you're going to make a poopy purple because purple + orange are complimentary colors and make brown, so no matter what you do, you'll have a brown+purple mixture.

So even to mix your colors from primaries, you're going to need both a orangey-red and a bluey-red, and a greenish-yellow and an orangey-yellow, and a greenish-blue and a purpley-blue.

And that's not to mention that there are brilliant violets you just won't get by mixing pigments, so you'll need specialized pigments for those too.

And don't even get me started on BRUSHES. The amount of control that you can get out of a quality brush is so much more than a cheap one.

The same principles apply for colored pencils and pens and yarn and clay and like... idk, a lot of things.

I feel like I tried several hobbies with just the most miserably cheap shit and felt bad at them and didn't pick them up, until I had the occasion to try with something of sufficient quality and it was like--wow, this is actually fun! I'm not miserable at this trying to do basic things!

Obviously there's a middle ground here--I never had to get the top-of-the-line item to have a better experience. My primer is the Sephora house brand. Synthetic paint brushes are great for most people who don't plan to use them heavily.

Spending more money on tools has diminishing returns, but those initial returns over the most basic stuff? Big!! Important!!

One of the great things about the internet is that you can ask experts what tools are actually worth spending money on--just try to NOT ask people who 1) have way more money than you and so haven't thought about it or 2) are actively trying to sell you something.

I just wonder how many people think they're bad at painting because they've only tried with the absolutely destroyed and shitty brushes at a wine and paint night place, y'know?

So. Sometimes it's the tools!! It's okay to spend a little more on things that make your hobby more accessible and enjoyable.

[themostsanebug]

TEEHEHE!!! I WROTE MORE OC ANGST!! <33

[ooo,, this one is BAD,, blood, vomit, suicidal thoughts, and just,, massive amounts of physical and mental pain in general,,]

Boris gripped onto the radio that was now his head. The tips of his fingers had been sprouting into claws for a few weeks now, but he supposed now they were nearing the finish line. It felt like fire was being injected straight into his veins as the claws grew out and scraped against his head. He wanted to scream. Call out for help. Yet, he couldn't. He knew that stupid messenger god would shut him up.

Still. He called out. A strangled cry before the wound around his neck split open again and the blood poured out.

"Fool. There is no one here who cares for you. Just give in. Hand yourself over to me, body and mind." Tobias' voice boomed throughout his mind. It flooded all his senses and sharpened the feeling of pain without him. "For a feeble man your spirit is quite strong. How long will it take to break you down, young one?"

He wanted to sob. Everything hurt. The spikes shooting up from his spine, the tail growing from the end of it, the blood coating his newly formed claws from the gaping injury on his neck. It was all too much. He wanted to rip his head off. No.. he wanted to be human again. Not.. whatever the hell he's become. Whatever he has been turned into. Fuck, he'd ran out of bandages a while ago, leaving him unable to tend to the wounds he now had. Static cut through his speaker, his vision was starting to blur and his head felt lighter than usual. Shit.. shit, shit, shit.. He couldn't pass out now! He didn't.. he didn't need that.. thing in his mind when he slept. He didn't need it in his body.

He should never have joined that damned cult. All he wanted was to find a way to get this stupid radio off his head without dying in the process! Now dying seemed like the better option. Just rip off the radio and bleed out on the floor.

"Pathetic. You truly are a sniveling, slimy creature. You could make this so much easier on yourself if you just gave in." He winced as that voice overtook him once again. He wanted to slit that voice's throat. God or not, he wanted it gone. A scream cut through his speaker as the spikes growing along his spine grew out of the skin containing them. His breathing grew more ragged as a blur crept back into his vision. He scrambled to pull his shirt off so he could assess the damage being done to his body. He.. He really shouldn't have looked.

The mirror showed him that the area of.. infection from the god had grown up to the area around his shoulder blades, dark colored markings painted across his shoulders and steadily spreading. Turning around revealed his back was in fact bleeding from the unexpected growth of his spine. Some of the spikes had grown in improperly due to being rushed leaving a few gorey wounds behind that would take forever for him to heal. He looked disgusting. He was slowly turning into a monster his tormentor had created and there was nothing he could do. He felt light headed. Much worse than mere seconds ago which he had assumed was impossible. He felt nauseous. Seeing that much blood did something to him. All of that mutilation done to his own body. He turned back around and gripped onto the edge of the sink. His claws scraped against the glass, leaving marks in their wake and a horrible noise that rang through his head. He couldn't take it anymore. He leaned into the sink and threw up. The bottom of his radio practically split open to get out the amount of bile he coughed up. Once all of the vomit was out of his system, he continued to dry heave over the sink for a few more minutes. He could hear the mocking laugh of Tobias echoing in his mind. Whether he was imagining it or it was actually happening was hard to tell through the haze covering his brain.

He could tell his body was ready to give out any second. His legs about gave out from underneath him when he tried to walk. He settled for just sitting down on the floor and "resting" there. He was still bleeding, red pouring from his open injuries and covering basically everything. His vision blurred for the last time as he finally passed out. His body curled in on itself as he lay on the floor of his bathroom. Just an average day of the week for Boris Madden.

[sehtoast]

To Defile a Monument (Homelander x Reader)

Homelander x m!reader smut (based from a fic i'm still writing).

How about some head while dangling from Lady Liberty's head?

!please note, Y/n is written as a pre-bottom surgery trans man. otherwise, the vast majority of Y/n's physical descriptors (eye color, hair color, etc) are kept to a minimum for the sake of reader inclusivity- and also lmao i basically stole spiderman for Y/n's supe identity, so there are some references to that

 “You- you want to what?”

“I just told you,”  John replied bluntly, a sly grin etched onto his face.  “Dangle off the crown. Come on, it’ll be fun!”

Y/n could hardly believe his ears.  Homelander had interesting tastes in where and when the two of them fucked- usually hidden on rooftops or in the clouds, but this was something else entirely.  At the very least, Liberty Island tours were done for the day, and the sun had already gone down.  Their odds of being caught or, at the worst, filmed by some boating bystander, were low.  It didn’t make the idea any less insane.  John’s request?  For Y/n to dangle from Lady Liberty and let Homelander face fuck him.

“B-but what if someone sees us?!”  Y/n countered, his hands held out defensively.  He wasn’t averse to the idea, because it was fucking incredible, but the fear of being caught made it impossible to consider. “I can’t risk having my identity leaked because I had your dick in my mouth!”

John let out a chuckle and gripped him by the wrists, pulling Y/n closer until their chests touched.  Homelander massaged his thumbs into the spinneret openings on Y/n’s wrists- something that the web-head never thought could be an erogenous zone before John discovered it.  That was one of the most interesting nights of his life, by far.  And now, Homelander fucking loved to tease him with it.  The fabric of his suit added even more friction, and he shuddered with each pass.

“Oh, please.  We’ve done worse, and you know it.  Besides, it’s a fucking island, Y/n, with no one on it. And it’s night time!”  John’s eyes twinkled deviously.  Or was that his heat vision swirling around, signaling his arousal like usual?  Either way… 

“It’ll be so hot.”

“I- hnngh.  John, no, seriously!  It’d be so bad if we got cau-”  Y/n groaned with each swipe of pressure.

Homelander pulled Y/n into a deep, wet kiss, swirling his tongue around the latter’s mouth with urgency, pleading his case through the action, begging for Y/n to concede. Y/n practically melted into the act, and all it took was one more swipe at his wrists to have him panting. John pulled away, nipping Y/n’s lip and continuing the ministrations over his wrists, eliciting another breathy whine from him.  As soon as Y/n’s gaze met Homelander’s voracious blue stare, he caved immediately.  Decency be damned- Homelander could ask to fuck him in the air above Times Square, and he’d give in with enough teasing. 

“Fuck!  Fine.” He reached down, teasing John through his suit. “But we’re doing it behind the statue!”  

“Works for me.”

Y/n attached a sticky drag line to a rear point of Lady Liberty’s crown, holding it as he fell backward into an upside down descent, funneling more and more webbing from his stimulated wrist until he felt he’d gone low enough. Any further, and they’d be a silhouette in the spotlights. He watched John float down to meet him with the widest of smiles on his face.

“C’mon, a little lower for me.”  The caped supe teased with a wink. 

Y/n obliged with a sigh, and lowered a few more feet, dangerously close to the illumination highlighting the monument.  The blood was already rushing to his head, and he’d be stuck like this even longer for the main show.

“‘Attaboy,” Homelander hummed, already in the process of unzipping the pants of his suit.  When he pulled his cock free, it was already standing at attention with a bead of precum dripping free.  “Now, open wide for me, babe…”

John teased himself at Y/n’s lips, wiping his arousal at the corner of his mouth before Y/n could catch it with his tongue. He tapped the head of it against Y/n’s cheek, giving him the most devilish smile in the process.

Fucking tease.

Y/n caught the head of John’s cock with his lips, gently securing it before rolling his tongue around the head, teasing at the hole for a moment before letting go with a pop, taking a breath and trying to focus his attention away from the blood rushing to his head. 

John was already breathing heavily above him, taking hold of his cock once more to guide it back into Y/n’s mouth.  He grabbed tight to Y/n’s spandex clad thighs to steady himself once his appendage was securely engulfed.  

“Fuck- take it, take it,”  John groaned out, pushing all the way to the back of Y/n’s throat, relishing in the initial gag that had the heat of Y/n’s throat clenching around him. He began to thrust at a slow pace, digging his fingers into Y/n’s flesh, his grip flexing with each movement of his hips.  Homelander decided long ago that, if heaven were truly real, he’d found it with Y/n.  Not just because of the sex- it was great, of course- but because there was something about doing wild shit like this with someone he really loves, a person who sets his soul ablaze, that John found to be nothing short of paradise.  Someone that accepted him for all of his shortcomings (Shortcomings? From the Homelander? As if.), loved him as is, knew just how to make his heart bloom in his chest.  Yeah… Something about that just made all of their antics so much more fucking amazing than he’d ever imagined.  This was his person, and that must be heaven.

Y/n worked his tongue fervently over Homelander's shaft, running along the length of it, swiping from side to side on one pass, then dragging his tongue flat on the next, hollowing his cheeks on occasion to add extra pressure that left John keening above him. Every time Homelander pulled out to the tip, Y/n made it a point to flick his tongue all over the head, treasuring each desperate whine he got in response.

Up top, John, despite his lust addled mind, managed to undo the groin zip on Y/n’s super suit, ripping a hole into his boxer briefs to expose his wet core to the nighttime cold.  The groan in protest to the torn garment vibrated wonderfully against Homelander’s cock, and he thrust in harder, all the way to the base of his groin, gagging Y/n once more until he pulled out, allowing him a moment to breathe.

“It’s your treat too, babe.”  He teased through heavy breaths, maneuvering Y/n’s web and pulling his leg to the side, immediately latching onto Y/n’s swollen clit and sucking, making him gasp in a sharp breath in response before John was back at home in his mouth.

Homelander kept his grip on Y/n’s thighs, even as the anchoring web pushed against the side of his face while he worked his magic, dragging his tongue up and down Y/n’s slit, lapping up all the juices that flowed from his love. He was whimpering on every pass, his hips thrusting idly into Y/n’s mouth as the two sucked each other off in the air.  Each swipe of his tongue ended in a dip into Y/n’s core, tongue fucking him as deep as possible, before working his way back to suck at him, only to repeat his path.  Every noise from Y/n ran through his head like a symphony, wordlessly encouraging his onslaught, motivating and arousing him more than anything in the world.  He hadn’t even realized he’d been producing his own stream of shaky whimpers, the duality of pleasing while being pleased having completely eroded his awareness of such.

When Y/n felt a finger sink deep inside of him to immediately rub against his walls, his eyes practically rolled back into his head.  The headrush from being upside down, combined with the pleasure, made for a wild combination of sensation, and he’d have given about anything to be able to thrust his hips in the moment, to seek out the friction, to grind against John’s face until he was a sopping, writhing mess.  But all he could do was moan around the thick cock pounding his throat, to whine out his pleasure in encouragement while John worked his digits in and out, sucking his clit with a devastating enthusiasm.  

Homelander was close, if his erratic thrusts and endless serenade of needy sounds were anything to go by.  Y/n was teetering on the edge as well, his legs quivering each time John brushed against his sweet spot, rocking forward as much as he could into the hot mouth still sucking him off in tandem with his fingering digits.  Y/n made the split decision to release his web with one hand, reaching down to stroke John’s cock with it instead. The fabric of his gloves soaked up the saliva and created a delicious friction that had Homelander mewling pitifully against his cunt, panting hot breaths against him and creating a whole new sensation.

Y/n decided to sprinkle in just a little bit of that verbal encouragement that almost always made John fall over the edge.

“I wanna feel you cumming down my throat so fucking bad!  Be a good boy and give it to me, hmm?”  Y/n hummed, accenting his point with little licks on the head of Homelander’s cock before taking it all in again, slurping greedily on the hardness, utterly adoring the way John shamelessly voiced his pleasure as he started a relentless onslaught with his hips, face fucking Y/n with all semblance of control gone.  He used his free hand to grab at Homelander’s ass, pulling him in even closer before giving it a sharp spank that left his hips stuttering in the tell tale sign of his release.

“I- Y/n- Fuck!” Was all John could get out before his body went stiff with pleasure, moving only enough to continue his sloppy thrusts into Y/n’s mouth, moaning desperately with each needy thrust before burying his face once more into Y/n’s cunt to lick and suck away like a man starved, until the two were cumming in tandem, Y/n clenching wildly around John’s fingers, whining as he swallowed ropes of the latter’s orgasm while his own raged through him, wracking his body with near violent shakes.  With the blood having all rushed to his head, Y/n’s vision tunneled into blackness until he came down from his high.  When he’d come to his senses moments later, he realized John’s softening cock was still cradled inside his mouth.  Homelander, of course, was all too happy to remain there, smiling above, staring down with no lack of pride dancing in the dimming light of his red eyes. 

When John finally pulled out, thick strings of spit and cum followed him from Y/n’s mouth, and he made no move to put himself back in his pants- a sure sign that this was only round one of many for the night- as he helped Y/n turn upright, flying the both of them to the top of Lady Liberty’s crown.  The web dangled in place, serving as the only evidence of their deed.

Y/n laid back straight away, and John immediately took his place snuggling up beside him, nuzzling into his chest. The both of them were still catching their breath from the exertion, and Y/n was more than pleased to be in a normal position once more.

“Mmm,” John hummed.  “So, was I right?”

Y/n chuckled breathlessly, patting his hand against Homelander’s back.

“Yeah, but you owe me new underwear.”

“Does this mean we can do it again if I replace them?”  John inquired cheekily, shifting to press his lips to Y/n’s, gliding his tongue back into the other’s mouth and groaning at the lingering taste of his own cum.

Y/n pulled away and winked, already moving to straddle John.  He leaned down and pressed another kiss to Homelander’s lips, accentuating his renewing desire with a roll of his hips that enticed an excited whimper from the strongest man on the planet.  Oh, how he fucking loved making John whine.  Reducing the most powerful man in the world to a quivering mess was a fucking ecstasy of its own.  

Y/n leaned down once more, this time to whisper into his ear.

“Next time, I just won’t wear any.”