#Writing My Quiet OC's

[author-a-holmes]

Belated OC Kiss Week

I was sick when Kiss Week was on this year, and I was very VERY much looking forward to those prompts.

So I'm taking advantage of the fact that I need some promotional posts next week across all my socials, and completing the prompts a month late.

And I'm loving some of these prompt fills I've come up with tonight.

My favourite part about OCKissWeek is that I get to play with characters that are either on the back burner, or who don't always have POV scenes of their own within the main books I'm working on.

[piquuroblox]

Okay i concede we can talk about him. Only for a little though he has a bedtime

he has no friends no life no money no job and his only hobby is Extensively researching twisteds and ichor and Everybody thinks hes a freak

[hythlodaes]

prince of the pride

emile/leofard - 9.6k words contains mature content, pls don't read if you're under 18!

Leofard leans back in his seat, raising his cup to his chin as he studies him. Brown eyes blink back at him, guarded but curious, and Leofard thinks about how quiet he was outside, he thinks about the way his mouth pulled into a frown beneath his helmet, what was visible when the rest of him was hidden.   “I'd bet you're looking for a distraction.” The way Emile's brows raise tell him he's right, but then he nods. "Aye." “Well, hero,” he says, and he shifts closer until their knees touch. “I just so happen to make an excellent distraction.”

It begins with three shots cutting through the quiet afternoon, and the hard line of the Warrior of Light's mouth.

More importantly, it begins with a hell of a ship. 

The sail stretches into the sky, stark white against blue, sleek and powerful and everything Leofard was told it would be. He's tracked down every rumor of it he could, ever since someone first said to him, You should see what the Ironworks cooked up for the Warrior of Light. 

It doesn’t disappoint. 

He knows more about the ship than the man himself, and without it, he isn’t sure that he would recognize the dragoon. Lance in hand, face hidden by his helm, he stands protective between the trembling merchant and the three so-called pirates on the ground, so it seems about right. 

Leofard can feel his attention on him, but he can't read his expression like this. Still, he invites him back to the Parrock, throwing on a cocky grin despite the way it unnerves him. 

He doesn't like it when he isn't holding all the cards, but the promise of adventure far outweighs the unknown. 

—

A pistol is a good weapon, but a sharp tongue is better. Leofard has a knack for knowing the right thing to say, for knowing the right kind of smile to charm someone. He has a plan to appeal to Emile's good heart, the one thing he knows about him—the hero that can't help but be a hero. 

But then Emile takes his helmet off. 

Leofard's half distracted by the way his armor clatters as he sets into motion, but then his attention catches on the way his hair falls to his chin as he shakes his head a little. Deep brown eyes settle on Leofard, something guarded and cautious in them. Leofard's gaze sticks on him, taking in the line of his nose, the slight pout of his lips, freckles dotted along his cheeks, and two scars on either side of his face.  

For a moment, he's caught off guard by how attractive he is. 

Leofard lets his gaze travel down the rest of his body, intentionally roaming over the expanse of each long limb before returning to Emile's eyes that were, until this moment, steady on him. He watches Emile turn his head away quickly, ears burning the perfect shade of red as he blushes. 

Okay, Leofard thinks. Gotcha.

Appealing to his bleeding heart would’ve been the wrong move. He can see it all over him. Leofard crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back with a grin on his face. "You want an adventure."

—

The answer, of course, is yes. 

—

The landing strip is full of noise—the sound of airships whirring to life, scraps of conversation, but mostly his crew yelling over each other as they prepare the ships for their upcoming trek. Leofard is on his way to the Raimille when he spots the Warrior of Light standing alone at the edge of the landing strip, helmet in hand. 

Leofard's steps take him closer before he can think better of it.

"Couldn't help but notice you starin' at me pistol." 

"Excuse me?" Emile turns towards him, brows raised. 

“I wasn't showin' off for you earlier," he says, dropping his hand to his holster, "but if it had that effect, then I can't say I'm displeased." 

The wind pushes Emile's hair into his eyes, which remain fixed on Leofard as his mouth parts for a long moment before he asks, "Are you always like this?"

Leofard grins. “It’s all part of the charm.”

"Aye, well, you're not a bad shot, I'll give you that."

"That's putting it lightly," he says with a grin. "What about you, hero?”

Emile shakes his head. "I've never shot a gun." 

Leofard takes a step closer. It has the unfortunate effect of forcing him to tilt his head back. "I could teach you, if you'd like." 

He seems to consider it, and Leofard feels a familiar rush of heat as Emile lets his gaze skim low down his body before meeting his eyes again. It's an answer to a different question, one that wasn't given a voice but asked all the same. 

An answer that Leofard is very interested in hearing. 

"Mayhap I'll take you up on that," Emile says, and he takes a step even closer. "For now, let's find your ghost ship." 

—

If there's one thing he learns on the ark, it's that Emile throws himself mercilessly at danger. 

One would think he didn't care whether he lived or died, given the way he dives headfirst into it, lance whirling around him as he streams through the air. Each blow rips into their enemies, leaving a mess of voidsent for Leofard and his crew to trail, pistols in hand. 

A certain thrill buzzes through his bones the entire time, eyes roaming over the mass of the ship as he instructs his crew to grab what they can. It's more than riches, more than just a trophy—it's a way to say, Look at what I survived. 

It's another story to tell. 

And Leofard thinks he'll enjoy telling this one, even as they're running for their lives, as he grabs the odd little cat by the scruff and takes him with him in the Raimille. 

After all, a daring adventure isn't complete without a daring escape. 

—

The story unravels, plans are made, and yet Emile lingers behind after everyone else leaves Leofard's chambers. 

“Something I can do for you, hero?” Leofard asks. He stands, drawn like a magnet closer to him. They came straight here so Emile’s still in his armor, watching him with a certain kind of exhaustion in his posture. 

“I wanted to take you up on your offer,” he starts, and clears his throat. “Mayhap at a time when I’m not covered in bile.”

Leofard raises a brow. “Remind me what that was again? Drinks and takin' each other's clothes off?”

Emile rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile at the corners of his lips. “Teach me to shoot, Redbill.”

And if hearing that isn’t its own kind of rush... 

“Stop by tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll show you everything.”

—

Emile comes back the following evening. They fly down to an empty island, where Leofard sets up a few targets, talking through the basics while he does. Emile looks so much softer in a loose white shirt instead of his armor, and Leofard doesn’t bother hiding the way his gaze catches on the way his collar hangs open, exposing his long neck, his collarbones, the top of his pecs. Emile merely raises a brow when he catches him looking. 

“Okay hero, watch an' learn,” Leofard starts. One deep breath before he takes out his pistol, his focus shifts to the painted target in the setting sun's light. He squares his shoulders back as he raises his arm, eyes narrowed through his goggles, then one more breath before he pulls the trigger. 

The sound crashes through the silence, loud and sharp and violent—Leofard's favorite kind. The bullet strikes straight through the center of the target, and he looks over at Emile, who doesn't seem particularly impressed. His gaze is intent though, studying Leofard in a way that's decidedly more focused on learning from him. 

After all, he supposes, that's why they're here. 

He spins the pistol around to hold out the handle for Emile to take. "Your turn." 

Emile hesitates just a moment before he steps into Leofard's spot. The pistol is a little small for him, his finger sits cramped around the trigger, but he follows suit. One deep breath, he squares his shoulders back as he holds the same position. Leofard likes the focus in his eyes, that deadly precision, the warrior out of his element but no less dangerous.

He pulls the trigger. 

It swings left. 

“Lift your shoulder a little higher," Leofard offers, and this time when he studies his body, he's merely looking at his posture. 

It misses again. 

“It’s your bearing, hero,” he says, and he steps closer. Emile doesn’t shake him off, and if he wanted to—well, he’s the one holding the gun. Leofard places one hand on Emile’s extended arm, raising it the slightest, and the other on his back. “Here.”

He pulls at him, straightening his posture as his hand presses into the warmth of his body. Once Emile has the right angle, Leofard lets his fingers slide down into the small of his back—just to touch, just to linger long enough to make his intentions clear. 

Emile’s breath hitches, a soft sound to break the quiet evening, and Leofard can’t help a crooked grin as he takes a step back. This time, when Emile pulls the trigger, it hits the mark. 

“I think,” Emile says, his gaze still fixed on their makeshift target. “You should show me again.”

—

Leofard can think of worse ways to pass the evening than to watch a beautiful man shoot a beautiful gun. 

Once Emile consistently hits close to the center of the target, they move it further away, and then further still. Each time he misses, Leofard is there to help him aim again, cool fingers against his warm body, his breath ghosting below his collar as he stands too close. 

“I think you’re getting the hang of it,” Leofard says once he hits the center of a target twenty yalms away. 

“Well, I have a good teacher.”

“Aye, and a handsome one at that,” he says, despite the way his thoughts stutter to a stop at how earnest it sounds. He winks at him. “Flattery will get you everywhere with me, hero.”

Emile's quiet for a long moment, and then just as quietly: “You don’t have to call me that, you know.”

“It’s true, ain’t it?”

The setting sun barely reaches them, but it doesn't hide the way Emile’s expression falters when he turns his head back towards their makeshift target range, shoulders dropping the slightest bit as the quiet stretches on. Leofard feels his brows lower as he watches, but after a moment, Emile returns his gaze and holds out the pistol for him. “Did you want to show off again?”

Their fingers brush as Leofard takes it back, but he can't help but stare at the downturn of his lips. "Depends on what I'm showin' off."

"You're an arse," Emile returns, but it softens his expression as he shakes his head a little. “Is this how you treat all your little birds?”

Leofard raises a brow. 

“I find it hard to believe there’s anything little about you,” he returns, and Emile’s laugh comes so suddenly it seems to shock him as well. Leofard lets his mouth quirk into a grin, spinning his pistol back into the holster. “How about that drink, hero?”

—

There's a different kind of anticipation that buzzes through his blood as they return to the Parrock. It isn't quite like rushing into danger, but it's the same thrill of the unknown. Emile is a step behind him as he opens the door to his chambers, and his heart beats a little faster in his chest, uncertain but hopeful about what's to come.

Leofard pours them both a drink, pausing to watch Emile wander around his room. He takes a closer look at the myriad of treasures laid out in the open, and he doesn't touch anything, but he comes close a couple times, lifting a hand before pulling it away. He looks up at the portrait of Raimille for a long moment before he turns back to Leofard, who offers him a cup before he can ask.  

They talk into the night. Or rather, Leofard talks, telling story after story. He loves the attention, loves the way Emile’s eyes watch him carefully, how amusement creeps in at the edges of his expression. The lamp light softens the edges of him, and Leofard finds himself trailing off as they stare at each other, his body warm from the drink. 

He clears his throat. 

“What about you, hero?”

Emile raises a brow. “What about me?”

“I'm sure you’ve got a thousand stories to tell,” he says. “What's it like bein' the Warrior of Light?”

A small frown forms between Emile’s brows. “It isn’t as romantic as you’d think.” 

“A life filled with fame and adventure—doesn't sound too bad to me," Leofard returns. "You could always trade it in for a pirate's life, it comes with plenty of riches."

"Don't tempt me."

"’Tis all I've been tryin' to do, here." 

Emile lets out a quiet laugh. “How can you be so shameless?”

“The way I see it—'tis the only way to get what you want,” he answers. “Ain't no point in hidin' it, after all, everyone wants something.”

“So what do I want, then?”

Leofard leans back in his seat, raising his cup to his chin as he studies him. Brown eyes blink back at him, guarded but curious, and Leofard thinks about how quiet he was outside, he thinks about the way his mouth pulled into a frown beneath his helmet, what was visible when the rest of him was hidden.  

“I'd bet you're looking for a distraction.”

The way Emile's brows raise tell him he's right, but then he nods. "Aye."

“Well, hero,” he says, and he shifts closer until their knees touch. “I just so happen to make an excellent distraction.”

Emile bites his lip. “You’re trouble”

“And I reckon you like trouble.”

“Only your kind,” he murmurs. He reaches over to pull Leofard's goggles off, fingertips brushing against his skin, and a small smile crosses his lips. “You have pretty eyes.”

If there’s anything Leofard’s ashamed of, it’s the warmth that spreads through his chest at that. He shakes his head. "Come here."

They're close enough that Leofard just has to lean up a little to kiss him, letting his lips settle against the warmth of his mouth. Emile hesitates a moment before he returns it, slow until it's certain, leaving him without question that this is where they both wanted the night to go.

Emile's kiss is as warm as his eyes, as soft as his voice. It’s the same heady rush of danger, like watching him tear through that ghost ship. There are things about Emile that make sense on their own but are hard to reconcile in the same man. Kissing him is a moment of understanding. Their mouths move together and they don’t move away.

It builds—rough but honest, and it’s too close, too much, too good. 

Emile’s hand comes down onto Leofard’s thigh, big enough to span the width of it, and any semblance of restraint Leofard thought he had blanks out as it drifts upwards, as his fingers grasp at his hip and pull him closer. Leofard goes willingly, his body on fire as he shifts onto Emile's lap and parts his mouth against his. 

Emile below him, Emile surrounding him. Emile with that same question in his eyes, only this time he pulls back to ask, "Do you want to?" 

"Aye," he breathes out, pointlessly, given the way he rolls his hips down against him, given the way his hands tease at the hem of his shirt. The word barely has a chance to escape his lips before they're kissing again, but then Emile stands, hauling him up with him, and Leofard lets out a very dignified, very masculine yelp at how effortlessly he's carried to the bed. 

He thinks this might be the most genuine smile he's seen on him yet.  

"Okay, Captain?" Emile asks, but Leofard doesn't miss the strain in his voice, something low and stretched out before he bends to kiss along Leofard's jaw. 

"Oh I'm fine," he returns, groaning as his tongue licks over his neck, hands moving lower to tug at his shirt. "Just thinkin' how you're far more fun than you let on."

Emile makes a short sound that could almost be a laugh, but any further conversation is spoken through touch. The room begins to blur as Emile settles his weight over him, as they grind hip to hip, as their heavy breaths overlap and color the quiet. Leofard's heart races as Emile leans back to pull his shirt off, the distant candlelight glowing against warm skin, shadows pulling at thick muscle as he looks down at him, his gaze open and wanting. 

“Shit," Leofard breathes out.

They don't take their time. 

Emile's moans are just as soft as his voice—something delicate but needy, something addictive and overwhelming all the same. Leofard opens his mouth against his, swallowing each sound and choking out his own. His body comes alive beneath his touch, their hands meet between them, and everything else fades into the rush. 

Later, they lay beside each other, Emile’s leg draped over his as he catches his breath, and yet—when Leofard looks over at him, he doesn't wear a matching grin. Instead he merely blinks at the ceiling, expression blank, and he only looks away when Leofard clears his throat. 

A static kind of smile finds his lips, but he reaches over to brush his fingers through Leofard’s hair. 

“All right?” he asks. 

Leofard laughs. “Yeah, hero, more than all right.”

A tiny, more genuine smile crosses his lips, and Leofard stares at it for a moment too long. Of all the words he's heard used to describe the Warrior of Light, cute was not among them.

He gets up a moment later, and Leofard rolls over, face half buried in the pillow as he watches Emile dress. 

"You know, I ain’t opposed to you stopping by again before our next adventure," he says, and Emile pauses for a moment before he continues to button up his shirt. 

“Mayhap I will,” he returns, his voice casual, but the look in his eyes is a promise of its own. 

Leofard hopes he intends to keep it. 

—

The days drift by after that, and life goes back to normal aside from Cait Sith’s presence on the Parrock. Every so often Emile will stop by, and it's always How about a drink? or Let's go shoot, before they're back in his bed. 

They get to know each other through touch first, but conversation comes easily, filling the spaces in between. Both of them are upfront about wanting something easy, something that doesn't mean anything more, and saying goodbye feels just as uncomplicated—no lingering kisses, no lingering feelings. 

It's fun. 

Leofard traces down a rumor about an old fortress of ruins, of a party that went to explore them and never returned. He and Stacia fly there as soon as they can, but it’s obvious when they get there that it's already been picked over. Whatever happened though, it doesn’t look like it ended well. They keep alert, keeping quiet as they sort through what’s left. 

There’s a pistol among the relics they recover. Leofard reaches for it automatically—it’s beautiful, inlaid with a gold carving of a dragon, and its tail curves around the handle. Immediately he thinks of his pistol in Emile’s hand, long fingers cramped around the trigger. 

Mayhap…

“A little big for you, eh Captain?”

Leofard’s attention snaps up to Stacia watching him with a question in her eye, lips caught in a teasing grin. 

“Insubordination,” he says, but he looks down at the pistol again. “I think it’s just about right”

He takes it back to his quarters, leaving it out among his other treasures for a moment before he decides to lock it away in a spare chest. He doesn’t know what he’ll do with it yet, feeling oddly indecisive. He could give it to Emile—just a taste of this life—but it feels too much like, I think of you when you're not here. 

It’s on the back of his mind when Emile stops by later, but he still hasn’t mentioned it by the time they make their way to the bed. When Emile’s hand winds around his neck to turn his head into his kiss, chest pressed along his back, the pistol is the furthest thing from his mind. 

—

The days drift by like that, except the damned cat keeps getting on his nerves. 

It's the same argument with Cait Sith, again and again, Radlia's name in his mouth as if that isn't the last thing that will convince Leofard to listen. He knows Stacia is getting annoyed with them, but that's on the furball. If he actually put his time and effort into useful ideas, then maybe they'd be getting somewhere by now. 

It's no different today. They're in Leofard's chambers, Cait Sith once again insisting that joining forces with the Talons would be the best move. Leofard’s heard enough. He steps outside to clear his head, to get a breath of the free sky, and that's when he sees the sail of the manacutter fly overhead.

Leofard leans over the railing, casting his gaze down at the landing strip, where Emile climbs out of his ship. Stacia is there to greet him, and the two of them stand warm in the sun for a moment before Emile glances up at him, catching him watching. 

His lips pull into a smile. 

Leofard smiles back. 

—

It isn’t that he cares about Radlia. He doesn't.

He half-considered it as they took off for the ruins after her and the Talons, but the promise of adventure and treasure outweighs anything else for him. 

It comes to mind again as he looks down his barrel at the arch of the voidsent’s scythe looming over her. It's the first time he's seen real fear in her eyes, but it quickly turns to anger when she realizes that Leofard's pointing his gun at her. 

In the end, it doesn't matter. The voidsent plays right into his hand anyway. 

And if there's anything Leofard loves, it's a good trick. 

—

Emile is on him the moment they're alone again, kissing him with open urgency. He’s still in his armor, and Leofard gasps into his kiss as his gloved hands dig into his ass, sharper than he expected.

“Not that I’m complaining, hero,” he says between rough kisses. “But why the sudden interest?”

Emile pulls back enough to catch his breath. “Do you have any idea how good you looked standing down that voidsent?”

A grin curves along Leofard’s lips. “I can be a bit of a hero, too.”

“You’re a bastard,” Emile says, and he leans in to kiss the smile off his face. Against his mouth, he murmurs, “You’re more heroic than you know.”

“Please.”

“Radlia won’t admit it,” he continues, “but I saw it in her eyes.” 

Leofard scoffs, trying to remember the heat of anger on her face instead of her defeat. For as long as they've been rivals, she's never given up on fighting back, and there's no other way he'd prefer it between them. He lets his fingers catch at Emile’s armor. “You know, I’d rather not think of her right now. How do you take this off?”

Emile releases a gauntlet. Leofard's mouth goes dry. 

There's something different about sleeping with Emile. There's a raw power in him that's impossible to ignore—as much as he downplays being the Warrior of Light, it seeps through everything he does. He is all strength, all consuming, all brightness. Leofard can't hide from it, doesn’t want to hide from it. He likes the way that, for a just moment, part of it belongs to him too. 

All he ever does is want more than he should.   

Their hands are still tangled together as they lay beside each other tonight. Leofard's body is heavy with exhaustion, but he gives into the feeling, letting it sink into all of his limbs, his mind still hazy and slow as he catches his breath. 

Emile gets up for just a moment before returning to clean them up, but where he usually leaves to dress, tonight he lays back down beside him. 

"Leo?"

His voice sounds hesitant enough to get Leofard to blink his eyes back open. "Aye?"

“Would it be alright if I stay until Cait Sith deciphers the tome?” he asks quietly. “I don’t have any other pressing matters, and I could help out around the Parrock.”

Leofard pauses to consider it. He never has anyone stay the night—this is his space, and the simple truth is that he doesn’t trust anyone enough to share it. The even simpler truth is that he sleeps better on his own, but he looks over at Emile, at the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, his hair a tangled mess, nerves transparent in his gaze, and finds himself saying, “So long as you don’t hog the blankets.”

Emile lets out a soft sound that could almost be a laugh. “I can't make any such promise.” 

“I'll wrestle 'em back, hero.”

"I don't mind."

Leofard feels himself smile as he pulls the blanket over them both, not quite touching but close enough that it wouldn't make a difference if they were. He lets his gaze travel along the broad line of Emile's shoulders, and for a second, for just the briefest moment, all he can think is, This feels safe. 

'Tis merely who he is, he reminds himself. Hero of Eorzea, and here he is, tucked into bed, eyes falling shut as he lets out a deep breath and snuggles his face into the pillow. 

Maybe it’s dangerous to let him in like this, but Leofard has never been one to say no to a risk. 

—

The days drift by like that. 

Emile warns him that he rises early, but Leofard wakes up next to him each morning, and Emile's body is heavy with sleep. Some days Leofard reaches out to touch, waking him with fingertips exploring what seems like yalms of golden skin, and other times he leaves bed to work on the Raimille, an unexpected warmth in his chest every time Emile finds him, sleep rumpled and soft. 

Emile drinks tea every day, he hits his head against the doorframe every time he goes into the toolshed, and he hums to himself when he thinks no one's listening. He makes himself a place among the Redbills, something not quite home but still fitting all the same. Leofard watches how his crew takes interest in him, equally shy and eager to approach the Warrior of Light. A few of them come to Leofard to ask what he's like, and he's quick to brag about him. It's an easy thing to do. 

Emile can be quiet, though. More than once, Leofard finds him leaning on the railing outside, the wind pulling at his hair as he stares out at the emptiness of the sky. Leofard usually interrupts him, trying to bring a smile back to his face, but he never asks why. 

They explore the Sea of Clouds, taking their ships to some of Leofard's favorite sights, mapping out the landscape as an excuse to fly. They find a pool where they strip down and dive into water like ice, curses spilling from both of their lips as they rush to get out. Other times they follow leads on relics nearby, and Leofard likes showing off for Emile, giving him a taste of what this life is like. 

But the night is when they have the most fun.

They're made of hunger, of heat that stirs to life with simple touch. Skin on skin, their bodies learn how to move together, and he begins to know Emile in this way. 

There’s a certain kind of pleasure to be found in each little discovery—mouth along his ear and he'll gasp, trace up the seam of his trousers and his voice will falter. He sounds so sweet when he sighs out Leofard's name, and that small cry in the back of his throat only grows louder as they grow more comfortable with each other. 

There are few highs quite like watching his big eyes slam shut, when he tenses because he's so close, and closer, and then he loses that last bit of control, hips falling out of rhythm as he comes apart.

Even less highs like his mouth at Leofard's collar, or his teeth digging into his shoulder, and none quite like his hand wrapping around Leofard’s own after he murmurs, touch yourself, in his ear. 

Leofard won't call it routine, but he thinks could get used to life like this. 

“Let’s do somethin’ fun,” he says one evening. They’ve finished dinner and they’re listening to the orchestrion. Leofard’s legs lay draped across Emile’s lap, and Emile keeps tapping along to the rhythm against his knee, something inconsistent and distracting. 

Emile raises a brow. “Like what?”

“Let’s fly.” 

"You always want to fly," he says, and he lets his eyes fall closed as he tips his head onto Leofard’s shoulder. "I'm too tired, I think I'd crash." 

“Then come with me in the Raimille. You'd just have to sit pretty.”

Emile is quiet for a moment, and then lifts his head to look at him. “Utata said you named her after your first love."

They both pause, eyes fixed on each other. They don’t talk about things like that, and Leofard thinks this is why he doesn’t usually let his guard down, because it catches him off guard enough that he doesn’t have a quip ready at the tongue. 

It's a blend of good and bad memories both. The stories, the adventure, the dark, the sick. It hits too close to his heart, and he resists the pull to look at her portrait, a habit he's long since had to break. It’s her voice always in the back of his mind—

Be free, my little bird. 

He can’t bring himself to joke about it, but he feels his stomach turn as Emile’s brows pinch together the longer they sit in the quiet. Leofard pastes on a smile. “Actually, I changed me mind. We’ll take your ship.”

“Mine?”

“I’ve had my eye on her longer than I did on you," he returns, which is true, anyway. Emile's gaze remains too fixed on him, like he's trying to understand without asking, so Leofard gets up. “Are you coming or not, hero?”

Whatever he may see, he doesn't push for more. That isn't what they are. 

“Sure, Captain.”

—

In the dark, they soar.

They sit together in the pilot's seat, Leofard practically in his lap. Emile winds his arms around his middle, and he tightens his grip as they speed up, ripping through the nothingness until the sea of islands blur below them. 

The manacutter handles smoother than the Raimille, faster than her too, but she lacks personality. He can feel it in each shift of the gear, but there's even more power hidden in there, and he thinks if he just pushed a little faster they could probably reach the stars.

Cold air strikes his face, and when they reach a wide open stretch, he flies the manacutter as fast as it’ll go. His heart beats wildly in his chest, the rush of danger alive in his blood as their speed sweeps through his stomach and brings him new life. 

He hears Emile laugh over the whipping wind. It’s loud and rich and full. It’s unguarded, it’s unfamiliar. It makes him laugh too, and there’s something so perfectly absurd about it: the two of them cutting through the sky, the sound of their laughter spilling behind them. 

When they return to the Parrock, Emile lays back as Leofard rides him. He arches into it, stretching out the endless line of his torso as his hands tighten around his hips. Leofard watches with a certain satisfaction, a point of pride each time he rolls his hips against him, even as his own pleasure builds.

The room around him glitters with all of his treasure—it's everything he’s ever wanted. 

Like this, he’s king. 

—

Emile continues to be an exception to the rule. 

They find a crashed airship one afternoon and salvage it for parts. It ends up taking longer than either of them expect—hours pass doing backbreaking work, and by the time they get back to the Parrock, both of them are too tired to do anything more. 

They drink too much wine over dinner, and Leofard feels a little silly and a little blurry. He thinks if his body didn’t ache so much then he’d kiss Emile, slow and dirty until they couldn't resist pushing further. As it is, they crawl into bed together. Leofard doesn't usually like to cuddle, but tonight he fits easily into Emile’s side, the Warrior of Light curled around him with a heavy arm draped over his waist. 

“Alright hero, what's the first thing we're doing at the Gold Saucer?" Leofard asks against his chest.

Emile is quiet for a moment, but then: "Monster toss?"

"Wrong."

"I thought it was my choice."

Leofard tilts his head back to look at him, and wide eyes meet his in the dark. He lets one corner of his lips raise. "Nay, there's a right answer." 

"Cuff-a-Cur?"

"Wrong again," he says, and he pauses as he thinks about it. "Do they even let you play? Seems like cheatin', to me." 

"I'm not that strong," Emile says with a laugh. "Just tell me the answer."

"We win big in Triple Triad, cash in all our money, and then play all the silly little games we want." 

Emile hums to himself before he lets his eyes fall closed again, settling his cheek against the pillow. "Fine. Will you win me a prize from one of those claw machines?"

"Those things are rigged."

"They aren't," he argues. "Or are you telling me the great Redbill Leofard can't win a stuffed moogle?" 

"Believe it or not, I don't need one," he returns. 

“Hush,” he says, but he can’t keep the smile off his lips. "Everyone does.”

Leofard's gaze lingers on his mouth, his grin softening. Sometimes it's hard not to stare, sometimes its hard not to lean in and kiss him, just to feel his lips against his. He lets out a short breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “Fine, hero. I’ll win you the biggest moogle there is.”

They're quiet for a moment, breathing together in the dark. Leofard feels himself begin to drift off, lulled in by the steadiness of Emile beside him, his warmth surrounding him, his hand in his hair, thumb massaging little circles behind his ear. 

Too much, he tells himself, but intimacy comes easy. 

"Do you ever get tired of this life?" Emile asks quietly. 

“Nay.” The answer is immediate, but it’s honest. Leofard opens his eyes to look at him. “This is everything I’ve ever wanted. I’m happy, hero.”

Emile returns his gaze before looking somewhere over his shoulder. His thumb still worries against him. “What if you changed your mind? What if you weren’t happy anymore—what would you do?” 

“I don’t know,” he says this time, just as honest. “I reckon I’d fly until I felt free again.” 

—

Leofard sits at the table of his chambers, his pistol laid out in parts before him. He loves how methodical it is to polish it, to take it apart and clean it, to piece it back together again. It’s just about the most patience he has when it comes to anything. 

He finds his gaze drawn to Emile on the bed, reading a letter that came earlier in the day. There's something inside Leofard that always wants to bother him, to get his attention, and it's difficult to ignore, especially when he's stretched out and relaxed like that. 

He doesn’t resist, leaving his pistol at the table to meet him on the bed, climbing onto him and kissing him long enough to get him to chase his lips when he pulls away. 

Emile meets his gaze, something soft but distant in his eyes. The hovering candlelight paints gold over the shadows of his face, and Leofard can't help but push his hair back from his forehead, fingertips lingering against his brow before they draw down along his cheek, freckles echoing beneath his touch in tiny constellations made of warmth and light.

"I like your nose," he murmurs absently, and he moves to touch the bump on his bridge, smiling at the way Emile's eyes crinkle in response.

"Why?" Emile asks. "'Tis crooked."

"Don't get modest on me now, hero," he returns. His hand traces lower, thumb brushing along his lower lip, and time slows as Emile parts his mouth, brown eyes now wide and fixed on him. Blood rushes through Leofard's ears, his voice breathless as he says, "I have impeccable taste."

Leofard lets his hand drop as he leans in to kiss him again, picking at the buttons of his shirt until it hangs open. Emile shifts to return the gesture but Leofard shakes his head. 

“Just lay back,” he says as he finishes pulling Emile’s shirt off. Emile watches him for a moment before settling down again, and Leofard kisses his jaw, his neck—gentle this time, so as not to leave a mark. 

He can hear the change in Emile’s breathing, and feels him move his hips, already half hard and seeking friction against him. Leofard kisses lower, across the broad expanse of his pecs, dragging his tongue over his nipple, before he sits back to admire his affect on him. 

Emile’s chest rises and falls in a rush, brows pushed together, and a whine builds in his throat when Leofard skims his hands over the delta of scars that cross his skin. Both deep and shallow lines mark him—some are still pink, many are faded white. 

“You do get yourself in trouble, hero,” he says, tracing each scar with his fingertips. One looks more recent than the rest, a burn stretched across his side, still harsh and angry despite the way it's healed over. 

Emile’s hand closes around his wrist before he can touch it. His grip is too firm, and it surprises Leofard enough to look up at him with a question in his eyes. 

"I’m sorry, I—" Emile starts, but the words drift off. His fingers slowly loosen from Leofard's wrist until he lets go completely, and he lays his head back, breathing out long and slow. Leofard shakes his head.

Stay with me.

"'S'alright," he murmurs. His gaze lingers on the scar but his touch moves beneath it, smoothing lower down his stomach until he meets the line of his hip. He presses a kiss to a freckle that sits on the other side of his ribs, one lone little thing, and against his skin he murmurs, "I have an idea."

“Oh?” Emile lets out, and his breath hitches as Leofard trails kisses down to another lonely freckle that sits beside his belly button. "Sounds like trouble."

“We already agreed that I’m trouble,” Leofard says, pulling at the ties of his breeches as his mouth moves even lower. Emile's skin is warm against his lips, and he can feel the way each muscle jumps and trembles in anticipation. He grins, and he shifts his gaze to look up at him, meeting brown eyes made warmer by the waning light. “Isn’t that why you stuck around, baby?” 

Emile gasps as his hips shift against him, searching. Desire is such a transparent thing. 

Leofard raises a brow. “You like that?”

“Bastard,” he sighs. 

But Leofard’s desire is transparent too, and it burns inside of him as his touch turns greedy. He leans back enough to pull Emile's breeches off, and then he's back on him, hands tracing up his thighs, teasing at him until his breath grows shallow, until the only words left on his tongue are, Leo, please.

“Turn over,” Leofard says, looking up to meet the question in Emile's eyes. He lets his lips pull into a lazy smile, only pretending to be unaffected as he watches understanding settle in. His hands move lower, making his intent obvious. "If you think you can handle me, hero.”

A small laugh escapes Emile's throat as he sits up, leaning forward to leave a kiss against Leofard's lips before he turns onto his stomach. Leofard has to take a steadying breath at the stretch of golden skin before him, hands reaching out before he's even aware of it. He's careful to skim around where the scar at his side curves onto his back, the memory of Emile's fingers around his wrist already half-forgotten.

After all, he promised to be a good distraction. 

He's just keeping his word. 

—

But there’s only so long it can last like this. 

—

It's sharing a bed that's difficult.

Most nights Emile turns restlessly, awake for what must be hours without staying still. Other times he jerks violently in his sleep, a small cry in the back of his throat from whatever nightmare has a hold on him. Sometimes he gets up and keeps himself busy, often across the room writing letters by candlelight. 

You got a sweetheart you ain't tellin' me about?

Merely a few friends that are worried about me. 

No matter how he looks at it, Emile can't get much sleep beyond the few hours he dozes in the morning, and not a night passes without him waking Leofard up. Usually he'll just nudge him or put a hand on his back, but he doesn’t say anything—it doesn’t feel like his place to. 

Not until he wakes that night to find Emile sitting up at the edge of the bed. He faces away from Leofard, hands braced on his knees, moonlight casting pale lines along the shadows of his back. He takes deep breaths, constant and careful and even, but he can’t seem to stop the way each one shakes on the exhale.

“Emile,” Leofard calls as softly as he can. 

Emile's head turns towards him, and for a moment he’s completely visible. In the dark of the room, in the dark of his eyes, Leofard thinks he sees Emile for who he really is. It’s there in his expression, and it translates easily into his pain, his hurt, the things he doesn't say aloud but what follows him regardless. It makes him look young. 

Of course Leofard knows that he isn’t okay, that he hasn't been okay this whole time, but confronting it feels like something else, like something that doesn't belong to him. 

“Forgive me,” Emile murmurs. “I didn't mean to wake you.”

Leofard just sighs. “Let’s go outside."

They throw on their jackets and boots, bracing for the chilled air that meets them as soon as they step outside of Leofard’s chambers. It feels like early morning but the sky is still pitch black, stars dotted around them through the slight haze of the clouds. Leofard leads them around the corner where they’ll be blocked off from the worst of the wind, and they sit on top of a couple of stacked crates, shoulder to shoulder. 

The night is deathly quiet. The minutes pass. Emile tucks his long legs up against his chest, leaning his chin down to rest on his knee as he blinks out at the sky. Leofard has seen the same look in his eyes before, but he doesn't have it in him to try and distract him. 

“I’m not much for matters of the heart,” Leofard says eventually, “but we pirates don't let one of our crew go on hurtin' alone.”

Emile tilts his head towards him, eyes still heavy. 

“There’s naught to say,” he murmurs, his voice so, so quiet. “I keep failing. That’s all there is.” 

Leofard opens his mouth to respond, but what could he say to that? What reassurance could he offer him? He only has the stories that trail after him, each tale that makes him the hero that Leofard keeps calling him. All he could say is, You stopped a whole damn war, but that's only one part of the story, and the rest doesn't belong to him.

It's funny—

He knows the weight of Emile against his chest, knows the curve of Emile's spine as he debates with Cait Sith at the table, the way he tilts his head when something's on his mind, that crooked bottom tooth that isn’t noticeable until he laughs. He knows the warmth of his skin, has mapped out the lines of his body with his hands, with his mouth. He knows the taste of his lips, the drag of his tongue along his, the way he moves inside him, and yet—

Leofard doesn't know him at all. 

Neither of them say anything else. Emile leans over and rests his head on his shoulder, far too big to curl into his side but he does anyway, and Leofard reaches around to hold him close. They stay like that until the sky thins to pink, and Leofard must drift off at one point, only really aware of the solid weight of Emile beside him and around him. 

When they part, Leofard watches him in the lifting morning light. Big brown eyes blink slowly at him, and Leofard feels the corners of his lips raise as he pushes Emile’s hair behind his ear. 

“‘Twas strange,” Emile murmurs, leaning into his touch. “You called me by my name.”

“Did I?”

He just nods. 

“Won’t let it happen again, hero,” Leofard says, and he kisses the corner of his mouth, lingering for too long.

The hell are you doing?

“Thank you,” Emile says, and Leofard thinks it might be for more than just that simple promise. 

He thinks that what’s happening between them might be more dangerous than it was ever supposed to be. 

—

It's only a matter of time before Stacia brings it up. He's been dodging her pointed looks, knowing she's the only person that can wring it out of him, knowing that she knows him better than most. She's never been good at minding her business, and it's saved him a time or two, but he thinks that this might be something he wants to keep to himself. 

They're working on her ship together when she finally brings it up. 

“You and the Warrior of Light,” she says. It's all she needs to say.  

“Been havin’ a bit of fun.”

“Been having a lot of fun.”

“Sure have,” he says, and he shrugs. It takes more effort than it should to pretend not to care. "Somethin' to say about it?"

She doesn't answer right away, focusing back on her hands as she adjusts her propeller. When she's done, she merely gives him a long look before she says, "'Tis the longest anyone's ever stayed."

"'Twasn't a hard record to beat." 

She laughs. "You're proud of that." 

All he can do is shrug again. “It's just until Cait Sith figures out the Nullstone. Not my fault the little furball takes forever.”

“He's nearly done,” she returns. “Are you ready to say goodbye to Emile?”

Leofard presses his lips together. His first thought goes to Emile's eyes in the morning, when those first rays of light strike them gold. He thinks about the mess of his hair, the heaviness of his arm around him, he thinks about waking up alone. There's a dull ache in his chest, but he makes himself grin. “Of course I am.”

—

And then one day, Cait Sith finishes deciphering the tome. 

One moment they’re talking in his chambers, and the next there’s the sound of gunfire. Leofard doesn't hesitate to chase after it, pistol in hand as his heart drops into his stomach. His love for this place runs fierce, and he'd be damned if he let anything happen to it. 

But he isn't expecting a demon on the Parrock. 

It rushes at him so fast that he doesn't even have the time to draw his pistol, let alone shoot. It knocks him into the air, and his mind blanks out for a moment as he hits the ground, stars behind his eyelids as pain blooms through his arm. 

Emile helps him up, worry written open in his expression, but Leofard thinks he's the last thing anyone should be concerned about. 

The Nullstone is gone. 

And everyone wants to leave him behind. 

Frustration builds in his chest as he watches the rest of his crew prepare their ships, as the Talons' beast looms large above the Parrock, waiting to carry them away. It doesn't feel right just standing here when he should be with them, but no one gives him a chance to even argue again, moving quickly around him without sparing a second glance.

And then Emile is there, standing tall above everyone, body clad in his armor once again.

"You look good, hero," Leofard murmurs when he comes close.  

"You're moping." 

"I don't take kindly to sittin' by while the rest of you risk your lives." 

Emile smiles in that soft way he does, bending down to kiss him. "We'll be back soon." 

But it doesn't feel right. He takes steadying breaths while he watches each ship take off, until the Raimille is the only one left and the Parrock lays quiet. He can't help but imagine all the ways it could go wrong, all things he could prevent if he could just be there. 

—

In the end, it's an easy decision to make. 

—

They're alive.

It's what he keeps telling himself. Even when they return to the Parrock, he can't help but see the Raimille burning in the back of his mind. He thinks of the promise he made her in those final days, when all she wanted was for him to fly free. He kept his word...

Emile puts a hand on his shoulder, but Leofard can't look at him, can't meet the concern in his eyes. His chest aches and it isn't his injury. Everyone else will be waiting for him in his chambers, but there's one thing he still needs to do. 

"Go on ahead without me," he murmurs. "I won't be long." 

Once he's alone, he limps to the empty space on the landing strip where she should be, and bows his head for a long moment. 

"I'll rebuild her," he says aloud. It's a new promise, a new vow to keep.  

He’ll always make her proud. 

—

Emile doesn’t say anything about Raimille. 

Leofard half expects him to. He can see the question in his eyes, the way he glances at her portrait again and again, but the question never comes and Leofard's glad for it. He thinks about the two of them in the early morning, curled around each other in the cold, with the truth sitting between them, visible but unexplained. Is that enough to fully see someone?

“I could stay a little longer,” Emile murmurs as he helps Leofard redress his wounds. “Just until you feel better.”

Leofard wants to say no, that he doesn't need him to, that he'll be okay, but the words never make it to his lips. He isn't sure that it would make a difference, because there's only so much longer it can last, anyway.

Emile has a world to save, and it’s only a matter of time before it comes crawling back to him. 

—

Thankfully his injuries don't hold him back too much. He gets used to doing everything with one arm, gets used to everyone chastising him for being up and about when he should be resting, but staying still has never suited him well. 

Emile is the one who’s more careful than he needs to be. 

He kisses along the edges of where Leofard’s shoulder is still wrapped, nudging him back along the bed and taking his time as he mouths along his collar, down his chest, slow and cautious and watching him for any signs of pain. 

“You won’t break me, hero,” Leofard assures him, but it comes out breathless as Emile pulls his thighs over his shoulders, pressing a long kiss against his hip. 

“I know.”

He takes his time even as Leofard tries to urge him faster, his good hand threaded through his hair. Emile holds his hips in place to prevent him from bucking against him, working his mouth along him just as achingly slow.  

Don’t be soft with me, he wants to say, because it feels too much like something else, like something they aren’t and never will be. 

Don’t look at me like that, he wants to say, but he doesn’t. He wants this, and he wants, and he—

When he comes, it’s with brown eyes steady on him. 

—

That night, he wakes to Emile turning over. 

Leofard blinks at him for a moment, barely awake, but the room is dusk pink with the impending sunrise, and Emile is actually asleep for once. Hair a mess, he breathes in long steady breaths, his face half squished into the pillow. Leofard swears he can feel his heart soften. 

He inches closer, his mind too sleep slow to think better of it, and tucks himself against the solid warmth of his chest. In sleep, Emile wraps an arm around him and pulls him that much closer. 

There is a question that sits in the back of Leofard's mind, and it sounds a lot like, What if? 

It isn’t a question he can let himself answer. 

And it isn’t love, cannot be love, but the corners of his lips still pull into a smile as he drifts back to sleep. 

—

Later, he wakes to an empty bed.  

He doesn’t think anything of it at first, rolling over into the warm spot Emile left behind. He dozes a little longer, until the day brightens in earnest and his thoughts begin to wander. 

He dresses, throws on a jacket, and goes outside, where he finds Emile leaning over the railing, looking out at the empty skies. Leofard just stays where he is for a moment, back against the door as he watches the wind pull at his loose shirt, as the cold sun brushes over the edges of him—Warrior of Light indeed. 

Leofard knows, at once, that this is over. 

He goes to him, and instead of saying anything, he wraps his arms around his middle and drapes himself along his back, pressing his cheek to the space between his shoulders. 

Emile's hand finds his and threads their fingers together. 

“I received a call,” he murmurs. “I’m to meet the Scions later today, and I don’t know if I can promise that I’ll be back.”

Leofard nods against him. “Wasn’t meant to last forever, hero.” 

Emile turns in his arms, and they hold each other close. He can hear each heavy beat of Emile's heart in his chest, what has become a familiar sound to him, and he leans up to kiss him, warm against the cold morning and just as familiar. They stay like that for a while, and like most of their time together, they say what they need to say without words. 

Leofard never expected him to stay this long, but the thought of saying goodbye sticks in his throat, even as he walks Emile down to the landing strip. What else is there? He would never ask him to stay, could never ask for another man's freedom, not when he holds his own in such high regard. 

And maybe there's something more free about the way Emile smiles at him, brown eyes curved into half moons as he says, "Thank you, for everything." 

“No need to thank me, hero,” he murmurs. “I had fun.” 

“I did too.” He claps a hand on Leofard’s good shoulder and bends to press one last kiss to the top of his head before he gets in his ship. All Leofard can do is watch, pretending that he's happy to see him off. 

Over the sound of the ship, he raises his voice to say, “When the skies spit out some new mystery, you can bet that I'm comin' to find you. After all, there ain't nobody else who handles the unexpected quite like you do." 

"I'll be there," Emile calls out. "Goodbye, Leo."

—

And just like that, he's gone. 

—

Leofard returns to his chambers afterwards, an odd heaviness in his chest at the silence. He half considers going out flying, just to clear his head, just to distract himself, but he’s tired and his body aches and his ship is gone, and nothing really feels normal, anyway. 

He ends up laying back down—at least the the Redbills will be happy he's finally getting some rest. He pulls Emile's pillow into his arms, and with no one to jostle him awake, he sleeps straight through the night. 

—

Months later, an Ishgardian noble puts up a notice offering a hefty reward in return for a dagger that had been stolen weeks before. It goes on to mention how long it's been in the family, who it originally belonged to, but Leofard doesn't read much past the sum of gil up for grabs, instantly recognizing the drawing of it as something he may or may not have already stashed away in his room. 

The reward is more than it's probably worth, so he doesn't mind parting with it. The only problem is a matter of finding it among his mess of treasures. 

He enlists Cait Sith's help, which is probably a bad idea considering the way the Mhachi familiar chastises him for the state of his room. It wouldn't be the first time, so he ignores him, so long as he helps him look. 

But then Leofard's eye catches on a familiar chest. He pauses, certain that the dagger isn't there, but he can't help but reach for it anyway. 

Inside lays a pistol, a delicate dragon carved into it from barrel to handle. Leofard brushes his fingers along it, memories flooding back, and for a moment he regrets never giving it to him. 

“That was somethin’ else, hero,” he murmurs to himself before he locks it away again. 

They’ll meet again someday, and maybe then...  

[prettymuchpotter]

Can you write about Fyshur flinging Pacesetter out of his suite by hitting him with their car (they're in love your honor)(Flint catches him in his arms)

sure!! i might take a few liberties here (i.e. with flint catching graham, because he would, but i doubt it would be graceful), but i love toontown reqs so here we go :>

All Star Suites was surprisingly quiet, a rarity, even in the middle of the night. The moon shone brightly down on the streets of Drowsy Dreamland, illuminating the playground just as well as the sun would have. Most Toons had dispersed from the area, leaving the streets and shops mostly empty.

Graham Ness Payser found himself lounging for once, his metallic body draped over the plush couch in the lobby of All Star Suites, his gaze drifting aimlessly across the sky, darting from star to star. It was an unusual occasion for him to take a moment to rest, most of his spare time spent pacing in circles in his private room. He found himself enjoying the peace despite his fast paced personality, one hand lifting to pull his sunglasses from his face as he let his body sink further into the cushions.

A sound from behind caught his attention, his fine-tuned wiring programmed to pick up even the slightest sound, some kind of extra security ordained by Cog Nation after the influx of well-trained Toons took down many managers all over Toontown. Whirling around at the same time as he scrambled off of the couch, his eyes were met with the sight of a cat Toon, their face quirked up into a mischievous grin.

"Who-- Fyshur. You again?" Graham spoke, his body relaxing a smidge at the sight of the familiar cat.

"Yep. Me again." Fyshur replied smugly, hopping up onto the lobby counter, their legs swinging back and forth as they made themself right at home in Graham's home.

Graham stood in silence as he watched the little cat move about the place as if they lived there, giving a slight shake of his head as he finally relented to their antics. Fyshur perked up after a moment, as if remembering something of utmost interest. They hopped off the counter just as quickly as they'd gotten onto it, their fluffy feet hitting the ground with a soft thud.

"I got something cool today. Check this out!" They grinned, darting off to put more distance between themself and Graham, one hand digging in their pocket as they jogged the short distance away. From the distance, Graham couldn't quite make out the object they held in their hand until they tossed it to the ground, the car suddenly expanding to its full size, Fyshur hopping behind the wheel without a second thought. Graham's eyes widened, baffled by the fact that this Toon had brought a car inside his estate.

"Fyshur! Are you insane?! You brought a car into my home!" Graham shrieked, his voice going up several octaves at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. Fyshur only laughed with glee, now making the car do donuts, tire tracks streaking across the pristine tiles. They began zipping the car around the spacious lobby, narrowly avoiding the coffee tables and couches, a god-awful screeching sound from the tires piercing the air as they rounded the corner at a high rate of speed.

The car was much too fast now for such a confined space, even with the added square footage of Graham's luxurious place. As the car shot up the steps towards the main entrance, Graham found himself directly in the path of the speeding vehicle. The car collided with Graham's legs, the force sending him flying through the large windows in the front of the building. Fyshur, thankfully wearing a seatbelt, jerked the car to a stop, their fluff spiked all over the place from the windy drive.

Graham sailed through the air, the crash happening too fast for him to react. Shards of glass painted the ground, the sharp fragments sliding across the smooth street outside. To Graham's relief and shock, he collided with a solid form, the familiar smoky scent filling his nose. Flint, who had come for a visit, had been just outside All Star Suites at the time of the occurrence. He'd had quick enough reflexes to reach for Graham as he came hurtling out of the window, but not so quick as to think to brace himself for the impact, both of their metallic bodies clattering to the ground, albeit with much less force than Graham would have had originally.

Their metallic joints creaked as they both sat up, both of them turning to look towards the building, Fyshur still sitting in the now-idling car, all three with their eyes wide from shock. Fyshur was the first one to start laughing, gleeful yet slightly delirious from adrenaline chortles filling the air. Flint was soon to follow, a soft huffy laugh coming from him as he dusted himself and stood up, extending a hand to Graham to pull him up. Graham, in all his dramatics, crossed his arms over his chest and pouted for a moment, before giving in and reaching for Flint's hand, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet before chuckling under his breath, unwilling to give Fyshur the satisfaction of knowing he wasn't pissed. At least not yet.

As with everything in Toontown, the peace never lasted long. But for now, the three were satisfied with knowing that there was never a dull moment.

Fin.

(ok i got carried away. i love you lupa. i hope this is okay i can revise if needed ily again ok byeee <3)

[practically-an-x-man]

Echoes and Mementos (Spider's introduction)

Summary: An introductory ficlet, post-Death Angels, about Spider and his life in a world without sound

Word Count: 1.9k

Tags: introduction, gen fic, non-romantic, OC focused, light angst

____

Spider missed his tapes.

Granted, he wasn't entirely sure what he'd do with them if he had them. He couldn't play them anymore, not in this too-silent world filled with beasts that hunted by sound. It was too much of a risk.

But just seeing them, all lined up and organized in their boxes, having the collection in front of him, would be comforting to him. It was something normal, at least to him, and there was a shortage of normal in this new world.

He imagined looking them over, running his fingers along their smooth plastic cases, pulling one out just to peer at it. Or opening up his laptop - most tapes had multiple sounds recorded, and most a very random assortment, which made it impossible to truly organize everything perfectly with an analog system - and pulling up the spreadsheet he'd finally gotten finished days before he flew to New York, searching for a particular sound by label and finding it amidst the crates.

DoorSlamClick 4 - box C, row three, number seventeen or eighteen down the row. That was one of his favorites. He'd taped it while staying in an Airbnb for a film trip, and it was one of the most intensely satisfying sounds he'd ever had the pleasure of memorializing on film. It was a heavy oak door with an old-fashioned lock, and there was something about the solid fshh-thud-click that he thought would be perfect for an animated period-Medieval piece someday.

DogWhineTrill - box 2F, row one, the very first in line. He'd encountered that one while walking past a line of houses in residential Los Angeles - some small yappy dog straining against the chain-link fence that surrounded its house, making a strange warbling sound that seemed like it couldn't decide whether to be a growl or a whine. Spider wasn't sure what he'd end up using that one for, but it was a sound he didn't think he could replicate. And that was the point of his collection. The tapes were only pointless until someone needed a sound they couldn't produce in a studio.

StunGunSlowed - box 2B, row five, and the fifth one in line. The symmetry of that one made it easy to remember. Spider had gotten his hands on a stun gun in the studio one day, and had digitally slowed the sound until each individual click could be heard - intended for the echolocation of a massive, monstrous bat in a B-list Dracula spinoff he'd worked on. It was digitally saved on his computer, but he'd recorded the sound on tape too, just to be safe. And he swore up and down, that one would be downright perfect as monster-bait in this new world. If only it weren't on the other side of the country.

BrokenFaucetHiss - unboxed and uncategorized, a brand new sound still waiting to enter the collection. He'd found it the night before he left for New York: his kitchen faucet had gone faulty and spat water whenever he turned it on, accompanied by a fascinating staggered tch-ssss-TCH-ssssh. The pitch changed when he cranked the handle to different positions. He'd played around with it for a while, finally recorded something he was happy with, then vowed himself two things: that he'd one day use the sound for a snakelike alien language in a sci-fi piece, and that he'd get the faucet fixed the instant he got home from New York.

Neither of those really ended up coming true, in the end.

And now he was two and a half thousand miles away, his beloved tapes gathering dust in their mouldering cardboard boxes, and that broken faucet no longer mattered. The BrokenFaucetHiss tape still sat on his cluttered desktop, waiting endlessly to be placed with its brethren.

The thought saddened him more than he expected. Spider tried not to anthropomorphize his tapes, he knew they were just inanimate objects at the core of it all, but... each sound just had such personality, and it was hard just to see them as things when they were so close to his heart.

He wanted to return to his collection. If only to see it again. If only for that closure.

The world is different now, he thought, I can't play you anymore. I have to say goodbye. But thanks for all you've done for me.

It sounded a little saccharine, even in his own head. The tapes hadn't really given him his career- he wouldn't even have the tapes if it weren't for his fascination with sound, and that was what gave him his success. But they'd played a role in it, without question.

He couldn't count the number of times a director, or sometimes even another foley artist, had approached him utterly stumped for a sound. And each time, he'd done a little searching, pulled options from his records, and there was almost always something that worked out. And then that director spread the word, and he landed more jobs, and the collection grew, and the cycle repeated all over again.

Spider knew his collection made him distinct. Maybe distinct erred on the side of eccentric at times, or even downright weird at others, but the film world thrived on people who could bring something utterly unique to the table. Rick Baker had his Change-O-Heads. Matthew Mungle had his gelatin. Irmin Roberts had his dolly zoom.

And Souriya Prakash-Cooper had his tapes. A vast collection of sounds spanning everything from AppleCrunchBite to ZooTrolleyDing, and thousands more in between.

He owed his livelihood to his collection. Perhaps it had gotten out-of-hand after a while, boxes and boxes of random scraps of sound cluttering his apartment, but he couldn't bring himself to get rid of a single one. And he never taped over them - not unless he absolutely had to, and even then he tried to stick to sounds he stood a chance at recreating later.

Only about one in every hundred tapes ever ended up used, and even that was generous. But he could never guess which ones he might need in the future, and so he couldn't bring himself to get rid of a single one. According to his spreadsheet, the total tapes amounted nearly sixteen thousand, and he couldn't even count the amount of individual sounds that contained. He'd been building his collection for over fifteen years, and never went anywhere without his tape recorder. He thought eventually he'd have his own studio, his very own library of sound - millions of them.

And now... he had four. Four precious sound-filled tapes still tucked into his pockets, six more blank ones ready to record. He was saving those. He wasn't sure where he'd get more, now that the entire world had crumbled around him.

He had three full boxes of blank tapes back home. He bought them in bulk. He never knew when they might be discontinued, and he always used the same model of handheld tape recorder - what good was his collection if he couldn't access all the tapes? Backwards-compatability was a must.

But he didn't have those tapes. He had six blank ones and four that he'd already filled.

Needing to feel them in his hands, their blocky plastic, their comforting size, Spider dug them out of the deep pockets of his windbreaker.

Six blank ones. One, two, three, four, five, six, back into his pockets for later. He didn't want to damage them, especially when they were so beautifully new and fresh.

MonsterBait - that one wasn't technically in his hands. It was still in his tape recorder, rewound and ready to play at a moment's notice. Unlike many of his other tapes, it only contained a single sound: a full side, 15 minutes, of various snippets of the clicking sounds he'd recorded from the creatures. Collecting those sounds was the most terrifying thing he'd ever experienced, but it had paid its dues a dozen times over. The B-side was still in progress, intended as a collection of all the creatures' other, non-click noises. Most of those were rather gruesome.

BullSnort1-8/DoorCreak3/FootstepsGravelCrunch/CarDirtRoad/... - he'd grabbed that one largely at random, and it turned out to be a session from when a friend had dragged him out to his aunt's farm for a weekend. He was intending to use it as a demonstration of his collection when he got to the crew meeting. And then... that crew meeting had never happened, and the tape sat useless in his pocket.

ElevatorDing/IntercomSquawk/TrollyRumble/CrowdBabble12/... - he'd been working on that one on the way to New York: the airport, the flight, even the taxi back to the hotel. It was, he realized, the last sounds he had before the silent apocalypse. They were utterly mundane, commonplace sounds, just the average cacophony of the urban crowd - even then, he doubted he'd ever end up using them, they were such easy sounds to replicate - but now it felt like the last little bubble of humanity left in the world.

He still had room on that tape, but couldn't bear to fill it. He couldn't mix pre-apocalypse and post-apocalypse. That would... tarnish something about the past. He wanted to keep it intact, at least in his own mind.

Mixing the past and the present generated too many unsavory thoughts. It reminded Spider that he still didn't know what happened to his parents, his sisters, his friends and extended family and everyone else he cared about. As long as he kept those two worlds separate, he could convince himself they were still at home, silent and safe, rather than tormenting himself with gruesome realities.

That tape was filled with the voices of the dead. He knew that airport was now silent, for one reason or another, only broken by the heavy, crunching steps of the beasts that now infested the world. But he couldn't bear to tape over it.

And then there was one more.

The Best Sound in the World.

He'd struggled with the title for a while. StormPoemRead would be more accurate, or RainVoiceEric or any number of other descriptions, and it would fit with how he'd categorized every other sound in his collection. Even with his collection now obsolete and gathering dust, the consistency would be a comfort.

But it felt too clinical. There were so few sounds in the world anymore. He couldn't stand to lump this one in with the rest. It was special. A snippet of speech in a near-speechless world.

Perhaps someday the world would recover. He wanted to believe, if he held out long enough, the beasts would starve or be eradicated and the world would gradually resume its normalcy, though that seemed like an impossible concept when looked at the wreckage of the city around him. Even if the world at large recovered, there would be no more New York City. Hell, he was sure his career would be toast - when it came to repairing all the damages, entertainment would certainly be one of the last steps.

But it would be worth it, if it meant he could once again live in a world with speech and music and simple little noises again. It was exhausting to be hypervigilant of his every move, to fear making any sound.

He hoped he would live long enough to reach that world again.

But until then, he missed his tapes.

[shhh-secret-time]

To be honest, stardew valley has me in such a chokehold. It always has, even before the 1.6.

In such a way that my brain wants to smash my hyperfixation into it. So late at night I'll be awake thinking of this stardew/south park mashup.

Call that bad boy Star Park AU.

But no brain! Bad! We already have too much going on! You have a Secret Soulmate AU. Fantasy AU, A Cowboy AU story staring Kenny that's still in the outline phase, and these one shots!

(Look at the tags to watch me descent into madness)

[aheckinmess]

Laundry Night in Gotham

(Part 1 of Bashful Beginnings with Bengal.)

Read on AO3.

Tags: Bruce Wayne, Batman, Gotham City, Original Child Character(s), Original Female Character(s), Gotham is Gotham, Child Reader is Just Doing Her Best, Canon Divergence, A Little Angst with a Happy Ending, Bruce Wayne is the Ray of Sunshine We Deserve, Good Parent Bruce Wayne, Bruce Helps a Child, Child Gets Lost, I Love Bruce Because He's a Sweetheart, Bruce Knows ASL, Quiet Child OC, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Family Fluff, This is the Introduction to a Whole AU My Friends and I Have Been Writing, Protective Bruce Wayne

Word Count: 1,537 words

Summary: Bengal is a young child who likes talking with sign language more than words, and her mother never lets her go out in Gotham at night. So what happens when they're at the laundromat and Bengal gets lost in the ever-darkening streets of Gotham?

Author's Note: My friends and I have written a whole fanfic and this is part of my character's backstory. I had to share because it's just too cute.

“Oh my sweet Tiiiiiigerlily!” Bengal heard the call of her mother through the garden, but she was remiss to leave. Plants were easier to interact with than people. Plants didn’t force you to say anything you didn’t want to. Plants didn’t laugh at you just because you talked more with sign language than actual words. 

Plants didn’t say mean things to you just because you twitched sometimes when you were thinking really hard.

Mommy taught her about growing plants. Mommy helped her plant cucumbers that were flowered so pretty in the warm spring air. Mommy said most plants flower to show they’re mature, and laughed when Bengal asked her why humans don’t do that.

Now, Bengal toddled through their vast garden and tucked behind the vibrant leaves sprouting from a planter of potatoes. The scent of lavender wafted over and helped soothe her breathing. Maybe if I don’t answer, she’ll give me a few more minutes. She thought, laying back to look up at the clouds.

Her mind drifted back to the tall lady in the grocery store, how she’d frowned when looking at her mommy. “What does she have? Is she okay?” That had been enough to rattle Bengal from her daydreams and get her to stop twitching. Though Bengal was too young to understand exactly what was said, she gathered enough context to look down with bright red cheeks.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh…I’m sorry. She…well, I thought she was having seizures.” Peeking out behind her hair, Bengal could see the lady looked sad, but her face was a little different. It had the look Bengal frequently gave her mother when she knew she said something she wasn’t supposed to.

“She has an overactive imagination. It makes her twitch sometimes.” Mommy had smiled, but her voice sounded angry, like when she talked about Daddy. 

Bengal had never met her dad. Mommy told her that he left but it wasn’t her fault…but it still kind of felt like her fault. Sometimes when she’d go outside, she’d pray to God that He would bring him back. Sometimes she prayed that He would keep him far far away from them.

“Tigerlily, there you are.” Mommy’s voice trickled in her ears and she was suddenly lifted in strong arms. Bengal watched her mother pick up a basket of carrots before readjusting her. “What am I going to do with you, my little tiger?”

Buy me more video games . Bengal giggled as she signed the words.

“You don’t feel like talking out loud to Mommy today?”

Bengal shook her head, feeling tired and worn out from the grocery store.

“That’s okay, honey. I know we just went to the grocery store a few hours ago, but I need you to come with me to the laundromat, okay? Your babysitter canceled.”

No Rosie? Bengal frowned. Rosie was the best! Rosie read to her. As many books as she wanted! And sometimes she’d play video games with her.

“No, sweetie. Rosie has the flu. Now, come on. Let’s go get some clothes washed.” Mommy winked at her before passing through the threshold from the backyard and into the house. When Bengal was set down, she ran over to her favorite pink shoes. “Good girl. It’s just a short walk. Let’s hurry so we get finished before dark.”

Mommy didn’t let Bengal go anywhere in Gotham alone during the day. But even her mom wouldn’t walk in Gotham at night. She said more bad people came out at night. More bad people who were not safe.

Bengal was scared of the dark, but she wasn’t scared of the night. Because night time was when The Batman came out to save everyone in trouble.

. . . . .

Mommy started shaking her leg in the chair and glancing out the window whenever the sun went down. She started squeezing her sleeves when the shadows spread over the streets.

Bengal wondered if she had to go potty, but she didn’t seem to be in a hurry. And whenever the laundry was done, her mom stopped moving quite as much. She pulled Bengal along with the fresh, clean clothes and out into the darkening city.

They made it to the crosswalk when Bengal saw someone with glowing lights on the street corner. She wasn’t paying attention. She didn’t mean to get separated from her mother, but suddenly she was alone in a big crowd where a bunch of cold eyes glanced at her and kept walking.

Her throat got tight as she started to sniffle. She knew she wasn’t supposed to, but she started moving and trying to find a police officer. What did Mommy tell me? I’m sposed to stay still but I don’t see her! Where am I supposed to go? Do I just walk home? I just want Mommy…  

She started running. She needed to find a safe spot. There were so many people. Too many people. Bengal didn’t look at anybody. She found the nearest empty bench and hid beside it, starting to cry. Her body shook as she tried looking through teary eyes to find her mom. But everyone looked the same and she couldn’t find her mother’s face in the crowded darkness.

I’m never going to see my mommy again and then someone is going to hurt me or someone is going to hurt her and–

“Excuse me, sweetheart, are you lost?” A kind voice startled her and she retreated further into the side of the bench. “Hey, hey, hey, you’re okay, you’re okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”

People scared Bengal so much. She couldn’t find her voice as she looked up at the tall man. He seems nice though. He looks nice, too. He’s got a pretty blue tie.

“Hey, can you breathe with me, sweetie?” His voice softened as he bent down to Bengal’s level.

She nodded her head and followed his lead through some shuddering breaths. The world stopped spinning quite so much. Her shaky hands weren’t quite so shaky anymore. 

“There you go, good job.” He encouraged, giving her the prettiest smile she’d ever seen. “Now, do you need help getting home?”

Again, she nodded.

“Okay. Where do you live?”

Bengal wiped her eyes and started signing. 99 Oakland Drive.

Oh. Are words hard for you? That’s okay. I know ASL too. He signed back, making Bengal gape up at him. Follow me. I’ll keep you safe. He extended his hand but Bengal merely held up her arms and looked at him with a plea. The stranger hoisted her up in his arms and began carrying her across the dark streets of Gotham.

The darker the city got, the more Bengal flinched and startled at every sound she heard. Finally, the crash of a trash can lid made her speak.

“I-I d-don’t like…th-the dark.” She whispered.

“The dark is scary for a lot of people.” The nice man said, patting her back. “It’s okay to be scared.”

“D-Do you think…Th-The Batman…gets scared?” She swallowed, her little body twitching when she heard an angry dog barking down an alley.

He chuckled.

“I think The Batman gets scared more than people think he does. For sure.”

“What…” This information was new for Bengal. If The Batman gets scared and still saves people…maybe I can do stuff even though I’m scared too. “What do you think he does…when he’s scared?”

“Hmm, that’s a good question.” He said, looking both ways before crossing another street. Bengal knew this area well enough to know her house was getting closer. They were almost there. “I think The Batman faces his fears so he can help others. Because he knows that it’s okay to be scared so long as he doesn’t let it get in the way of his life.”

Bengal opened her mouth to ask another question when she saw them. Red and blue lights outside Mommy’s house. And Mommy! She stood talking to two men in police clothes while the nice man held Bengal in the shadows.

“That’s her. That’s my mommy!” She exclaimed happily, before suddenly being put down.

“This is as far as I take you, okay? You go on ahead. I’ll watch you. But it might be a big fiasco if I take you over there. I’m glad to have met you, little one.” He started pushing her toward the lamplight.

“But…you helped me.” Bengal stepped back toward him, scared of making even that small trek in the darkness. “Why can’t you come with me?”

“You’ll understand when you’re older, if you remember this.” Another smile from him gave her courage. “But don’t forget to be brave, okay? You can do it. Now go on.”

Bengal took a few steps away from him, stopped, and then rushed back to crush the man’s legs in a tight, appreciative hug. She looked up at him and signed one phrase. Thank you.

Then she took off for her mother.

“Mommy! Mommy!” She barreled into her legs and breathed in her scent and finally finally everything felt like it would be okay. 

“Oh, Bengal! This is her, officers. Oh, my darling!” Mommy was crying, and Mommy never cried. Bengal was sure she’d explode with as tight as Mommy squeezed her!

But she didn't mind.

[kaylinalexanderbooks]

10. Does your oc celebrate Pride? How?

Hey, thanks for the ask! (From this OC pride ask game)

10. Does your oc celebrate Pride? How?

Anyone from Alium, no because it's a non-issue.

Characters who would actually go to a Pride event/parade would include Wade, Parker, Teo (Wade's bf), Jazlyn, Ewan (only here because of Jazlyn he doesn't like parades), and Liam. I feel like Robbie, Akash, and Sam would have fun, but also staying in and binging queer TV/movies sounds fun. Even though I'm debating the identities of these three in particular, they'd do it anyway before any discoveries.

Everyone else would probably a) hang out with friends, b) throw their own party, or c) "oh cool it's Pride Month" *continues living their life the exact same way*

I feel like this is a lame answer. I'm the "I'll stay indoors" queer.

TSP intro

TSP tag list (ask to be +/-): @thepeculiarbird @illarian-rambling @televisionjester @finchwrites

@nebula--nix @literarynecromancy @honeybewrites

[snail-legs]

Been working on a personal OC/worldbuilding site bc my toyhouse has gotten somewhat unwieldy and wow wow wow it's so satisfying to have this much flexibility and control over my html/css and my file structure and the way I connect different pages and show the connections between things ^^

It's going slow, but mostly because I'm a slow writer and I want all my little guys to have at least a paragraph-long summary explaining in loose terms Their Whole Deal...

But overall it's really nice to feel like my OCs are more integrated into a single continuous world!! I put a lot of thought into who fits where before I started, and so far it's really paid off xD

[suddenlymicah]

happy ides of march! time to kill ceasar

[lostchildofthenewworld]

prologue, act i scene i, act i scene ii, act i scene iii, act ii scene i, act ii scene ii, act ii scene iii, act iii scene i, act iii scene ii, act iii scene iii

[elavoria]

WIP Whenever

Tagged by @boethiahspillowbook, thank you m’dear! I tag @nostalgic-breton-girl, @sheirukitriesfandom, and @dirty-bosmer, with no pressure as always. <3

To set the scene: The command room in Drezen, Anevia and Irabeth have just stepped out, and Isanna thinks she’s going to have some time relatively alone with Regill when a certain someone shows up—

“Hulrun!” Her wings flared outward in excitement—excitement so pronounced that she hardly noticed she had run one of them directly into Regill—and she couldn’t stand up fast enough. She hurried toward him with a grin, wings spread wide and halo burning bright, and stopped short just in front of him, gazing at him with breathless wonder. “Isanna,” he said with equal wonder, unable to take his eyes off her. “You look like you’ve just descended from Heaven itself.” She laughed softly and said, “You said you wanted to fight alongside the angels, didn’t you?” They gazed at each other lovingly, and she added, “You didn’t tell me you were coming.” Then indignantly, recalling Anevia and Irabeth’s timely exit, “No one told me you were coming. Ah, no matter.” Not caring that there were guards present, she took him in her arms and held him close, and as his arms found their way around her lower back, she folded her wings behind her and relaxed into the embrace, only for him to tense and gently push her aside. “What’s this devil worshiper doing here?” he demanded as he brushed past her. She realized he must have spotted Regill over her shoulder, and when she saw that his hand had moved to his sword, she quickly threw herself in front of him and spread her wings again to stop his advance. “Hulrun, no,” she said, her voice a low warning. “Paralictor Regill Derenge is here at my invitation as a trusted ally. You will show him the same respect you show me.” “You invited a devil worshiper to sit at your command table?” he asked. His eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed, and his hand was still resting on his sword, so she summoned all the authority she could even as she felt a flash of irritation. “His expertise has proven invaluable to the crusade,” she said. “It was his strategy that allowed us to take Drezen with minimal losses. Please, he worships Iomedae just as you do.” “What he worships is a heretical caricature of the Inheritor,” he said icily, eyes boring into Regill’s behind her. Seeing that her own piercing stare hadn’t wavered, he added more as a statement than a question, “You trust him.” “I do,” she said, and she felt her heart start to pound. “I trust him implicitly. With my life, and the lives of my soldiers.” His lip curled in disdain, and Regill finally spoke. “Not going to take the word of an angel from your precious Heaven, Prelate?”

[bruggle]

I really wish I were better at writing. All I can ever get out are drabbles.

"You could just use napalm," said Brook. Axl gave a snort. "And how exactly am I supposed to get ahold of some napalm?" he asked. "You could make some," she answered. Both he and X gave her an incredulous look. "D-do you know how to make napalm?"

Brook looked over his head at X, who was currently giving her a death glare. "My lawyer advises me that I should say no," she said. Axl let out a burst of laughter at that. "Oh, you have got to show me now," he insisted. "You are NOT making napalm in this house!" X yelled. "Well of course not," said Brook, looking offended. "That'd be irresponsible. Napalm is best made in a garage; especially if it's detached. "

"BROOK!"

[thaliawritesblog]

so, camp nanowrimo is upon us and i want to join so bad, but i have so much uni work that i need to do :(((

so, knowing that i won't be able to complete a certain word count goal this time around, i think for this month i'm going to tackle problems i'm facing with my fics.

i mentioned before that for mha hope agency that i was having some plot issues and i think i've solved it, and that is true!

i just need to draft it haha which is now my goal - to draft some chapters and see how this affects the overall plot as it's going to have some knock on effect (but that's fine - these changes mainly affect the timeline of the events that happen which fingers crossed i'm hoping doesn't cause too much of a headache lol).

i've also spent the first day of camp finessing the character arcs for my girlies in mha hope agency, which has boosted my confidence with my writing so much. like i'm so happy about the direction they're going to go and i can't wait to share that with everyone!

i also want to continue writing my bleach oc fic. i've been having a blast researching and planning and figuring things out. and looking at it, this is going to be my first epic, which is terrifying but also super exciting.

i'm hoping to get to the beginning of act two of this particular arc by the end of this month. i think that taking this bit by bit would be the best way to approach this because it's so ambitious, but if anyone has any tips for writing epics, please let me now!

that being said, wish me luck! i also hope everyone who is also joining camp has a great time too!

[hoperays-song]

Jia Information!!!

Ok, so I recently realised I never posted anything about Jia, my OC version of Johnny's mum, and considering how important of a character she is in legit nearly all of my works, I obviously had to remedy that.

So here we go, some info on the one and only Jia Taylor!

(Picrew, Info, and Backstory actually lol)

------------------------------------------------------------

------Picrew------

------Info------

Legal Name: Jia Saanvi Taylor ‘nee Sutar

Common Name: Jia Taylor

Nicknames: Ji

Pronouns: She/Her

Age: 34 (at death)

Birthday: February 13, 1975

Sexuality: Omnisexual

Gender Identity: Cisgender

Height: 5'7"

Ethnicity: Indian

Languages Spoken: Hindi, English

Diagnosis: Depression, PTSD

Hair Color: Dark Brown

Eye Color: Golden Brown

Scars/Tattoos/Piercings/Markings: Two piercings each ear

Family Members: Bio father (Aarav), Bio Mom (Reeva), Bio older sister (Jahnavi), Bio younger brother (Jahnu), and Bio Child (Johnny)

Habits/Stims: Tapping fingers like playing a piano, humming songs at random

Romantic Partners: Marcus Taylor (husband)

Notes:

worked as a pianist and a music teacher

died due to complications with her Limb Girdle Muscular Dystrophy, just like both her siblings

moved to England when she was 12 years old

was a devout Hindu and a vegetarian

loved cooking since her father was a chef, and taught all the recipes to her husband before she passed

her final words were telling her six year old son she loved him

------Backstory: TW: Death, Chronic Disorders------

Born in Madurai, India as Jia Saanvi Sutar, Jia was the technical second child to her parents. However, her older sister had passed away suddenly as a baby and it was hardly ever talked about in her household. She was quickly flagged and tested positive for Limb-Girdle Muscular Dystrophy and began using a cane as a child. Other than that though, early childhood for Jia was largely uneventful.

When she was around seven, she started playing piano and it became very obvious she was a prodigy. She was sent to a private music school so she could hone her skills. The next year was a mixed bag however as she lost her mother and her baby brother was born. Jahnu, her brother, quickly turned into one of the two center points for Jia's world, music being the other, essentially become coping mechanisms when her mother passed away due to complications with his birth.

But again, her life settled into a pretty mundane but steady rhythm for four years, only focusing on her studies and her family. When a job came up for her dad in London, she encouraged him to accept it, leading to the family moving. They all did well with the move and there were little problems on their end of things, the children even planning to get dual-citizenship when they got older.

Jia seemed to thrive in her new school and started playing gigs not long after the move. She was offered scholarships while still in school and it was pretty obvious that she had a good career ahead of her in the music industry. On the side, Jia became vocal in lots of local movements for equality and justice, even leading them at times. Her family were extremely proud of this and even helped her prepare for them, her brother making signs, and her dad packing food to hand out. Within two years, things were definitely looking up.

However, Jahnu also tested positive for Limb-Girdle Muscular Dystrophy soon after, with his progressing scarily faster than his sister. he had to be hospitalized at eight, Jia and her dad moving across town so they could stay near his bedside. And while that was a harsh adjustment period, life continued as usual for the trio for a few years. It was during this chaos that Jia and her family also were finally given dual-citizenship, a small up not to their year.

Jahnu passed away after four years, spending his final moments with his sister and father. Jia was heartbroken, having lost her remaining sibling and the boy she had raised at the same time. Her father Aarav seemed to feel the same, as not long after, he passed away too, seemingly of a broken heart. This left Jia, by that time a music major in university, without any family or support system. This caused her to spiral a bit and throw herself into her work as a coping mechanism, though her mental health took a huge toll.

Somehow, she managed to scrape by for a year and a half on her own before running into a boy two years her senior at a protest she was organizing. After punching his older brother in the face for being an absolute arse to her, the boy apologized for the whole scenario for several hours, even helping her with the event as a way to make it up to her. By the end of the day, she agreed to meet him again the next day in the same spot, and eventually started dating the man, who's name was Marcus.

Jia and Marcus got on like wildfire, and spent nearly all their free time together, both glad they finally had someone that they could rely on to be there for them. She encouraged him to pursue his passion of being a mechanic and he encouraged her to write her own songs for her own album. They spent a lot of time together going to protests and fundraiser events, as well as work and school, with most of their dates just being them doing their daily routines together. Marcus moved in with her around a year into the relationship as well, though that was largely due to his disownment.

Jia graduated a year later with a master's degree in music and quickly began working as a music teacher for young kids and a piano tutor on the side. Money was tight for the couple, even after Marcus found a job as a mechanic. But surprisingly, not counting the usual couple spats, the two barely fought, and ended up getting married after a few years at Jia's temple. And the couple only seemed to keep doing well from there, with both of them very happy about life and looking forward to the future.

Jia ended up having her only child when she was 28 years old, a son she named Johnathan Demarcus Taylor, with nods to her siblings and parents being prevalent in both his English and Hindi names. The one original part of his Hindi name (aka the only bit not after a family member) was Jiyaan, meaning near heart, which was Jia's way of telling her son she would always be with him, despite her condition worsening.

Jia continued her life as usual after her son was born, still a leading figure in a lot of social movements as well as a music teacher. Her LGMD had progressed to the point where she was wheelchair bound but she claimed to her husband that it did not bother her much, and in fact, made bringing Johnny out a bit easier. However, neither of them actually believed it much. She started dealing with a lot more chronic pain than she had before and began working furiously again, feeling like she had to take advantage of every moment she could.

Jia was 33 was when her health really started deteriorating rapidly however. She collapsed at work, leading to her being rushed to the hospital. She was kept there for several days, before being told that with her current progression, she likely wouldn't live much longer. Jia insisted on returning home, saying that if she was going to die, she wouldn't spend her final months just sitting around waiting for it. The doctors were not fans of this but allowed it and released her into family care.

Jia waited a month and a half before taking medical leave for work, and dedicating her time to taking care of Johnny even more, teaching him as much as she could about their shared interest, music, hoping that that piece of her would be able to bring him comfort when she passed. When he was in school, Jia spent all of her time writing music and letters for her family to open in the future when she wouldn't be there, so at least a part of her would be.

Marcus also started taking more and more time off to spend with them. He had learned most of Jia's favourite recipes by heart years ago when cooking began to get hard for her and now the three spent time together teaching them to Johnny as well. Her son was too young to really understand what was going on and serval times tried to make his mum better with bandaids and kisses, something that Jia always played along with, even though it broke her heart to do so.

In September of that year, when Jia was just 34 years old, she collapsed again when Marcus was out of the apartment for only a second, leading 6 year old Johnny to make a desperate phone call to emergency services when she wouldn't wake up. Marcus returned right after and did CPR until the paramedics arrived and took over, taking Jia back to the hospital.

She remained there this time, too weak to move much on her own. Marcus brought Johnny to see her every single day, right after school and Jia made sure to at least pretend that everything was ok when he was there, singing and humming with him like usual, though at that point she knew she wouldn't be returning home.

Jia died mid-October, with Marcus and Johnny beside her. Her final words were telling her son how much she loved him and always would, no matter what. She has a memorial plaque at a cemetery not far from her old temple in London, besides her father's and brother's, which her husband and son visit every opportunity they have.

Jia was a huge impact on her family's lives but also the lives of others as well. She was a leading advocate for disabled, women's, and queer rights, touching the hearts and minds of dozens. She was also well loved by her colleagues, students, neighbors, and fellow temple goers. Jia was commonly described as loving, dedicated, and a spit-fire, never backing down from what she believed in. She also had a sarcastic streak a kilometer wide and a tendency to be a bit of a jokester with close friends and family.

[sae-mian]

🩵 Risk - How much risk do they enjoy during sex? How do they feel about unprotected sex? Would they choose to have sex somewhere they might be noticed, if getting caught would be scandalous?

thank you for the ask!! i'll answer for both the key idiots

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[RISK /// NIRA'SAE]

they would probably say "none". no risks, thank you!

but, as always. it's a little more nuanced than that.

under the right circumstances? risks like being exposed can become very enjoyable. it's just not a situation they would readily put themself in. usually, it requires a lover to coax them into it. or "trick/trap" them in it, in mina's case.

(sounds sketchy, but it's alright. this is why they've had their safeword practice drilled into their thick skull many, MANY times.)

[RISK /// MINASHA]

"risk" operates under the assumption that minasha knows what shame is. as long as he feels he's in control of the situation? that man is down for anything.

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[Sinday Character Asks]