#she’s elderly level chill

[arlo-venn]

I’m worried about Juni but Tyrell won’t hear it :/ She is SO sleepy and TOO chill almost all of the time since being on Prozac and she is definitely more well behaved but it feels like it stole her light :( She’s also not a puppy anymore but she’s way too young to lose her spark. I keep bringing up lowering the dose or seeing how she does off of it but Tyrell gets all huffy. Sure she’s easier to manage. But who even is Juni without her chaos.

[luveline]

losers | remus lupin

“Please.”

“Please?” he says back, mirroring your soft tone. “You think you need to say please?” His pinky bumps under the waistband of your trousers. There isn’t much give. He traces the lining to your zipper, fiddling with the small piece of metal as your eyes darken. “I should be the one saying it.” His voice keeps dropping, an utterance in the shell of your ear, his words for you and you alone. “I’m at your mercy, dove. Don’t say please with me. Okay?” 

you find remus’ number on an abandoned motorbike. things snowball from there. [10k words]

fem!reader, fluff, first date, smut mdni, implied inexperienced!reader, almost rockstar!remus, mentioned that remus takes painkillers, muggle!au, early 2000’s au

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ There’s a motorbike outside of the cafe.

It’s huge. Too heavy for you to move. Technically, you hadn’t found it at all, it was left there in the dead of night a few days ago and hasn’t budged since. It’s illegally parked, a fact that your manager won't stop muttering about while she’s elbow deep in latte foam and coffee cakes. 

“I’m getting the bastard thing towed,” she grumbles that morning. “Let the police deal with it.”

That seems rather harsh to you. It isn’t necessarily in the way, and it looks well loved. Perhaps whoever left it can’t remember where they left it, having stumbled home on inebriated footing after one too many at the pub across the street. You think about how much it must cost to get your stuff back after it’s been towed, and though you aren’t sure of the specifics, you know it can’t be cheap. So, when your manager falls into conversation with a regular and your break begins, you creep outside to do some investigating. 

It’s a hulking thing made of more black than silver. There are stickers across the left side of the body, weathered and peeling, though one is newer than the others and immediately draws your eye. 

A phone number. 

If lost, please call. 

You take your phone out of your pocket, a flip phone with one dangling charm in the shape of a star. You click each faded button slowly. You're scared to talk to someone you don’t know, but relieved to maybe save the day. 

It goes for ages. 

“Hello?”

“Hey,” you say, dropping your voice into its sweetest tones, though nerves make you too soft, and you worry you’re hard to hear. “Hey, um, sorry to bother you. I work at The Mill, it’s a– a cafe in the city centre… Are you missing a bike, by any chance? A motorbike?”

“Oh, thank you. Yeah, it’s my friend’s. He can be… forgetful.” The voice that speaks is both smooth and gritty, impossibly, like whoever it is that’s talking smoked half a pack of cigarettes before he answered the phone. He clears his throat. “I hope it hasn’t been an imposition for you.”

“Actually, uh, my manager wants to have it towed. Like, now. I can try to fend her off but honestly she’s like, that physics law, um, unstoppable force? Uh,” —you’re stuttering, making it worse, because his voice is surprisingly handsome and you’re an idiot through and through— “yeah, so could you come and get it?”

“Yes! Yeah, absolutely, we’re on our way. Thank you.”

“Sure. Of course.”

You hear something not meant for you, the tail end of, “Sirius, get up. You better call Marl and—”

Phone back in your pocket, you take a quick glance around the street before reaching out to run your finger over the cracked leather of the motorbike seat. You’ve never ridden one before. You’ve never wanted to. The level of fearlessness one needs for it isn’t one you possess. 

You’re the opposite of fearless. 

The sun hides behind a wave of clouds. Your skin chills near immediately, your prim slacks and apron a worthless defence against the cold. It’s an average day here, grey and quiet. Occasionally a couple will pass you, hand in hand as they traverse the worn pavement. You smile at an elderly man and his dog as they shuffle across the street and into the cafe. Your smile fades as you tune into the fierce tones of your manager, demanding to know where you’ve gone. If your absence is what distracts her from calling the police, so be it. 

You’re considering getting your phone back out to play Snake when a passing car slows beside you. You straighten up and out, feeling your spine click in more places than it should as the passenger door opens and an insanely attractive man throws himself out of it. 

“My angel!” he cries, heading straight for you. 

You take a panicked step backward. The man dives for his motorbike. You flinch, mystified by his enthusiasm and his opposite appearance. Short sleeves reveal arms full of dark tattoos, with one side marred by a brutally long scar from his elbow to the back of a ring-laden hand. You tear your eyes from him as a second door closes across the street, and feel all the air rush from your chest as a second man approaches. 

He’s very pretty. It might be redundant to say it to yourself, presented as you are with an undeniable truth, but you think it anyway. Sandy brown hair, pale skin, and in enough layers to make up for his friends lack thereof, the second man ignores any dramatics and meets you head on. 

“Hi,” he says, holding out his hand, “you’re the one who called?”

Closer now, you can see the scars on his face. They stretch over the ridge of his nose and into his eyebrow. A smaller one tugs as he talks against his top lip. 

You take his hand and shake it limply. “Yeah, that was me.”

If he’s concerned with your nervousness he doesn’t show it. His smile doesn’t move. “He wants to say thank you. He will, once he gets over himself.”

“Thank you!” the dark-haired man calls. “She’s my everything. I’ve been sick with worry.”

“Have you?” the man in front of you asks, his voice steady, almost intimidating in its impassiveness. 

“Yes, Moons, I have been… not that you’d know.”

“Some of us have real problems,” Moons snips, though he quickly looks at you like he’s embarrassed. “Sorry. He brings out the worst in me.”

“You must be good friends.” 

You don’t know why you say it. He only smiles. 

“We must be.”

The first man stands up from checking over his motorbike and beams at you. You suspect it’s an expression that works in his favour more often than not. “What can I give you, doll?” 

“No, nothing. Please. I’ll just be glad to hear the end of it.”

"Are you sure?" 

"Yeah, really." 

Your manager calls your name, clear as day despite the thick pane of glass and brick walls separating you. 

"That's you?" Moons asks. 

"That's me. Sorry." 

"No, don't be. Thanks so much for calling." 

You nod hurriedly, throwing them both a 'nice to meet you, I'm sorry for leaving so fast' kind of smile and head back inside. 

You take a sneaky look back when you're behind the counter again. They’ve turned their backs to you, Moons' friend ruffling his hair roughly. After a minute or two, Moons gets back in his car, and the motorbike pulls away like it was never there to begin with. 

What sort of name is Moons? you ask yourself. It's a question that stays with you for a few days. You find yourself hoping you'll see him again, or that his friend's motorbike will turn up outside of the cafe for a few long days and give you an excuse to call him. His number stays unsaved in your recent calls menu for a while. Eventually, you forget about him altogether; the motorbike, the call, the gentle wave of his hair. 

You're hard-pressed to forget his voice, though. There'd been something familiar about it. 

"Nice highscore." 

You jump hard and wince as the metallic taste of blood hits your taste buds. To make it worse, you slam your phone up into the counter it was hiding under in shock. It makes a fatal crunching sound. 

You shove it into your pocket and look up. Standing there, in all his handsome weariness, is Moons, sans friend. He's wearing nice clothes, clean and clearly ironed. You're immediately aware of your ratty uniform and your unkempt hair. 

"Shit," you say, which is so fucking embarrassing, honestly, you could fall through the floor and stay there, "Sorry. What can I get you?" 

His eyebrows inch up his forehead. "What's the easiest thing to make?" 

That's not a question you get often. "Uh, regular black coffee, or tea, or, the uh– the hot chocolate's not that hard. But you should order whatever you like, of course." 

Moons smiles at you. You're starting to understand the nickname (assuming it is a nickname). He has this odd but enticing presence about him, like that awestruck feeling of looking up at night and seeing all the teeny tiny stars and the moonlight that comes down with them, bright and somewhat daunting. 

"Sure you don't mind?" 

"I'm paid not to mind." 

"Can I get the biggest cup of tea you can make? Milk and two sugars, please." 

"Absolutely." You sidestep to the register and click a bunch of the wrong buttons. You're unprofessionally flustered. "Uh, three sixty five?" 

He passes you a five pound note. Your tip cup is for the more generous type, and he has no trouble dropping his palmful of change into it. He barely looks. You're expecting him to take a seat but he stays standing, one arm pressed to the counter, the other held up. He scratches behind his ear absentmindedly, as though he has nowhere else to be. 

"Are you in a hurry?" you ask, confused. 

He stays quiet for enough time to shit you up. You're tipping milk over your hand and hoping he hasn't seen it when he says, "No rush. I'm here to see you." 

You look over your shoulder at him. You can't help it. "To see me." 

"Yeah." 

You spin back to his tea. The counter is covered in spills and sugar, cup tops and wooden stirrers. You take them all in with wide eyes. Nobody ever comes to see you. Not your friends, not family (unless they want something). Especially not boys you met once for two minutes. 

"Is there something wrong?" you ask. 

You clip the lid onto his big tea and wrap it in napkins so it doesn't burn his hands. 

"Nothing's wrong," he says kindly. "I wanted to apologise. Your boss was upset with you. It was Sirius' fault. We owe you for it." 

"You really don't have to say sorry. She wasn’t that mad. No harm, no foul." 

You put his cup of tea down in front of him and try to smile like girls do in the movies. Soft doe eyes, not too bright, not too awkward. You give up after a second and feel it twist into something regrettable. 

His long silence makes you squirm.

"A thank you, then.”

He offers you an envelope. You take it. 

The paper is crisp and thick. Your fingers are clumsy, and it takes you too many seconds to fold the envelope's lip and pull out the card stock inside. 

You look up in shock. "I can't–" 

He's not there. You look to the door, catching what might've been his hand as he walks out of view. 

He's left you two concert tickets. You don't go to concerts. You might have, when you were younger, and had friends to follow. As it stands he's given you two seated tickets for a show in the Pointer Arena not far from where you work, for a band you've never heard of. The price on each is a solid £20, which is way too much repayment for ringing a number from a sticker. Worse, you're not sure you have somebody who can use the second one. 

You hope he'll come back for clarification alone, and a little to see him, but he doesn't, and soon the date on the ticket matches the date on your calendar and you're standing outside of the venue with no clue how to hold yourself. 

You stand in line for a while. It's a very long line made up of mostly younger women. You listen for the calling of a reseller and spot a group of young girls trying to haggle with them, reluctantly leaving your place in line. 

"Hi," you say quietly to the one furthest from the epicentre. "I'm sorry if this is weird. I have an extra ticket tonight, and I was wondering if you'd like it? I know it's seated, but maybe you could use it to get in and then, uh, not sit? Or just sit." You could writhe around on the ground in shame. You hold out the spare ticket. "If you want it." 

"Are you kidding?" 

"No, seriously." 

She takes the ticket and you walk away before she can try and give it back to you. Whether she uses it or not, it's no longer your problem to deal with. The lady who'd been standing behind you lets you back in line, for which you're extremely grateful, and you shiver your way to the front with nerves churning your stomach. 

You've imagined being turned away twenty times by the time they usher you through the doors. The air is buzzing with excitement, enough of it to ramp up your nerves, and you smile weakly at the people who pass you on the way up to the seating area you've been designated. The Pointer Arena is a smaller venue with much more standing than seating capacity available. The seats are at the sides and back of the second floor, looking down at the pit with a safety barrier in front. 

You slide into your seat and peer down at the crowd as it fills up one ant of a person at a time. You can't distinguish one person from another after a while. It’s a moving sea of dark clothes. 

It takes a long time for the opening act to come on. You're not having much fun. You'd tried to use the computer in the cafe to research the bands playing tonight but the dial up hadn't been working and your manager hates when you take long breaks, so you aren't sure you'll even enjoy yourself. You're not sure why you came here — is it sad, to come here alone? It looks sad, you think, pathetic, but it doesn't feel sad. You're not very good at talking, anyways. It's so difficult. Or maybe you just make it that way. 

This is why you regret coming. Any time spent by yourself is time to think. You hate thinking, but it's all you seem to be able to do. Think and think and think. Your mind runs in the same circles. Things you've done, things you wish you did, things you want to do so badly it makes you feel sick. You can't stand it. 

The crowd begins to rise in volume. Cheers echo against the atrium ceiling, and you push yourself to the edge of your seat to see what's making them all so excited. 

The opening band. They're too far away to see clearly. First on stage is a man with brown skin and a head of black curls, a guitar swinging from his neck, the body barely held as he waves to the masses. Next comes a paler man with hair tied up in a bun who sits down behind the drum kit and doesn't move much after that. A girl practically sprints to centre stage, scooping up a waiting guitar (or bass?) and strumming down the body appreciatively. She has purple hair, bright and choppy, particularly abrasive against the alabaster white of her skin. 

And last on stage… last on stage is Moons. 

You move forward suddenly, smacking your face against the plexiglass barrier and biting your cheek for the second time in a week. Used to your mistreatment, the poorly healed skin wastes no time splitting, and the metallic taste of blood makes you cringe. 

That's Moons. There are two huge screens either side of the stage that magnify him. First his hand on the microphone, a scar coiling up from his wrist to his thumb purple against his skin. Then his face. You wouldn't forget what he looks like so soon, not when you've half obsessed over him for days with could-be's because he'd wanted to see you and you have a bad habit of inventing future's with people you don't know, but even if you did it wouldn't matter. You've never met anyone else with three scars as he has across his face, taking centre stage. 

You hadn't realised the tickets were to see his band. It makes sense, now, why your seat is in such a quiet area, and why the people sitting close by aren't firecracker happy at the sight of them. They must've received their tickets in the same way, gifts or thank yous for small favours. 

Your mouth dries as they begin to play. It's not what you're expecting. Of course, you haven't really had time to expect anything, and yet you're shocked when they start to play a slow song. He doesn't really look like a rockstar, but a heartthrob? You can see it easily. The long lengths of his lashes, and the dark honey of his eyes. His smile, so small but somehow piercing. 

His voice is careful. He doesn't sing anything impressive —there's no belting or high notes— but you still find yourself wringing your hands together, entranced by his confidence. He dances around the melodies and fills up every space he can find between the beat of the drums and the searing guitar riffs that follow. 

They only play five songs. By the time they've finished you're feeling sick to your stomach, and you can't get your heart to calm down. You hadn't known a word of the lyrics, but you'd felt them. 

They're good. 

Like, too good to be openers for long. 

The crowd echoes your sentiment. They clap and scream and wolf whistle. The noise vibrates in the depth of your stomach. The cheering doubles when the headlining band’s techies emerge. The lights go down. Equipment begins to roll out. 

You scrounge through your purse for a lip balm and think about heading downstairs to the concession stands for an overpriced bottle of water to wash away the unfortunate tang of blood. It aches to pay, but if you don't soon you might get nauseous, and that would be a real disaster, throwing up here of all places. 

You hear his voice before you see him. He's laughing, talking to somebody about the set. 

"It was great!" compliments a feminine voice. "I don't know what you were so worried about, Remus, you're really great. And if you weren't, Marl would've saved the day anyways with her gorgeous showmanship." 

"Thanks, baby," says a second voice. Marl. 

"Thanks, Mary," Moons says. 

What had Mary called him? Remus? Odd, not quite as strange as Moons. 

You try not to tense as footsteps approach. 

"Can I sit?" he asks. 

You look up too fast. He's a little damp, the hair closest to his face curled with it, but he smells good as he sits down. He must've washed up. 

"I– I've been calling you Moons in my head," you admit, not sure what to say. 

He's intimidating. You don't imagine he knows it. He sits in the chair without any fanfare, setting his forearm on the rest between your two seats and turning his face to you completely, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, almost like he doesn't want to smile but can't help himself. His eyes are the slightest bit lidded, emphasising the brilliance (and unfairness) of his lashes, so thick and dark you wonder if he's wearing makeup. 

"You can call me whatever you want to, but my name's Remus. I should've told you that before. I was… distracted." 

He isn't being coy, you realise. He easily could be if he wanted to, but he was genuinely lost for words for a second.

"I didn't really tell you mine," you say, hoping to ease his gentle confusion. 

He says your name like it's easy. Like he enjoys the sound of it. "Y/N. Do you like music?" 

Is that a trick question? His eyes trace up to your eyebrows as they pinch together, but he doesn't amend his question. Not a trick, then. 

"I like music,” you say.

"I realise it's brave to ask someone to come and see you on stage. And that I look like a tosser sometimes with the stage lights and makeup." 

"No," you say quickly, "you don't. You looked just fine. You looked good. I bet it's hard getting on stage like that, and in front of this many people. And singing. You have a really nice voice." 

His eyes soften. "Thank you. Do you wanna go get a drink with me? There's a bar. It's quiet." 

Your elbow brushes against his long sleeve. "Yeah." You're not breathless enough to embarrass yourself, but it's a close call. 

Remus leads you up and out of the seats. The venue is large in that it has just as many hallways and back rooms as it has places to watch the show. Remus’ warm hand catches your elbow, a friendly touch that guides you around the barrier and through a dimly lit hallway that takes you to the bar. 

The bar overlooks the stage, but the sound of the band and the crowd is dampened severely, making for a sorely needed respite. VIP's mill around the room on plush leather sofas and cushy bar stools sipping from sweating glass bottles. Remus' hand moves up to your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze as a familiar face waves you over. 

"Hey, it's you!" 

You smile at Remus' motorbike friend. You're a hundred percent sure his name is Sirius, but you won't say it aloud in case you're wrong. Beside him sits the other man you'd seen on stage with them, the guitarist with brown skin and a head full of thick hair. You look between the three of them in secret shock, wondering if handsome attracts handsome or if it's just dumb luck that they ended up together. 

"James, this is the babe that found Stacia," Sirius says.

James wrinkles his nose. "Hi," he says, in a voice that sounds deeply apologetic, years of it like the rings of a tree. "How are you?"

"I'm good. Um, and you?" 

"I'm good! Thanks, I'm good, it's nice of you to come see us. Did you like the show?" 

"Yeah, I did. I had no idea you guys were musicians." 

He splits his attention between you and his jacket. He pulls a glasses case out of his pocket, clicks it open, and straightens out a pair of wire frames. 

"Couldn't tell from our baby boy's general demeanour?" he asks. "Hey, that's better, I can see you now." 

"Sirius is the youngest," Remus says. 

"And the handsomest." 

"No, Marl's clearly the handsome one," James says lightly. 

Sirius takes the rebuttal in good jest and brandishes his drink toward you like a toast. "Want a beer?" 

"I'm getting her one," Remus says, "come on, give me a minute here." 

Everybody laughs. You laugh too, turning your face into your shoulder to smother the sound. 

"Well, come and sit with us, make yourself comfortable," James says, moving his jacket off of the chair in front of you.

Remus makes a small, apprehensive sound. "Drinks first." He looks to you for confirmation. "Yeah. We'll be back." 

You follow him to the bar. Your shoes, a pair of dirty converse you wish you'd swapped for heels or something sophisticated, squeal against the hardwood floor. How were you supposed to know you'd see him again tonight? In what world does stuff like this happen to scruffy waitresses? You're starting to think he might be somebody. 

Not that it matters if he is or isn't. 

But if he is… This is embarrassing, right? Not knowing who he is. 

There must be a couple thousand people here tonight. Then again, his band were the opening act, so it doesn't necessarily mean they're all famous or anything. 

"Hey," Remus says softly, stopping your thoughts cold. "Are you okay?" 

"I'm fine. Sorry. I've never been in here before, anywhere that's like it,” you say. 

"Venues are all different but the bars don't change," he says. "What do you like?" 

"I'm not a big drinker." 

"That's okay. I just wanted an excuse to be alone with you." He doesn't even give you time to recover. "Truth is, I wanted to ask you out. But between shows I couldn't find time, and next week I'm in San Marino." 

What you mean to say is, you wanted to ask me out? But instead, you choke, "You're going to Italy?" 

Remus pushes a seat out for you, helping you up with a solid hand, and, while your fingers are still warm from his touch, he says, "San Marino isn't Italy. I didn't know that 'til a few months ago. But pretty much." 

"What's in San Marino?" 

"A wedding." He climbs into the seat next to you, smiling.

The tan colour of his long-sleeves contrasts his pale hands. Your eyes flash to his ring finger. Not his wedding. 

Remus isn’t easy to talk to. It's not wholly his fault. He doesn't force conversation, leaving you awkwardly searching for something to say. You're not the best conversationalist either. He clearly doesn't mind it. 

You're in the midst of a clumsy retelling of a shitty customer service moment when he tips his head to the left just a touch. 

"Maybe we can go on an actual date when I'm home,” he says.

He says it like he's talking about the weather. You'd be worried he was messing with you, but then he smiles again, flicking his index finger against your wrist mildly. "You don't have to answer me now. Finish telling your story."

"It was pretty much finished. And– and I'd like to. Go on a real date. I've never been out of the country, so you'll have to forgive me if I want to know everything about San Marino." 

He looks at your lips. Says, "Good," and doesn't give any indication that he's noticed how nervous you are. That is, until he covers your trembling hand with his and presses it flat to the bar. 

"You're really pretty," he murmurs. He takes a moment, and he smiles. "Come with me? If I don't give Sirius some attention soon he'll start showing off."

— 

James is starting to wonder if he should invite you to San Marino. He's not that stupid; it would be a huge pain if you were standing in the middle of all his wedding photos and you and Remus don't work out. But, while he's certainly and majorly jumping the gun, he has a suspicion he’ll be seeing you again. 

James has never seen Remus like this before. 

His friend is usually quiet, quipping every now and then perhaps at Sirius' insufferable antagonism but otherwise brooding. He hasn't seen him smile this much, ever. 

James is under no illusions — he knows Remus loves him very much. He knows Remus is happy, and not always healthy but managing. He knows Remus is pleased with their lives and ecstatic to have their music take off. But he also knows Remus won't let himself have a good thing, not really. Maybe that's why he's asked you out now, when in a week they'll be in San Marino, and a week after that they'll be in Cardiff to officially start the new tour. 

He knows Remus, sweetheart, kind hearted, miraculous Remus, tends to let people down. He's a stickler for asking people out and cancelling the day before. It's how it always goes. James will ask how the date went and Remus will shake his head and say, "it didn’t work out." 

He knows Remus doesn't mean to hurt anybody. He just… can't get close. 

But he's trying, with you. A glass of cordial in one hand, the other behind your chair, Remus tells you one of his more embarrassing stories about how he'd taken a bad fall and ended up in A&E with half of an eyebrow. He doesn't mention the painkillers that made him woozy. 

You've relaxed considerably since sitting down. James would be happy to report that you're having a good time. You have your own drink in hand, and your eyes are bright, with a receding space between your face and Remus' as the story goes on. It's like watching two magnets fight to hold themselves apart.

Matter of time, James thinks to himself smugly. 

—

Honesty is important. You admit to yourself that you and Remus aren't exactly a perfect match. Both quiet, both not quite social butterflies, your conversations had occasionally been stilted and slow, but you've only met twice. Things don't have to be perfect, and more than that — there's a spark there. A twinge of a possibility. He'd liked what little he knew about you enough to ask to see you again, and you'd like what little you knew about him in turn to say yes. 

It doesn't have to be perfect, you insist to yourself, a bundle of nerves. Nothing does. 

He looks pretty perfect. Base of his palm pressed to the brick wall of the cafe, hand angled down as his fingers grasp the neck of a bouquet whose flowers have been shedding petals onto the damp pavement below. He holds his other hand against his chest, clicking buttons on his phone. 

You approach from the left and watch him play a game of Snake. 

"You play Snake?" you ask.

"Doesn't everybody?" he asks back, his smile softening what might otherwise feel like a chastisement. He doesn't look up from his phone.

"Woah, how long have you been out here?" you ask, eyeing his weirdly long snake.

Remus guides the snake into a wall on purpose. It dies, his high score flashes across the screen, and he aims an apologetic look your way. "Sorry, that was rude." He doesn't try to hide that he's looking over your face. "Thanks for coming." 

He leans in and kisses your cheek. Delighted warmth curls in your stomach, worse when he passes you the bouquet of flowers. They've mostly survived his poor treatment, and there's a lot of them. He's left the price tag on and you're not sure if he's noticed. You pretend not to see it. 

"Thank you…” You look away from the flowers, all whites and reds and baby’s breath, to ogle him as subtly as you can manage. “Wow, you've caught the sun. Was it lovely in San Marino?" 

"I'll tell you all about it over dinner,” he says. “I thought we'd walk, it's not far." He holds out his hand. You wipe your palm against your side before you take it, worried you'll have clammy hands. He must guess, because he says, "Don't be nervous." 

"I am," you say hopelessly. "I've never been on a date before." 

"This is your first date?" 

You feel a hot flush coming on. "I– yeah. That's embarrassing, I shouldn't have told you that." 

"No, it's a good thing. Now I know it has to be extra special." 

"It doesn't," you say. 

"I was hoping it would be." He pulls you down the pavement and further into the city centre toward the main high street. "San Marino. It was beautiful, and I took a couple of photos but I didn't have room on my phone. Well, I could've deleted Snake–" 

"Why would you?" you joke, grinning. 

He laughs, and squeezes your hand slightly. "Exactly. I have priorities. It's a long flight, and looking over the photos can only take up so much time. No, but it really was… it was beautiful. I'd never given much thought to a destination wedding. They make sense, right? It's the best day of your life, why would you have it here?" 

He tilts his chin toward the grey sky. You look up with him, feeling the cold wind kiss the sides of your face and pull through your hair. 

"Come on, Remus, it's not that bad. If it's sun you're after, you could just wait for British summer time. You know, the whole three days of it." 

He laughs — you've made him laugh twice already. This is going okay. Laughing while looking at one another, a bouquet in one hand and his hand in the other, you feel that curl of delight begin to bloom. It fills your insides up, has you smiling until your eyelashes brush in the corners. 

"It was James' wedding. Do you remember which one that was?" 

He asks so kindly. You don't doubt for a second that he wouldn't care if you forgot. It's refreshing, even if it's something you'd expect. 

"I remember. I didn't realise he was getting married." 

"Don't ever say that in front of him, he'll put himself on the cross." He swings your hand as you turn a corner. The Italian restaurant you'd agreed on winks from a distance. 

"He's devoted," you guess. 

"He's insane. He was worse when we were younger. His girlfriend– his wife," he amends, "Lily, she's really something else. Warm and funny, but she's been keeping him on his toes for years. She has family in San Marino, hence the wedding." 

You listen to him talk eagerly. His voice is as handsome as his face, and the more he says the less stilted he becomes. There had been a strained quality to it before (strained, or restrained? something he wasn't saying) that's all but disappeared. 

"It was like a movie. White linen, sand, crying." 

"Did you cry?" you ask, expecting a puffed up chest. 

"So much. Too much, maybe. I was half of the best man." 

"Half?" 

"We had to share, me and Sirius. They've always been…" Remus slows his steps. "Am I being boring? I'm talking too much about me." 

"We have time. I want to hear it. I'd like to hear it," you say. 

James and Sirius are brothers. Remus sees your surprised look and doesn't condemn you for it. Sirius is unofficially adopted. The Potter's fostered him from ages thirteen until he aged out, and though they tried to adopt him, Sirius was reluctant. Remus doesn't get into the reasons beyond that, and you don't ask. You suspect he's only telling you about it to drive home how much the Potter's love Sirius. How much James does. 

Remus had been Sirius' friend from their very first year of comprehensive school. Sirius moved in with the Potter's, and, adoring as they were, they let him have friends over whenever he liked. James, Sirius, and Remus spent the next decade together like that, hiding in Sirius' room. Best friends, entirely inseparable, and all fiercely protective of each other. 

"They've always been like brothers." 

"But not…" 

He understands what you're worried to say. "I think it would've been weird… I had a candle burning for James. For a long time." 

Your jaw drops a little. "And you just had to watch him have the most romantic wedding ever," you whisper sympathetically. You're joking: it's clear the candle isn't burning now. 

"Told you I cried," he says. "No, but you've seen him. He's a supermodel. It's awful." 

"Remus, I think you might be underestimating how handsome you are," you say. You bite your lip and look at his chin rather than his eyes. 

He's generous. He gives your wrist a tug and chuckles warmly. "I'm glad you think so. Tonight might have been awkward, otherwise." 

You duck together inside of the restaurant, hands falling apart as Remus gives his last name for the reservation. Lupin. Your face has a mind of its own. 

"Charming, isn't it?" 

"It is," you say emphatically, denying his sarcasm. "I've never heard anything like that. Lupine, like a fox?" 

"Wolf."

A server shows you to your table and hands you two leather covered menus. Leather, not plastic, a sign that tonight is going to be classy. You've dressed for the occasion in a smart blouse and slacks, too terrified of wearing a dress. Remus seems to have done the same as you, reaching for smart but dodging the mark in a button down and a casual jacket. When he takes off his coat, he looks perfect. He fits right in. 

"Could we get a glass?" he asks the server. "For the flowers? If it's not too much trouble." 

"No trouble at all." 

You run your hand across the silken tablecloth and the space between you both feels somehow smaller than when you'd been holding hands. Outside, you could let your gaze drift to the pavement, the fenced in trees, the couples that passed you by. Here, you're forced to watch one another. 

It's not so bad. It's agonising. 

"This is weird," you say. You flinch when you hear yourself. "Sorry, not that you're weird! I'm weird. I've never ever done this." 

"No, I know," he says, almost murmuring, "it's okay." 

"I just blurted out what I was thinking–" 

"I know." He sits back in his chair. His head tilts down, his eyelashes kissing the skin above his brows as he fixes you with a look. It has the intended effect, tension easing from your rigid spine and tight shoulders. "This is weird. But it's still early. It could get weirder." 

You like that he says it as if it's a good thing. 

You order the same thing he does, and you don't turn down his offer to get a bottle of wine, though it feels too grown up. You keep forgetting you're an adult, and that your life isn't on hold. Things can happen to you at any time. 

"I want to address the elephant in the room," he says. 

Not promising. "Okay." 

"Are we having dessert?" Remus leans forward on both forearms. Hair falls in his eyes. He's dressed nicely and he's handsome but there's something homespun about him, something golden. You can't help looking at him and thinking impossibly forward thoughts, cheesy waffle from the films. He's familiar. "Nobody ever wants to get dessert with me. It's actually a real issue for me." 

"I'll get dessert with you." A smoother you with more confidence, who wore the dress and asked him to go to the Thai restaurant instead, would've said something more suave. We're having whatever you want, handsome.

Remus flips the menu to the very last page and reads the desserts aloud. For himself, it seems, half-muttered and apprehensive. "Chocolate cake from places like this will either be the nicest thing we've ever eaten or burnt in the microwave. And it's childish that I want chocolate cake. I should be spoon feeding you creme brulee. Or whipped cream and strawberries." 

He tips his head back and rubs his eyes. It's a charade of feigned self loathing that makes you laugh. 

"I'm a child," he laments, thumb and index finger pressed into his eyes. He checks to see if you're watching before doubling down. 

"I like cake," you say, and you'd lie if you thought it was what he wanted to hear. Handsome, kind, and funny. Not to mention talented. He needs smart for the sweep. 

Remus falls out of his dramatics. You mourn the loss, beggy a good look on him, but forget all about it when he slides his chair around the table to share the menu with you, your heads inclined as you read it together again. He smells woody. You hope he likes the jasmine of your perfume. 

"It all sounds really nice," you confide, afraid to disturb the comfortable hush. "I haven't had gelato since I was a kid. Oh, did they have real gelato in San Marino?"

“They had a lot of stuff in San Marino… I want to hear about you.”

“What do you want to hear?”

The questions start and don’t stop. Where did you grow up? That’s the easy part. What did you study in school? Were you in sports? The art club? And what do you do now, when you aren’t working in the cafe? The more he asks, the easier it is to answer. He doesn’t slow when the waiter brings a glass for your bouquet, simply stands and places them inside with exceedingly gentle hands, smiling at you from between the stems. You eat slowly when the food arrives — you're busy talking. 

It feels fucking amazing. To have someone want to know anything about you. And unless he’s an actor of the highest regard, he’s obviously enjoying your conversations, though they wilt and wane and wind around one another. You lose track of time and thread as the night goes on, distracted by the near unnoticeable asymmetry of his smile, and the way he laughs when you laugh, like an echo. 

You get cake like he wanted. Triple fudge cake with buttercream thick but melting from the heat. It looks straight from the pages of a magazine, glossy and dusted with sugar powder, but he doesn’t seem to like it. He takes a couple of bites and leaves it alone. You don’t want to look greedy, so you do the same. 

The date is suddenly over. 

“Could I walk you home?” he asks, when you’ve both put your coats back on, and the damp roots of your flowers are leaving an imprint on your chest. 

You nod rather than answer. 

Things are good, not perfect. That’s what you keep thinking. There’s something he isn’t saying. Or, horrifyingly, something he doesn’t like about you. Still, the sky is velvet black and the air is crisp. Stars like needlepoints dot the air. Street lights work to hide them, casting a warm yellow glow over the pavements and your meandering shoes. 

A brisk wind whips past you. You shiver and press your lips together hard, hands quick to rigidity. Remus looks at you sideways, and breaks the quiet. “Are you cold?”

“A little.” No point in lying when he can see you trembling. 

“Do you want my coat?”

“No, no, it’s alright–“ You cut off as he steps in front of you, his hand vying for yours. 

He tucks the flowers under his arm and sandwiches your fingers between his. He has short fingernails, and another scar down one pinky finger. How’d you get that one? you want to ask. How’d you get any of them?

His breath clouds the air. “I should’ve thought about the cold.”

“This is better,” you say. Than a warm taxi home. His thumbs brushing down the backs of your hands. 

You walk to your flat building and hesitate at the foyer door. The potential for a kiss goodnight has flayed your thoughts. The image of his hands climbing your arms, holding you still, plays like a flickering film. You have no idea if he’s going to do it. 

“How will you get home?” you ask quietly. 

“I parked by the cafe, it isn’t far.”

“Oh…” The lights from your building paint him the faintest shade of pink. Your breath fogs out in front of you, as does his, and the warmth of walking will soon fade. “I–“

“Here,” he says, handing you the flowers again. 

“Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

“Fits the recipient.”

It takes a second for you to get it. Oh, you think. You can hardly feel the cold now. Your heart hurts, and you’re begging him to want to take a step toward you. The silence goes for too long. 

“I– I’d love to see you again,” you say. Love comes out funny. Maybe because you can feel his rejection coming. 

“I won’t be here next week. Not for a long time. We’re touring properly, now.” He scratches the side of his face.

“Right. Right, of course you are. Um, good luck with that. And thank you for tonight, for dinner.” You wave your flowers weakly. 

He looks at you. He takes a half step toward you. You can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. 

“You really are pretty,” he says finally. “Goodnight.”

He smiles quick and turns quicker. You watch him walk a few steps but ultimately can’t face it, pushing into the foyer of your building with a hardset frown. Your hands shake, minute abstractions of the sharp rejection panging in your chest. Your ears roar and then go quiet. What did I do wrong? you think, shocked and upset and trying to rationalise. He doesn’t have to kiss you. He asked you out on a maybe, and now whatever question he had is answered. 

The door creaks open. You spin on your heel, too wrapped up to think about hiding your expression. Remus stands in the doorway of the porch, his arm pressed to the glass panel, the other held out to you. 

"Come here," he says quietly. It isn't a question, but he's asking. 

You step into his reach, letting him pull you by the waist against his chest. He leans down until his nose glances against ýours, and he starts to say something. You push your chin up in your eagerness and he doesn't try again. He kisses you, once, contrite, and he pulls back and his hand clasps your arm tight as he ducks in for another. His lips are fast to lose the cold of the weather, but his tongue is a hot shock at the seam of your own. 

You go weak in his arms. The flowers between you crunch and smother themselves. You can’t think about it. Your hands are numb. He takes over every one of your senses until you’re more kiss than thought, reciprocating his slow, deep searching. You run out of breath. 

He eases you backward, cupping the side of your head in his big palm. 

“I want to see you again,” he says hoarsely. “But I– I don’t know when I’ll be back.” His hand adjusts against your cheek, like he’s worried you’re slipping out of his hold. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I can wait,” you say. 

“I couldn’t ask you to.”

You rub your buzzing lips together, each heaven of your chest marked by the crinkling sound of cellophane. 

“Do you want to come upstairs?” you ask.

He strokes the edge of your mouth with his thumb. “Are you sure?”

You kiss him. You don’t know if this will work, any of it, the broad stroke or this one night, but you want him. 

—

Remus doesn’t know what he’s doing. He knows how to fuck somebody, that isn’t the problem. He doesn’t know what he’s doing with you. The same thing that made him walk away had pulled him right back in, had him skipping steps on the staircase up to your flat, drinking in the back of your head and roll of your shoulders as you’d made apologies for the mess inside.

He doesn’t feel like himself when he’s with you. He thinks of it like this — what he is, his pain, his wants, that’s all set in stone. Any change is an erosion, and little by little over the years he’s managed to whittle himself down into the smallest, cleanest version of himself. Then suddenly the band’s making money, people are listening to his voice on the radio in countries all over the world, and he can’t hide anymore. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to, after all. What else inspires a performer into the spotlight? The music, he thinks desperately, knowing it’s half a lie. 

Isn’t it why he’d asked you to the show? Come and watch me sing. See me at my most impressive. My most curated. 

And now he’s following you into your bedroom after one date, about to strip it all away. 

“You didn’t have too much wine, did you?” he asks. You hadn’t really finished your first glass, but it won’t hurt to make sure. 

You peel your jacket off and drop it over the back of a wide armchair. “I don’t think so. Did you?”

“No.” His head has never been this clear. 

He thinks about what you said. This is your first date, and he’s not clueless enough to assume that never going on a date means never having sex, but he wants to be careful with you anyway. He wants this to last beyond a dinner date. 

Which means he has to get out of his head. 

Beyond all of his own mess, he really does think you're pretty. More than pretty. You’re beautiful, and your voice… 

He wants to see what other sounds you make. 

Remus gets his hands on you. Soft touches, his hands coasting from your elbows to your warming hands. He squeezes your fingers, leaning in for a quick kiss. He rests his nose against the skin beneath your eye. “Tell me if it’s too much?” he asks, a murmur of hot air. 

“Yeah.”

“I’ll go slowly.”

“Okay.” Your voice is barely audible. 

He pulls away to make sure you’re alright, and is surprised to see a glassy sheen in your eyes. He holds your face in both hands and works your lips open against his, guiding you backwards into the plush of your poorly made bed. He’s all sweet touches and eager kisses, cautious not to hurt you, or let too much of his weight press against your soft torso. His kisses follow to the corner of your mouth, the tip of his nose tender against your cheek. “You’re so quiet,” he says. He isn’t complaining, but he wants to hear your voice. 

“I’m a bit preoccupied.”

He laughs into your skin, kissing down to your jaw. “You’re right,” he says, revelling in the goosebumps that rise under his hands. 

Your shaking inhales cleave a pit in his stomach. He mouths at the side of your neck, half-kisses, tiny warning nips before he thumbs open the first button of your shirt. He meanders, dropping a path crescent moon kisses into your front until the fabric of your bra gets in the way. The soft hill of your breast staggers to a halt beneath him. He can tell that you’re holding deliberately still. 

Kisses. You need more kisses, an absolution from any lingering nervousness. Your hands thread into his hair gently, your fingers raking wavy strands behind his ears as you give in. You melt into your sheets, your legs parting from the pressure of his hips. 

Your hands fall from his hair to needle between your two bodies and undo the rest of your buttons. The fabric falls aside, your chest and tummy his to catalogue. He drops his hand against your stomach, smoothing a line down to your slacks. His lips ache against yours as he asks, “Can I?”

“Please.”

“Please?” he says back, mirroring your soft tone. “You think you need to say please?” His pinky bumps under the waistband of your trousers. There isn’t much give. He traces the lining to your zipper, fiddling with the small piece of metal as your eyes darken. “I should be the one saying it.” His voice keeps dropping, an utterance in the shell of your ear, his words for you and you alone. “I’m at your mercy, dove. Don’t say please with me. Okay?” 

He smiles at your daunted expression. “Can I take these off?” he asks you, his fingertip running under the edge of your underwear. “Please?” he teases.

Your skin is a furnace, hot hot hot everywhere he touches as you nod your permission and Remus undresses you, one piece of clothing at a time. Your trousers, your shirt. Your bra, your underwear. His fingers slip in his ardency as he tears out of his own button down. 

Your thumb traces a scar. 

He looks up from your chest, startled, but you aren’t giving him anything he doesn’t want. There’s no pity in your gaze, no curiosity, no sadness. Just lust, your trembling hands pulling his slacks down the lengths of his thighs. 

He pulls the condom from his wallet in his pocket and lets it fall to the floor. 

Remus hooks his hands under your arms and urges you back against the headboard, a pillow behind your head, your thighs tipping open as his hand runs down between them. He grabs at them greedily, handfuls of fat that have his mouth dry as a bone. 

“Has anyone ever done this to you before?” he asks. He needs to know.

You squeeze your eyes closed and shake your head. 

Fuck. “Hey, look at me,” he says, waiting for your eyes to meet before continuing. “I just want to make you feel good. If I don’t, you let me know.”

He waits for you to answer aloud. “I will,” you say, your hand behind his back and urging him forward. “Please.”

“What did I say?” he jokes gently, letting his weight bear down on you again. 

He closes his eyes, his lips in what feels like a new home at the juncture of your neck. His hands skirt dangerously close to your heat. 

He’s gentle. He rubs a sweeping line against your cunt with the front of his fingers, heart hammering fast as a mouse’s when he finds the little button of your clit. You shiver and shudder and squirm as he toys with you, your fingers steadfast against the plane of his back while he opens you up. His lips part in tandem, not nearly as kind as his hands. His teeth scratch against your throat. 

Your soft moans move through him as he hickeys over your pulse, chasing each capering thud of blood. He winds you up. You’re snug around his fingers, fluttering, and he knows he’s probed something sweet when your breath catches and you whine. 

“Was that alright?” he asks. 

You nod, heavy headed, and lick your lips as he tears open the condom and eases it onto his cock, one measured roll at a time. 

“Can you– I want you to–” You turn your face from him, the line of your jaw kissed by the lamplight outside, and the rest hidden. 

He drags you down to lay flat on your back and holds himself over you, nudging his nose against yours until you lift your head. Face to face, he gives himself time to adore the shape and colour of your eyes, the side of his hand brushing along your cheek. “Do you think you’re ready?” he asks sincerely. The slickness between your legs is obvious, but he doesn’t want to blindside you. “It will feel…”

You nod, saving him the explanation. It will feel weird. Good, but foreign. “Will you kiss me again?” you ask feebly.

He can’t stop himself. He kisses your lips sore, his hand behind the crook of your knee pushing your leg up toward your stomach as he slides into the space he’s made there. He breaks the kiss to listen to your breathing as he pushes forward.

Remus hadn’t been lying — he wants it to feel good. He takes it slow, his thrusting almost languid as you get to grips with the feeling. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down hard, struggling to smother the moan that escapes him as he feels you clench around him. You gasp, your arms tightening around his waist, destroying any semblance of space between your sweat-damp bodies as you hold him tight. He murmurs praises in your ear, his forearms tucked beneath your shoulder blades, hands gripping your shoulders a touch too hard. He can’t remember the last time he was this close to somebody, can’t remember ever feeling so maddeningly lost, like he’s one good push from hurtling over the edge. 

He kisses your cheek, calling you all the things he’d been too scared to say before. “Lovely girl,” he pants, “how’s that feel?” And, when you answer, “Yeah, you’re taking it so well, dove. Think you can take a little more?”

All that nervousness and desperation shrinks down to dust, and the smiling girl he’d been with at dinner comes to the forefront. There’s no mistaking it. You giggle something awful and turn your face into his, kissing him between sounds, dizzying him with the tender scratch of your nails down his back as he starts to move. 

“There she is,” he says lightly, almost smirking. “Feel good?”

“Feels– oh,” —you shiver violently, filled all the way up— “feels good.” 

Remus let’s his forehead fall to your chin, his eyes closed in pleasure, his cock to the hilt. Every move he makes evokes a near sinful sound from you, mewling, silvery whimpers and pleased little laughs when he angles his hips right. He’s a mess, desperate to cum from the second you touched him and running on stolen time as he presses you deep into your mattress. One of your hands flies backward into the pillows and scrunches up into a ball, the look on your face too tempting to ignore. 

The first time you fuck someone — it’s never timed right. Remus knows he hasn’t quite figured you out, but he knows enough to get you where he wants you. He slides his hand between your bodies and your soft cunt to draw circles into your clit, entranced by your twitching lashes as the pleasure builds. You chase him with your hips, and he grabs your hand at the last second to stop you from covering your mouth, holding it above your head as you come apart. 

He cooes at you. The sound you make — the breathless little cry that leaves you, your hips jutting up to meet him. He’s at your mercy, just like he said. 

Remus fucks into the extra tightness, drawing your climax out for as long as he can. You’re smiling as you shove his arm away, a playful chastisement that wanes when you see the look on his face. “Are you close?” you ask, brushing a curled strand of hair from his eyes. 

Close? Remus is fucked. 

“You can go faster,” you say, “rougher, whatever you want.”

“Shit,” he hisses, leaning back. 

His rutting hips slap the backs of your thighs. He squeezes your waist, his eyes fixed on your cunt as it pulls him in. One last wavering, “Oh, fuck,” from you is all it takes for Remus to lose it. White hot pleasure tightens his whole body, his abdomen aflame. You scramble to gather him back into your arms. You kiss him, swallowing his resulting string of moans. 

He has to catch his breath afterward. You comb the hair back from his face, your eyes droopy with pleasure.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, voice stringy.

“Of course not.” You’re quickly losing your confidence. Remus hates it, but he understands. This vulnerability can only stretch so far. 

“Let me clean you up,” he says.

“You look like you’re gonna fall over if you stand.”

He strokes your face with the back of his ring finger, his nail ghosting along the highest point of your cheek. “Funny,” he says dryly. 

He gets confused in your bathroom, and you won’t let him towel you off, but when he lies down beside you with his boxers back in place you don’t push him away. You drop your face into his chest and curl up. 

He drags the quilt over your naked back. 

Was that okay? he wants to ask. “Sore?” he worries instead. 

“Don’t think so.”

He chews his cheek. “You’re alright?”

You stir, looking up at him through your lashes. He thinks you’re the kind of pretty people might not always see. You’re clearly beautiful, but there’s something else to it. The way you move, maybe. The way your eyes smile before your lips can catch up. 

“I’m fine. I’m good… Can I…”

He hums. “What?”

“Could I kiss you again?” 

You speak so quietly, he hears the vibration in your throat more than the sound of your voice. It’s endearingly timid. He feels his attraction for you flare violently. 

He wants to ask you to come with him to Cardiff. He knows he can’t. It’s yards too soon, but for a second he entertains the thought. 

“Wait for me to come home,” he says. He’s still asking for more than he should. “I want to see you again. You can kiss me as much as you want, if you say you’ll wait.”

You nod immediately. Not a flicker of reluctance to be seen. 

You lift your chin and kiss him. He tries to make it the kind of kiss worth waiting for.  

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed! if you did, please consider reblogging cos it helps more than you might think <3

[keisobe]

── ˖ ∿ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐃𝐎… (𝐀𝐕𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐑 𝟐)

⭑𓂃・ random headcanons of the sully brothers

characters. neteyam sully + lo’ak sully

notes. this was a little fun thing to write about and it mostly came out as word vomit, so i’m sorry about that ! enjoy reading tho ❤︎ + not proofread

neteyam ⸰ֺ ࣭⭑𓄹

since he mostly hangs out with his parents to do some patrolling around pandora or hunting whenever he’s asked to— neteyam barely has time to chill. but when he does, he collects different types of stones and gems to make meaningful jewelry. he would be stuck in his tent for hours just arranging beads and stones together while thinking of the person he’s making it for. neteyam made one for neytiri, tuk, and kiri (his favorite girls). when he gifts it to them, he explains each meaning of certain stones/gems and why he chose them. one of his other hobbies is to sleep within the forest. of course, he would look for possible threats before he lounges in the leaves and falls into a deep slumber.

when kiri and lo’ak venture around pandora, neteyam is left with tuk. he loves to take care of her. he’s always holding onto his baby sister or is always sitting at eye level with her to speak to her as a sign of respect. neteyam carves out wooden dolls for tuk as well, he would spend a lot of time making the tiniest details and making sure that it was perfect (and safe) for tuk to play with. he’s even made a replica of the sully family. she probably has over dozens of wooden dolls and she forces neteyam to play with her. of course, neteyam plays with her and takes it very seriously.

neteyam is very popular within the omatikaya clan. a lot of the elderly folks and adults love to swoon over him, complimenting him whenever he comes by. this also means that he would be asked a lot of favors, which he doesn’t mind at all. neteyam is always walking around carrying heavy baskets filled with food and essential material all around the village. many other young girls crush on him as well. their mothers would go up to neteyam and basically play matchmaker so their daughters could have a chance with him and become his mate in the future. upon hearing this, neytiri tells all the village people to stop pestering neteyam all the time (she threatened some of the women that day as well). overall, neteyam is just hopelessly popular and wants to pay gratitude to the people he cares about.

personally, i see neteyam to be a subtly hater of the sky people, especially those who he’s unfamiliar with. whenever spider would visit their village, he would be a lot more distant and quiet (he’s a bit suspicious of his intentions at times). he has heard all the horrid stories from his mother and he made a silent vow that he would be more cautious around sky people; especially towards spider, knowing he’s the son of quaritch. it took awhile for neteyam to warm up to norm and the other scientists, but he eventually trusted them and now, he would occasionally visit their lab to study or watch over kiri when she wanted to see grace. neteyam just prefers to be with his own people and tends to be cautious on who he really trust, especially towards humans.

loves storytelling. neteyam has many things to share to anybody and everybody around him is always so curious about his adventures and accomplishments. occasionally, he would huddle with the village’s children and share amazing stories about the things he’s done with his family. when the sully family sought sanctuary from the metkayina clan, the sea children would be so curious about the forest and he couldn’t help but share all the traditions they have. neteyam loves to share his personal stories and share the tradition and culture of his clan whenever he has the chance.

while also being raised by spiritual traditions, neteyam learned more scientific knowledge. he was mostly taught by his father, going into the lab to study how the body works and what to do when an emergency happens. neteyam would sometimes be at the lab reading a book about physiology or curiously looking over how humans can transport themselves into an avatar (the sky people love it when he’s there). neteyam loves knowledge and he’s thankful to share both his mom’s spiritual background and his dad’s marine background. but one thing that really encouraged him to study was when jake told him the story before he became one with his avatar: how jake became paralyzed and how his life spiraled downhill when he was a human. through jake’s story, he vowed to protect his family by learning basic medical skills like cpr and learning the signs of shock.

lo’ak ⸰ֺ ࣭⭑𓄹

voice impressions is his humor. i feel like he would be into watching old movie films and pick up on character accents he likes so much. he even references movie scenes at times (neteyam doesn’t understand any of them, at all). lo’ak would even mock his family, replicating neteyam’s lecturing and tuk’s whining. the sully’s won’t admit it, but he’s pretty spot on with his impressions. the only person he’s really scared to impersonate is his father, being yelled at over a joke isn’t something he looks forward to (but jake secretly wants him to).

sneaks out, like all the time. when it comes to na’vi culture, everybody sticks together all the time— no privacy is left for anybody. being an outcast and all, lo’ak would venture alone into the forest and have some time for himself. he would either train by himself or just explore the forest to find new things to discover. lo’ak always comes back with cool stories so he tells his siblings about them (expect for tuk, he knows she’s a total snitch). neteyam and kiri discourage his independence because he might end up being in danger, so they sometimes secretly accompany him without lo’ak knowing.

has had a few crushes here and there within the omatikaya clan. since neteyam is a lot more popular, all the girls he had a crush on would infatuate over neteyam instead— so he’s very bitter about that. luckily, lo’ak could get over it pretty easily, he’s not always strung on someone especially when they don’t like him back. he’s mostly mad at neteyam for being a “lady magnet” (neteyam disagrees but he honestly feels a little honored to be called that).

as a teenager, lo’ak can be unfiltered with how he feels. so lo’ak has a foul mouth. whenever he’s injured, he throws in a fuck or two. when he’s frustrated, he’ll say shit or bitch. jake tells him to “watch his mouth” but it’s honestly his fault lo’ak curses like a sailor. neytiri highly discourages his bad language and tells him that a warrior’s last words shouldn’t be “demon language”. that really hit a nail for lo’ak, so he doesn’t curse as often.

takes a camera with him. lo’ak isn’t very awkward when it comes to taking photos and tends to keep photos of the scenery of pandora. he also secretly loves to keep memories of all the small moments with his family. in his section of his shared bedroom, lo’ak has a bunch of photos hung with all his favorite memories and the rest (mostly family photos because he’s shy) is kept in a box he leaves under his bed. he denies that he likes to do “mushy” stuff but obviously, he loves it.

play fights with kiri. growing up together, they always fought over the stupidest things. whether it be over a toy or when one sibling is annoying than the other. kiri and lo’ak are the closet with one another and why not settle your problems by throwing it down a bit. they would find a more secluded area in the forest so neteyam or their parents would not break them up. but neteyam always finds a way to locate them and tells them to stop before dad catches them. sometimes neteyam just sits around and keep tabs on who’s winning because he gave up playing the “responsible big brother.” lo’ak doesn’t hold back when it comes to kiri, he would pounce at her and wrestle her on the floor if he needed to.

© 2023 keisobe – please do not copy any of my writing and repost or translate to other sites.

[variousqueerthings]

Which companions would you personally say are True Alien fuckers and which ones forget the doctor isn't human?

Okay, so taking out audio plays and the like, and with a caveat that I haven't seen everything (yet) and so some companions I am stipulating based on clips and descriptions and the like + my memory is. trying.

Disclaimer that this is about whose attraction to the Doctor encapsulates the doctor's inherent Alien-ness, such as gender fluidity, total change of appearance (on occasion), near immortality, alien physiology, and other variety of alien oddness.

this is about humans only.

See scores at the bottom. Forgive the mess, I'm operating on memory here.

(EDIT: keeping the original martha thoughts, but I was Wrong, she's an alienfucker, Martha I'm sorry I slandered you)

First Doctor companions: well to begin with, none of them. they're all presented to the incredibly no-sex-allowed show, including the most elderly the Doctor has ever appeared, in the true crotchety old-man sense (although... see the Twelfth Doctor). On top of that the dynamic was mostly paternal and companions tended to leave to do their own thing. Most Alien Fucker however I would give to Steven Taylor (who has an unfair advantage, being from the future, which is also a trend we see over again). Anyone who either travelled only with the First Doctor (Ian, Barbara, Vicki, Dodo) or witnessed the regeneration into Second (Polly, Ben) for various reasons simply would not. To be fair, the Doctor here radiates a "do not sexualise" aura. still. I think the real test was right here, and they all failed to make the grade

Second Doctor companions: notably the appearance of the Brigadier! I think he takes the crown of Most Alien Fucker of Second, although I would say, while Zoe is a bit young to be actively an Alien Fucker, she for sure is shaping up to be one in the future. Jamie and Victoria I personally think are a solid No generally

Third Doctor companions: Truthfully I'd give this one to the Brigadier as well. But wait, you say, what about Sarah-Jane Smith! Ah, but here I create a ripple perhaps by claiming that she wasn't an Alien Fucker, so much as a person who regularly engaged with the Doctor on a human level, despite the Doctor not being human. it's interesting, because she's someone so actively doing alien investigations, but I never think she was seduced in the wink wink nudge nudge sense to the alien-ness of it all. I think her betrayal with the Doctor is very related to the Doctor's non-humanness taking her by surprise (she and Rose have a fair bit in common). Jo is also not an Alien Fucker. Jo wanted a family I believe, in the human traditional conventional sense. Liz could go either way, but if an Alien Fucker, then that alien is not the Doctor. in some ways I think Liz is a bit ace overall, but in spirit youknow.

Fourth Doctor companions: note here we get some mildly non-human companions, but still humanish, which makes it hard. I've decided "born on earth" as a stipulation, no matter what time that is. However that takes out Leela, Adric, and Nyssa, and none of the more born-on-earth humans are Alien Fuckers. notably the Fourth Doctor is considered one of the more obviously eccentric Doctors, so does that have anything to do with it? who knows, I'm making up the rules as I go along

Fifth Doctor companions: similarly Vislor does not meet the stipulations, otherwise I would have awarded him the gold star. RIP to how Peri was treated generally, but she may have an undercurrent of Alien Fucking, because (ironically) she's not so into the Doctor really, but comes to understand (Sixth Doctor) more over time + she hooked up with a warrior king offscreen as part of her leaving so. She's not a timelord Alien Fucker though, I'd say

Sixth Doctor companions: Includes Peri, but we already talked about her, so: Mel. Is she an Alien Fucker? Wee-eell, yes-and-no. Yes, she witnesses a regeneration and is kinda chill about it, no because I wouldn't say she was into the Doctor in either regeneration. So could this be the Doctor specifically? Would it have been different if it had been Eight or Ten? I haven't watched far enough yet to know what her deal with Glitz is, but clearly there's some Alien Fucking genes there

Seventh Doctor companions: which leaves us in the classic series with Ace!!!! Who is absolutely a lesbian, and not at all giving off the vibes of someone mooning after the Doctor specifically. However would this lesbianism include some gender bending fluidity? I cannot say yet, I've not reached that far. My gut says that Ace is firmly into humans, but we shall see!

Eighth Doctor companion: Not an Alien Fucker. Grace was into Paul McGann and the beautiful early-eighth doctor hair, and that is more than fair, however, shallow in terms of Alien Fucking

Ninth/Tenth Doctor companions: okay, I'm gonna have the possibly unpopular opinion that Rose is not an Alien Fucker. there are many different aliens in her story, and she remains firmly into "good looking blokes," while continuously being re-reminded that the Doctor is very much not a human guy and is surprised by this each time. also I like the tragedy that in some ways, Rose may be more into the TenToo clone than the Doctor because she knows that TenToo is stable (in terms of mortality, in terms of never changing appearance, in terms of never having to put anything before Rose). She might be persuaded to be into a bit of gender-fluidity though, we never do find that out

also in short order: neither Adam nor Mickey are Alien Fuckers. Jack, obviously, is an Alien Fucker, but he's also cheating according to my stipulations, that 51st century Boe-born rapscallion!

Martha, likewise, not an Alien Fucker. Her attraction to the Doctor is initially based on awe and the fact that he Needs her, and then when she realises she can do better and deserves better, she rightfully steps the fuck out of his direct orbit (although am not a fan of her ending up with Mickey -- very pair the spares. she deserves that other doctor guy). I think Martha should have been allowed to snog Thirteen though, personally

Donna: not an Alien Fucker and quite chill about that. she's admiring though (not of the Doctor lol), but she knows what she likes.

Eleventh Doctor companions: The Ponds aren't Alien Fuckers, sorry Amy and Rory. River, sure, but I have some mixed opinions on just how human she counts as, considering the mess that is her backstory.

Twelfth Doctor companions: I know Clara met Eleven first, but she's solidly a Twelve companion as far as I'm concerned, and you know. She's got actual Alien Fucker energy. I'd need to rewatch these seasons to form more of an opinion beyond this, because I cannot remember much, but this opinion is solid and unchangeable.

Bill is... hmmmm.... canonically a lesbian of course, and as far as I can remember (again, we're approaching a rewatch, but haven't got this far) solidly hitting on earth girls, but then there's that ending... Does she know that timelords can regenerate? does it matter when she's become, well... Matter. Actually the more I think about it, the more I'd say yes she is an Alien Fucker, but also she's in a somekindof relationship with Heather-Matter, which was also the point at which she became a bonafide Alien Fucker, while also transcending the bounds of humanity, so in and of herself has become the Non-human... it's complicated

I cannot speak to Thirteen, because I've only seen the first season (so far) but from what I've seen of that, they're not Alien Fuckers. sorry guys. let me know if I'm wrong though

SO IN TERMS OF ACTUAL ALIEN FUCKERS INCLUDING AND/OR SPECIFICALLY THE DOCTOR: 2 (Brigadier, Clara)

ALIEN FUCKER POTENTIAL: 2 (Steven, Zoe)

IT'S COMPLICATED BECAUSE OF WHAT IS HUMANITY: 1 (River Song) (arguably Adric, Jack, Nyssa, Tegan, Leela, Vislor, Bill... a few others)

THEY'D FUCK OTHER ALIENS BUT NOT THE DOCTOR/A TIMELORD: 5 (Polly, Zoe, Liz, Peri, Mel, Bill)

REGULARLY FORGETS THE DOCTOR ISN'T HUMAN: 17 (Ben, Yaz, Graham, Ryan, Rose, Martha, Sarah-Jane, Jo, Amy, Rory, Grace, Ian, Barbara, Vicki, Dodo, Victoria, Jamie)

DOESN'T UUUSUALLY FORGET THE DOCTOR ISN'T HUMAN BUT STILL WOULDN'T FUCK THEM: 4 (Liz, Ace, Mickey, Donna)

UNIMPORTANT TO THIS DISCUSSION: 1 (Adam)

HON MENTION: 1 (Jackie Tyler asking if "there's anything else he's got two of")

FORGOT TO INCLUDE: the UNIT people and a handful of single-episode companions oh well

All in All: it's tough to be a timelord huh.

[gioiaalbanoart]

CHARACTER profile tag

Thanks to @wyked-ao3 here , @tragedycoded here , @the-golden-comet here and @saturnine-saturneight here

****

Ashley Knox from The scarred angel

Name: Ashley Knox

Nickname: None....for now. (Morales would call her Scarface but Morales is an asshole)

Kind of being: Human

Age: 23

Gender: Female

Appearance: As Amy sees her first time😎

.......Arctic blue eyes ......She's slender, definitely taller than me (Ashley is 175 cm Amy 160 ) , with almost platinum blond, shoulder-length, curly hair,pale skin, beautiful features

..........

Just then I notice the scars. One runs along her right cheek, from the cheekbone almost to the jawline.

An horizontal one cuts through her forehead following all the line above the eyebrows.

A third and smallest, almost a joke, mimics a slightly curbed smile on her left cheekbone.

Despite those scars, she’s still painfully beautiful to look at.

Occupation: Looking for troubles ....

Family members: Let's say orphan for the sake of it.....She might come up with a kind of adopted family / group of friends

Pets: None

Best friend: Amy

Describe their room: Can be the current car she's driving (she generally hotwires them ), motels, other people's houses...

It depends what she's up to.

Way of speaking: Deep rich low voice, kind of raspy (listen to this you'll have an idea)

Physical characteristics (posture, gestures, attitude) : Straight, kind of spares her gestures. Moves extremely fast when needed, in a run or a fight she strong and precise.

Her usual expression goes often from poker face to a "don't fuck with me" stare, generally she looks straight in your eyes if you don't avert yours. This is the first thing she doesn't do when dealing with criminals that might threat her life or others .... until she finds a spot and strikes.

Items in their back pocket/purse: At least a knife, possibly a gun, often a burner phone. Not sure if she has a backpack neither, she tends to find new clothes when needed and abandon them for new ones, it's not like she can do laundry really.

A part for her hiking combat boots, those she keeps them.

Hobbies: She likes to sing, reading and chill.

Favorite sports: Running and firing but she wouldn't call neither a sport.

Abilities/Talents/Powers: "Reads between the lines" especially when she thinks that people are concealing something or they're up to no good. Pair with sometimes seeing auras.

She's very good intuition and can pick up information on different levels.

Relationships (how they are with other people): Cold at first and it may stay that way since she's a lone wolf to start with.

She tends to be careful and keep an eye on people if not a complete guard up. If she thinks you're ok she might be friendly mainly when it's young or elderly people.

She has a personal moral code and she might get brutal with whom breaks it.

Fears: That people close to her might be hurt somehow....which unfortunately does happen.

Faults: She never looked beyond getting her own revenge even less to the possibility of having a "normal" life.

For one reason or another she considers that she doesn't fit anywhere and doesn't even try to because she thinks she won't last long so better not having people getting close. It's useless and it might hurt. Sometimes it translates with her acting like an ass.

Good points: On the opposite side if someone get past her walls she take care of them to the core and surpasses herself.

She's a survivor on a path of healing in hell...we'll see if and how much she can achieve on that.

What they want more than anything else: At some point she'll want very much being able to disappear far away with Amy.

She's not sure it will be possible.

[fatale-distraction]

For the writeblr ask game!

🧥 warm coat: share a happy or fuzzy scene from your wip!

Alas, two Warm Coat requests and all my current WIPs are about getting railed by Elgar’nan or dead shit with Emmrich.

Prompt list here!

Here’s an excerpt from a little prequel fic about my first Rook, Abigail Ingellvar and some of her first interactions with Emmy pre-Veilguard. Abigail is awoken by an alarm in the Necropolis indicating that someone is wandering around who shouldn’t be. She goes to put the culprit back where they belong and finds the confused spirit of an elderly man who thinks he’s late for a ball. Abigail calms him by explaining he’s already been to the ball tonight and offers to escort him home, without mentioning his death some centuries earlier.

"Oh…" the spirit faltered as they approached the wrought iron gate surrounding his crypt. His eyes passed over his family name engraved in the arched stone above. "I see…Yes, I remember now. Oh, Miss Ingellvar, I do apologize…"

Abigail unlocked the door and held it open, hastening to assure him. "That's quite alright, Mr. __. It's what I'm here for. I hope you at least had an enjoyable walk this evening?"

He gave a hollow laugh and preceeded her into the tomb. Abigail dusted off his sarcophagus and pushed the massive stone slab aside with a grunt. Inside, she pulled back the yellowing sheet that covered his preserved bones. Mr. __ climbed in obediently. It was an unecessary courtesy. She could just as easily have slammed and locked the door behind him, but Abigail always took such personal care of her charges.

"We'll get you a new shroud, I think…" she murmured as she shook it out and carefully spread it back over him. "This one is getting a bit thread-bare again…"

"Thank you, Miss Ingellvar," Mr. __ said as she tucked the ends in neatly.

"There," she dusted her hands off on her nightgown. "Sleep well, Mr. __."

"You know," he smiled at her. "I believe I just might."

Abigail returned his smile and pulled the lid of his tomb closed, bare feet braced against the cold floor. She dusted herself off one final time before exiting the crypt, closing the heavy iron gate and locking it behind her.

"Miss Ingellvar," a voice startled her, in spite of its familiarity, and she whirled with a soft gasp. "That was very kindly done."

Emmrich Volkarin, fully and impeccably dressed even at this late hour, stood at the turn in the path, holding a Veilfire lantern aloft and directing a gentle smile her way.

"Mr. Volkarin," Abigail breathed, hand at her chest. All at once, she realized how insubstantial her nightdress was. Fine silk and lace, but worn so thin even the dimmest light shone straight through. She crossed her arms over her otherwise bare chest with a self-conscious flush that Emmrich didn't seem to notice. If he did, he was ineffably polite about it. "You gave me a fright."

"I should think I'm the least frightful thing creeping about the Necropolis at night," he joked.

"Perhaps not the least…" she quipped, though her eyes were still wide with shock, breath still bated.

He gave a good natured laugh as he approached, offering his arm to the smaller woman. "Perhaps not. Still, I hope you'll allow me to escort you back to your rooms? It's dangerous to wander about unaccompanied, even for the Mourn Watch."

Abigail slipped her hand through the crook of his arm, cursing herself that in her haste she hadn't thought to at least take her wrap. She was long accustomed to the chill of the Necropolis, but it would have offered some bit of modesty at least. To Emmrich's credit, he kept his eyes above her neckline without appearing obvious about it.

"Oh, no one this close to the surface is likely to trouble me," she protested. "They're all very well behaved on this level, and I didn't feel much like tracking down the pair who are supposed to be on guard this evening."

"I shall have a stern talk with them in the morning."

"Not too stern, I hope," Abigail said, giving him a shy smile. "They're certain to be quite tired, afterall."

Understanding dawned on the older man's face. He suppressed a smile. "Ah. Nevertheless, amorous activities are hardly an excuse for abandoning poor Mr. __ and our other dear guests to their own devices."

[yakuzabrainrotlive]

Couldn't play Y4 today because I was studying and taking care of irl stuff, so I'll just write my Akiyama first impressions post now, as promised! I've played up to the first cutscene with "Lily".

This was supposed to be, like, a surface-level thing where I kinda guess stuff and do some basic observations, but according to Microsoft Word I got... around 1200+ words deep. So yeah. Good for you guys who like to read my rablings that I didn't take my meds today! But also... this IS my unmedicated self's ramblings, written at 10-11pm so... (attempt to) read at your own peril!

For those of you who want the short version, TL;DR is provided (and highly recommended) at the bottom!

So, Akiyama! What a guy.

-He's low-energy and has trouble taking care of himself, his work and his surroundings (laid-back or depressed? maybe it's a little bit of both - as a treat. Maybe executive dysfunction?). This is clear in how messy his office is, how Hana reminds him to eat and brought him lunch (implying he regularly forgets to, or just doesn't eat), and how it seems to be a common occurence that she has to encourage him to do his work. And yet, despite the chill vibes and slow pace he keeps, he manages to also be chaotic in the way that he's unpredictable to those around him, in terms of his business strategy, and in how he makes quick decisions on the spot – ones that don’t make sense to people around him, based on what they (think) they know about him.

-In front of most people, Akiyama pretends to be all laid-back and just this… guy who just does his own thing because he’s quirky and doesn’t care, but he's not fooling me at all; he cares, and he cares a lot. About many people. He's literally looking after the homeless in town - so much so that they feel safe enough to let him into their space to have a chat and drink with them, and ask him for things.

^This is probably no small feat, considering how the homeless are treated in Kamurocho (there's literally groups who hunt them for shits and giggles) and how uncertain things are for them in general in that area. They seemed genuinely happy to see Akiyama.

-Now, an argument could be made that he's doing it for his own benefit: having the homeless population on your side can be an advantage (for example: the Florist used them for discreet info gathering), but... I don't see it. I think it’s because he’s been there and he feels a great amount of empathy for them. Now. Why do I think he wants to have a mask of indifference in the first place? Well, to put it simply - shit’s dangerous. He has enemies in the money lending industry, which probably includes numerous Yakuza groups too. Can’t be caught caring, y’know. Both for his sake, and theirs.

-And so. We get to the neon yellow elephant in the room that has to be addressed; the way he handles his loans. I think Akiyama only takes on clients who he sees as either A: having the potential to make it big - the ones he can later maybe benefit from, or who he simply sees as benefitting from his loans the most, or B: - heavily speculating here - good? (decent?) people who are down on their luck. Ones who, he thinks, deserve a second chance, people who don't have anyone else to ask for help. If he was in the business for money and other benefits alone, he’d be charging interest out the ass like all the others, but he doesn’t. He merely tests people to make sure they don’t grab the money and leave the country, or waste it and never pay him back. He wants to see these people succeed – at least the ones he thinks will use the money to get back on their feet or to become successful, that is. People who could be more, who could FLOURISH, had they some extra help from outside. The tests including stuff like volunteering and caring for the elderly further point to a possible more altruistic side to his business.

He can't just go giving money out - he'd go out of business very fast. So he lends, with no interest. Just a test of trustworthiness, and terms that he finds will give him some benefit back, as well. He is running a business here, so him wanting to get something back from the customers instead of them paying interest is fair. Terms will also motivate the lendees keep themselves on the right track AND probably ward off the worst of the bunch, the ones looking for the easiest, quickest money they can get.

-People genuinely think Akiyama is weird - crazy, even - because of how he runs his business, and he seems totally fine with that. Which further makes me believe he’s purposefully built up this a mask of an uncaring and sort of ...unhinged man. He could explain himself and openly state the goals he has for the clients to dispel this negative, 'crazy person' image people have of him. But... that’d just be suicide; he’d openly admit to competitors/enemies that he has people he cares about and that he wants to see his lendees succeed. That’d be like ASKING for extortion and for terrible things to happen to the people who have visited his business in the past or who will do so in the future.

-He's good at keeping his cards close to his chest, too: in one cutscene people wonder why lendees don't ever lend from him twice. And what's the answer to the question that we hear? Something to the effect of "I don't know. They probably wanna avoid interacting with that nutjob ever again". People have NO idea why he does things the way he does. They know he lends money to people he sees as having potential to succeed in the future, but they don't even consider the possibility that some lendees he's simply helping get back on their feet.

-As for his goals? No clue! Besides keeping the business running, I don’t feel like I have enough information on him to parse any long-term goals out of this guy. Maybe keeping Kamurocho as chill as it can be? To prevent unnecessary bloodshed? He did go out out of his way to settle the dispute between the… the uhh… *has to google the name* the Kanemura peeps and Ueno to prevent escalation of the situation? But then again, Arai seems to have been a long-time friend, so maybe it was just to make things easier for him? As of now, he doesn’t feel particularly ambitious.

As for speculation on his background? Since my facial memory (even for fictional characters) is total garbage, I’m not 100 % sure, but I think maybe he was in the photograph that was in his drawer? He seemed quite well-off in that one. So how does he end up homeless? I feel like he either joined the yakuza and the family he joined disbanded, leaving him with nothing. OR he suffered a career- or family-related setback that landed him on the streets? Him being ex-yakuza would make sense since he seems to be quite informed on all the relevant lore and relations between families. But he also DOES work quite close to the... darker side of things with his business being what it is. But... he also fights very well. We’ll see! Maybe they explained it aready? If they did, am sorry! I was playing the game too late into the night so I was kinda eepy towards the end. Gonna re-watch the cutscenes from late chapter 1 and early chapter 2 when I keep playing.

Now, any relation to characters from previous games I wanna speculate on? I don’t see any real reason to think he knows Kiryu; he only referred to him with his DoD moniker and didn’t seem too interested or thoughtful about it. It was just him referring to a famous person. Majima? Don’t see it either. Anyone else? I don’t really have any reason to think he knows anyone from the past games as of now.

TL;DR:

According to my, at-times very faulty, sensors that are prone to overcooking:

Akiyama is a kind person trying to give others the second chance they deserve (as he himself got), while also trying to disguise himself as a chronic IDGAFer at the same time because he has enemies. He's a kind man living in a world that tears people like him apart.

Mans is probably depressed or at least suffers from executive dysfunction or like... low blood iron levels, based on how low-energy he is and how little he seems to look after himself and his office, and how he seems to have a tendency to… go at his own pace at work. Hana keeps (or at least tries to keep) him functional - or that’s what it seems like, at least.

He probably offers loans based on if he thinks lendees will get back on their feet, or if the loan will make them flourish business-wise.

Ended up homeless, maybe because he was ex-yakuza or because of a setback in a civilian career or family life.

Can’t say how he ties to characters from previous games, or if he even does at all. Besides Nishiki unknowingly acting as form of divine monetary intervention, that is.

[midnight-scrivener]

Kids are wild, dude.

Couple days ago, me and Partner popped over to Disney Springs to a) buy some mead, and b) spend gift card money to go see the Boy and the Heron (10/10 so good).

I was chilling on a wall outside, waiting for Partner in the bathroom, and behind me, I hear a tiny, clear voice, filled with the plaintive ennui of someone who's been trapped in a time loop for aeons unknown, say, "just let me die."

*Freeze, slow turn*

Reader, allow me to paint you a picture.

There is a man, the daddest man perhaps ever to dad. He is wearing a visor. The visor says something like, "have a Disney day™️" on it in red swirly font. His hair is sticking straight up out of the top of the visor, like a mad scientist who forgot he was leaning on the Tesla coil when he told his Igor to throw the switch, henchman! This gives the distinct impression that this is not his visor, but rather was hastily thrust upon him, likely by a spouse who is also in the bathroom. It was cold out (for Florida anyway), so this man was wearing a heavy Patagonia fleece, and, in true Dadly fashion, little cargo shorts, pockets bulging, dragging the shape of the garment parabolically earthward, laden with the responsibilities inherent in being the Vacation Manager and Bearer of the Visor. His legs were covered in gooseflesh. But, reader, he bore it.

He had sunglasses, those iridescent mirrored kind that make you think of sport fishermen. But they dangled around his neck, so I could see his eyes, vacant, staring, lined with the patient resignation that can only come from loving someone who is A Lot To Be Around. His hand, large and calloused and properly Daddish, was clasped with another set of tiny digits.

Dangling from his arm with a comfortable drama that implied this was but one time of many, was a tiny girlchild, no more than maybe five years old, wearing a full length Rapunzel princess gown, light-up Sketchers, and pink, glittery mouse ears that had been knocked askew in the process of her collapse and gave her hair the air of waging a losing battle with a little bird.

This girl, with the face of a cherub and the serious manner of an elderly man of state, stared off into a slightly different middle distance than her father. Her sketchers trailed over the ground as she rocked slightly in his gentle-but-firm grip. She sighed, and reader, I felt that sigh. In my bones. No one who's never experienced the weight of deep debt looming over them should be able to sigh like that.

She opened her mouth and said again in that clear, innocent voice, "Please won't you let me die?"

Her father, aware that people had begun to take notice, shook his head. "We're just waiting for Mommy."

This did not satisfy the tot. Still without a shred of distress, just the solemnity of a gig worker with twelve different 10-99 forms to file come tax season, asked "Yeah, but why can't I just die now?"

Her father closed his eyes. He was silent for long enough that I knew on some level he was wondering the same thing about himself. People were Aware of the situation now. Eventually he took a deep breath and looked down at her, still hanging from his arm. "It's against the rules to die at Disney World," he said. "Even if you want to. But tell you what, if you wait until we get back home, you can die there instead. That way Mommy and I can both be there."

The girl's mood brightened immediately. She got her feet under her and straightened, beaming up at her dad. "Oh, okay," she said. "After Mommy comes can we go to Legos?"

There's not really a proper end to the story, Partner just came out of the bathroom and we went to the movie. But damb. I hope that little girl knows I'll think about her at least once a day for the rest of my life.

Don't die. There might be Legos in it if you stay.

[kriskross]

was looking through your art tag and i'm digging tanis' vibe can you tell me stuff about him? :)

I LOVE YOU . I'm at work rn so I might not be as in depth as I want to but if I don't get this out now I fear I may explode So if you have more questions feel free to ask or send me a dm or smth this is awesome ❤️

Tanis is my sorcerer that I made for a curse of strahd campaign! Hes a shadow sorcerer so unexpectedly he is having Such a connection to barovia and he has no idea why, really ... He doesn't recognize his magic for what it is, he just kind of woke up after what he thinks was a near death experience with magic! A few other side effects of dying are that he doesn't blink very often, he's very very cold all the time, and he has a newfound fear of water . He doesn't know that he died, and he very much does not know how or why he was brought back (and I don't either) .

All of this aside he has been doing his very best to live a normal life (pre-barovia), starting his own jewelry business selling his own work and playing piano at a local tavern for some extra coin since his business is very much struggling. He meets his wife there, she sings in the evenings and they would often duet. They both just kind of chill out for years and years :) yay

Then, Tanis' parents fall ill... They're both elderly and can't take care of themselves like this, so Tanis closes shop and goes to be their caretaker! ... Only he runs out of money pretty quickly. His sister, who was off at an apprenticeship, returns home to care for them while Tanis tries to start working again . He tries mercenary work but he's too much of a coward to do that, so he's stuck doing odd jobs where he can, still playing piano to make ends meet.

Then one night he has a dream, a woman tells him to meet at a tavern a days journey away, and he will find great riches that way. He thinks about it, and eventually decides to give it a try.

He goes, and meets a few adventurers who also had a similar dream, and they decide to go together, despite Tanis' cowardice, on an adventure.

... They end up in barovia with no way out .

He's a level 9 sorcerer now so he's been there for a while still with no clear way out . The campaign kind of died so as far as I'm concerned tanis has been trapped in barovia for the past few years, but I'm hoping to revive it in a few months and maybe we'll finally get a resolution for him :) he's found more than enough riches on his journey so once he gets home he's set for life

[ovaruling]

@gynoids-over-androids putting under a cut bc i have a lot to say as always lmao

well i should start by saying i’ve never been to any gym or class in my life outside of the ones i did in my own home by myself (Pahla B on youtube for low-impact, most of Jillian Michaels’s filmography so far, Chloe Ting on youtube), so i was really nervous taking it outside of my living room so to speak

esp since i do have a few really odd-to-describe disabilities from my surgery aftermath that i always worried would make me feel like i had to explain everything to an instructor if i ever went to a class so as not to disrupt anyone. my life has been very small bc of those disabilities for about 10 years and i don’t have much interaction with large groups of people so i was also a bit nervous abt that bc i’ve been struggling to find a foothold in society since my last surgery.

that said, i have been working out for a few years, so i’m going in with what i would call a very good level of fitness and endurance already, and my plan was always that—to assure myself that i could build functional fitness at home over time by myself before setting foot in a class bc of my unusual bodily situation (? not sure what else to call it). so i can’t personally speak to if someone is going in from 100% sedentary, but as someone who’s pretty fit and never ever had instructors or community experience w exercise, so far i am loving it.

everyone there is so so nice and accommodating and there’s just no pretentiousness that i can sense at all. most of my fears have been allayed—i haven’t had to explain anything abt my disabilities to anyone and after trying out 2 places i really like the facility i chose. people of all ages and body types and fitness levels (there is an elderly man there who i swear to god looks like if the monopoly man was both shredded and yassified. same wax-styled mustache and everything), moms lifting and snatching massive barbells w their kids chilling in the stroller next to them. extremely casual atmosphere, but also so much control and structure and help.

and i’ve never had access to high quality equipment before, but the learning curve has no pressure on it so far. my very first day, the instructor made sure i was comfortable with everything and answered every single question i had and integrated me step by step into the rest of the class’s workout at my starting level to get familiar with using a barbell. it was really helpful and made me feel like i was part of the flow already.

i had to stop several times to make sure i wasn’t hurting myself (i have widespread nerve damage that means sometimes my lower body just. glitches and shuts down the connection to my brain’s intent and spasms for a bit and doesn’t do what i want it to do, and i lose all feeling so i panic bc i cant gauge where my body is—the litany goes on but basically i have many issues that crop up frequently during prolonged motion) but even when that happened it proved zero problem at all and no one noticed and i collected myself and got back into it and it was fine. modifications can be made for every move, which is something i learned with Pahla B workouts years ago, and applies here just as well, and i am stubborn in that optimism.

i was even feeling myself so much i wanted to try a box jump so i asked the instructor what the proper form was. she had me start by jumping on progressively higher stacked barbell plates just laid on the ground. and then i tried the box and i got it! and a bunch of people congratulated me or complimented my successful efforts and stopped after class to chat and introduce themselves which made it feel more team-like to me.

vibe seems to be: just do what you can, ask for help and guidance if you need it (i’m still new so i don’t know all the lingo or all the form cues yet but no one is looking at you making you feel scrutinized, everyone is just there to do their thing and they’re also super helpful if they walk by), and know that you’ll get better at everything you’re attempting w consistent attempt. which is just my basic philosophy anyway.

and ok yeah i’ve never been to a traditional gym before—well, i have a few times, and just never went back cuz i felt it was too polished for the likes of me lol (where i live is veryyyyy pretentious). the high gloss attitude truly just never appealed to me. works for some, just not me. in my area at least, everyone in traditional gyms are in some kind of coordinated outfit and are on their phones and taking videos and stuff (i really don’t like that aspect—i don’t consent to showing up in someone’s gym tiktok lol). so yeah especially these days, the feeling that there’s an image to be achieved in gyms just makes my skin crawl. and if i’m going to shell out for the price of any kind of gym membership, i’d rather it not be a place i get self-conscious in that i’m gonna be filmed or creeped on or something (my terror of men in gyms is well-founded).

so i opted for crossfit bc i’ve had family members who were sedentary and went and loved it and saw amazing gains. and everyone at the place im at is way too busy to be filming or creeping (so far). and i do def already feel like it’s built for functional improvement toward accomplished strength, not merely an image of strength. like, i played outside constantly as a kid and it reminds me of that feeling lol, not least bc of the open-air-warehouse-unit concept. i think im too scrappy to ever be a traditional gym person, but crossfit is totally my vibe so far. no one cares enough to judge what your deal is, which is prob #1 on my ranking of important qualities for a fitness facility.

and while my level of general fitness is what i would call really good, i’m still a total beginner to crossfit kinds of work, work with equipment at all, and i’ve NEVER done group gym classes. so my nervousness about not being amazing at something immediately (huge impediment in my life generally) was a biggie but has proved to be baseless. crossfit seems to has no time or attention for individual compulsive fears or momentary embarrassments. which i absolutely love.

but to answer your original question TL;DR—i think it’s tougher than anything i’ve ever seen! grizzlier by far if nothing else—definitely no frills (it’s refreshing to see no makeup yet!). everyone seems to be of a same kind of no-nonsense grit—dunno how to describe it. what i’m observing the experienced crossfitters doing looks wicked hard, but it’s still very accommodating for all levels of fitness to hone. as in, it looks like some of the hardest shit i’ve ever seen anyone do, but that’s what i will be working toward at my own pace, and it’s exciting.

one of the moms i mentioned earlier was snatching thee heaviest barbell weight in the entire class, even more than the men (i checked), like it was nothing and then she went checked on her baby in between like it was all nbd. i was like god damn girl that is so metal. where else are you gonna see that

so. that’s just my first impressions so far! i signed up for 10 classes to see how it goes so i will report back :)

[handelplayssims]

I see that it’s late and night and dark and I IMMEDATELY pull Evie outside to drink a confidence boosting potion. And volia! She managed to overcome her fear of the dark. Even spotted the trait vanish from her traits list, nice!

Anyway, Pierce did some household cleaning and made some breakfast for himself. His first whim is to win a game of chess and that means I head on over to the park or to the library. And well, we got cool teen hangout lot soooo I know my preference. Evie’s also tagging along. Figured she and Lazerwolf can go and learn some more tricks around here.

Ooo, now here’s a teen heartthrob that’s actually Pierce’s type. ...evidently he’s single!? What? No way no way, I was meaning to set him and Rashidah Watson as those teen lovers who run away with each other. BAH! So I guess it’s time to flirt over chess. A fun game to flirt over, I suppose. And a friendship has been struck up and we’re onto the next stage of Friend of the World! Need to have 20 friends, level 10 charisma and a BFF. ...I should look at Pierce’s friendships to see whom that could be, I think Alex. No? Huh. Must be whomever he befriended back in his kid days. Perhaps even his long deceased father!

Meanwhile, Evie reached level 4 of pet training. She can now show off tricks and...command her pet to attack. RUDE! Very rude! But it is something that would require training wouldn’t it. Of note is as soon as I got Lazerwolf out of pet training that he immediately collapsed out of exhaustion. Poor puppy! Anyway, I had her attempt to strike up a friendship with a nearby girl, Miki Akiyama and have them play on the pirate ship together but alas, she headed home. So instead Evie began playing with a kid already on said gym, Marc Casillas. Though he left soon after as well. Man. Instead we got an elderly lady to play sea monster with, Karly Henley, a townie I adopted and jazzed up her fashion as the kooky weird lady. Love those gals. She’s a part of the Garden Gnomes, Moria Fyres’s club that I set to pop up over all parks.

Do you want to know what Lazerwolf is beside a lazy couch potato? He’s a hunter! So I sent him off to search around for goodies. He sniffed the nearby bushes and actually dug up a nearby dig pile for goodies. Though now, he needs a bath. TO HOME! ...Evie can’t give dog baths though so I guess it’s Supriya’s job! Then she took care of her regular needs and took a jog around the neighborhood. Pierce also came back from work with a promotion and a new fear of capitalism. Slow down game! He just got the job and a promotion!

God damn it. The bugged fear is still bugged. Man. Ah well.

Anyway, with Supriya’s next whim to flirt with someone else, I’m going “nah. We’re going on a special date with Curtis.” The two are at the local bar nearby and...wow, even Supriya’s party clothes are rather more chill. Perhaps she is underdressed for this bar but ah well! But why is this date such a special one?

This. This is why. PROPOSAL TIME! Now normally, I wouldn’t mind a longer engagement and flirtation. Normally. The hand of grim and neighborhood stories is not so kind and I’ve had dates for people I like die off before I could play the household again. If you love someone, marry them quick! I ended the date slightly early after finishing all of the date markers since Supriya was tired. And also!

Curtis now joins the household! The true way of saving someone from death is to have them be played! And now we have the maximum number of Sims in a household, eight! A lot of that is thanks to four pets.

Curtis has the Neighborhood Confidante Apsiration...which is bugged and isn’t showing up with any progress markers, no skills and no job! Welp. I’m just gonna switch him to an aspiration that isn’t bugged and hopefully whenever I reload this file or revisit this household, it’ll fix itself. Otherwise, the recommendation is doing a game repair. But! As we return home, it’s time for!

Neighborhood Watch!

Brindleton Bay: The Richard household moved out.

Federica Sandoval in the Sandoval household has died. Federica tried to make cereal but it burst into flames.

Elise Palumbo in the Palumbo household has died. Elise stuck a finger in a plug and electricity came out.

Brindleton Bay: The Cormier household recently moved out.

[thedudleywomen]

ON THIS DAY - 25 October 1562

On This Day (25 Oct) in 1562, Elizabeth I resumed her normal duties whilst at Hampton Court Palace, rapidly improving from the potentially deathly smallpox that she had been suffering from over the past 2 weeks.

Smallpox, a highly contagious viral disease, had ravished London and the Royal Court during the summer of 1562; Margaret St John, Countess of Bedford, (and mother to Anne Russell, later the Countess of Warwick) had fallen victim to it in Aug 1562. It had a high mortality rate (approx 30%), particularly with the young, elderly and vulnerable, and could leave those who survived permanently disfigured.

Smallpox was identified by early symptoms, including a high fever, fatigue, severe back pain, abdominal pain and vomiting, with the characteristic rash of bumps full of clear liquid (which would then fill with pus) forming 2-3 days later. The rash would start on the face and hands, and then spread to the rest of the body, which would then ulcerate and scab. The incubation period for the virus would last 7-10 days, with a person being infectious once the fever developed, and remaining so until the last scabs fell off.

On 10 Oct, Elizabeth first started feeling unwell whilst at Hampton Court; she reportedly took a bath and went for a 'bracing' walk outside to try and feel better, but ended up 'catching a chill'. This was unsuccessful, as within an hour she had taken to her bed with a fever. Her German physician, Dr Burcot was called, and he gave the initial diagnosis of smallpox; however, this theory was dismissed by others, due to the lack of other symptoms, including the rash.

Elizabeth's health continued to decline over the next few days, with her fever continuing to worsen, and by 16 Oct, she was presenting with fluctuating levels of consciousness. It was at this time that the queen's cousin, Henry Carey, Lord Hunsdon persuaded Dr Burcot to resume his treatment - according to historian Alison Weir, Elizabeth was 'wrapped in red flannel', 'laid on a pallet beside a fire' and 'given a green potion', all with good effect. Lesions started to appear on her hands, being the natural progression of the illness; Elizabeth started to improve quickly, although she remained in bed for a further 6 days.

During her illness, Elizabeth had been cared for by one of her primary ladies-in-waiting, Mary Dudley, Lady Sidney. the wife of Sir Henry Sidney and sister of Elizabeth's 'favourite' Robert Dudley. Mary herself contracted smallpox; unlike Elizabeth, who reportedly was able to cover her pock-marked skin with heavy makeup for the rest of her life, Mary retreated from court life, due to her disfigurement, although would continue to greet the queen in private.

[swampstew]

What's the Magic Word?

Chapter 19: The Promise

It was a few awkward weeks at sea for the crew after the séance/lightning storm incident. While the pirates were uncharacteristically empathetic to Rowena, she largely avoided them while attending to her chores and training. She would join them for meals and one concert turned party, but she was still feeling upset over having her memories being publicly displayed.

At least she learned the truth about her father, the general location of the Cornu Ignis, and got to see how each of her crewmates had joined Luffy. She had heard some of their stories but to see it happen, it touched her. Her heart swelled with pride and love for her friends.

She dropped too many ingredients in her cauldron and clicked her tongue, annoyed that she had to start over. Rowena dumped the contents in Kid’s trash. Walking back to her vanity, she looked at the photo stuck to her mirror – it pained her, taking it down to put in a drawer.

She uncovered the crystal ball with intent to reach out to Sétanta. She paused, looking at the snail transponder chilling on the top shelf. It eyed her, she eyed it back. She covered up the orb and pulled the snail down.

Rowena asked the snail to put her through and she waited.

Caaa-liick . This is Shakky. Hey Shakky, how are you? Rowena sweetie, I’m well. How are you? Oh I’m good. I was feeling nostalgic and hoping I could speak to Rayleigh. Is he around? No, I’m sorry he’s with Luffy. He’s been gone for a few months now. Training is ramping up. How is your training going? Uhh you know, challenging. Hitting some roadblocks. Was hoping for some clarity or words of encouragement. Awww. Rowena, you are a powerful witchy woman. Whatever obstacles you come across, you will use your intuition and magic to get through it. The light at the end of the tunnel is shining on the Thousand Sunny. Heh, thanks, that was exactly what I needed to hear. I miss you. I gotta run, take care. Bye!

Her face crumpled with disappointment. The words were kind and she appreciated them but it felt a little awkward. Did Shakky have any clue about Rayleigh’s past romances? How would the elderly woman feel about having a stepdaughter? Did Rayleigh even want a daughter? Rowena placed the snail back and gave it a little snack, smiling at it with misty eyes.

She uncovered the crystal ball again and began to meditate. Hands covering the orb, she began to call for Sétanta. She made his alluring eyes burn in her brain as she reached for him. Trying to recall the details of his face, she chanted both inwardly and outwardly. Rowena felt like she was being watched. She hesitated to open her eyes, finally doing so, and finding Sétanta’s blood-red eyes staring at her from the orb.

“’Sup?”

“I’m sorry for our last interaction. It was unexpected and unsettling. You didn’t, see what happened did you?”

The eyes studied her for a moment before answering, “Nope.”

She wasn’t sure she bought that but moving on.

“I’m going to need your help. I think I can combine rune magic and maybe transmutation magic to bring you to the mortal plane. This is all new territory for me so you’re my guinea pig. I can already perform transmutation magic but it can only cover so much distance, especially at my level. I think adding runes to the practice can widen my distance. I’m learning more on runes and I’ve already created the stacked bind rune and incorporated it to one space, but I’m too far from that location to test it. I plan to practice more here. Anyways, I figured if I could combine these two branches of magic, maybe I can get you out for a short period. Maybe we can figure out a way to keep you here longer. I don’t know. Point is, I need your help to better understand runes.”

A giant grin appeared in the orb. “Those are my specialty! Glad to see you’re not so mopey today.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Do you already have runes? Place them in front of me. We’re going to start with a history lesson.” They spent most of the day going over the practice. By the time she called it quits, it was dinner time.

“Make the amulet with the design we made and we’ll figure out how to get it here during our next meeting. It was good talking to you – the despairing wails were feeling redundant today.”

“How are you even talking to me right now? How is it that I can see your eyes or your mouth?”

“Remember my cave and all those runes on the walls?” She nodded. “That and some fire and boom – communication.” He gave a cheeky grin.

“Right, well I’ll call ahead for the next projection.”

“I’ll try not to miss it with my riveting and exciting lifestyle.”

Kid walked through the door as she covered the orb.

“Didn’t think you’d be playing with that again so soon.” He crossed the room as she stood up to kiss him.

“I needed a lesson – called the only person I knew who could give it.”

He nodded, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. He eyed the ring that was nestled between her breasts. Her chest looking sexy as always, even more so in the plum-dyed sweetheart dress she was wearing.

“Dinner?”

“Do you think we can eat in private tonight? I’m just not in the frame of mind to be around so many people.”

Kid frowned, lifting her face to his. “You doing ok?”

“I-I called Rayleigh. He wasn’t there of course but the disappointment still stung.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Can we grab it to go?”

He nodded, and they walked to the mess hall. While they filled their plates, Killer walked up to the Captain, asking if he had time to go over the maps. Rowena assured him she was fine to eat in her room; she wanted to eat then go to sleep.

The two men sat huddled at Kid’s desk, going over charts and maps.

“So it looks like a little over five months to get there given we don’t run into any trouble. We should stop at sizable islands for provisions, the more inhabited the better options available. Until then, should we discuss the plans for a base or the bigger obstacles?”

“I want our base to be fortified. Remember how the Island of Thorns had that rock wall? Like that but better. Don’t care where it’s at, just want it to be huge. We’ll build a decked-out hideaway. We can design it as we travel. I want a theater room,” Kid grinned. Killer nodded excitedly, taking notes.

“As far as what we’re coming up against, I’m confident we’ll be fine when we reach those bridges. I’m getting stronger, I can feel it. I also want to add more weights and work out shit to the hull. Let’s build a room for that while we travel.”

Killer nodded again, but then he dipped his head down for a tick before clearing his throat.

“Great ideas, on board with them all. If you will though, I still think you should consider allying with another crew or two. There are four emperors, each powerful in their own rights. I don’t think we can’t do it but if we had more support, maybe we can bolster our chances. Plus, if our allies lose more men than ours during the wars to come, that’s just a double win right?”

Kid tilted his head at that, nodding at the point while smiling wickedly. His amber eyes glowed with a gleam of cruelty. After a moment he shook his head.

“Nah, fuck ‘em. We’ll take the Emperors head on. They’re mine: Big Mom, Blackbeard, Kaido and Shanks.” Knocking came from his door. “Come in.”

Rowena walked in carrying some materials. As she walked towards her vanity, she asked “Are you talking about Red-Haired Shanks?” Killer and Kid looked at each other, before nodding. “That’s Luffy’s hero,” she smiled.

Kid scoffed, “Well he’s one of the Emperors and he’s in my way.”

“He’s in Luffy’s way too,” she smirked, putting her tools away. She bid them goodnight and left.

 Kid slammed his fist on the table, “no fucking alliances!”

𓏧 𓏲 𓏲 𓏲 𓋒 𓏲 𓏲 𓏲 𓏲 𓏧

Five weeks at sea passed with very little drama, and the pirates were trying to fish. After several hours of no luck—

“This sucks, someone get Rowena,” Pomp wailed out.

The Witch joined the men on deck. She began to do repetitive hand motions as if collecting air to her chest, then she lifted her hands in the air. The Kid Pirates watched as a sphere of water filled with fish rose from the sea. She dropped it on the deck, fish flopped everywhere. Pirates and Cat picked up the wriggling fish, happily muttering and chirping at the fallen feast. Satisfied at a job well done, Rowena went to the workshop to find Kid.

The Captain was working on a large hunk of metal when she walked through the door. He growled at her, “Knock much?”

“I’m bored. Need any help?”

He grunted, “No, just tinkering with shit.”

He tossed the heap into his collection pile. She took the opportunity to hop onto his table, laying in front of him. She gave him big eyes, hoping to melt his moody exterior.

“Not in the mood. I want to get actual work done.”

“Let me heeeeeelp. What do you want?”

“Something new. Something never been done before.”

“Oh is that all? That’s not vague or anything.”

He glared at her.

“How about we work on that cannon ball I tried to modify?”

Kid looked visibly interested in that. “Explain it to me again.”

“So it’s a regular cannon ball only instead of explosive powder the inside is laced with metal scraps and magnetic powder,” she explained her vision. Kid’s face turned from annoyed to wicked.

“That sounds like a twisted idea. I like it. I’ll go grab some cannon balls. We’ll probably want to use duds…” he began talking at length about fire hazards and other safety precautions as he walked out the door. Rowena smiled as she took over his seat.

The project took them a little over a week to complete. When they were done, Kid’s personality was back to devilishly charismatic, playful and affectionate. Sometimes a bit of a dick but that’s par for the course with the Supernova. She was pleased that his glum personality was finally lifted.

Rowena couldn’t put her finger on it; however, she had her suspicions it had to do with the night of the séance. She wanted to know but wasn’t sure he would be open enough to talk about it. Despite making so many breakthroughs with Kid, he still kept a lot close to the chest.

There was nothing special about this day at sea, in fact it was a tad bit boring. Then the crow’s nest began to alert the crew. To Kid’s sadistic delight, they came upon a marine ship that had come into view from port side.

“Men, ready the cannons!” he roared as the crew prepared for battle. He stood on deck with Killer and Rowena as they neared the ship. “Come about and get ready to fire!” he yelled.

“Come with me,” Kid grabbed the Witch with a devious smile and rushed them up the ramp to the top of the dinosaur skull.

“Save me from drowning? Not that it’ll happen but if it does,” he asked her. She winked at him and affirmed she would.

Firing shots went off in the air and Kid watched the incoming cannonballs from the Marine ship flying towards them.

“Can I?” Rowena tugged his coat. He nodded at her.

“Cold shoulder!” she yelled as she threw up a wall of ocean water, which she quickly froze into an ice wall. The cannonballs hit the ice and fell to the sea, exploding harmlessly under water. She made the wall melt.

Kid grabbed her hand and gave it a hard squeeze, yelling out “FIRE!” as his crew lit the cannons.

The cannon balls whipped through the air, hitting the Marine ship’s hull, mast and deck. As soon as the cannonballs made impact, Kid flexed his free hand. All the cannonballs broke apart; metal scraps and powder spread around the ship.

Flexing his hand again, Kid made the loose metals fly around the ship tearing the sails to shred and maiming the soldiers. He enjoyed the scene before him, listening to the screams.

“Alright, let’s see if your idea had any merit, Ro’.” She squeezed his hand back.

Lifting his left hand in the air, Kid manipulated the magnetic powder to coat a section of the hull, and for fun he also manipulated the powder to coat some of the wounded marines. He narrowed his eyes in concentration and began closing his hand in a tight fist.

The hull of the ship began to make a groaning sound, as if the wood was loudly protesting. The soldiers began screaming too, cries of panic and agony rising in the air. Kid’s face broke out in an evil smile, eyes almost glowing red as he watched the coated sections on the ship begin to crumple under his power. Wooden planks began breaking down, giant holes were appearing in the hull and the ship began to take in water. Soldiers were collapsing with dying screeches.

“ABANDON SHIP!” they could hear the Marines yelling.

“I don’t think so. Time to unleash the Kraken,” Rowena responded, a twinkle of pure malice in her lavender eyes.

She raised her right hand; eight large funnels of ocean water rose from the side of the Victoria Punk. They rushed forward reaching the Marine ship, and the Witch thrashed her fingers and hand wildly, like a puppeteer making dolls dance. The arms of water began pummeling the ship, punching through the decks and hull alike. Targeting the escape dinghies and smashing them to pieces, dragging them under water.

Standing side by side with their fingers intertwined, they used their free hands to utterly devastate; Kid and Rowena sunk the Marine ship together. The Kid Pirates were losing their minds over the scene they watched unfold in front of them.

Kid pulled Rowena into an embrace, dipping her body down as he kissed her.

“You’re a fucking evil genius,” he praised her, kissing down her neck.

“Killer, break out the good scotch and treat the men in the mess hall! Make sure they all stay there til we join them!”

The Captain turned to look for his friend who was already gone, rounding up the pirates to party inside. The couple continued kissing, Kid picked her up and brought her to the helms room. Shutting the door with his power, he pushed her against the ship’s wheel.

Parting her legs so he could stand between them, Kid devoured Rowena. He kissed and marked her neck with bite marks and hickies. He shoved his hands up her blouse, kneading her breasts as her tongue fought with his for dominance as they made out.

Rowena tugged on his pants but he roughly shoved her hand away. Instead, Kid threw her top and bra off, burying his face into her chest as she hugged his head against her. She made whimpering noises as Kid flicked his tongue over her nipples, fingers digging into the soft skin as he squeezed her flesh between his hands. She raked her nails on his scalp, tugging on his hair as he rolled and pinched her nipples, moaning into his ear.

“Kid, please take care of me,” she mewled.

That was enough for him. He kissed her once more and then spun her around, making her face the ship wheel. He instructed her to hold on to the wheel and not move. He yanked down her pants and underwear to the floor. He stared at the sight in front of him, huge grin on his face as he began stroking himself through his pants. After a moment, he stripped and walked up to Rowena’s naked body.

He pressed his body against hers. His cock pulsed when it brushed her thick ass and she moved her hips back, trapping his cock between her ass and his lower abs. She ground against it to Kid’s swelling excitement. He used his hands to spread her ass cheeks and laid his cock between them, thrusting upwards, enjoying the feeling of his second favorite asset clenched around his cock. He dug his nails into her waist as the sensations rocked him, growling in pleasure.

Rowena pulled his arm in front of her, placing it on her breast. She manipulated his fingers so he was teasing her nipple again. She slipped her own hand down, stimulating her clitoris as Kid dry-humped her ass. She was standing on the balls of her feet as her climax drew near when Kid grabbed her hands and put them on the wheel, growling into her ear.

“No, that’s my job.”

He forced her hands on the wheel spokes and he closed his hands around hers, keeping her in place.

“Stand higher on your toes,” he commanded.

She felt him dip his hips down, feeling the mushroom head of his cock pressing against her outer lips, sliding between them. He gritted his teeth as he found the right angle and he thrusted upwards. Rowena cried out as his cock filled her up. Kid groaned against her neck as the hot wetness molded around his member, his brain went dumb.

Kid started rocking into her, his body pressed against hers as he thrusted in and out with her body hitting the ship’s wheel. His hands tightened over hers as he fucked her from behind. Playing back the moments they worked together to tear the Marine ship apart.

He began to rub her clit at an unforgiving pace as he continued his bucking, grunting out, “You’re so fucking hot babe. The way you tore through the ship with your power, with me by your side. I’m going to make you my Queen of the Pirates, just you wait,” his words came out almost slurred as he felt himself getting closer.

Rowena let out small shrieks as he rubbed her nub. His words made her feel hotter, made her clench and keen as she rambled out nonsensical words through her moans while he kept fucking her.

“You want to be my wife? My Queen?” he asked her, slowing his thrusting so she could answer.

She threw her head backwards to look up at him. “Are you asking me or are you telling me? I thought you were a man who takes what he wants,” she grinned at him, like she knew she was playing with fire.

He scowled before giving her a wicked grin. He grabbed her head with a gentle yet firm grip, forcing her to stay looking at him as he doubled his ministrations. The sounds of slapping skin and squelching rang out higher over the sounds of the sea and pleasured cries.

“You’re fucking mine, you got that?! I’ll kill anyone who tries to take you from me. No one can keep a King from his Queen!” he screamed, pounding faster and harder into Rowena.

“Ahhh Kid!” she cried, hand gripping his hand on her face. His pupils were blown, black against a slim ring of golden amber. “I’m so close. Fuck!!! Kid, Kid I want to swallow your load,” she begged.

He let out a guttural groan as he rubbed circles on her clit even faster, hips hitting her ass so fiercely it was leaving red welts. Rowena’s pitch got higher and higher until Kid felt the wetness gushing from her. Her walls clenching and sucking him in deeply as she was slammed by her orgasm. She let out a scream of pleasure that echoed in the room.

Kid smiled widely, chest swelling with pride at his woman’s face in the throes of climax. Her eyes partially open staring into his, her mouth gaped open as her voice faded, fingers scratching at his hand as she came down. He could feel his balls tightening, electrical shocks were running down his spine.

With a growl he pulled out of her, turning her body and pushing her to the floor. He jerked himself off to the sight of her splayed out in front of him, on her knees and drooling, looking debauched.

Kid reached out and grabbed her chin, she opened her mouth wide as he slid his cock in. She closed her mouth and her tongue ran under his cock, wrapping around him. Rowena hollowed out her cheeks and began sucking him, moving her mouth up and down his length. She devoured him, swallowing him up until his cock was going down the curve of throat. He was so so so close, enjoying her mouth on him.

“Who am I?” he rasped out, hand in her hair as he bobbed her down his length.

“My King,” she said through a full mouth.

He let out a series of moans as he ejaculated, eyes rolling to the back of his skull as his hips stuttered. Ropes of hot cum shot from his cock and Rowena greedily swallowed it whole. He slowly pulled out, a line of cum dribbled from her mouth. He caught it with is thumb and brushed it into her mouth and she suckled it happily.

“What does it taste like?”

“Like liquid gold,” she breathed. He grinned down at her.

Kid lifted Rowena in his arms and positioned her again to face the helm. He guided her hands on the ship’s wheel once more. He clasped his hands over hers and they stood back to chest, lazily steering the ship. They stood there until the sun began to set. The golden rays peaked through the portholes, glowing against Rowena’s skin.

“Ro’?”

She turned her head to look up at him. Her eyes looked rosy in the warm light. He gulped.

“I promise you,” he started. “When your two years are up, I’m not going to stop you or trap you here. I want you with me more than anything but I can’t be that much of a selfish bastard, not to you.” The Witch smiled at him, eyes becoming glassy.

“I still want to marry you, obviously. If you want to go on your adventures then I will just deal with it. Who am I to deny your right to be a pirate? I’m making a base so you can stay with me when you please. If you ever, and I mean ever, decide you want to join my crew, there will always be a place for you, here right next to me.”

“Oh Kid,” a tear rolled down her face. She turned her body to him, standing on her toes and hands reaching up to clutch his face. “I love you.”

His face to chest flushed bright red at her confession. He grinned at her before lightly scoffing.

“Yeah I know.” He leaned down to share a long, passionate kiss.

“Can we go celebrate?”

He nodded, sweetly pecking her mouth. She pushed against him, deepening the kiss, not wanting this perfect moment to end. Finally breaking apart, they got dressed and joined the crew in the mess hall.

The crew threw a party on the deck that night. Adrenaline still pumping from the power couple’s destruction on the Marines had them going ape shit. Drinks sloshed all over the floor, the band played in the background.

Kid didn’t let go of Rowena at all, arm over her shoulder the whole night. He was grinning widely and knocking back his glass while partying with the crew. Occasionally pulling Rowena into a steamy make out session twice or four times. Sometimes sucking on her neck by the drink barrels.

The festivities continued until the sky began to lighten with the approaching dawn. Only then did Kid and Rowena stumble away from the party eager to jump into bed, sleep being the furthest thing from their minds.

Read on AO3

[beastblade69]

my god. the fucking dream I had was absolutely horrible. don't remember many details but overall I was in a house with some of my classmates from the college and there also was a gal from my old ukrainian school. so we were pretty chill until we weren't because a scary guy with an axe was after us. I don't quite remember how he looked but ig he had a clown mask or smth. the key part is that he had an axe and was running after me that's what made him scary. so somehow I made my way out, even hurt him a bit Ig and I opened the gate which was the way out. but of course it wasn't that easy, there was a maze and in the end of it a locked window. I searched for something to open it (idk why I couldn't just break it) and then my college classmate came and I helped her escape. we were the only survivors. knowing her tho I wasn't surprised that she made it out but I was quite surprised that I did. anyways that wasn't the end. the thing is you can make a wish when you survive and it comes true so people come on their own will to then make a wish. so I was some woman who survived before and needed something so desperately that she decided to come back. there was also an elderly couple who survived last time too (idk how) and the woman was dying, you could see that. so the game began. it took place in a 6 level house with many rooms you can enter. I needed to find something, a key or a key card or at least the door to understand how to get out and where to run when I find the key so I was running and checking on every room while the guy with an axe was screaming that he'll find us all and that he hears us. at least I wasn't alone in that mess so at least for a bit I had a possibility to run without him on my tail. then of course he came after me and as I was trying to get away I stumbled upon some woman and then she was always staying nearby. which was good because assistance and company is good in situations like these. then we almost got caught for 2 times and were crouching on the 4th floor as I woke up

[nashali-mga2023mi5019]

Japanese Ubasute (black hat)

Ubasute’s supposed roots reach far back into Japan’s distant past, and the event it describes is as cruel as it is chilling. Literally translating to “abandoning an old woman,” the legend goes that families facing particularly hard times engaged in the act, which forced sons to carry their own elderly mothers to the top of a mountain before abandoning them there, leaving these frail women to die to cut costs during times of famine. While many believe that accounts of these practices are entirely false, some say that Ubasute informed the creation of Japan’s infamous Suicide Forest, which only adds to this ancient procedure’s legendary status.

Ubasute’s Origins

If we entertain the idea that these legends are true, Ubasute’s charter myth goes as follows. The practice’s prevalence directly corresponded with macro-level conditions in a given area, where years of drought or famine would cast a specter of malaise among Japanese families. Whether the result of exceptionally light or heavy rains, crop-eating insects, or agriculturally devastating volcanic eruptions —

such as that of Mt. Asama in 1783, which would kickstart the great Tenmei famine — it wasn’t entirely uncommon for agricultural production to come to a halt, leading to insufferable periods no nation would ever wish to revisit. With rations low and mouths to feed, abysmal conditions left Japanese families to take extreme measures in order to ensure survival. And according to folklore, that’s exactly what they did. By limiting the number of mouths to feed, already meager food rations would go that much further. Unfortunately for family elders who could not work or care for themselves, the term “dead weight” would assume a literal meaning, making them the most practical choices to see off.

The Practice

As jarring as that may be, it’s the details that make the tale of Ubasute so compelling. First, a family would choose an elder, usually a woman, to “do away” with. Carrying her on his back, the old woman’s son would hike to a mountain peak as she grabbed pieces of twigs and limbs from nearby trees and dropped them on the ground. These small markers would form a trail for her son to follow when he returned from the mountain peak, indicating that those abandoned chose to participate in the ritual, sacrificing their own lives for the long-term well-being of the family. Once they reached the summit, the son would leave his mother and begin his descent from the mountainside. The old woman would do nothing more than wait alone night after night, until eventually meeting her demise due to starvation, dehydration, hypothermia, or a particularly horrific combination involving all of the above. Not all legends had old women carried to the mountaintops; some families opted to desert their loved ones deep within a heavily wooded area. The variation in location comes because the main objective was to position their elderly in a location where food, shelter, and human contact would prove scarce if not impossible, and eventually guarantee death — albeit a slow and painful one.

[tenderbrokenthings]

Under the weight of the midmorning sun, she pushed open the glass door, the chill of the grocery store’s artificial air washing over her. The fluorescent lights hummed an indifferent welcome, and the scent of produce mingled with the sterile tang of floor cleaner. She paused, adjusting the strap of her bag, and glanced around, noticing the people around her.

A mother wrangled her two children by the entrance, their sticky fingers reaching for candy bars strategically placed at eye level. She observed the mother’s tired eyes, the slight hunch of her shoulders, a portrait of perpetual negotiation. She wondered, did this woman notice the same patterns in the tiles underfoot, the way the light flickered intermittently, casting brief shadows that went unnoticed? As she walked down the produce aisle, she saw an elderly man with wisps of silver hair meticulously selecting apples, each one turned in his hand as if searching for hidden code beneath the skin. His careful movements spoke of time and patience, of a life attuned to the subtleties that others bypassed in their rush. Did he, she wondered, ever look up and see the dull eyes of the security cameras, their gaze an overseer of all this mundanity?

She moved on, the wheels of her cart creaking in rhythm with her steps. The canned goods aisle presented a variety of colors and labels, a line up of choices that seemed to speak of the abundance and yet the emptiness of consumerism. A young couple debated the merits of organic versus non-organic soup. Their conversation was laced with micro-expressions, slight frowns, half-smiles, a game of agreement and discord. She wondered if they saw the same weariness in each other’s eyes that she felt within herself. At the deli counter, a teenage clerk sliced meats with a practiced hand, his eyes are flat with the apathy of repetition. She watched the mechanical precision, the thin shavings falling in neat piles. She considered the boy’s future, the countless hours he would spend here, unnoticed and unnoticing. Did he see the same existential questions mirrored in the faces of the customers he served? Did he ever wonder about the infinite loop of routine they were all ensnared in?

Finally, she found herself in the cereal aisle, a metaphorical crossroads of breakfast options. She reached for a box of granola, her fingers brushing against another’s. She looked up to meet the sight of a man about her age, his eyes a mirror of her own curiosity and contemplation. For a moment, they both paused, an unspoken connection formed over the shared space and the unspoken questions. What do you notice in me? She silently asked. What details do you see that I overlook? In this brief intersection of lives, did he perceive the same solitude, the same search for meaning amidst the mundane? The moment passed, and they both moved on, their paths diverging once more in the endless aisles. As she made her way to the checkout, she pondered the countless lives interwoven in this single grocery store, each person an island of thoughts and perceptions. What did they notice? What did they miss?

Under the glare of the fluorescent lights, she paid for her groceries and walked back into the sunlight, carrying not just her bag of groceries, but a renewed sense of the unseen connections, the shared human experience of noticing and being noticed. Sitting in her car, the weight of the day finally pressed down on her again. She placed her head on the steering wheel and let the tears flow freely. Amidst her sobs, a question surfaced:

Am I truly living my life, or am I just another silent witness to it slipping away?