#Better to draw something wrong than to avoid drawing it entirely because it's out of your comfort zone and all that

[klausysworld]

Hi I was wondering if you could make a Klaus Mikaelson Love one shot where the reader is Carolines twin sister and also Klauses mate but Klaus don't want her to get hurt by his enemies so he spends his time on Caroline and the reader is a vampire so she can feel the mate bond and doesn't understand why he hates her so much to ignore their mate bond so she goes into depression and doesn't eat or drink blood she doesn't leave her room and she is in pain all she wants is Klaus but she thinks that Klaus doesn't want her and Caroline starts worrying about her so she gets Bonnie to do a spell to see what's wrong with herand they figure its because of Klaus rejecting her.

ends in smut only if you want to it doesn't have to!!!

Resisting the truth

The concept of soulmates wasn’t something Klaus believed in. A ridiculous theory really.

And when people claimed to have had them he took pleasure in killing one just to watch the other crumble at the sight.

Even when Rebekah insisted that Marcel was hers, he wouldn’t let them be together. It was a stupid idea and he wouldn’t condone it.

He didn’t believe it in any respect.

So when he felt that odd pull, well he didn’t know how to respond.

Looking at her, he didn’t understand. She wad his type yes but from what he could tell she was only a vampire, she couldn’t have been a witch. So he didn’t know where the pull was coming from.

Even in Alarics body he could feel it. At first he thought the teachers body was attached to her but then he bumped into her in his own form and the attraction was even stronger.

Klaus didn’t like new things and didn’t like feeling things but he also knew if he killed her now then the bloody Salvatores would retaliate and most likely would grab their precious doppelgänger and run. So he left her be but kept a close eye on her.

Following her when he got the chance and learning things about her while trying to find out what kind of trick she was playing on him. She was meant to have been used for the sacrifice, first Caroline replaced her and then Jenna.

And then once he left Mystic Falls with his good friend Stefan, for whatever reason, all he could thing about was her.

Countless dreams haunted him and the urge to draw her face was driving him close to insanity. To begin with he thought perhaps killing her was the best option and then Stefan had to go find Klaus’ stash of sketches of his dear friend Y/n’s face and decided to tell Klaus all about her.

And somehow, hearing about her made him feel less crazy. He found himself asking pointless questions and listening to stories from Stefan. Until of course one of them realised that they were talking about her a little too much and they both awkwardly avoided the topic.

Having her walk straight into him yet again at senior prank night only made his thoughts worse. He loathed how his body reacted so quickly to her, just one inhale of her freshly washed hair and his dick was pressing up against his jeans. His hand grabbed both her arm and the doppelgänger’s before dragging them both back to the main hall. He proceeded with his plan as normal with minimal glances to the girl although he could feel her eyes on him the entire time.

He was entirely unaware she could feel the bond just as well. But she was less cautious about it, she was a teenager and experiencing new feelings. Ones she didn’t understand but she wasn’t a paranoid control freak so she leaned toward the feeling rather than away.

In fact she even followed him occasionally. When she had nothing better to do and wasn’t needed by the group, she tried to dig into his persona. But he was a difficult man to pick apart and she often just went back home when she got bored.

Sometimes she tried to talk to him, or just smile at him but he wasn’t the easiest to communicate with unless he was running the conversation. And she often felt like she was just annoying him so she tried to leave him alone but something just kept leading her back to him and she found it easier to go with it than resist it.

He found her a bit of a nuisance but at least she was a pretty one. And the more she was around him the more he warmed to her. The more beautiful he found her and the dirtier his dreams got.

Eventually he couldn’t handle the amount of time he was spending fucking his own hand and made his way to a witch formation. Only to be faced with the impossible truth.

And then he saw her in a different light. She had both a target on her own back and his back. So he did the one thing he knew how to do really well, push her away.

And god did he push hard. Ignored everything she did or said, avoided her like the plague.

He assumed she had a silly little crush on him and nothing more but he didn’t know she was taking the rejection of the bond so harshly.

Being a vampire it was massively increased and quite frankly it was soul destroying.

He didn’t see the way her skin was greying;the emptying of her eyes. He wasn’t there to see how her mother had to cradle her in bed like she were a small child again. The look in Caroline’s eyes as she tried to get her sister to be excited for their birthday.

What was even more cruel was Klaus coming over to her house to heal Caroline without even checking on her. Giving her twin sister a birthday present but not her? He never spoke to Caroline before, how could they possibly have formed a better friendship than them?

Had she entirely misread everything? Had he not smiled at her with that same look in his eye? Had he not initiated flirtatious interactions and inched closer to her?

She didn’t feel the hunger she used to feel for blood, almost as though it weren’t appetising at all any more. Repulsive even.

Caroline worried beyond relief as she witnessed her sister fading right before her. Stefan and Damon couldn’t get her to eat, Elena and Bonnie couldn’t entertain enough to get her out of bed, nothing was working.

Not until Bonnie offered to do a spell, with Liz’s reluctant permission she performed it to find what was wrong. And the answer both shocked the group and sort of made sense. They had all noticed at some point the strange need they had for each other. But through Damons research in the past when he believed Katherine was his soulmate, he knew what the ultimate result of a rejected mate could be. And as much as he hated Klaus, y/n was like a little sister to him and if she needed him for a little bit then he would push back his revenge for a moment. Plus it would put him in Elena’s good books and Liz’s.

So he let Caroline go and beg Klaus to save her sister.

Klaus wasn’t sure how to respond when Caroline came in with a white oak stake held to his chest while she yelled every offensive word she could at him. He had her by the throat quickly, throwing her off and to a wall but she was straight back at him. Screaming at him asking how he could have done this.

And after a very long back and forth argument, he realised what he was doing to the Forbes girl. But he wasn’t exactly sure how to react.

He knew he was no good for her, he would only be the cause of her death but apparently he would be that anyway. Which he found to be ridiculous but whatever.

But the second Elena let it slip to Rebekah that her brother had a soulmate, she had him by the hair dragging him to the Forbes residence and forcing him inside. Caroline and Liz left the house and Locke them in, despite Klaus being able to break it down.

While in there he couldn’t help but feel the forceful tug towards her room. Her heartbeat was so weak and her scent was fading. He tried to resist the pull like he had forced himself to for so long but hearing her pain filled whimpers as she shifted onto her side had his leg bouncing. Her dry coughs and groans had his teeth biting at the skin around his fingers and finally when she gave a cry out for her sister he got up to go and see her.

His heart hurt seeing her halfway desiccated and he reluctantly came to sit at the edge of the bed. Her eyes were heavy as she peeked up at him, her brows furrowing before a sadness filled her

“Are you here to kill me now?” She rasped and he frowned

“No my dear, no I won’t be killing you” he whispered, he felt bad now that hr had considered doing so in the past but better knowing that he no longer desired to.

“Why not?” She asked confused “you don’t want a soulmate…” she trailed but neither of them said anything because they both knew she was right, he never had wanted a soulmate.

She nodded weakly, sighed softly and relaxed back against the bed. He hesitantly shifted further into the bed, gently pulling her a little closer so her head lay on his lap.

Slowly he brought his fingers to her hair, just gently stroking her as he silently went over his options, wondering what was truly best for each of them in this scenario.

Would she really be better of with him as a soulmate?

[panelshowsource]

i’d love to know, what are some panel show moments you think about a lot?

omg like just off the top of my head?

just the whole episode of cats after jimmy's tax avoidance scandal

"good evening your majesty you tax-dodging bitch"

david mumbling "chancellor of the exchequer" in small font

when the horne section was doing macarena on catsdown and the rose was so limp WHY WAS IT SO LIMP

the greatest breath smeller game

"this makes me so angry because they wouldn't show the clip of me attacking my mother with a taser! i thought it was really funny!"

josh groban being an absolute wizard at singing intros followed by martin freeman being an absolute wizard at guessing them to the point production asked him to slow down giving the answer because he was too good

when stacey solomon said she likes teresa may and jimmy carr, gino d'acampo, and carol vorderman were absolutely speechless

alex’s reaction after joe says he has pineapple in his ass

when jimmy used the 30 seconds to wax his leg??

the way the queen’s pussy being haunted was like genuine headline news

mark sending greg 148 texts and getting 0 points ("what a terrible waste of time")

when that nude model came on for jimmy to (pretend) to live draw and lee mack was so gobsmacked at that man's penis he violently elbowed david o'doherty going "look at that!"

"you wouldn't do that during shakespeare, would you?"

on outsiders when joe wilkinson couldn't believe david mitchell is only 47 and literally said "do you live outside"

phil wang roasting ed gamble and saying "ed's girlfriend is such a dog i tried to eat her"

"you cannot imply that only gay people eat vegetables"

♪ but bin men get sad ♪

when those podcasters were reading joe wilkinson his own tweets and he was sweating so much and then just covered his eyes and went "what's wrong with me..."

"stephen fry wouldn't read 'pussy-friendly finger'"

when johnny vegas was literally eating a tin of fucking dog food and kathy burke was like "what's happening??" and jimmy so nonchalantly went "we're just eating dog food :)"

when noel ate some of alex's beard and greg said "you are aware that when we're at home alex is only allowed to move around like a snake?"

every joe & rachel hug ever here's a cute one :')

claudia completely bodying this lie and everyone's animals being so cute and funny and rob and lee complaining just the whole thing

on rhlstp when richard was Being Richard for the last hour and louis theroux was Over It and richard went "have you ever tried to suck your own cock?" and louis just died and then muttered "...do we have to..."

"i don't really eat potatoes it feels a bit irish :/"

johnny vegas pulling something out of rhod gilbert's pants, sniffing it, and then scandalising the entire room by saying "i've been told i smell better from behind than i do from the front, lovers have told me"

gosh my rotted brain is always rattling around panel show moments ..i wish to be cured

[forestshadow-wolf]

One day soap (pre-relationship) starts pulling back because he thinks Ghost only sees a platonic or physical relationship with him and, "you give me an inch and I'll take the fucking world, when it comes to you."

He switches up his entire schedule just to avoid ghost because he's gotten too close, wants more that he can have. And it's lowkey breaking him inside, but whatever, right? Better this, than make Ghost uncomfortable right?

And God it hurts so much to not be able to interact with Ghost and his stupidy aggressive manc accent, and his dumb handsom face, and his godawful dry wit. But this is better for them, right? This is what's best for both of them, isn't it? He avoids making Ghost uncomfortable, and he'll just have to work on stuffing his feelings way way down. And then things can go back to normal, but until then he'll keep avoiding the man.

And Gaz sees and it breaks his heart. To have soap come to him late at night with unshed tears in his eyes because he refuses to cry, because it's not like he's dead or anything, right? And it breaks his heart to hold soap, while he trembles through unbidden sobs. And he just wants to make it right, but he can't. So he'll continue being his rock.

And when Ghost realizes that he hadn't seen soap all day he thinks maybe he just got extra busy so he leaves it. But by day two and not even a hair of the scot has been seen he worries that something is wrong. But maybe the Sergent just got slammed with a ton of extra work, Ghost isn't the only lieutenant on base and things happen all the time. And then on day three with no sightings he starts to ask around and he realizes that almost every one except for him has interacted, or talked to, or seen soap. Well that's off putting, soap almost alwas find him in his free time, but maybe it's just a coincidence. The fourth day is totally just happenstance that he hasn't seen soap, thay what he tells himself, even if it seems like everyone else on base has seen him.

But late at night when everyone is asleep soap will go sit outside ghost's door, splay legged, having to fight himself to not knock in his door and beg for forgiveness like he isn't the one pulling away.

It goes on for months of this same routine of soap avoiding Ghost during the day, and trying to crawl back to him at night. Soap's more or less stopped sleeping more than a few hours at night, he's working himself even harder. Ghost misses Soap. Soap misses Ghost.

Eventually Ghost stopped looking for him, instead, passing messages through Gaz. But soap never responds.

It's finally one night that Ghost wakes up to take a piss and grab a glass of water that he finds soap outside his door. He's scrunched up against the wall, sketchbook open, pencil in hand, but all He's doing is waving it between his fingers. And Soap looks up, and flinches when he sees Ghost, scrabbling to gather up his drawings and haul ass out of there.

But Ghost stops him, a light grip around the wrist, he's not even looking at soap, just staring at the spot he was sitting. Soap could pull out of his grasp easily, he could turn tail and leave, but he doesn't, he's frozen to the spot in the ground.

And then Ghost turns to face him, and he swallows. Ghost takes a step forward, he takes one back, keeping the distance between them. That makes Ghost stop, piss break and thirst forgotten.

"Why?" It's one word, and yet it makes soap's heart break, and then Ghost keeps talking, "I'm sorry."

I'm sorry he says, like it's his fault. I'm sorry he says, like he blames himself. I'm sorry he says, it isn't totally and irrevocably SOAP'S FUCKING FAULT. I'm sorry he says. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. And soap wants to punch him to shut him up. He doesn't. He swallows thickly.

"It's not..." soap has to swallow against the lump in his throat to keep speaking, "you didn't do anything." The words sound hollow and distant to his ears, he can't imagine how it sounds to Ghost's.

"Please." And soap can't bare to look at the pleading look anymore or all this will be ruined. "I'm sorry." Ghost says again, and if Soap's heart was broken before, not its shattered, dusted, broken into so mand teeny tiny pieces that there is surely no hope of ever repairing it.

"I- I-... you didn't do this." He says, tears in his eyes, and all he can do is glance up at Ghost for the briefest of seconds before he has to look away. "I fucked up. A-and I'm trying to fix it." He nearly wails, he wishes his chest would just burst open and bleed him dry from the source, insted of this, anything but this. His voice stays quiet, near silent, even.

"Please." Ghost is begging now, and soap can't stand it. "I'll be better, I promise." He whispers, like he's not hearing Soap. And soap makes a wounder sound, and God, does it hurt to hear those words.

"It's really, really isn't you." Soap pleads, Ghost needs to understand. "I- I just can't give you what you want."

"Why?" And Ghost sounds so broken, and it's sending Soap directly down into the firey pits of hell.

"Because I want more." A tear slips down his cheek, and he curses it, he has no right to cry. He did this, now it's time to reap the fruits of his labor, no matter how rotten it may be.

"But I want you. Johnny." It rasps out, and Ghost's voice sounds just as broken as soap feels.

"But I want too much.. Ghost" he can't stop the tears now, but he locks down in the wail that's clawing open his chest from the inside out. It hurts. It hurts so much. But this is his doing. This is his fault. He has to accept that. "I can't have just friends."

"Please. I miss you." Ghost pleads, and soap almost fucking sobs. God, soap is never gonna recover from this.

I miss you too. I'm sorry. I miss you so much. He wants to scream. "I know." He forces his voice to hollow. He does know. Gaz has told him all about it.

"Please. I can- I'll meet you half way"

Soap chances a look up then, almost hopeful, except for the fact that he would leave hope up for a gamble.

Ghost does look hopeful. And also broken. Broken. Soap did that. As of Ghost hasn't has enough hirt in life, and Soap basically just stabbed him in the back. He has to fix this. He- he did this. Why did he do this.

He nods, and the pencil falls out of his hand, followed by the thump of his book. "I'm sorry." The sobs tear out of his chest, and all he wants to do is crawl out of his own skin and die in a fucking hole. Why did he do this.

He drops his head, and lets the tears fall. And then there are arms wrapping themselves around him, and a head resting atop his, and he can't find the strength to pull away, nor does he want to. So he turns into the warm embrace, and wraps himself around Ghost.

"I'm sorry. I thought- " he's hiccuping so hard that he's sure he's not understandable. Ghost shushes him gently, rocking them side to side.

They do have to make moves though, when Ghost's need for a piss makes itself known again. Soap's only a little ashamed to say he'd literally latched onto the man, and made him carry him all the way into the bathroom.

[fatalfairies]

SECOND PRINCE!SATORU GOJO x CARETAKER!READER

art credit: @/iorighin on X

a/n: not proofread but it’s cute

When you first saw Satoru,you felt sorry,such a beautiful man in the peak of his youth,he was sitting on the bed with his back supported on the pillows on the headboard slat of the large,luxurious bed.

“If you feel pity,please leave and do not return” were his very first words to you as you looked at him feeling questioned. Yes,you did feel sorry for him but you did not pity him.

“Well then,Your Highness,there is not any chance I am leaving.”

At first,he was distant to you yet polite. He tried to avoid as much help as he could from you. But maybe he forgot that the only reason you’re present here is for the sole reason of taking care of him and if that required you to use a little force,then you wouldn’t really mind. A part of you was being selfish and you were fully aware of it.

You had been recently widowed after your stupid bastard of a husband sacrificed himself to a war which brought no fruition and you were relieved. But the consequences which came along with was something you wouldn’t accept by any means,neither were you ready to become a nun and devote your life to god nor did you want to remarry most likely yet another man.

And this was the perfect opportunity for you for to become the second prince’s caretaker. To the eyes of others,a woman who had been recently widowed is helpless and serving a member of the Imperial Family would help with that.

During the first few months,Satoru disliked you,no that’s being too harsh,he by no means disliked you but he disliked how even a flutter of his eyelashes would draw your attention to him.

He had been pampered and taken care his entire life,as a prince it is nothing surprising.

Yet why is that under the gaze of your eyes,he feels so vulnerable and cared for like never before.

Satoru feels as though he had been brought back to his childhood when you promise to read him a book or take him to a stroll in the lovely imperial gardens or play board games with him.

In all these months,you had find out many things about him and one thing you were definetly sure of is that he never craved the power of the throne and crown as many might assume. All he wanted was to be free and enjoy his life.

As a Prince who has no way of inheriting the throne,he should have these luxuries but that is utterly wrong. He is always followed around by some guards or maids as though he is a helpless child and that is all because of this sickness.

It might be the cause he’s weak despite being born in a dynasty of powerful men and women but that is no reason to treat him as a porcelain doll that can break at any moment.

And he hates himself for it,sometimes.

Spending all these months with you he has rediscovered many things he thought were long lost in his distant memories. You were reading him a novel as a gift after he had his meal and medicine like a good bo..prince.

“Why are you staring me with such intensity,Your Highness ? Are you not enjoying this book ?” You asked him,your eyes leaving the pages of the book as you stare into his cerulean eyes. Hearing your voice other than reading the lines of the book,he looks at you,snapped back to reality as his mouth gapes open slightly,”No,you’re a good storysteller and have gotten the voice of a heavenly nymph.”

“Why,thank you. I’ll be sure to read them more to you since you are so fond of me doing so.” You return words back,playfully. Maybe there were improvements in your relationship with him afterall.

You didn’t quite expect the distant man you met months ago to have this playful. Although,it is indeed infinetly better than a man who acts like he’s constipated,such as your dead husband.

“Say,My Prince,what is your favourite flower ?” You asked looking at him as your hands were supporting his tall figure as you strolled with in the vast garden with a smile on your face.

“Any flower you bring me.” He says,chuckling. “I’m serious. Do not be silly.” “But you do prefer that.”

“Hm,alright then,I’ll just consider my favourite flower yours too.”

“I’d prefer that far better,anything favoured by you suddenly becomes favoured by me as well.”

“You’re being such a deceptive charmer. I am relieved I am the only lady who knows this side of yours,Your Highness.”

“It’s Satoru. Also,why ? are you afraid they would inevitably fall for my princely charms ?”

“Quite the opposite,My Prince.”

“Rude. But it’s sweet coming from you.”

Maybe this was the starting of something much more intimate yet unknown to both of you what would end up blooming in your hearts.

[saintsenara]

How are you able to enjoy toxic/unhealthy/“problematic” ships/characters without feeling weird (for lack of a better word) about it?

I ask this because I want to be able to do this myself as it seems like a much more enjoyable way of engaging with fiction to me. I can get over some ships just being toxic and the characters not being good together and still enjoy their dynamic but I have trouble with the other ships that feel morally wrong. I know it’s just fiction but I can’t seem to get over the ick feeling I have when I think about those ships/characters. I feel like I’m being too puritanical about these things but I don’t know how to stop feeling like something is gross when I feel it’s gross…

Do you have any tips to stop jumping to moralizing ships/characters?

thank you very much for the ask, anon!

i'm going to be upfront that this reflexive gross feeling isn't something i've ever really struggled with - both in fic and more broadly. this is due to various personal idiosyncrasies, above all the fact that i've got disengaged boomer parents who didn't police our media consumption [my favourite book when i was eleven? lolita...] and that i'm a doctor, which is a profession which requires you to develop a very high threshold for what you find disgusting. the human body - at all stages of its life-cycle and its cycle of decomposition - produces a lot of different fluids... and it's also the case that [just as if you can think of it, there's porn for it] if an inanimate object exists, somebody somewhere has got it stuck inside them...

and so the situation that i find myself in is that i consider it infinitely less weird that i enjoy the odd bit of hot tomarrymort action than that i actively enjoy cutting through bone with a saw...

but, obviously, "get a medical degree" isn't particularly helpful advice...

i am a ride-or-die fan of the concept of stepping outside of your comfort zone. this is why i'm such an avowed multishipper - i think it's good for us as fandom citizens to examine the potential of our faves in relationships [romantic or otherwise] which are either not their canon endgames or which aren't our preferred pairings, and in situations which don't align with their canon experiences [whether that means making them suffer or giving them full-on fluff]. it draws out the multiple aspects of a character to consider them from these different angles - and it prevents us from getting so stuck in one interpretation of a character or configuration of a ship which means that it puts our backs up to stumble across stories which approach things differently.

but stepping outside of your comfort zone doesn't mean that you have to go enormously far. it may be that a reader decides - having only ever read teen-rated fics where characters' sex lives don't extend beyond hand-holding and forehead kisses - to take the plunge into an explicit piece filled to the brim with watersports and age play. it may be that a reader decides - having only ever read teen-rated fics for one canon pairing - to read a teen-rated fic for a non-canon alternative. both of these are entirely valid approaches.

by which i mean, our comfort levels and our thresholds for discomfort are subjective, they're personal. if there are ships or themes or characters you don't want to read about because they don't feel good... you're not doing something wrong if you avoid them. exposing yourself to fics you expect to make you uncomfortable can be useful - and fiction is certainly a way to explore discomfort which gives you much more control over the experience than encountering it in real life - but it's not something you're obliged to do to be active in fandom.

the thing you are obliged to do to be active in fandom is to be nice to other people, no matter what their tastes in fiction. this means, at its fundamental level, that when you see people who ship pairings or like themes which make you think "ew"... you keep it to yourself/the group chat rather than putting it on the timeline.

but, once this is something you've got the hang of [which takes a bit of time! but practice makes perfect!], something i feel can be a really useful way of overcoming a tendency towards knee-jerk moralising reactions is to just vibe in the vicinity of people you know like the content you instinctively feel is gross.

this doesn't mean you have to read any of this content - but you'll learn just by hanging out near them that the people who do are just... normal. one minute they might reblog a rec for a pairing you think "absolutely not" about, the next they might reblog a cat picture which makes you squeal with delight. you'll like some of their content, but not all. you'll agree with some of it, but not all. you might like progressively more of it as you spend time in their orbit - maybe they'll explain why they like the pairing or character in question and you'll think "huh, i've never looked at it like that" - or you might not. this is absolutely fine.

all of us - at one time or other - have made a black-and-white moralising pronouncement: people who think x are gross; people who like y are fucked-up, you'd never catch me doing z. and these pronouncements are different from our wider, societally-influenced moral codes - which are good things, otherwise we'd live in the purge - in that they're fundamentally ways for us to feel good about ourselves and our families and our friends by defining ourselves as better than a faceless other. we say "you'd never catch me reading that, it's foul" when we know [or think we know] that the friend we're talking to would agree with the statement. we are far less likely to say it if we know that the friend - whom we see as a human being who is beautiful in their imperfection and inherently worthy of love simply by virtue of being alive - was reading and enjoying that just the other day.

and so the best way to train yourself out of reflexively moralising ships or characters or tropes is to put a face to the faceless other who likes them. be intentional in sharing a space with fans of the stuff you feel uncomfortable with and, eventually, it just becomes background noise. you'll scroll on tumblr, say "well there we are, jane's written some more of her sirius/harry piss kink fic - although i'm not interested in clicking on it" and go on with your day.

because the other thing i think it's really useful to do is to train yourself into reframing your disgust as disinterest. there are plenty of things which i don't seek out to read - and some of these topics are completely benign and some are darker [i don't enjoy reading explicit non-con, for example] - but this is because i try to frame it as that i don't think these things would interest me.

this is still the maintenance of a personal comfort zone, but thinking of the content outside this zone as something you are disinterested in turns it into something neutral. when you think of it as something to be disgusted or grossed out by, it naturally provokes a visceral response which makes you look through a moral lens. thinking in terms of disinterest, instead, gives you sufficient detachment from this visceral response to recognise, interrogate, contextualise, and control it.

and - in time - this neutral reframing may result in you feeling more interested in taking the plunge into the ships and characters and stories you currently don't vibe with, once you don't have an instinctive disgust response as a barrier.

or it may not. and this is absolutely fine.

[klbwriting]

Adventures In Atlantean-Sitting

Chapter 4

Fandom: Aquaman

Pairing: Ormxfemale!Reader

Warnings: none, this is just cute

Summary: Orm is being grumpy and YN has had enough

Arthur was going to lose his damn mind. The council just would not stop with the nagging. He often found himself seeking out reasons to stay in his quarters just in case he was around the palace grounds, and they found him. He hated the meetings, hated the appointments they made, hated everything about them at this point. It had barely been a week and they were acting like he was doing nothing. He had sent the search party like they asked, they found nothing, he went himself, brought images back from the surface showing him searching, nothing. Mera even intervened and informed them that her father had joined the search, and they still wouldn’t let up.

“Your majesty, if you would just let one of us go, we could cooperate your story…” Horvath said again. Arthur nearly growled.

“My story councilman?” he asked, voice a dangerous bass. The councilman straightened up and cleared his throat. “You all think that I want my crazy brother wandering around? My son is still there, on the surface. You know the one he kidnapped with Manta, tried to sacrifice to a crazy frozen warlord. If you think I would even for a moment risk my child to protect that worthless dick of a brother, you are all crazy.” The council murmured and he could see that his words were not holding their weight as much as they used too. Something was going on here and he needed to figure it out fast before the council did something he couldn’t control.

Orm had been the biggest baby the entire first week with YN. He stomped around, trying to avoid her, but it was a one room cottage, he couldn’t go very far. He tried multiple times to get rid of the cuff and more often than not spent time on the floor waiting for the tranq to get out of his system so he could walk again, or he was shocked and ended up having to deal with the pain for the day since his advanced healing no longer worked. He never realized how much a paper cut hurt until now, and he didn’t like it.

YN was trying, she really was, to make his stay with her comfortable. She let him have her bed, did his laundry, made him food, and he was being such a whiny grump about everything that she couldn’t take it anymore. She finally baked a batch of double chocolate chip cookies, knowing at least his sweet tooth wouldn’t be able to resist, and left them on the table. She went to the bathroom, watching through the crack of the door, waiting. Orm finally came out of the bedroom, saw the cookies and approached. He grabbed one and went to go back into the bedroom when she was suddenly blocking his way.

“Not so face Ormy, sit down,” she said, voice firm. Orm glared, looking for another escape, but every time he moved, she was able to keep up, blocking his path. God damn this bracelet. He needed his speed. Finally, he let out a resound grunt and sat at the table. He took another cookie to make him less annoyed. “Now, how about you stop being such a little…bitch…sorry, I can’t think of a better word, and start trying to make the best of this situation?” Orm stared at her. Not many people talked to him like this, were honest about his behavior. Arthur was the only one who normally called him out.

“Listen here…” he started, ready to release all his anger on her at once. However, she took a cookie and stuffed it in his mouth. He gagged, spitting it out and looking at her, too shocked to speak.

“No, I talk, you listen,” she said. He opened his mouth and closed it again, still not sure how to recover from her audacity. “Orm, we are stuck like this. Now I know you think you are just a ray of sunshine, and you can do no wrong and this is all so unfair, blah blah blah, and it is, BUT we have no choice right now. Someone is targeting you, trying to draw you out, trying to set you up, whatever you want to say. And Arthur is trying to protect you because he loves you, you are his little brother and despite how much of a dick you can be, he loves you and wants you safe. Right now, I am it. I will keep you safe. I will know where you are and I give you a place no one can find, so please, I am begging you, let’s try to make the best of it?” she finished. She sat back, taking a cookie for herself. Orm stared and looked down. She was right, he was being protected by Arthur even though he really didn’t deserve it. Arthur can say all he wanted that Orm had redeemed himself, but he hadn’t. He knew people had died because of him and he hadn’t done anything to really set that right on a larger scale. Just because he wasn’t trying to actively murder anyone didn’t mean he had fixed the mess he made before, hadn’t atoned for it. But Arthur hadn’t sent him back to prison, letting him have some time for himself and he was taking a chance on him, giving him more protection here. And YN was letting him invade her life, doing literally everything he needed and wanted, and he was acting like a selfish jerk. He sighed.

“I am sorry,” he said finally. “You’re right, I’ve been here pouting like a spoilt child. I’m serious this time, I will be better, treat you and this situation better.” YN smiled and Orm felt his heart warm. She really was great. So kind, and if he let her maybe they could be friends.

“Alright, well, if you’re ready to chill then maybe we can go out and I can show you some cool stuff about the surface world,” she said, trying to make a peace offering. Orm nodded.

“Sure, why not,” he said. YN smiled bigger and jumped up, seeming to bounce to the bedroom.

“Let me get ready,” she said. Orm waited while she changed and then switched places to match her level of dress. She wore leggings and a sweater dress so he put on his nicest jeans and a button down that Arthur had said he should have in case he wanted to go on a date and ‘seal the deal’. Orm had no idea what that meant but this felt like a date, maybe not romantic, but at least a friend date. Sure, we could go with that.

YN knew she wanted to do something casual with Orm, work him into the fun of the surface gently. She picked a movie followed by a diner. The movie was something with adventure and comedy, something hopefully safe that they both could enjoy. Orm seemed confused on what they were doing.

“We’re sitting here waiting for a show?” he asked, sitting in the padded seat next to her. She nodded.

“Yes, its kind of like a big TV,” she explained. He nodded, but still looked confused.

“Then why would someone pay for this? Couldn’t this be enjoyed at home?” he asked. YN felt a little thrill of pleasure when he called her place ‘home’ at least he was getting used to the place.

“It depends, some people would agree with you and that’s fine, and then some people just love the movies. Love how big it is, how all encompassing,” she explained. Orm smiled. She was in the latter group of people, movies were magic to her. The lights were dimming so he sat back and let himself get emersed in the experience, try to understand what she loved about it.

Orm loved the movie. Loved how close it felt, the sound, the lights, everything. He left the theater asking YN questions about how movies even happened. She answered his questions as best could, laughing when he tried to tell a joke. It was bad, but he tried and she seemed to like it. They were walking down the crowded street to their next destination, the diner, and she took his hand so they wouldn’t get separated. He didn’t let go even when they entered the diner and were seated. He sat there at the table still holding her hand and she didn’t seem to mind.

“Alright, I understand the pull of the movies, but this?” he asked, motioning around the diner. It was a little shabby, tears in the cheap vinyl of some of the stools by the counter, the lighting flickering the far corner. She just looked around and smiled.

“Just wait for the food, not everything that is good looks beautiful on the outside. Just like things that look beautiful can be bad,” she said. Orm eyed her.

“Is that a thinly veiled reference to me?” he asked. She didn’t look at him, instead glancing at the tableside jukebox that she explained played music. “Which am I? Am I the ugly one? I better not be the ugly one.”

“You’re not ugly,” she said softly, choosing a song to play. The gentle melody poured from the speakers and Orm liked it. “You’re beautiful, inside and out, when you’re not being a grumpy gus.”

[ghost-proofbaby]

“I think…” she trails off, trying to choose her words carefully, “I think we need to talk.”  His eyes crack open, an eyebrow lifted, “Perhaps I was wrong, and thinking is a good look on you.”  “If you’re going to make a joke out of everything I say, then I can easily go back to avoiding you.” “So you admit it? You were avoiding me?”  “I didn’t mean tha-”

summary: aruna finally confronts astarion about his vampirism. how badly could it go?

wc: 5.9k+

warnings: description of a dead animal (the boar from the game)

a/n: another one that's already been on ao3, but this means we're finally caught up across platforms! next chapter is the bite scene (and the bite scene only) my friends <3

ao3 | masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

Aruna avoids Astarion for a whole five days. Impressive, given the gravity he seems to hold that continues to draw her towards him. But a necessary feat – all she can hear, every day and every night, is the echo of his words. 

My dearest Aruna. 

Her hands are reaching for her letter more often than she’d care to admit, always fearing she’ll find her pack empty. She knows Astarion couldn’t have possibly written the letter, it’s become apparent that he’d never met her before this entire misadventure, but it was too startling to be a mere coincidence . If she were smarter, she’d take the time to figure out what it all meant. 

But she isn’t smart. She’s a fool, and she avoids the man that has begun to haunt her at every corner of her days.

She fills her waking hours to the brim with anything but the vampire. Reading, practicing magic, adventuring . She tries to ignore his mildly hurt expression any time she recruits companions to join her in her explorations and pointedly ignores going anywhere near him during the enlistment process. It’s as though he’s been plagued by something absolutely abhorrent to her, and she can’t possibly get far enough away from him in order to breathe. 

And so she does what she must. They come across an owlbear den, and the mother nearly mauls them all before Aruna diffuses the situation. They explore more of the Grove, only to end up in battle with Harpies in order to save a lured child. Aruna finds that she fights infinitely better without an Astarion around to worry about saving as well.

She just chooses to ignore the fact that every time she fights with her daggers, Astarion’s muffled voice is there, in the recedes of her mind, whispering instructions that are actually helpful. She knows it’s not the tadpole connection, but that’s all she does know. 

Some time during the entire ordeal, Astarion stops sleeping at her side by the fire at night. He must have returned to the Grove without her, because he’s suddenly the proud owner of a tent just like the one from her memory. A deep maroon, the fabric uncannily free of dust. She has no idea where he’s gathered all the trinkets and mundane items that litter both the porch of it and the inside that she catches glimpses of – she doesn’t even know when he set the damned thing up. There had simply been a morning in which she departed for the day with Wyll, Gale, and Shadowheart, and returned to Astarion lounging very comfortably right below the perch of her overlook. 

It felt a bit deliberate, given how much time she spent up there in the evenings. The bastard. 

Aruna’s terrible tactic only comes to a head when her group of vagabonds for the day stumbles upon the carcass of a drained boar, left behind in the dead center of the dirt path. 

The deja vu gives her a headache. 

Wyll brushes it off for the most part. Shadowheart seems intrigued, but after finding nothing seemingly intriguing about the dead animal, she’s already wandering off a few paces away. Gale is the only one even an inch within being as curious as Aruna is. 

If you could even call her curious.

“Why, that poor thing !” he exclaims just as Aruna has paused to take a knee, only to get a closer look. Just as she had expected, there’s no external clue to the boar’s cause of death, “Do you think this might be the doing of the goblins?” 

Aruna only sighs deeply, shoulders dropping and face crumpling microscopically. 

No, this is not the doing of goblins. This is the doing of a particularly annoying prick in my side who’s lounging back at camp. 

“Goblins would be messier,” is her poor attempt at an excuse. 

They would be, to be fair. 

Gale hums thoughtfully, crouching down beside her, “I suppose you’re right. I don’t even see any wounds on the ani-” 

He cuts off as his eyes zero in on the neck of the boar. The fur there has been smoothed and smooshed enough to lay in an exposing pattern, almost a clear view of the two small puncture wounds that mar the skin beneath. 

Astarion’s work, without a doubt. 

“Have you ever seen wounds like that?” she whispers quietly, hoping that Wyll and Shadowheart will continue whatever boring chat they were trying to engage each other with.

She doesn’t want them to notice this. It’s not that she doesn’t trust them, but- Well, she simply trusts Gale more.

There had been an empty space at her side left behind due to the absence of Astarion. And Gale had easily taken to filling it in, stepping right into stride with Aruna just as her shadow once had. 

After the Harpies, he had opened up to her some. She’d nearly snipped at the young tiefling child at the beach, but something deep within her couldn’t bring herself to be so cruel as her initial reaction had been. Instead of telling the kid to stop crying in such a callous way, she’d only found herself warning him to be careful and to be more mindful of where he wandered. Gale had been at her side not a moment later, murmuring in delightful reminiscence of how he was as a young and curious child. 

It was sort of endearing. Almost familiar. Not quite what she felt with Astarion, but close enough for now. 

“Never,” he looks dumbfounded. She wonders just how often he’s come up this clueless in his life, given all his prattling about knowledge , “But… well, rather peculiar indeed.” 

“Peculiar is one word for it.” 

Gale is quickest to agree when Aruna suggests they go back to camp. The day had mostly been wasted at this point regardless; the only thing they’d discovered thus far that was of any interest was a crumbling temple of sorts not far from their camp, right beside the beach in which they’d crash landed on. But they had found people there, other looters, and Aruna hadn’t hesitated to call her group to fall back the moment she spotted the figures arguing in the decaying courtyard. 

They don’t need to know why she’s so eager to return back to camp. Or the absolute reaming she plans their entire trek back for a certain companion. 

Astarion was either being deliberately dense and playing with fire, waiting for someone to catch on and call him out on his true nature, or- 

Well. He was just truly that reckless. 

Aruna storms back into the camp, the rest close behind and nearly nipping at her heels, to find Astarion perfectly at peace as he sits in front of his tent. At first, she thinks he’s simply reading. She can see the book opened up in his lap clearly, but his finger isn’t trailing along the words as he usually would. His head is far too tilted back to even be looking at the pages. 

She stops dead in her tracks, dust kicking up from the abrupt halting of her steps, the moment she rounds his tent and sees him properly. 

Her anger fizzles momentarily at the sight. All the harsh words she was prepared to spit at him, the ravings of his idiocracy and the grand reveal of her knowing his most sacred secret, are lost to the wind. 

He looks peaceful . Perfectly, absolutely, at peace. 

Eyes fluttered shut, mouth slack, skin bright in the warm afternoon sun. He’s basking in it. She swears every pale inch of him has begun to glow golden as he absorbs all the heat the sky has to offer. 

“Have you finally decided you’re ready to speak to me again, or are you just here for a show?” 

His voice snaps her from the trance. For just a second, it felt as though the radiant glow of his peace had dispelled every single one of her shadows from existence. But the echo of his words across the otherwise quiet camp reminds her of all her frustrations. 

My dearest Aruna. 

He’s a vampire. She has to save him. And somehow, he mysteriously has addressed her just as her bizarre letter had. It matter of fact sparks new found anger. 

But not at him. It’s the strangest of realizations; none of her negative feelings are capable of being pointed towards him in this state. That golden glow gives him an innocence she had forgotten. She may know new information, she may have some sort of begrudging upper hand on their entire situation it seems, but he doesn’t. Astarion is simply surviving – the boar wasn’t some direct taunt from him. Probably nothing more than a small slip up in the process of keeping himself alive and well. 

He had to feed. She couldn’t get angry at him for that. 

“I think…” she trails off, trying to choose her words carefully, “I think we need to talk.” 

His eyes crack open, an eyebrow lifted, “Perhaps I was wrong, and thinking is a good look on you.” 

“If you’re going to make a joke out of everything I say, then I can easily go back to avoiding you.”

“So you admit it? You were avoiding me?” 

“I didn’t mean tha-”

Gale interrupts them as he strolls up beside Aruna. He’s not quite a shadow, not quite as reflexive or secure as Astarion, but he nearly fits the mold left behind. “Perhaps Astarion might know more of what we found in our travels today.” 

That catches the vampire’s attention. He displays upmost lithe as he quickly widens both eyes and brings himself to his feet, unashamed in his eagerness at the prospect. 

The prospect of being useful again. The prospect of Aruna needing him again. 

“Oh?” he asks, eyes darting between the wizard and sorcerer, “Pray tell – what did you morons find?” 

Aruna is scowling when she replies, “A boar.”

He’s waiting for her to continue on. An act that’s working well enough on Gale, but Aruna catches the sudden stiffness of his spine. 

“When you put it that way, it’s as if you want him to turn up his nose at helping us,” Gale mutters, entirely unimpressed. “It was a dead boar, but without any clear wounds. I- Well, I have my guesses as to what might have killed the poor animal, but-” 

“It had peculiar marks on its neck,” Aruna finishes before he can start up a ramble.

Astarion is growing more tense with every passing moment. 

“ Peculiar marks? ” he nearly scoffs, “And you think I’d be of any help regarding them why? ” 

“Because you’re helpful,” Aruna deadpans, leveling him with a bored stare. It takes everything in her to assure that she doesn’t clue him in to the fact that she knows he was the one who killed that boar, that those marks were a bite left by his fangs, “Or at least you’ve proven you can be when you want to be.”

Maybe her faux boredom can be what lures him in. Perhaps the new approach can work in her favor. 

“And what if I’m not feeling particularly helpful today?” he grins softly, tilting his head at her. The action is almost feline in nature, “I was quite enjoying relaxing here while the rest of you run around aimlessly, doing all the hard work.”

“That was quite the contradictory statement to your earlier sentiment,” she muses, struggling to keep her amusement from lacing up into her words. She hated that she liked playing these games with him. She hated that his taunts lit something deep within her. A whisper of come play with me, a need to dance along to the tune that he believed himself to be conducting, “Are we being useless, or are we doing hard work? Pick one or the other. As a matter of fact, you can ponder on it as you join me to go take a second look at this boar.” 

Alone. An unspoken clause. She was going to get him alone and far from camp, and then she could confront him. 

“A second look?” his eyebrows quirk, eyes darting to the horizon, “But the sun is sett-”

She cuts him off, “We’ll be fine. Besides, if we run into any trouble, you’ll protect me – right?” 

Gale is biting back his laughter as Astarion’s face falls, eyes narrowing into slits. But he doesn’t protest, much to Aruna’s chagrin. He only spins and ducks into his tent, returning with his own daggers in hand. In the flash of a glimpse she catches before he’s secured them into his holsters, Aruna swears they could pass for her own. Same length, same silver blade, same black leather wrapped around the hilt. 

“If we get into any trouble, I’ll leave you to the wolves,” he remarks as he steps up in front of her. Gale falls back, as if Astarion’s mere presence pushes him out of Aruna’s space, making room for the rightful shadow to return to her. 

Aruna rolls her eyes, and turns to look at Gale, “Don’t let camp burn down while we’re gone.”

“Won’t be too much trouble,” he still fights a grin, eyes darting between Aruna and Astarion, “Seeing as our natural-born troublemakers will be out. I should be warning you against causing any chaos or arson.” 

“No promises.”

Gale sighs, “Of course not. I forget who I’m speaking to.”

It feels right. It feels natural for Astarion to fall into step with her. To turn her back on the camp, and know that he is right there, a hairline fracture behind her and ready for anything that may interrupt their travels. She feels safer this way, she realizes, to hear the lack of twigs snapping behind her or gravel crunching as she paces the path that leads them from the camp and back out into the wilderness. Neither hers nor Astarion’s gear so much as clang a single metallic ring as they thread their way through the trees, both silent as ever as Aruna retraces her steps back to the boar. No complaining from Shadowheart, no nervous rambling from Gale, no tchs from Lae’zel. 

They make a good team, as painful as it may be to admit. 

“Your stealth has improved in the days you’ve been ignoring me,” Astarion notes as they break through the treeline not far from the entrance to the grove, “Manage to loot a new pair of boots in your misadventures?” 

“Nope,” she looks down at the same worn boots she’d been donning since waking up on the beach, “Although, now that you mention it, I could surely use a new pair.” 

“Are you sure you have enough gold for a new pair?”

She slows until Astarion falls into a leisurely pace at her side, no longer trailing behind her, “Who needs gold if I have a rogue to conveniently snag me a pair from one of the traders at the grove?” 

He nearly trips over himself as he side eyes her. Immediately, she knows she had gotten her guess correctly – he was clearly a rogue, and the night she had spent skimming through the book on the class was decidedly not a waste. 

“So you’ve figured out my class. Impressive .” 

“It wasn’t hard. You do love feeding into stereotypes, don’t you?” 

“Me? Being stereotypical?” Astarion scoffs, raising a theatrical hand, holding over his chest, “Darling, I’m hurt. I’ll have you know I’m absolutely one of a kind.” 

She rolls her eyes despite her best efforts, “Right. Of course. You must be unique to be such a sharp pain in my ass.” 

“Full of fire today, are we, my dearest sorcerer?” 

It’s not quite the phrase from the letter. One word short, and yet it still stirs something in her. Triggering the exact thing she had been battling and trying to bury deep down the past five days. 

My dearest Aruna. 

If she looks close enough, she swears she can see the endless pathways of wires and threads alike between them, all crossing and knotting past the point of being detangled. There’s too much she doesn’t know; there’s too much she does know. Like how he’s a vampire. He’s a vampire, and for some reason, it doesn’t do anything to deflate her trust in him. As a matter of fact, his usage of that familiar nickname atop the heading of the letter in her pack strikes more wariness in her than his condition ever could. 

But it doesn’t change the fact that she needs to confront him now that they’re alone.

She’s saved by the boar, it seems, as they finally stumble upon the carcass. It’s right where she had left it not even an hour prior. Still in the center of the pathway, still dead as ever. And still marked with those two fang-sized holes in what would be considered its neck. 

“Is this it?” Astarion raises a brow, stopping a few steps short of the carrion, “This is the treacherous boar that Gale was rambling on about?” 

Her throat threatens to close up from her swelling anxiety, “Look at its neck.” 

Astarion is soundless, both in voice and movement, as he crouches down. She quickly realizes that his eyes were already glued to the suspicious wounds before she’d even pointed them out, already locked into the location before he had been anywhere near close enough to properly spot them. 

For all she could rave about how sly and stealthy he can be, he certainly has his moments.

Did he ever plan to tell them? The admission would surely put him in danger. If she were in his shoes, she’d probably have been counting her days until a stake was aimed her way, always living with the fear of her deepest secret being exposed. He doesn’t know that she already knows. He has no idea that she’s already decided he’s worth the risk, and that his vampirism is just something to deal with. Just like her memory loss, just like Wyll’s heroism. It was a small thing to categorize rather than worry over. And yet, she knows – he never planned to tell them. 

It’s practically written in stone as he tsks from his crouch and glances up at her, “I see. Looks like something bit the poor thing.”

“Something did more than simply bite it,” she argues, pushing her luck and desperately trying to make him say the words aloud, “It’s been drained completely of its blood, Astarion. Doesn’t that worry you?” 

It does, and for all the reasons not implicated. She sees the flash of fear, the dredging up of anxiety. She’s yanking him from his shadows of safety, one push at a time. 

“How do you know it’s been drained of all its blood? Have you even checked?” 

“It’s dead, and there’s not a drop of scarlet to be seen.” 

“Maybe it was killed with magic.” 

“Or maybe it was killed by a vampire .” 

Time stands still as she says the cursed word. It’s out in the air between them now, impossible to take back. She hadn’t even meant to spit it out so ferociously; it had simply slipped out as her heart rate picked up as she began her confrontation, knowing exactly what she was about to get herself into-

Could he sense her heart racing? He was a vampire, after all. He must be able to hear her pulse. He must. 

He’s staring up at her, dumbfounded, clearly choosing his next words carefully. All she can do is lose herself, bit by bit, crack by crack, in those scarlet eyes. 

“You think a vampire is roaming these lands?” his tone has gone hushed, and she must admit – he’s a decent actor when he gives it his best effort, “I… Well, that certainly changes quite a few things.” 

Like what? she nearly snaps at him, Like whether we all can sleep peacefully in our camp at night, knowing the vampire was settled into a tent mere feet away? 

“I do,” she chokes out over her nerves. He was certainly going to lash out, or run in fear. Her entire purpose since leaving that ship is about to be shattered, left in complete shambles as she fails the one thing she knows as her purpose, “There must be. Nothing else would have killed the boar this way.” 

He rises slowly, eyes never leaving hers. He’s tense – just as tense as his neck and shoulders had been the night he’d humored her guessing of his class. Stoic and petrified. “And… what do you plan to do about this revelation? It’s not as though we can… hunt the fool. He surely can’t travel in the daylight, and we rest at nigh-”

She’s quick to catch his slip up.

“Who ever said the vampire was a man, Astarion?”

His entire face drops, the mask evaporating and in its place, a rampant fear spreads. She can see him making his choice in real time, grasping at the formulations of any plan or save he can manage. The excuses are nearly tangible on his tongue. 

“Well-”

His voice is lost in the breeze as she turns slowly, facing him head on, “And why do you assume I’d want to hunt him?” 

He’s trying to play it off, pitifully so. His hands are dancing out in front of him, arms slinging wildly before words have even begun to slip from his mouth.

“Well- I-” it’s the first time she’s ever heard him stutter, she realizes, “It’s a vampire , darling. A wild beast of the night. A vicious and violent creature. Why wouldn’t you want to hunt it down before it caused any more grief?” 

If she didn’t know, it’d be the performance of a lifetime. But she knows, and it strikes a terrible pang of sadness deep within her. He believes what he’s saying – he truly believes vampires to be something vial, something dangerous, something violent. He believes himself to be all of those things. He sees himself as something vicious, as something cursed to creep through the night and leave a trail of bloodshed in his wake. A thing so terrible that he deserves the stake he expects she would drive through his heart if he admitted the truth. 

He is annoying. He is exasperating. He is finicky. He calls for trouble to follow him more closely than his own shadow, it seems. He is all of those things, but he is not what he currently describes to Aruna. Not to her. 

“A vampire is an undead creature,” she recites from memory. She’d snagged a book on vampires from Gale’s piles, as well. “Undead. Something, someone, once living. I don’t make a business of hunting, in case I haven’t made myself clear in the time we’ve spent traveling together.” 

“We’re hunting that devil of Wyll’s,” he’s quick to point out.

“Wyll is hunting the devil, and I’ve simply offered minimal aid in exchange for his help in protecting us.”

Because I’m not enough. Because I can’t protect this group given my current state. And I highly doubt I ever could to begin with. 

There are unspoken words drifting into nothing more than smoke and mirrors between them. She nearly reignites the tadpole’s connection just so he gets it . Her tongue nearly slips and simply blurts out that she knows, if for nothing more than to rip the bandaid off and make it clear she doesn’t see a monster when she looks at him. She sees an ally, a valuable member of their little trope. She sees someone worth keeping around. For better or for worse. 

The nerves have died down now. The vinery of it all has slowly disengaged, no longer wrapped terribly around her throat or limbs. She chooses to finally crouch back down beside the boar, the source of this entire exchange, and let her fingers glide over the bite mark slowly. The fur lays flat beneath her touch easily. 

She has nothing to lose. The only one between the two of them that has anything to lose in what she’s about to reveal is Astarion.

“I know,” she hoarsely whispers, staring down at the mostly healed wound on the animal. Nothing more than pin-prick scars, now. 

“Excuse me?”

She clears her throat, taking a deep gulp of air for bravery, “I know about your condition. And I already knew a vampire had killed this boar. I didn’t need your expert opinion on the manner – I needed to get you alone.” 

Really, she could have phrased it better.

He’s on the defensive immediately, taking two large steps backwards as he stares down at her, “What do you mean my condition?” 

She finally tears her gaze from the boar to look at him as earnestly as she can offer, knees threatening to cry out in pain as she lifts herself back up slowly. It’s hard to imagine Astarion being scared of her – he has an advantage of height, he has an advantage of skill, he has the advantage of speed. He is more than physically capable of fighting her off if she were to attack him. And yet he’s still scared . 

“You’re a vampire.”

There’s no taking back the words once she said them. She expected a weight to lift once she spoke them outloud, but the look on Astarion’s face weighs heavier than the knowledge ever did. 

“You think I’m-”

“I don’t think you are,” she corrects, “I know you are. And stop reaching for your dagger, because I’m not going to hurt you. I’ve known for a while. If I was going to do anything about it, I already would have.” 

Astarion is a vampire, and Aruna is part-drow. Two creatures of the night, two keeper of the shadows, face to face. Two sides of the same damn coin . 

His chest heaves, likely out of habit, as he stares her down. He’s waiting for her next move, her next word. His eyes wearily watch as though he might be able to predict such, even if only a moment before it happens. All he would need is a second – he is a vampire, after all. 

“When?” 

She raises an eyebrow, “When what?” 

“When did you figure it out?” 

He takes another step back, and she pretends not to notice. 

“I just… did,” she pathetically lies. In all fairness, once she knew, she did realize that he hadn’t been the most subtle about it all, “You’ve got fangs, you’re always leaving camp in the night, you never eat. Shall I go on?”

He’s fairly quick to shake his head, “Those things don’t mean I’m a vampire.”

“But you are, aren’t you?” 

She’s almost giving him out. If he really wants to lie, now is his chance. He can deny, he can lie, he can ferociously dispel all her claims. And if he does, this can simply stay a secret between the two of them.

Her knowing, and him knowing that she knows. 

His hand still twitches by the handle of his dagger, “And… if I am? Then what?” 

“Then I tell you to be more discreet, and stop leaving your leftovers-” she pauses, kicking the boar at her feet ever so gently, “-out for others to find out. Just because I’m not in the business of hunting vampires doesn’t mean others share the sentiment.” 

She doesn’t even know how everyone back at camp would react. But she knows that if he comes clean, if he simply says the magic words, she’ll defend him. An objectively stupid choice, but the hill she has chosen to die on all the same. Since the day she awoke on the beach, she has known one thing; save Astarion, no matter the cost. 

Perhaps this is what the letter meant. 

Maybe something happened from that time she has caught glimpses of in her memory she recovered, and it all links back to this pivotal moment. Even though it doesn’t make much sense given the fact she already knew he was a vampire in the memory, he had spoken freely about it and she’d even let him drink from her, it’s something to cling to. A comforting blanket of reassurance that she’s making the right choice. 

He bites down on his lip in contemplation, and the tip of one of his fangs catches in the sunlight. It ignites the urge within her to keep speaking, to keep reassuring .

“It’s the same as the way Gale is a prideful wizard, or Lae’zel is a blood-thirsty githyanki, or I am apparently part drow. It doesn’t change anything, Astarion. I just… I’d like to know I’m not crazy.” 

When he stays silent, still several paces between the two of them, she decides to try one last tactic. 

Her tadpole squirms, almost in defiance, as she focuses her outreach to him. It’s not just to open a line of communication. This time, she has a far different goal in mind. She’s doing far more than just making snide remarks back and forth – she’s opening her mind to him. Inviting him in, beckoning across the ocean between them for him to see that she means no harm. 

She only knows that he’s felt the invitation when that same warm pressure of his presence within her mind washes over her, down her cerebral and along her spine. 

It’s all hesitant pokes and prods, uncertain wiggles as his face scrunches in simultaneous concentration and shock. She’s completely forgotten her memory that she had meant to hold sacred, has forgotten all the secrets she was drowning beneath the weight of. She trusts him; she knows he won’t go further than necessary, not with so much currently on the line. 

And even if he does, she’s decided he’s worth the risk. There are far worse choices to offer exposure of her secrets to. 

“You…” he whispers, eyes pinching shut and mouth twisting as she feels him dig deeper, “You’ve known. Hells, you- you’re not lying, are you?” 

Not at all, she calls out over the connection rather than out loud. 

His eyes snap back open. You’ve known, and you haven’t tried to stake me. 

You said you would have preferred decapitation, if I’m not mistaken. 

His laugh slips out in real time, and she can tell he hadn’t meant to the guffaw to ring out loud. But it does; it falls from his lips and echoes in the space around them. Pitched high with his shock, and cut short with realization. 

“Is this why you’ve been avoiding me?” his tone is soft, as hesitant as all his prodding within her mind. She was right, though, as she feels his presence begin to retreat – he didn’t go further than necessary. 

“Partially,” she shrugs, daring to step closer to him and diminish some of the physical distance, “And partially just because you seem to enjoy being a royal pain in my ass.” 

“I saved you, if I recall correctly.” 

“I thought you were still in the business of denying responsibility for my survival?” 

His mouth snaps shut, but he doesn’t even flinch as she takes another timid step forward. Baby steps. He’s not turning heel and running away from her. He knows that she knows, and he’s still here. 

Save Astarion. For the first time their entire journey, it almost feels possible. 

“I may have been… slightly responsible for it,” he secedes, eyeing her warily. 

She hums, looking deeply within his carmine eyes. There’s a flame of trust that flickers beneath the surface that had not been there moments before. Not even when they’d spoken in their private moments. No, it’s something new, something warm . A door unlocked from this entire revelation. 

“I wasn’t lying before. Vampires are dangerous,” he reminds her suddenly as she’s managed to sneak her way to nearly be toe-to-toe with him, “I could kill you as easily as I saved you. You are aware of that, yes?” 

“I am.”

“I’m the one who killed that boar.”

“I’d hope so. I have enough trouble keeping up with one vampire, let alone two.”

His face twitches as she says it, nose scrunching slightly as he unexpectedly corrects her, “I’m merely a spawn, not a true vampire. Still dangerous but… The devil’s in the details, I suppose.” 

That she did not know. He watches her reaction in real time, and clearly mistakes all her curiosity for shock. Or maybe fear. Maybe he’s still waiting for the other shoe drop, she realizes. 

“It means I’m less powerful,” he vomits out quickly, holding both hands up, palms facing her, “I swear-”

She breathlessly laughs, reaching up and grabbing his wrists, yanking until his hands are back to being limp as his sides, “I gathered that much, Astarion. I just haven’t heard the terms before. Brain full of holes, remember?” 

His entire body relaxes slowly, shoulders slumping as he looks as though he has to fight rolling his eyes at her, “Ah, yes. Pardon my forgetfulness. I suppose this means you’ll be wanting a full history lesson on vampires, then? When we return to camp?” 

It would certainly help. She can’t deny the way her curiosity burns and gnaws at her insides, desperate for more knowledge, especially when it concerns him. She could push him to his precipice, force him to exhume all that he is to her as soon as possible. That selfish and ravenous hunger would certainly be delighted. But she can also see all his hesitancy and discomfort with the topic. And for some unknown reason, her heart has no desire to corner him in that way. 

“You don’t have to,” she tells him quietly, finally shuffling back an inch and giving him space, “I’d like to know more, of course, but only whenever you’re ready to tell me.” 

She means it. Gods, she truly means it, even if the unknown infuriates her to no end. 

His lips crack into a lopsided grin, “How… sweet of you. I fear it’ll never be something I’m particularly eager to indulge in, though. The sooner we get it over with, the better.” 

She remembers the ache from the memory. The sharp pain, the stabbing twist at his words. 

Nothing good. Nothing good awaits him back in Baldur’s Gate. 

For all that Aruna wishes to learn more about Astarion, she also fears that it might mean finding out exactly what that nothing good might be. And she’s unsure if her heart, if her soul cleaved in two, will be able to handle the information once more. 

“Just tell me when,” she forces herself to say steadily, holding his gaze. Nothing good. Nothing good waits for him. Nothing good. “And I’m all ears, my dearest Astarion.” 

Something about her own version of the endearment echoed back in his direction leaves an ashen taste on her tongue. 

He must taste it as well, as he cringes slightly. “Perhaps leave the flowery endearments to the professionals, my friend.” 

It nearly goes over her head. Nearly the entire walk back to camp, she’s in ignorant bliss. But once she picks up on it, somewhere between Astarion’s grand tale of the night in which he’d hunted down the boar and him scolding her clumsiness as she bumps into yet another tree branch, she revels in the soft whisper of it. 

He called her his friend . Something he has already claimed to have never experienced, and yet he’s bestowed the honor upon her . 

It’s almost soft enough to override the pestering twisting of her gut regarding the mystery that remains the letter in her pack. Almost. 

taglist: @emmaisgonnacry @writinginthetwilight @moonmunson @generalstephkenobi @notthisagainpls

if you'd like to join the taglist, simply let me know <3

[eskawrites]

2. i fucked up

All it takes is one mistake. One.

Nancy tells her that all the time, repeats it again and again as she scolds them all for improper gun care, or untied laces, or a joke told at the wrong moment on patrol. One mistake, and it's over, she says. One wrong move, and you're done. And you never know when it's coming.

It's not that Robin didn't listen. She hangs on to Nancy's every word with complete and utter reverence. But sometimes a mistake is just that: a mistake. Like conjugating a verb wrong because she isn't thinking. Like faltering on a high note because she forgot to breathe at the right time.

Like turning left instead of right to avoid the crack in the road that's claimed most of Smith Street. Like looking over her shoulder to make sure the wind howling in the trees behind her really is just the wind. Like not looking forward again to see the vines stretching across the road until the front wheel of her bike runs over them.

The screeching is immediate, violent, and entirely too close. Robin know even before she pours all her energy into pedaling harder that it's over. This is her one mistake. She's done.

She tries anyway.

Stupid, she scolds herself. Nancy wouldn't have been so careless. Steve wouldn't have been so jumpy as to turn and look over his shoulders. Even the kids would have been better off, paired together and watching each other's backs to make sure none of them messed up the way she has now.

But Nancy and Steve and the kids aren't here. They're across town, doing their own sweeps, avoiding their own mistakes for fear of how angry Nancy would be if they mess up and risk their lives.

Robin laughs, short and breathless and hysterical, probably. She hears the hair-rising cry of a demodog a split second before something catches her back wheel, sending her wobbling toward the curb.

Nancy will be absolutely livid. She'll curse Robin's name, call her stupid and reckless. She'll never forgive Robin for this. But even worse, she'll never forgive herself.

Robin jumps off her bike before she can completely crash into the curb. She lets her momentum carry her into a run, if only to give her time to draw the machete from her hip. If nothing else, she has to at least put up a fight. Nancy has to know she tried.

It's just demodogs, she sees as she stops, turns, and swings at the nearest one. But it's still too many of them. It's still a mistake she won't get away with.

She cuts through the leg of one just before another jumps up and slams into her, claws sinking into her ribs. She digs her blade into its body and pries it off as another wraps its petal-like head around her other arm, tearing into her flesh.

Robin fights as best she can. She makes mistakes, but so do they. Somehow, when the last one falls, she's still breathing, even if her legs give out the second she realizes it's over.

It's over, surely. But her backpack is within reach, torn and bloodied on the grass but close enough for her to wrap her fingers around a strap and drag it to her. And she has the strength left to dig through it until her hands wrap around the walkie Dustin had given her at the beginning of the night.

And she has enough breath left in her lungs to bring it to her mouth and say, "Nancy."

A moment passes, quiet and painful and long, so long. But then she hears Nancy's voice on the other end.

"Robin? What is it?"

Robin laughs again. The gashes across her ribs burn.

"I fucked up."

She means to say more, she really does, but her thumb slips off the button and she can't find the energy to try again. It doesn't matter. Nancy's response is immediate now, sharp and focused and tinged with a panic that makes Robin's heart sting more than any demodog wound.

"What do you mean? What happened? Where are you?"

Robin looks around herself. "Not sure. I-I was on Smith Street."

"You're not anymore?"

"Hit a vine. Had to run." She closes her eyes. "I'm so sorry, Nance. I should've been more careful."

The radio is quiet for another moment, but it doesn't matter. Robin can picture the way Nancy closes her own eyes, forces in a breath, fights hard for composure. Wins, barely.

"I'm not far," she says, voice almost steady. "I'm on my way, I'll be there soon, okay?"

"Nancy." It's all Robin says. It's the only thing that matters, really.

"Just hold on, Robs, okay?"

"Nance."

No answer. Nancy was on foot, always preferring to move slowly with her gun in her hands than move faster on a bike without it. Maybe she's close. Maybe she's just saying that. Robin isn't sure it matters.

Someone else is on the walkie now, repeating Nancy's instruction to just hold on. Robin hears something about Hopper heading toward them with his truck, something about getting to a hospital, something about please and it'll be okay and answer us, Robin, let us know you're still there.

But Robin doesn't respond. She listens, and she tries to hold on like they tell her to. But she saves her words just in case she only has so many left, just in case the person who she actually wants to say them to shows up in time.

"Nancy," she says, unsure if her thumb is still pressing in on the walkie, unsure if the hurried footsteps she hears are real or not. "M'sorry."

"No." Nancy's voice, real or not, close to her ear. Nancy's hands, real or not, pressing against her. "No, don't do this to me."

Nancy's face, angel or not, hovering over her, silhouetted by bright light. Maybe it means something. Or maybe it has to do with the thud she hears in the distance, and the gruff voice joining Nancy's increasingly frantic orders.

"Hey." Nancy's hand on her face. Robin blinks up at her and decides it's real. She hopes it's real. "Look at me, Robs. You stay with me now, okay? Stay with me."

"I'm sorry," she whispers again. She sees tears in Nancy's eyes, and she hopes that part isn't real. "I made a mistake. I'm sorry."

"It's okay." Nancy leans forward and presses her forehead against Robin's. "Just hold on now, okay? That's all you need to do."

Robin closes her eyes. She feels someone else nearby, but before she can think too much about it, Nancy's hand slips into hers, fingers squeezing vice-like around her own. Robin squeezes back, because Nancy told her to. Because she's already messed up so much tonight, but she can follow this one command.

She holds on, even when she feels someone pick her up and move her, even when everything becomes too bright and too loud and too painful. She focuses on Nancy's hand in her own, and she hopes with everything she has that it's enough.

[002yb]

Hurt and comfort is the best, what about Jason finding out what Mirage and Tarantula did to Dick?

When they run into each other, it’s clear that they’re both thinking:  This is the worst.

It absolutely is, too.  Who the fuck wants to run into someone they know outside of a support group for male survivors of sexual assault?  It’s already hell dragging himself here.  Jason doesn’t doubt that everyone has their suspicions about him, but it’s a personal and vulnerable thing he never wanted to share and–wait.

Dick is here.  

Just like Jason.

The realization knocks the wind out of him in such a violent way that Jason can’t breathe for a moment.  Something must show in Jason’s face and he feels terrible about it–how Dick tries to placate him and dismiss everything.  Jason is the wrong person to pull that shit with though because he gets it.  An entire life later and Jason still gets it.

So Jason placates.  Unintentionally mirroring Dick with open, raised hands and–shit.  This really is the worst.  Jason doesn’t know what to say.  He doesn’t know what to do.  He’s helped countless people in the alley with this shit, but now that it’s someone Jason knows he feels overwhelmed and helpless.

Somehow they end up at a diner.  There’s no panic, just wild discomfort as they sit across from each other in a tucked away booth.  Jason doesn’t ask for details or confirmation about his suspicions.  Neither does Dick.  Jason is still working through all sorts of emotions though:  confusion, denial, anger.  Anything to avoid the compassion he feels that breaks his fucking heart.  Dick and he have their grief with each other, but Dick is a good man.  He’s so damn good, so this?  This is too much.  It’s needlessly cruel.  It’s the universe screaming to the world that nothing is safe or sacred and Jason hates it.

What does he do?  What can he do?  Jason wants to know who it was so that Jason can retaliate somehow.  He’s sure Dick wouldn’t appreciate a duffel with their head, but...no.  Jason wouldn’t draw needless attention to Dick like that .  Still, he wants to know who.  When was it?  Was Jason around?  Should he have noticed and didn’t?  Could he have done something?

Jason shakes his head at his spiraling thoughts.  This isn’t about him.  He’s so damn angry about it though.  Jason feels like he could fight the world right now, burn it to ash and cinders.  He could scream and cry because Jason was one thing, but Dick is another and–

“Hey.” Dick’s voice cuts through Jason’s thoughts and steals his attention.  He raises his head and sees Dick watching him with a ghost of a smile on his lips.  While Jason had been processing, running through the full spectrum of rage and grief, Dick had just been quietly observing him feel all the feelings.

Jason scowls a bit, embarrassed and not at the same time, “What?”

“I’m okay.” Dick tells him.

Jason’s scowl deepens as he looks at Dick with disbelief.  It makes Dick laugh a bit.

“Honest.” He tells Jason, arms rested on the table.  Fidgeting. “I’m doing a lot better.”

Again, Jason finds himself mirroring Dick.  Arms on the table, fingers fidgeting.  Picking at his nails, the broken skin around them.  He takes a steadying breath and focuses on the facts:  Dick was at a support group.  He was getting himself help in a way that was comfortable for him, same as Jason.

“Is there anything I can do?” Jason asks, heart heavy and voice a little raw for it.

Dick shakes his head.  It’s a personal thing.  Jason understands that more than anyone.  It’s vulnerable and awful and sometimes it’s just not something you want to share.  A hurt kept close to the chest because it’s terrible and miserable and it takes time to cope with it.  Jason would know.

It’s tentative, but he reaches out.  Pinky hooking over Dick’s and just–holding on.  It stops Dick from picking his nails bloody–agitated and stressed although he hides it well.  Dick curls his pinky, in turn.  A stronger hold.  A grounding support.  He offers Jason a small smile and Jason takes it for the quiet gratitude it is.

“How long have you been going?” Dick asks, almost conversational despite the subject.

“Few years.  Only sometimes.” Jason admits.

“Good.” Dick breathes, shoulders relaxing a fraction.  The reaction makes Jason realize that Dick–he must have been stressed over Jason, too.  He’s that sort of guy.  Still, Jason says, “I’m okay, too.  Better.  Most of the time.”

Dick sighs, so relieved it’s palpable and it might break Jason’s heart again.

“It sucks.” Dick breathes, lost in thought.  It’s a simplified way of putting it, but how else can someone possibly express the betrayal and the pain and violation without screaming themselves raw, without being forced to be vulnerable and exposed all over again?

“Yeah,” Jason agrees, just as breathless. “Yeah, it does.”

------ Thank you for the prompt~ ngl not too familiar with this portion of canon (morso than every other portion of canon ahahah OTL); all I really know is that it happened and I'm distraught over it. ;n;

[pokemon-ash-aus]

Indigo’s kids are stinkin’ adorable!

Could we have more facts about them?

Ahhhhhh i wanted to draw this but my motives TANKED so here are some itty bitty facts about all the kiddos!

Coral- Togepi Fusion (He/him)

-Middle Child! He was the 2nd one out of the shell and the second one to open his eyes!

-Biggest of the trio! Slightly larger than average in comparison but huge against his siblings.

- Anxiety, He's picked up on his father's danger sense, but because he's a Togepi fusion it doesnt work properly. As a Togekiss he gets a better handle on it.

- Constantly afraid he's doing something wrong, even if he ISNT doing anything wrong.

- Perfectionist, if one thing is out of place and he cant fix it, he will flop onto the floor and cry.

-An absolute Daddy's boy. All three of his dad's are very aware that he needs a lot of attention and love, and if something goes wrong, Coral is the snitch (anxiety helps them, not so much Coral)

-Indigo's nickname for him is Coco because "You're so sweet baby." and Coco wears it like a medal.

Rose, Happiny Fusion (He/They)

-The Baby of the trio! Can't get away with anything even if he is the youngest.

- Has constant nightmares, it's his premonition senses going off but warped beyond recognition. He never gets a handle on this, but his nightmares slow down.

-Can't sleep alone. Even as a fully grown Blissey. He wanrs to sleep wih Dad and no one is gonna stop him!

- Has no sense of taste. Constantly eating everything and anything he can get his hands on.

-Is the most romantically inclined of his siblings, but uses this force to try and match his siblings up with others as they grow.

-Is also the only one that can take hits like a tank. He's not good at dishing out pain but that's okay cause his siblings take that over.

-They also know the most healing moves of the entire family, surpassing even Indigo whose a paranoid nut.

-A little gremlin through and through, constantly causing trouble because no one would ever believe its him (too bad his older brother is a SNITCH)

-Has once trapped both his siblings in a box because he was mad.

-Rose's nickname is Rosebud because they will ALWAYS be Indigo's baby. Even when he's fully grown.

Punch, Buneary Fusion - (They/them)

-Punch is the oldest. First out and ifrst to open his eyes.

-Baby is the fluffiest of his family and needs to be sheared to avoid getting overheated. Indigo uses the wool to knit sweaters and toys for the kids. Punch is always so happy.

-They're also the one that takes pkaytime waaaaay too seriously.

-Indigo once handed them a buneary plush and Punch froze.

"What's the matter Pun?"

"Daddy, i cant be a parent, im only 2."

-Yeah, Punch is the one to constantly have Indigo keeling over laughing because their statements are so OUTRAGEOUS its too funny to NOT laugh.

-It is also the reason their nickname is Pun, little bap is too naturally funny.

-They are also the one to fight the Eevee pups CONSTANTLY.

-The Eevee's all know bite, and that hurts for Punch constantly.

-Doesnt stop them from trying to win.

-They have also fought the Pichu and Pikachu pinkies and often goes so far to try and beat up fully grown pokemon.

-When they loose, they wail to dad because "THEY BIT ME!"

"Yeah Pun, that's what happens when you pick a fight."

-Despite their name, Punch's kicks are POWERFUL

-They can knock out an unsuspecting person if Punch is mad enough.

-When they grow though, their punches WILL match the prowress of their legs.

-Very much a Glass Canon, cannot take a hit for the life of them but MAN does it hurt when they hit.

[iammissingautumn]

I think the thing about Butters is that he’s this really fun contradiction to me. And from what I’ve seen from going through the seasons. Butters Stotch starts out as a contrast to the main four. He’s gulliable and a push over, which turns into the perfect victim, and then he’s the perfect sidekick.

For awhile he seems almost like a loner, or perhaps just comfortable with himself. Something likely picked up from being grounded in his room so often. He sings to himself various songs to pass the time by, he does various art mostly drawing several times throughout the show. Something like tap dancing seems to be something he could attach himself to while not needing to be physically strong and his parents could gain socially from having a talented son.

Yet as time goes by we see his “innocent ways” be twisted, but instead of it being a straight laced kid he’s already quite the asshole. In season 3 he doesn’t hold back from bullying the Codswolds, and in season 7 he quickly piles on to the bullying of Gary Harrison. He has an aversion to difference, the kind that makes you think anyone different is bad. Which wouldn’t be surprising to have come from his parents and their more religious background.

Butters, showing off his age, attacks life in the only way you can when you’re in elementary school and learning everything for the first time. Butters doesn’t start cussing because his friends do, we know he’s capable because we see him do it a few times such as in Christian Hard Rock. He’s not really afraid to stop his class and tell them he’s never played WoW and instead likes Hello Kitty Island, but he will tell Stan “I'd rather be a crying little pussy than a faggy goth kid”. There a hierarchy he’s picked up on, and he knows being gay is the worst. Even as he doesn’t know what it is.

Butters didn’t know what his father was doing, he didn’t know why everything was so upset while at camp, and instantly after his first kiss he think he’s a “man” and needs to change his entire life to be one. In that same episode, Butters Bottom Bitch, he rags on gay people quite a bit. Which we see over the course of the series in various ways (see previous paragraph’s quote). He’s been homophobic while having no clue what that really means. This seems to manifest just as much with his sexism, very little clue as why girls are lesser than (though his sexism also seems to stem from the fact they are different) but he accepts it and says a lot of misogynistic shit.

We see almost again and again the abuse that Butters faces that there is no root wrong, there is just an overall wrong. There is no nuance to why a sect of people are bad, they just are. He’s grounded episode after episode for things he hasn’t done or wasn’t a big part of, his school photo being a great example of this. He is nurtured into a world where he is belittle enough to believe he doesn’t know better then others a lot of the time via his parents and later on Cartman.

A more deep rooted homophobia and/or sexism would have him against presenting or doing anything related to being feminine. He’d hide against naively showing his true self so he wouldn’t get bullied. He would care about being masculine or enforcing gender roles. Yet the majority of the time he doesn’t seem to understand the deeper intricacies of these topics like the other boys do. Otherwise he wouldn’t enjoy himself as Marjorine in the self expression and acceptance he’s given. Otherwise he would understand what was happening in Cartman Sucks.

Yet in early seasons Butters is implied to study often to avoid being grounded. He’s shown to be a relatively smart side kick when he’s not being tricked into believing the world has ended and he’s the last person alive. Tbh I believe he would be a lot smarter if he wasn’t largely plagued by a bended view of reality because of the ongoing psychological trauma he receives from his parents.

He loved being Majorine, he doesn’t want to be a faggot. He’s harmed most times he expresses himself, he continues to anyways. He’s seen as a cringe outcast yet can summon a whole crowd with a tap dance performance.

[yelena-bellova]

Instinct: Din Djarin x F!Reader - Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen: Complicated

Plot: Din and Y/n navigate a difficult conversation while taking on a new passenger on their journey.

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: canon typical violence, language, (16+)

A/N: PLEASE READ. Welcome back from our unexpected hiatus and thank you all for being so understanding of the wait. Twenty Years Later was entirely unplanned, but you gotta follow your ideas!

A few notes going forward on this series. A) I will not be adding anyone to the tags unless you are 16+ and have it specified on your page/bio. B) the POV will be changing to both Din and Y/n’s. TYL showed me that that’s my sweet spot for writing. C) I feel like because I’ve been writing this on and off for two years, the plot has sometimes been inconsistent. Rest assured, we have a end destination we are working towards and I think I’ve managed to make it even better than originally planned…so watch out 😏

Thank you for sticking with this!! Let’s dive back in 😘

——————

Din and I sped through the desert, sand kicking at our heels. After what we’d been through, I was ready to get the hell off the dusty hell space and not return for a long, long time.

I was seething in heartbreak as I steered. Din had risked his life as if it was nothing. As if me and the kid were nothing. I couldn’t tell whether I was angry or hurt. It felt like every emotion I had to capacity to feel had been flooding me since Din and I had come together. I couldn’t tell what was what.

What was clear was the gut feeling that something was wrong. I scanned a rocky patch ahead of us and couldn’t see anything other than sand, boulders and-

Din and I went flying through the air.

Frantically clawing, I reached for the kid and came up empty. One of Din’s arms stayed wrapped around me while the other shot out to control his jetpack. We floated clumsily to the ground, narrowly avoiding the rolling wreckage of our speeder.

The shots started immediately. Din took a blast to the helmet, wasting not a second in shielding me with his body. I turned on my shield and unholstered my blasters along with him.

“Get the child!”

As they shouted, my eyes darted around us, spotting the kid fifteen feet away. I fired a perfect shot, laying out the raider nearest to him. Din pulled me with him as a vibroblade swung over our heads. Two raiders began to try and physically pin us. I ducked under Din’s arm, unsheathed my blade and stabbed the first one in the back. I wrenched him back, landing my boot to his head to make sure he’d stay down.

Another raider had joined the fight now and had Din pinned against the rock. I turned to attack just as he yelled.

“Duck!”

I immediately dropped to the ground, he unleashed his whipcord launcher, and pulled the furthest raiders towards him to smack the other two in the heads. It was beautifully awkward collision.

The last of our attackers called out something in his alien dialect, drawing our attention. He was holding the kid with a knife to its throat.

“Wait,” Din urged, “Don’t hurt the child.”

I got to my feet beside him, holding my hands up to surrender.

“If you put one mark on him, there’s no place you’ll be able to hide from us,” Din continued, trying to stay calm, “We can strike a bargain. There’s a lot of value in this wreckage. Take your pick.”

The child cooed, moaning as if he wanted out of the strange embrace. My heart ached.

“But leave the child,” Din instructed, the alien’s interest was already piqued. He gestured to Din’s jetpack, seemingly ordering him to give it over.

“Okay,” Din conceded, removing the device.

“Wait, wha-“ I began, stopping when he put a hand up to me.

“Here,” he stepped forward cautiously, setting the pack down in the sand, “It’s yours. Take it.”

Din stepped back alongside me, still holding his hands in the air. My pulse raced as we waited for the being to make his choice. If he made the wrong one, I could choke the life out of him. I didn’t quite know how to yet, but I could figure it out.

Finally, the raider set down the child and moved to the jetpack. He said something in his native tongue before taking off. The child hurried towards us, running straight into Din’s hands.

“You okay?” Din asked, receiving a coo in response. I dropped my forehead to the kid’s head, feeling both relieved and drained from the fear.

As we stood huddled together, Din pressed a button on his gauntlet, triggering the jetpack and the raider to be sent straight up into the sky. I followed his body, spinning and twisting through the air, until it dropped still in the sand. Din landed the jetpack with extreme care, shrugging when both me and the child glanced over at him.

“Well, this day just got longer,” I grumbled, beginning to take stock of what was left of our supplies.

We ended up sharing the load, carrying what we could on our backs and the rest strapped around our bodies. The heat on Tatooine was unbearable without the wind generated from riding on a speeder bike. My ever simmering anger wasn’t doing me any favors.

“You’ve been quiet,” Din commented, about an hour into our long journey.

I exhaled, “Maybe I don’t have anything to say.”

Din paused and I could have sworn I heard a snort through his modulator, “That’s not it. You’re mad.”

Unable to contain it anymore, I sighed loudly. “Yes, I’m mad. But I don’t think you get why I’m mad.”

“How can I know if you don’t tell-“

“Because you almost killed yourself today, Din,” I stopped short and turned to him, “You threw yourself into that thing without a second thought. I-I mean, do you have any idea what I would have done without you? What we,” I gestured to the kid, resting in a satchel around Din’s chest, “Would have done without you?”

“I did that to save you,” Din argued, “That thing would have killed all of us, and we wouldn’t even be here to have this conversation.”

I threw a hand through my hair in exasperation, “You’re not getting it. If you die, I-“ my throat nearly caught, but I wouldn’t allow it, “If you’d have died, I would have been wrecked. Because it’s not just you anymore, Din. It’s us. The two of us, the three of us…us. You can’t do this shit anymore and it not affect anyone because,” I gestured to myself, “There’s someone.”

The loner in me was furious for revealing my hand, for telling him outright that I cared about him so deeply. By now, my feelings were so tied up with my exhaustion, I couldn’t make heads or tails of whether or not I was even making sense.

Growling to myself, I turned on my heel and resumed on the path back to Mos Eisley.

For the duration of the day, past dusk settled over the city I’d never been so happy to see, Din and I didn’t speak. Even when we entered the loud, crowded cantina to locate Peli, neither of us uttered a word.

Once we found her, Peli looked up from her cards to examine us, sweaty, dusty and exhausted. Her eyes crossed the armor draped around Din, “You finally found a Mandalorian and you killed him?”

“He wasn’t Mandalorian,” Din answered, “I bought this armor off of him though.”

“What’d that set you back?

“Killed the krayt dragon for him.”

“Oh,” Peli retorted, “Is that all?”

“He was our last lead on finding other Mandalorians,” Din replied. In other words, we were back to square fucking one.

The creature Peli was engaged in a game of cards with spoke something in their tongue.

“Okay,” Peli told him, “Well, you might be in luck. Dr. Mandible here says he can connect you with someone who can help you. If you cover his call this round,” she held up her hands in innocence, “That’s what he said.”

“How much are we putting up?” I asked, too tired for anything other than cutting to chase.

Peli paused, “Five hundred.”

“Geez,” I grumbled.

“Hey, he’s on a hot streak,” she replied.

Din and I looked to one another, both ready to put an end to the day. He wordlessly threw a bag of credits on the table.

“Is the pot right?” Peli asked, Mandible said whatever he said back to her. Her calm countenance changed, “Ha! Idiot’s Array! Pay up there, thorax!”

“I thought you said he was on a hot streak,” Din said knowingly.

“Oh, stop your crying’,” Peli said as she collected our credits, “You’ll rust,” she stopped to translate what the doctor was saying to her, “All right. He says the contact will rendezvous at the hanger. They’ll tell you where to find some Mandalorians. That’s what you wanted, right?”

“Yes,” Din responded.

“All right, well, stop your mopin’,” Peli cried as she led us out of the cantina, “More importantly, did you bring back any of that dragon meat? Better not have any maggots on it. I don’t like maggots.”

When we got back to the hanger, Din and I both excused ourselves to the Crest to clean up.

While I changed clothes, I was given time to think about all that had gone on between the two of us. I knew I was being unreasonable. Din had saved us, had he not made his almost-sacrifice, we would have surely all been killed. But that didn’t mean that I could look at it objectively. Not when he was the one at the center of the danger.

I climbed up the ladder to the cockpit, where Din was cleaning his armor. I blindly knocked on the wall to signal my presence.

“Clear,” he replied, his voice modulator the answer to the unspoken question.

I climbed the final distance, trying to figure out how to start the conversation.

“I may have, um…” I awkwardly started, “Overreacted over some things.”

Din’s head turned, finally dragging his eyes away from polishing one of his pauldrons.

“This is still new for me,” I continued, wringing my hands, “Having someone to care about and I just…I can’t…” I ran my hands over my hair, “I don’t want to think about ever…losing you. And today was just a little too close for me,” I took a shaky breath, “So, I’m sorry if I was an asshole…but I’m an asshole who cares about you.”

Din stayed still as I spoke, only moving to get up when I was finished. He crossed the cockpit and lightly took my hand into his.

“I have to remember you’re here,” Din said.

My brows dipped in confusion, “Thanks?”

“It’s easy to forget that there’s someone here who…cares.” Din continued, “That if we take risks, we take them together. But I won’t apologize for trying to save you. Ever. Everything I do is to protect you and the kid.”

My heart swelled in my chest, my fingers intertwining between his, “You make it really fucking hard to stay mad at you.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Not when I want to be mad at you,” I replied with a small smile, pushing up on my toes to press my forehead to his, “Come on, the kid’s probably eaten half of that thing by now.”

We exited the Crest to find the child still patiently waiting on the krayt meat we were roasting, using a spare engine of Peli’s.

“All right, here’s the deal,” she announced upon seeing us, “A Mandalorian covert is close. It’s in this sector, one system trailing.”

“Are they the ones that left Nevarro?” Din asked.

“Don’t know,” Peli shrugged, “All I know is that the contact will lead you to them.”

“We’re not exactly rich right now,” I stated, information this important always cost something.

“Well, that’s the great news. It’s free,” Peli bounced back on her heels, “Except for a finder’s fee, of course.”

“What’s the not-great news?” Din asked.

Peli shook her head, “Nothing. It’s all great.”

“Okay then,” I shrugged, ready to get our show on the road.

“However, there is one small skank in the skud pie,” Peli added.

I gave a joyless smile, “Of course there is.”

“The contact wants passage to the system,” Peli said, holding her hands up as if to say that she wasn’t responsible for the inconvenient turn.

“Do you vouch for them?” Din responded uncharacteristically fast.

“On my life,” Peli nodded.

Din and I shared a look, I gave a small shrug, and it was decided. “Fine.”

“And…” Peli added.

“Stop talking,” I scrunched up my face and begged.

“No hyperdrive.”

“You want us to travel sublight?” Din asked, waving his hands, “Deal’s off.”

“It’s one sector over,” Peli justified.

“And the hyperdrive’s the only thing standing between us and getting caught,” I replied.

Peli lowered her voice, “These are mitigating circumstances.”

“What do you mean ‘mitigating?’” Din asked.

Right on cue, an amphibious female entered the hanger. She looked innocent enough, hanging back and carefully watching the way the conversation was going.

“We’re not a taxi service,” Din clarified to Peli.

“I know, I know, I hear you,” Peli held up an understanding hand, “But I can vouch for her.”

The creature stepped forward and said something in her language.

“What’s the cargo?” Din relented enough to ask.

Peli got the answer neither of us could understand from her, translating it after. “It’s her spawn. She needs her eggs fertilized by the equinox or her line will end. If you jump into hyperspace, they’ll die. She said her husband has settled on the estuary moon of Trask.”

“And this is,” I gestured in the space between us four with the hand that wasn’t pressed to my temple, “Confirmed that there are Mandalorians there.”

Peli turned back, spoke in the creature’s language and listened to her reply. “She says her husband has seen them herself.”

Din and I looked to one another, I’d become well-versed in reading his lack of expressions in circumstances like these. His shoulders were raised, but not so far that he was overtly tense. His head was slightly tilted in my direction, I could imagine there was a questioning eyebrow raised at me.

Peli took our matched silence as an affirmative answer and gestured the amphibian forward. She headed off towards the Crest.

“Do you know the husband?” Din asked our friend.

“No,” Peli answered plainly, “I just met her ten minutes before you walked in.”

I exhaled loudly, “So you’re vouching on your life and risking ours for a stranger?”

“What can I say?” Peli shrugged, reaching over to the passing droid and grabbing a chunk of krayt meat, “I’m an excellent judge of character.”

Sighing, I glanced up at Din. It was a harmless job, on the surface, and it involved a better class of being than we were used to dealing with. We could walk away from it having both helped a growing family and gotten the information we needed. After all we’d seen, there wasn’t much that could scare me about the details.

I pointed towards Peli, somewhere between frowning and smirking, “Every time I think we can trust you…”

“You’re welcome,” Peli shouted as I turned on my heel, walking back towards the Crest.

—————————

Truth be told, there really wasn’t any reason to worry about our newest passenger. She sat in the cockpit alongside me and Din, silently observing her surroundings. I couldn’t get a read on her other than she was what she’d been presented as: a mother needing safe passage for her and her kids.

“Now I’m gonna ask you to stay strapped in whenever you’re seated,” Din instructed once we were off Tatooine, “Traveling sublight is a bit dicey these days. Whether it’s pirates or warlords, someone either ends up with a nice chunk of change or your ship.”

The amphibious woman replied in her own tongue, it was foreign to both me and Din.

“We don’t speak whatever language that is,” he replied, “You speak…Huttese?”

Din followed with some words of an elusive skill level in the language, coming up short of a reaction from the woman.

“Well, you seem like you’ve got this under control,” I smiled, patting his shoulder as I got up to leave.

I climbed down the first few rungs of the ladder and slid the rest of the way, landing in the cargo hold. Before we’d taken off, I’d secured the kid in our bunk, but the quiet I was surrounded by felt different than the one that came when he rested. Tapping the button to our bunk and finding it empty, I scanned the area, “Buddy?”

Upon hearing a slurping sound, I spun around to watch the child scooping out one of the woman’s eggs from their container.

“No, no, no-“ I exclaimed, surging forward to try and stop the inevitable.

Without a hint of remorse, the child inhaled one of the eggs.

I slammed the lid shut and swung him into my arms, holding them out a fair distance to get a good look at him.

“That’s not food,” I reprimanded in hushed tones, “Off limits. Completely. Understood?”

I received a burp in my face as a reply.

“Yep,” I grimaced, “That’s about right.”

The familiar thud of Din’s boots hit the ground. “What’s going on?”

“He’s eating the cargo,” I answered, carrying the kid past Din and back to the bunk, “So maybe keep an eye out if my back’s turned.”

Din sighed loudly and it was in that moment that I took stock of our lives. Of our current predicament. And all I felt I could do was…laugh.

“This is funny?” Din questioned.

“No, but…” I gestured around us, letting my hands fall against my legs after, “This is.”

Being so tuned in with one another, Din caught onto the meaning of what I was saying. When we’d met, we’d been lone rangers. Living outside the law and showing no mercy to our enemies. Now, we were chasing a little green gremlin around, trying to keep him from tearing the ship apart. There was humor to be found in how domestic we’d turned.

“Maybe a little,” Din replied, his enunciation changing with what sounded like a smile.

The child babbled behind us, safely stowed in the hammock we’d constructed to keep him close.

“If we’re going to get sleep, now’s the time to do it,” Din suggested as he crossed the room.

“Sounds good,” I sighed, reaching behind me and taking his hand.

Din climbed into the bunk first, sliding up against the wall to make room for me. It was a tight fit, but neither one of us had ever complained about it. I wiggled in beside him, laying my head on his outstretched arm.

“Another day, another adventure,” I sighed.

“Let’s hope that’s our biggest problem,” Din nodded up at the child, who was already shutting his eyes.

“Yes, let’s keep that optimism going,” I chuckled, letting my finger drift up to the edge of his helmet.

It was an unspoken desire, wishing and wondering if Din’s armor would ever come off. We had never discussed it, he never so much as mentioned it. It was just another thing to be worked around in our relationship. And for the most part, I didn’t mind. I was happy with how things were. But every once in a while, usually when we crammed into the bunk at the end of a long day, the thoughts pierced through the stiff walls of my mind.

And I could sense Din was feeling the same desire.

“Sometimes…” he let his sentence drift off.

“Hmm,” I hummed, distractedly running my middle finger agains the sharp edge of the mouthpiece.

Din paused, “I wish…”

But he’d never find his words. And if he ever did, he’d never allow himself to utter them. There was the Creed before there was anything else, including me.

I gave a small smile, trying to reassure him that he wasn’t alone, but he also didn’t have to continue. “I know,” I whispered.

In an effort to make us both feel better about our limitations, I tilted my head up and kissed the usual spot on his helmet. Right where his forehead would be. Din leaned in and the pressure against my lips increased. It was a good reminder that beneath the layers of Beskar, there was a soul, same as mine, in need of the same affection.

After, I tucked myself against Din’s chest, allowing myself to be enveloped in his arms. It was the one place where I welcomed my own vulnerability, where I’d rather let myself be consumed by it. The warmth of him, even through leather and steel, could touch my wounds and gently nudge them back into slumber.

I peered up at the child, already asleep, before resting my head under the chin of Din’s helmet. It was our version of peace, and to me, it was perfect.

————

Instinct Taglist: @never-no-locomotive @damerondala @x-judyjude-x @jellybeanstacey0519 @elinedjarin @eternallyvenus @kalea-bane @xsnak-3x @xmoonknightly @1800-get-alfie @toinfinityandbeyonce2 @burninggracesandbridges @alwaysdjarin @boneyarrd @mxltifxnd0m @hellu-people1 @avengersfan25 @pedr0swh0r3 @baekmack @djarinsstuff @kaitieskidmore1 @paola-carter @allophonicmess @girlofchaos @pedrettilov3r @tsunamistorm123 @ranjaaaaa2 @melonmochi @hawsx3 @evienorville @brilliantopposite187

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[fascinationex]

brainstorm gets stuck in his dumb ceiling harness and perceptor has to untangle him and possibly take him to the medbay for for hurting himself trying to get himself down hsjdhs

Thank you for your prompt! A tiny fic:

-----

Brainstorm's left wing and remaining dignity were both hanging by a thread. The mech himself, unfortunately, was hanging by rather more than a thread: he was stuck in his own harness, dangling from the roof of his workshop.

"It's a bit sexy, isn't it?" He stroked an absent beard over the flat plane of his faceplate.

Perceptor stood on the work bench beneath him, bracing up the wing with his shoulder as he tried to disentangle a strap from its sparking insides.

Being able to see what he was doing would have enabled him to enjoy the power of a knife, but since he couldn't, and the wing was already sparking at its joint, he had to shove his fingers into the mysterious shadows inside Brainstorm's shoulder armour and attempt a manual disentangling.

His hands were wet with leaking fuel from where the strap had cut into Brainstorm's fuel supply. He had a very narrow aerofoil and it wasn't going well.

"Sexy?" Perceptor repeated dubiously. Getting stuck in his own ridiculous harness? The one he built so he could dangle from the roof to, somehow, impress Perceptor? "Brainstorm, it's not even smart."

The wing tensed under his fingers, creaking ominously as it tried to sag expressively. Brainstorm's sulking actually deepened his access, and he found a strap of distinctly non-biological cabling at last. From there, he began to follow it with his fingers.

"Ha! I should have known you'd need something to be smart to be sexy. We're so alike." Were they? Were they? "But," he went on, "it's pretty smart." He winced as Perceptor shoved, trying to stopper the fuel leak even as he sought out the rogue straps of the harness. This did not stop him talking. "Who else do you know who can engineer atrocities upside down?"

"I'd be impressed if you managed to do it upside down using a stable antigravity field," Perceptor offered, half-sparked and through his teeth, because it seemed marginally better than telling him nobody except you thinks that's an achievement, actually.

"Ohh. What a thought. Noted," said Brainstorm.

"It wasn't a request." If Perceptor's voice was terse and clipped, could anyone really blame him? Really?

He stretched up on his toes for a moment, heaving his shoulder beneath Brainstorm's wing and shifting it for just long enough to get his fingers around that one strap. When he relaxed back onto his heels, the sudden weight of Brainstorm's wing compressed his hand.

"Ouch," said Brainstorm, but not really as though it hurt. "I'm surprised," he added, "I thought you'd be all over me! Dangling from the ceiling, entirely at your mercy."

The frustrating thing was that he wasn't wrong. Perceptor didn't mind the idea of Brainstorm getting stuck in his ridiculous harness, exactly. He could have paced in slow, deliberate circles beneath his conjunx's helpless frame, listening to him whine to be set free.

That had a certain appeal.

But he wasn't just stuck. He hadn't called Perceptor when he was just stuck. He'd panicked, tried to unstick himself, and twisted himself up until something had cracked and there was fuel slowly drooling from his wing. He'd only sent a comm when his wires had started throwing sparks inches from an open fuel source.

And nobody liked to show up to find their conjunx bleeding onto the floor, one wrong move from accidental self-immolation.

Perceptor didn't dignify this comment with an answer. He pulled on his strap instead, trying to find where it had any give. It tightened the rest of the cables around Brainstorm and set him gently to spinning, somehow, which he did without much grace.

Perceptor ducked to avoid getting a wing to the face. The wing he'd been bracing up creaked and bent, sagging down with the draw of gravity. Brainstorm didn't wail and complain about the pain. Instead his optics whited out in complete silence, which Perceptor thought might have been worse.

"I'm going to cut it," he decided.

"Bold. Strategic. Incisive. Good idea." Brainstorm spun another slow rotation on the spot, helpless before the forces of physics. The forces of physics were probably due a win over Brainstorm at this point, anyway, really. He defied them often enough under regular circumstances.

"I might clip something," he warned. He pulled his hand out. It was slippery with energon, and the stain glowed under the strong laboratory lighting.

"Wow, okay, no, bad idea. Terrible idea. No. No?"

Perceptor ignored this and jumped down from the work bench. He came back a moment later carrying the the wire cutters.

"Percy," Brainstorm squirmed, which did not make it any easier to find the right cable to snip by feel alone. "Hey, Percy, come on."

"Don't flap."

Brainstorm, apparently sensing the futility of his wriggling, instead went very still. Perceptor dug his slippery fingers back into the shadows of the wing joint, seeking out the loop of cabling.

He knew he'd found the right one, because tugging it set Brainstorm to slow spinning again.

"I think I'm getting seasick."

"I'll just be a moment." He couldn't see, but he could feel his way along the cable. He clamped the wire cutters and pressed down slowly, waiting for Brainstorm to tell him it hurt. He did not, so Perceptor took that as encouragement. He braced Brainstorm's sagging wing up with his own shoulder again and cut the cable.

Snip.

There was a whistle as the strap finally came free, and Brainstorm made a tank-churning noise of pain as the broken ends dragged through his injured wing where they'd cut in.

"Wait," he said, in such a tone that Perceptor looked up in alarm, but it was already too late: the other harness cables, suddenly given all of his weight and without their fellow to help, could not hold up.

Snap, snap, snap, went the harness, and Brainstorm thrashed his good wing, trying to twist to hold onto it, but—there was a creak—he swung and spun—snap!—and then tumbled down from the ceiling to crash onto Perceptor, who was right below.

They fell in a crash and clatter of metal limbs onto the workbench, where one of Perceptor's flailing feet knocked the miniature model of his own alt mode off the bench to thunk onto the floor. It lay there on its side and was quickly forgotten.

Then, silence.

For a few moments there was no sound but the settling noises of living metal and the dull whir of hard-working processors. Perceptor could keenly feel where Brainstorm's canopy had dented his flatter chestplate. He let his head tip back to rest upon the bench: thump.

He stared up at the tangled mess that had been Brainstorm's harness. The cables and straps swayed gently above, looking wholly innocuous. One of them was shiny with fuel.

"...Bracing!" said Brainstorm lightly. He clamped his fingers over the leak in his wing. He was much better at finding it than Perceptor had been, given that he could actually feel it. He tipped his head so he too could see the carcass of his harness. "I'm gonna have to fix all that."

Something crackled and his wing joint sparked, a bright little fleck of golden light near Perceptor's face.

"You mean you're going to need to dismantle it."

"...Right! Yes. That. I'll need to dismantle it. Especially since," he added, shooting a sly look at Perceptor, "I have to make the antigravity field."

Perceptor did not take the bait. "Was seeing First Aid somewhere in this game plan?"

"Sure," said Brainstorm, sounding distinctly like someone who wasn't listening to a word Perceptor had said. "But now that I'm free, you can tell the truth... It was a bit sexy, wasn't it?"

If he hadn't been injured, Perceptor might have shoved him off the workbench. "No."

[toxinellebug]

Shadybug & ClawNoir First Receiving the Miraculous Part 1

It is at the end of the day after the first, rough, week of school that both Marinette and Adrien head up to their respective bedrooms, miserable and feeling a deep sense of resentment towards the world.

Marinette is  upset because despite FINALLY being free from beneath Chloe’s foot- no longer in the same class and Chloe seems to have found a new favorite target- the damage to her reputation still remains.

      Most students are still wary that any attempt to befriend the “baker girl” will incur Chloe’s wrath upon them. The few who DO try to converse with her only do so to confirm that she is The crazy Water-phobic girl from the video posted last year (remember, in this universe, Marinette had NO friends, not even Socqueline Wang, so the incident with Kim at the pool, S5 episode 14, “Derision” was posted) in attempt to further laugh at her expense- someone even tried to pour out their water-bottle on her to see if she would freak out.

           Mrs. Dupain-Cheng’s reasoning that Marinette just needs to “get over it” because people would forget about it when enough time passes, and that if she “just ignores them, they will get bored and leave you alone.”  Is not only false, but has Marinette convinced that her mother truly could NOT care less about her!

          It doesn’t matter that Marinette re-invented her whole look or took preventative measures to avoid being pranked ( See past post, “Shadybug/EmoMarinette Headcanon origin” ) School is still miserable.

          Coming home is miserable because now she can’t even distract herself from her misery with her hobbies since according to her mom, staying up late drawing pictures and doing craft projects is WHY she has trouble waking up and getting to school on time so until she becomes mature and responsible enough, she needs to focus on studying. 

       It’s not fair.    She never did anything wrong!   Why does she have to suffer??

But then, Marinette notices a package on her bedroom desk; wrapped neatly in brown paper, no postage, but there is a small envelope on top with her name written on it in calligraphy.

There’s no way her mom get her a present for no reason.

     If it was from her Father, he would’ve been too excited and greeted her at the door, eager to watch her open it.

          Can’t be from Nonna; her grandma is still serving a detentionary sentence at a Labor Camp.

Suspicious.

Inside the envelope is a note; 

  “Mlle Marinette Dupain-Cheng, you have been chosen.

     The items being entrusted to you are a matter of utmost secrecy and should be used with discretion. 

     May they enable you to do upon others that which has been done upon you, with interest.

         Please ensure you are alone.”

No name is signed.

This is quite possibly the most suspicious thing in the entire history of suspicion.

It’s too complicated to be one of Chloe’s pranks…. But still!!!

No harm in being cautious;

Marinette leaves her room and comes back wearing an N95 mask, a flimsy plastic face shield (some eye protection is better than NO eye protection.) a pair of oven mitts, and armed with two long, metal tongs, and a can of bug spray (just in case).

Unwrapping a brown paper parcel with only cooking tongs is far more time consuming than one would think, but Marinette knows from experience not to trust unmarked boxes.

Finally opening the cardboard flaps, she braces herself for…. Nothing?

Nothing crawls out, nothing oozes or splatters, and nothing emits a noxious odor.

She dares to actually peek inside.

An anti-static foam pouch with something thin and flat inside.

         Okay,  she may be the opposite of popular, but there’s no way someone hates her enough to send an explosive…. Right?

Forgoing the tongs and the oven mitts, Marinette carefully unseals the pouch and pulls out a mini-tablet; 22 centimeters and as thin as her phone, sleek and black, but no markings or brand logos. Even still, something about it feels expensive.

       Chloe may have money, but that doesn’t mean she’d waste it on an expensive gift just to prank Marinette. 

Looking further inside the package, she sees a small, black, hexagon box.

It’s strange; the black lacquer on the sides has a slight haze to it, like the antique jewelry box her mother has. 

     But the lid is a shiny, black enamel that looks brand new. Perhaps the box was re-finished after the original design was damaged?

She’s about to open it, but thinks better of it-

Setting it down gently, she picks up her can of bug-spray; if anything so much as twitches, she’ll fog up the room!

Carefully creaking the lid open with one hand, can at the ready in the other, Marinette is woefully unprepared for the blinding pink light that bursts free.

       As the light dims, she waits for the spots to clear from her vision… 

              Seeing that her vision is fine and those spots are actually on a large, red, hovering insect, Marinette empties the entire can of bug spray in the creatures general direction as she curses out the universe.

Eyes watering and throat burning (since N95 masks aren’t designed for chemical warfare), Marinette’s heart drops into her stomach at the sound of a tiny cough.

      She has no idea if bugs can cough (fun fact, they can’t.) but the fact that whatever it is can make a sound means it’s still alive.

Since toxic chemicals are no longer an option, she switches to blunt force trauma as her modus operandi and hurls the empty can, as well as everything else within arm’s distance at the black and red floating thing.

The only thing stopping her from chucking the mini-tablet as well is her thumb brushing against a side button, triggering a red, grid-like laser projection that scans her face, causing her to drop the tablet in shock.

A feminine but obviously A.I. voice announces “Identity confirmation complete: Marinette Dupain-Cheng, approved.” Before the screen lights up with a VERY familiar red, x shaped symbol;

               The Supreme.

Everyone knew that symbol. It was in textbooks, on flags, printed on currency, it was even engraved onto the Enforcers badges.

       It was the symbol of the force the governed the Earth. After having unified all nations and establishing world peace after ending the 2nd world war, the Supreme created a world government and established laws in order to ensure peace and order for future generations.  

              No one knew the exact details of The Supreme, or even if it was just one person or a council of several.  But everyone recognized the symbol of absolute authority. 

             That symbol was now glowing on the screen of the tablet in her hands.

Marinette swallowed hard; the symbol of The Supreme wasn’t something to be taken lightly. Using the symbol without permission for non-official reasons of any kind was a serious felony. 

      If this was a prank, it was one designed to get her arrested. 

But, if it was real…

No, this was crazy! She was just a normal girl with a normal, albeit cruddy, life.

       Why would The Supreme even care about who she is, let alone give her anything?!

      ‘May they enable you to do upon others that which has been done upon you, with interest.’

What has been done to her… 

Years of being insulted and humiliated, her property destroyed, being tripped, splashed, sprayed, dumped on, lockers full of roaches, homework stolen, gum spat in her hair, being blamed for things she had nothing to do with, isolated and shunned…  Was this seriously an offer for her to get payback? 

Why? If The Supreme hated the Bourgeois’, it’s not like they would need a teenage girl to make the whole obnoxious family disappear.

But, did it really matter?

    Until now, Marinette has never had anyone on her side. No one had ever been willing to stand up to Chloe. Teachers always took Chloe’s side. Her own mother acted like Marinette getting bullied was her own fault! Even her dad was such a doormat, all he ever did was tell her to try to stay positive and suggest she offer pastries as a way to make friends, as if there was no problem that couldn’t be solved with food.

If there was even the smallest chance to give that brat a tiny taste of her own medicine, to make her pay for even a fraction of the trauma she’s caused over the years, did it really matter how or why???

The sound of another tiny cough makes her look up- she almost forgot about the red and black whatever-it-is.

       Said ‘thing’ is still hovering over the dropped box, uninjured by thrown objects and clearly not phased by the toxic cloud that has begun to dissipate, though its antennae does seem droopy.

             Is it normal for bugs to have blue eyes? 

It doesn’t have those creepy, gross, pinchy-thingies on its face (aka mandibles), but there IS SOMETHING weird where its mouth should be, or, well, where Marinette thinks its mouth should be. (Honestly, she doesn’t know much about bugs expect that they are nasty).

     It’s staring at her, and maybe it’s the fumes getting to her, but she could swear it looked sad.

How was a giant, sad looking bug supposed to help her?

Looking back down at her tablet, she noticed a small flashing icon in the bottom left corner.

Tapping it pulled up a message screen with brief description of the creature, a kwami, a concise set of instructions, and bold-text list of rules.

The kwami served as a source of power, and was controlled by…. A pair of earrings?

Marinette assumed these so called miraculous earrings were inside the hexagonal box the kwami was lingering near.

Wearing these jewels and saying the transformation phrase would supposedly give her extraordinary abilities. Abilities she was free to use as she saw fit, under the strict conditions that she was never seen, that no one served witness to her powers, and that any trace of magic was erased. 

       The public could not be allowed to know of the existence of magic or supernatural abilities.

So long as she followed these rules, anything she did with the miraculous was admissible and free from legal repercussion.

Failure to adhere to these rules would result in severe penalty. 

If Marrinette read that right, it meant she’d just been given the means and the permission to make Chloe Bourgeois’ life a waking nightmare, with no consequences so long as no one sees her do it.

Was there a catch? Probably.

Did she care? Nope.

Putting down the tablet, Marinette crawled over to the fallen box, keeping a wary eye on the kwami.

The earrings didn’t look all that special. Kind of tacky, if she was being honest.

The red and black polka-dotted studs reminded her of little ladybugs… which was probably what the kwami was meant to look like?

Whatever.

Putting them on felt even less magical.

Thankfully, looking in the mirror shows that they are no longer that childish red with black polka dots pattern, and are now plain black studs.

Picking the tablet back up, she scrolled through the information once more to find the transformation phrase.

For one, terrifying moment, the kwami is rushing towards her face, and it takes everything Marinette has not to scream as the red bug is sucked into her earrings.

The dark pink light that washes over her form and moves her body seemingly against her will, ripples of static energy cascading down each limb, is enough to finally convince her that this is no prank.

She kinda likes her hair in niújiǎotóu, even if it is too similar to the single bun style she wore last year when she was still a pathetic push-over.

    But the rest of her appearance looks like some kind of toxic insect,  (fun fact: black ladybugs, also known as pine ladybirds, are black with red spots and their bodies are full of toxins which are used to ward off predators and can cause allergic reactions in humans.)

    The ribbons around her double buns literally look like antennas. 

She scowls. 

She HATES bugs.

Not a fan of polka-dots, either.

But… if she were to ignore the spots,

    She doesn’t mind that the top half resembles a black bolero.

     She thinks that the bottom giving off the impression of thigh high boots might be a bit much, but she DOES like the platform heeled soles.

            Her mother would NEVER let her wear platform boots.

Her face isn’t as hidden by her bangs, but it’s not a bad thing- dark red lipstick, darker than blood; yet another thing her mother would NEVER approve of.

     She liked it.

She also liked the red eyes.

They looked dangerous.  They looked like the eyes of a person NO ONE would dare mess with. 

    She looked, no, she felt stronger.

And if everything detailed on the tablet was true, she was.

Examining her gloved hands as she opened and closed them, she decided she could live with the spots. 

No, not just live; she was going to THRIVE.

She was going to make Chloe Bourgeois’ life HELL, and relish every moment of it!

A shout from her father on the other side of her room’s trapdoor, from the bottom of the stairs, informs her that dinner will be ready soon.

She de-transforms and hurriedly snatches up the tablet and the letter, climbing to the loft of her bedroom, she stuffs them under her mattress.  She will need to come up with a more secure hiding spot later, but this will suffice for now.

The kwami thing is back. 

It’s looking at her like it’s waiting for something.

Creepy.

The tablet said this creature would obey her every command, so Marinette orders it to stay hidden in her room until she comes back.

She has so many ideas, but she’s going to have to go about it carefully. Only an idiot would rush into things without a plan.

     She would wait until after her parents were asleep, then she would test out what her new powers were capable of.

            After that, she would write down step by step each and every way she would exact her revenge.

——————

The Supreme waits.

Patience is a virtue that has benefitted him for decades.

Children are easy to exploit; let them enjoy themselves, let them get a taste of power, let them savor the addictive thrill until they can no longer bear to be without it.

      All good things to those who wait…

PART 2

[dilatorywriting]

Apologies for butting in, so do feel free to delete this entire message if continuing to draw out this discussion isn't ideal. However, directed to the other Ace anon, as someone who is a vehemently sex-repulsed Ace myself, it's entirely fine to try to avoid that in the first place. What isn't fine is going into fandom spaces onto other people's blogs, make comments telling the author/artist NOT to do something (whether you intend it to be serious or no) and then become defensive when it's taken the wrong way. I found myself reading some of the rather spicy part 5 of the Malleus Monster Mayhem due to not reading the warning properly, but that's on ME. Not Dilatory or anyone else who WANTS to read that sort of thing. Most people who write/draw/read this kind of stuff have it labeled properly, and I, myself, have the Twisted smut tags blocked. You can have preferences, but I think it's unreasonable to seemingly make demands of people who create things out of love or creative outlet. It's up to the consumer to figure out what they want and curate/react accordingly, not the creator. The creator makes the masterpiece/artwork (I'm loathe to simply call it 'content' because it's not just something to shill out 24/7) and YOU decide whether or not you'd like to indulge. I'm not going to go to a Thai restaurant and demand Mexican, if you catch my drift. I'm also not trying to sound scolding, though it will likely come across that way without tone indicators through text. I simply find it a little disappointing when people don't take responsibility for their own media consumption and expect everyone else to adhere to their specific tastes. Again, I apologize for butting in, but as someone who writes/draws myself, I couldn't help but feel a bit disheartened. I do hope that my input isn't too unwarranted and that you have a lovely day/night.

You worded it far better than I did, so I genuinely appreciate it! No butting at all! But yes. Back and forths aside, hopefully this can all just be a lesson in reinforcing personal boundaries/consumption.

[freebooter4ever]

So you guys know i (try to) post daily doodles, and i have said before that i draw for about 2-3 hrs every night. BUT that also means i dont post about like 80-90% of the drawings i do each night. Today though, i've been thinking about A*I and my own relationship with drawing, and how utterly baffled i am that anyone would want to use it to like...draw for them..and how the concept that *tell a computer what art to do so i dont have to do it* is alien to me. So here's ALL the drawings i did tonight. The bottom one is the last one i did and the one i would normally post. And i want to talk about A*I without talking about good or bad end product. Because i dont care if im making the shittiest art in the universe - i still wouldn't use A*I. Not even as a ‘tool’.

If you've been around here for a while you know i have a love/hate relationship with my art. I write too, but writing doesnt make me so frustrated and angry that i want to throw my computer out a second story window. HOWEVER. There is a huge caveat to that anger.

It happens after.

You could look at it a little like hockey. Every game is fresh, right? I mean god knows the US made an entire movie about how every game is a new game and the odds could always fall in your favor no matter how stacked against you. So every drawing i go into it excited - like LOOK at that reference material, its gorgeous. The gesture is beautiful, the post is interesting, there is something about it that is just begging to be drawn. But then say you hit intermission in the hockey game and the opposing team scored a few points. And i step back and look at the drawing and realize i started to go wrong somewhere along the way. But its too late now, you gotta commit and keep going. And you do but somehow the final score is STILL 6 to 0 and thats when i want to flush all my art down the toilet and never look at it again. But its okay because the next drawing is going to start with a blank canvas and who cares what happened last time.

Ok maybe a bad example.

The product is never really what drives me to draw - i mean, sure i do like it a heck of a lot better when i have something /anything/ that i can post to show that im sticking with my everyday doodle. But its not a requirement to doodling. The process of drawing is always fun. Its when i come out of it and look at the stupid thing that im like ‘well fuck i fucked that one up again didnt i’, and THEN i get annoyed lol.

I dont sit there consumed with frustration over ‘gee i dont know what to draw’. This is never an issue. I HAVE TOO MUCH TO DRAW. Sometimes i avoid certain gifs/photos because in the back of my mind im like ‘yeah no, i havent leveled up that far yet, i cant do that justice’. But i dont want to admit the sheer number of images of geno alone i have saved. I think my biggest reference folder is still aoki and that has over two thousand screenshots - i dont think anyone will ever surpass that LOL. I have a never ending supply of practice art to be done.

The frustration comes when i have an image in my head and i want to get it down on paper so-to-speak (computer whatever). So - when im NOT using reference (or at least not an exact one) and am making an ‘illustration’ (ish). But again, the process isn't the issue. I like the act of drawing, i like the image in my head slowly taking shape, i like how vividly i can see it. Yall know how obsessed i am with personality - that's not just part of the drawing, that IS the drawing. And each deicision in the illustration is defined by the personality/character.

A computer can't fucking do this.

Could i maybe tell a computer ‘draw geno in the shower’. Sure. And it probably could. And if i didnt care about the process - if all i wanted was a very good drawing of geno in the shower....that probably would be fine. Maybe great even. Maybe it would be the best damn drawing of geno in the shower ever. And then i'd feel like shit because a machine is producing art that is more valuable to other people than mine ever will be. But holy fucking shit that ruins the entire POINT of drawing???? Why would you do that?

I mean, im sure yall can infer the entire point of the act of drawing geno in the shower. He's hot, he's wet. ANYWAY.

In my opinion, a person who wants the end product and doesn't care about the process of getting there....that person is not an artist. That person is someone who enjoys art, and probably thinks they have a lot of good ideas to make into art, but who doesn't feel that pull to make art themselves. They just want to buy art. And they want it cheap. And mindless computers being trained in seconds on the decades of creativity and hard work of art masters is a heck of a lot cheaper than a human.

And the hardest part of all this for me is how worthless this makes me feel - nobody wants you, they want that automatic button. Kinda like my dad that way (haha)