#and voltaire of course

[midnightsun-if]

Sorry if this sounds rude, but I have some things I need to get off my chest. Frankly, the whole Scarlett situation kind of sucks, and the way you’re handling things is not exactly helping matters. I get you have a specific vision for her character, and as a fellow author I would never suggest you compromise that to appease a bunch of sexist, entitled fans, but you’ve given so much attention to her character that it honestly comes as no surprise that people wouldn’t respect her sexuality, as bad as that is to say.

I’ve personally sent numerous asks in the past, and you haven’t answered a single one, so either you’re intentionally ignoring them, or tumblr ate them. If it’s the later, then I’m sorry for accusing you. You’re obviously not under any obligation to answer asks you don’t want to, but I admit it does sting a bit to see Scarlet Ask #523759690 on my feed when I have yet to see a single one of mine. You may not think you have a favorite character, but from an outside perspective, you 100% do.

The amount of attention Scarlett receives compared to the rest of the cast (seriously, when was the last time Caden got an ask dedicated to them?) is truly astounding. Fans will naturally have their favorites, but as an author you should remain impartial… which you really haven’t. In fact, it seems like you actively encourage the Scarlett attention. It’s like you keep showing off a fancy car that only a few people can actually buy, then get upset when people complain they can’t buy the car as well.

Anyways, I’m sorry for this rant, but I’ve been thinking about this for a while now. I wish you luck on your writing journey, and hope you have a happy holiday (if you’re in a country that celebrates any upcoming holidays)!

I truly don’t know what to say other than the fact that I haven’t seen your asks and that I’m trying to avoid Scarlett asks when it specifically involves the discourse with her sexuality— which also may contribute to the possibility on why I haven’t seen them, if that’s what they involved— as I mentioned in my one-and-done post about it… I don’t want to keep this as a reoccurring theme on the blog as I know that many people will grow tired of it just like I have.

I answer Scarlett centric asks, barring when I answer scenario asks about the family and/or the ROs, mainly due to the fact that she’s the one people single out— if someone sends me an ask about C, or Blake, or anyone else, I’ll answer it… It just happens to be that Scarlett gets the most asks when it comes to that sort of thing— and those asks are typically much easier/faster to answer than the all-in-one asks— I’d be more than happy to answer singular asks about any number of my characters. And I have in the past when someone sends something in.

All I can truly say? If not being able to romance Scarlett is this big of an issue, and I truly am saying this as nicely as I can… I don’t think Midnight Sun is the right IF for you. I believe I know a couple more IFs with an Ice Queen type RO, or adjacent RO, that may suit you better if you’d like to me share them!

And, I’d just like to make this small point, I get upset, or am starting to, because it’s a point I’ve brought up over and over again— Scarlett isn’t a lesbian to create an inconvenience for the player… She’s a lesbian because it’s part of who she is. Sending me asks saying “I can change her” or “Give us Scarlett and the F!MCs Koda” (among other things) is absolutely abhorrent in the best case scenario. There are 7 other ROs for you to choose from— all of which offer their own unique routes and experiences within Midnight Sun.

Scarlett isn’t changing, I’m standing firm with this. I’m not going to ever change my mind about it— I’m sorry if that upsets anyone, but it’s not something I’m backing down on.

[gayestcowboy]

new ref sheet for an old dnd character!!

[bunnnaraa]

I heard there's a petition going around for season 2 of mixte1963 however I feel pretty satisfied with the ending we got, it was ambiguous but we get what would mostly happen; girls wouldn't comeback to Voltaire high, Simone would probably go back to Algiers and finish her studies there, Sabiani would pursue a modeling career due to her inability to continue her studies, Michelle and Laubrec would struggle to live in a foreign city (Laubrac does have his internship yes but not Michelle and she can't live with him) Jean Pierre would probably fail his bacaloreate exam the first time (too much going on) as for Paul and Camille they'd probably have an affair since Paul wouldn't divorce his wife

[arthurrlester]

“Oh your queer? What’s your favorite music artist and don’t say *lists a bunch of music artists that have been stereotyped with the queer community*”

IM GOING TO RUN THROUGH DRYWALL YOUR EXPERIENCES ARE NOT UNIVERSAL-

[chaotic-history]

Okay

[d'Alembert had asked V if he had any anecdotes he wanted to send to be included in d'Olivet's eulogy]

[rjavenuru]

I wanna know what he's talking about. Also, why the sunglasses inside? Wondering if that bottle might be for what we call trimming, i.e. ""adjusting course"" 😝😝

[cicada-candy]

Why have I just been struck with "figure skating 2 when youre evil!!"

Ive never been ice skating let alone figure skating what the fuckkk????

[kent-farm]

—Emmanuelle Chriqui as Lana Lang wearing this Zadig & Voltaire Womens Voici Stretch Velvet Blazer (in Wine; Sold Out), Superman and Lois, “Collision Course”

[boyruggeroii]

It's decided btw, tomorrow I'll begin to reread Julius Caesar

[midnightsun-if]

However, they’re happy to proclaim that they’re fluent in: Na’vi, Sindarin, and Quenya.

Ok you won now I HAVE to romance R

R is the biggest fantasy/sci-fi/etc. nerd ever (a trait they’ve gotten from me, I admit). It’s something I’m so excited to explore further (especially since they’re living part of their nerdy dreams by being at Aurelian). I can’t wait for the moment that Scarlett let’s R meet Balerion… It’s a sweet moment. (Plus Scar is fluent in a fantasy language too, which is something R is going to immediately want to learn so they can have “secret” conversations.)

I just have a lot of fun stuff involved with R… Like having them try to wrangle the dorm into playing D&D.

[feral-renaissance-cat]

undefined

Another of my editing final projects, this one to test our “rhythmic” editing skills (basically, can you hit beats in time with music). I was going through a third or fourth Voltaire hype phase at the time, so obviously I had to set Jaws footage to The Beast of Pirate’s Bay (a shortened version that fit the 2:30-3 minute required run time).

[togglesbloggle]

Voltaire's Prayer

“I have never made but one prayer to God, a very short one: Oh Lord, make my enemies ridiculous. And God granted it." -Volaire’s letter to Étienne Noël Damilaville, 16 May 1767

I’m inordinately fond of sex, in the political sense.  It’s saved us so often from the worst parts of ourselves.

As far as anti-authoritarian elements of the human experience go, sex is right up there with curiosity and the search for truth- maybe even more so.  When a new tyrant comes to town, shutting down the universities and the libraries is only the second thing they try.  The first thing is to regulate human sexuality to within an inch of its life.  Rules for marriage, rules for courtship, rules for which genitals may touch and where they may touch and when they may touch.  Rules for who and rules for whom.  Rules for which kinds of sex must doom characters in literature, rules for which things may be described as sexy, rules for which things may be described in a sexy way.

Of course they do!  If you’re trying to bind a large polity together under a common ideological narrative, to render people predictable enough to quash dissent and legible enough to exert power through them, the last thing you need is a bunch of folks running around being horny about stuff without permission.  Nature gifted us with a great capacity for reason and community; we have the innate opportunity to learn about ourselves and our neighbors, and to form complex societies based on that understanding.  It was Aristotle who first called us the political animal, and the fruits of that extraordinary capacity will always be within our reach, if only we can come together within a shared understanding.  The invention of the city is the great triumph of our species, and with it we conquer the universe.

But also this extraordinary, reasoning mind has been sculpted from the raw clay of a biology that’s anchored in sexual reproduction, and this ends up being very, very funny.

The problem isn’t so much that the sex instinct exists, per se.  It’s how it’s implemented.  Like most biological forms, the full complement of 86 billion(!) neurons in your brain aren’t encoded in a particular configuration; the brain is much too complex to be described so precisely in the only ~725 megabytes or so of human DNA.  The particular shape of your brain is in there somewhere- the lobes and subregions responsible for vision, memory, cognition, all that- but only up to a point.  The genius and fundamental limitation of genetics is that, below a certain level, the genes instead describe a process for the production and reproduction of specialized cells, and simply constructs them in such a way that they can be relied upon to order themselves as they go.

This is all well and good when we’re talking about kidneys and livers, but the fact that you can encode any kind of specific behavioral instinct in a brain this way is nothing short of a minor miracle.  Think about it!  Spiders don’t have a ‘spider web’ gene, the gene is for ‘proteins that come together in self-assembling electrochemically sensitive gelatin tissue which, when complete, encodes patterns that operate organ systems such as legs and spinnerets in such a way as to reliably create silk webs.’  This is absurdly impressive, and also completely insane.

What I’m getting at is, powerful behavioral instincts in a complex animal aren’t precise instruction manuals by which we pursue evolutionarily advantageous behaviors.  Sex and eros are prior to logic or language, let alone strategy.  Sex is a double-thick electrical wire discharging lightning bolts right through the middle of our cognitive centers, installed in the brain by a surgeon wearing mittens.  It’s an untethered firehose whipping chaotically through the cathedral, unpredictably spraying golden reliquaries with substances unmentionable.  It’s the first and greatest anarchist.

I really can’t overstate my gratitude for this.

Obviously this results in any number of deeply goofy outcomes by way of kinks and odd sexual practices- it gets tangled with pain centers, with random bits of anatomy and proprioception, with our taboos and aversions, with our greatest terrors or our greatest yearnings or just arbitrary stimuli from adolescence, and of course it gets enmeshed so often with our notions of power and submission.  It imbues these things with a fascination and potency out of all proportion with their mundane meanings.  And ultimately, you end up with human pleasures and human values that diverge so far from banal evolutionary imperatives as to be all but unrecognizable.

Even when this process somehow manages to propagate through the brain in such a way as to drive behaviors that are legibly aligned towards some adaptive constraint- e.g. heterosexual mating practices resulting in biological reproduction and careful childrearing- it’s still madness.  Love and sex penetrate deeply across tribal and national and racial boundaries, across economic interests, across battle-lines and enmities.  We become traitors, apostates, emigrants, and artists.  Declare a law, and in short order some hot-headed young people come along to break it in the name of sexual passions you could not possibly have seen coming.  Divide your neighborhood into us and them, and by the time the ink is dry on your proclamation there will be a forbidden relationship across the fence.  There is no social order, no ethical system, no theory of human nature that can entirely withstand contact with the full spectrum of human sexuality, because sex and eros are always going to be exactly as bonkers as the complexity of the human mind and culture will allow, plus a little extra just to be sure.

This isn’t always a delight, of course.  Many prohibitions exist for a very good reason, and the chaos of human sexuality makes no exemptions for true evil.  Some of us end up really, truly victims of this process.  But for all the dangers, the chaos at the root of all this isn’t oriented towards evil.  Chaos just means chaos, essentially arbitrary and hence absurd in character.

And in the grand analysis, we are so lucky to have this thing moving through our communities, this ridiculous madness that guarantees that there will be cracks in every wall and slips exploding cigars in the pockets of the powerful few.  Not in everybody as individuals, of course, and not everybody the same amount; asexuality is certainly one of the outcomes that all this mad gallivanting through our brains can produce.  Sexuality would never be so predictable as to guarantee its own existence, after all.  That’s part of what makes the joke so funny.

But all of us, regardless of sexuality, get to live in a world where the grand anarchy of sex is constantly driving home this lesson that no category is inviolate and no law is perfect.  That we should not and cannot take ourselves too seriously, or forget that we’re animals.  That we don’t exist only for the sake of others, or within their understanding.  That cities are made of cooperation, grace, and forbearance- not conformity or mere compliance.

People sometimes worry about immortality.  In the political sense, I mean.  They worry about eternal dictatorships and unconquerable gerontocracies.  This fear isn’t entirely unjustified; death has often played a role in progress and liberation.  But as long as enough of us are still getting horny without permission, still falling in love in stupid ways, I think we’ll be okay.  Romeo and Juliet don’t have to die at the end to make a difference in the world, as long as they’re brave enough to get weird with it.

[pandora-writes-one-piece]

Dipshit On Deck

Word Count: 1948

Tags: Gn!Reader; cursing (a lot of it!); attempt at humour; a bit of fluff; two idiots in love;

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Summary: It's Friday the 13th and - of course - there's a storm brewing. And, pray, what is that black shadow on deck?

Notes: I could not let this Friday the 13th pass by without a little reminder of it, right? I hope you enjoy this silliness!

Tag List: @rosidaze @beachaddict48 @armiliadawn @jintaka-hane @sprinkklz @baby5555

Masterlist

Friday the 13th.

The most cursed, unlucky, dreadful day of all. You groaned for the umpteenth time as you secured another set of barrels of rum tightly with ropes. There was a storm brewing on the horizon and it seemed like you were headed for rough waters. 

Obviously. Because it was Friday the 13th.

“Quit yer groaning and get to securing those barrels!” Your captain roared over the biting wind, but before you could tie the knot firmly, you saw a shadow crossing your path. It was fast, lean and terrifying. Yelping you let go of the ropes and the three barrels you were securing came crashing down, one of them popping the cork and spilling the rum all over the deck. 

“Fucking arse, how did that happen?” Kid growled. He was angrier than usual today and you couldn't quite pinpoint why. It started yesterday when you were helping him in the workshop, cleaning around and humming a silly song while he tinkered away at his workbench. All of a sudden he was yelling at you to get out of his sight. 

You didn't make a big deal out of it, Kid was prone to anger issues. But if it wasn't serious, his mood would be gone after a few hours or a few drinks. He had done both by now and he was still as sour as a grape. 

It was something serious then. 

“Sorry Cap! It was my fault! Something rushed past me, something dark and fast and-...”

“Of course it was your damn fault.” Kid growled. “Clean that up and do it again. Do it right, this time! Fucking waste of good booze.”

Gulping you nodded and went to get the mop. You tried to ignore the lump in your throat and the sting in your eyes. You should be used to Kid's temper by now, but as both of you had become closer and closer with each other - more at ease than friends should be, really - his words caused more damage than usual. 

The wind kept picking up, soft rain already painted the deck dark, and you were lagging behind on your duties so you picked up the pace. 

With the deck cleaned and barrels tied up, it was now time to secure the sails. You brought them down with the help of a few crewmates but then tied them up yourself. You were quite skilled with knots, the best of the crew, actually. But just as you were finishing up, you saw it again, that speeding dark shadow, crossing the deck from one side to the other, growling like a beast. 

You squealed in terror, hunching down to your knees to hide from view and looked around to see if any other crewmates had spotted it or if it was a mere figment of your imagination. However, they were all very focused on their own tasks.

You kept tying knots all around and having to remake them because you were so distracted by the mysterious lurking shadow. Killer had already rounded up the crew and sent them below deck because it was getting dangerous to stay up while the wind was picking up wildly. Yet you assured him you would go as soon as all the knots were secured. 

You didn't want to risk anything. It was Friday the 13th. And you knew your luck was terrible on this day. 

“Should've worn my lucky charm.” You mouthed between clenched teeth as you secured another set of crates. The knots you had tied the first time seemed loose and you didn't want to risk it. 

But the shadow crossed again. And this time you got a better look. “A freaking cat? A black cat? On Friday the 13th? Fuck!” Cursing, you tried to call it to you. You were fond of all animals and there was no way you were going to let this little vermin stay out in the storm.

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty! Whoa!” The gust of wind was so strong that it almost knocked you out. “Where the fuck are you, you gremlin?” 

Everything was secured, you just needed to grab this little bastard and head below deck. Rain had started to pour a while ago, but what were simple annoying drops, was now a deluge, and you could barely see an inch in front of your nose. 

“Come on, cat! Where are you?” 

A scared meow caught you off guard as you looked up the mast. “No way, you bastard.” Way. What had seemed like a menacing shadow earlier, was now a frightened little kitty, looking at you with pleading eyes, begging you to save it. Almost at the top of the mast. In a raging storm. 

“How the fuck did you get up there?”

The wind picked up again, the cat screeched and you cursed as you grabbed the nearest rope for support and safety. 

Friday the fucking 13th.

Gritting your teeth and praying to any and all deities that were listening to prevent you from falling or, at least, if the wind brought you down to grant you a quick death, you started to climb. Each step closer brought a new meow and a new string of curses from your lips. 

“Why today? Why? Why didn't you come out yesterday, you little fiend?” The Kid Pirates had set sail the day before. This kitten must have sneaked on board at the island where you had been docked. “You little shit, making me risk breaking my neck. I'm gonna grab you and make you mine and I'm gonna call you Dipshit. That's gonna be your name. Got it? Dip-fucking-shit.” 

The creature meowed again, more desperately this time and you picked up the pace. Cursing some more and trying to secure your feet well while your arms screamed and ached from the effort you were making to hold on to the mast. The little kitten seemed to be losing its strength as well, so with one last push, you reached it. As you grabbed it, it clawed your arm, digging its nails for support and you cursed loudly, opening your jacket and securing it inside, ignoring the jabs on your chest from its sharp nails. 

“Fucker. You're just lucky you’re hella cute, Dipshit, or I would leave you out here to get blown away! Maybe you'd end up on that mythical sky island. Or maybe-...”

Neither you nor the cat knew what came after the maybe, because the gust of wind that hit the Victoria Punk was so strong that it made you lose all remaining strength in your limbs and sent you free-falling. 

You were so far up the mast that you just had time to wish for a quick death before you felt your head hit something hard. 

Lucky Friday the 13th.

-*-

When you came to, your head was throbbing and your muscles were aching. At first you thought you were in Heaven, but the god-awful smell coming from the sheets told you otherwise. 

Then you considered that perhaps you were in Hell. But opening your eyes to a menacing scowl and fiery red hair quickly showed you were not. Because if your captain were in Hell, he would be sitting on its throne, not staring you down. 

“Hi, Cap.” You started and immediately regretted it. Your head felt heavy and light at the same time. It was such a weird feeling. You had to close your eyes again because the world was spinning and you were spinning with it. 

“Don't you fucking ‘Hi’ me!” He growled, his coppery gaze fixed on you without flinching. “You almost died.”

“Well, it's Friday the 13th, Cap. Shit’s bound to happen and-...”

“That's not fucking funny.” Another deep growl left his lips. 

“Dipshit!”

Kid rose from his chair, his canines showing and eyes flaring. “The fuck did you just call me?”

Fuck. “Not you, Cap! The cat! The cat that was inside my jacket, I-...”

Kid sat down and reached below your bed, grabbing the kitten by its scruff and placing it on top of you. “This Dipshit?” He asked gruffly. 

“That Dipshit!” You grabbed the kitten - noticing how soft and fluffy it seemed, as if someone dried it - squeezed it against you and sighed. “You're fine! Thank you, Kid.”

Kid’s scowl receded and he crossed his arms in front of his chest. “It’s yours?”

“Now it is. Such a cutie pie, aren't you, you little fucker, little bastard almost got me killed!” You kissed the kitten's little forehead and it seemed to like it, so you continued. “You're so lucky you're cute, my little asshole or I would skin you alive and boil you to serve with Killer's soup! But I love you, little Dipshit.”

“I love you too!” You stared at the cat, eyes wide and mouth ajar. But your addled, mushy brain had somehow registered that the ‘I love you too’ hadn't, obviously, come from the cat. 

Cats don’t speak. 

Though it was Friday the 13th…

But no. The terrified, blurted-out, awkward ‘I love you too’ had come from none other than your emotionally constipated captain. You slowly turned your head towards him, a look of surprise still etched upon your features. 

“Kid?” 

He was looking at the ground, cheeks furiously set ablaze and arms crossed over his chest. 

“Yes I fucking said it okay? I couldn't stand here hearing ya say that to a fucking cat! While I'm right here! Don't I deserve that treatment?”

What the hell was he talking about? Did he want the kisses or to be called a dipshit? 

“You love me? For real, real?” You asked, a small smile curling the corner of your lips while your heart fluttered in your chest. 

“I fucking do, damn it! Ya were all cute yesterday in my workshop, shaking yer perky ass to the music and bobbing yer pretty head. That's when it hit me: I'm in love with a fucking idiot.”

You couldn't contain the snickers coming from your mouth, though you immediately stopped when the throbbing headache got the best of you. 

“Now there's a fucking storm brewing, and as I go to the fucking deck to pull ya by the fucking hair so ya can come inside to safety, I find you fucking passed out dangling by a rope tied to yer fucking foot on the fucking mast.”

“So many fucks, captain.” You chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. So you didn't die because a rope got tangled in your foot. You must've cracked your head against the mast as you dangled and passed out. That’s why your head was throbbing like a bitch. 

“I say fuck how many times I fucking want! I'm the fucking Captain!” He spat at you, cheeks still flushed a deep red that rivalled his hair. 

You raised your hands in defeat and he calmed down. 

It didn’t seem as if he was willing to say anything else, so, after a while, you sighed and, still petting the sleeping kitten, whispered. “I love you too, Kid.” It was your turn to flush now. 

You peeked at the corner of your eye to gauge his reaction, but he was very still. His legs wide open, manspreading on the chair and arms held tightly against his chest. 

A grunt and a deeper blush indicated he heard you, and you snickered while moving the kitten that yawned, stretched and disappeared on the floor. Kid raised an eyebrow at you as you opened your arms and patted your lap. 

“Come on, Cap, it's your turn to get pets.”

Kid smirked as he got up to join you on the bed. 

Perhaps Friday the 13th wasn't such a bad day after all… 

[chaotic-history]

V for the character bingo?

@iron--and--blood

he's the original girlfailure<3

[enlitment]

In case you're wondering like I was: the reason why a lot of the 18th-century philosophers can't seem to stop making Cato the Younger references (Voltaire talks about Cato at least 6 or 7 times in Letters on England which is a lot because it's by no means a long text. Mandeville too of course — hi bestie!)

is because there was a play in the early 1700s about Cato (Addison's Cato, a Tragedy to be precise) which seemed to have had the cultural impact of early seasons of Game of Thrones

Catoo! this actor is from an 1800s production but still. Look at that facial expression. The sad wet cat energy. The pain in his eyes. It's all there!

Oh, and by 'cultural impact of Game of Thrones' I don't mean an increase in theatre subscriptions or of Cato action figures sales (though that would have been awesome!)

I mean it had a pretty significant influence on many of the American Revolutionaries (and French too most likely, since, cultural osmosis and all that). A lot of these nerds sure loved to quote it!

[setaripendragon]

One Piece Daemon AU - Sanji

So yeah, this is why I was thinking so much about daemons. I wasn't actually planning to write anything in this 'verse, I just wanted to think about what everyone's daemons would be, but then I started thinking abbout how and when they settled, and I thought about Sanji and all his trauma and I thought 'huh, okay, how would having a daemon make it worse?' And then I wrote this.

Ever since Sanji can remember, he’s always been weaker than his brothers. At this point, it’s not a surprise, but it never stops hurting. He can’t run as far or as fast as they do, he can’t take a hit like they do, he can’t fight as well or for as long as they do. He can’t send his daemon as far away as they can.

Every day, Father makes them practice. Every day, Ichiju, Niju, and Yonju diseappear over the horizon as birds or fish or flying insects. Every day, Sanji throws himself into the ocean after Sanju before she’s even reached the next snail-ship.

And every day, he lasts a few seconds less before the pain becomes unbearable.

He cries to Mama about it often. She clucks her tongue at him and wipes his tears from his cheeks with her thumbs, and then pinches his cheeks with a smile. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” she tells him firmly.

“But,” Sanji sniffles, “everyone else can do it. Even you.” He knows this because Voltaire often comes to sit with him when he’s hiding in his room, and maybe it’s not over-the-horizon far from Mama’s room in the infirmary, but it’s still all the way on the other side of the flagship, and Sanji and Sanju can’t manage even a fraction of that.

For a moment, Mama’s smile takes on a strangely sharp edge. “I didn’t used to,” she tells him softly.

“Besides,” Voltaire adds, voice gone wicked as he eels up Sora’s arm so he can stage-whisper into Sanji’s ear, “have you ever seen Legata go all that far from Judge’s side?” Sanji twists his head around to stare at him, utterly agog at the notion that Judge might be anything less than terrifyingly capable at anything and everything. Voltaire just cocks his head in challenge, mottled dark brown skin glistening under the harsh lights of the infirmary.

“Of course Father can do it!” Sanju protests, daring to uncurl from the little ball of pale pink shell she’s made of herself in Sanji’s lap.

“Whether he can or not,” Mama says, reaching up to smooth Sanji’s hair down and trying to tuck his fringe behind his ear, “doesn’t mean you have to. You’re perfect just as you are, baby.” His hair falls back in front of his eye, and he puffs a little laugh that makes Mama grin at him.

Sanji’s smile falls, though, the moment of humour not enough to distract him from his worries. “We keep getting worse, though,” he complains.

Mama closes her eyes, takes a breath, and then leans in and kisses Sanji on the top of his head, before bundling him up and onto her lap. Sanju squeaks and turns into a squirrel to scramble up Sanji’s shirt and onto his shoulder, to avoid any risk of getting squashed between them. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to keep your heart close,” she tells him, cuddling him aggressively, “all snug and safe, like this!”

Sanji laughs outright, and hugs her back as best he can.

---

He remembers her words, later, when he’s on that godforsaken rock. He and Sanju try again, to get more than a handful of feet away from each other, to reach the ocean, to find food. They don’t manage. He lies there on the barren rock with Sanju a quivering bundle of fur in his arms, sobbing with a desperation that still hasn’t managed to overcome the vice that clamps down around his chest any time she gets too far away from him.

His mother was wrong. She was wrong, he’s weak, and he’s going to die because he’s too needy and pathetic, just like Father said. “I don’t want to,” Sanju cries into his chest, butting her head up against his chin and whimpering. “Don’t make me, I don’t want to-!”

“We won’t,” Sanji says, determinedly. “There’s somewhere else we can get food around here.”

Except there isn’t. All he finds on the other side of the island is a bag of things he can’t eat and an old man who ate his own leg because he’d already given Sanji all the food. Sanji, who’d been willing to take even more food from him, just to feed himself.

The horror is almost entirely self-directed.

He goes back to his side of the island and thinks. His father was wrong. It isn’t just that Sanji isn’t capable of being what his father wanted, but he doesn’t want to be the sort of person who would hurt other people and take what they have just because he wants it. He doesn’t like the person hunger turns him into.

But that doesn’t mean Mama was right. Being weak and needy and depending on other’s kindness without giving anything back is just as selfish as taking things they didn’t offer. Sometimes, there is something wrong with keeping your heart close, when tearing off a piece of yourself can save someone else.

He looks at Sanju, and Sanju looks back, long ears twitching. “Okay,” she says quietly, and turns to the edge of the island again. She bounds off the edge, shifting into a mottled black and grey bird with a hooked beak as she goes.

It twinges in his chest almost immediately after she drops out of sight. Lurches, clenches, aches. He grits his teeth, screws his eyes shut, clenches his fists against the rock, and holds himself tense and still as it strains and hurts and tears. They can do this. They can.

It’s not as hard as cutting his own leg off.

A whimper slips out of his throat despite his best efforts.

Then a sob.

A cry.

A scream.

He thinks, if he’d had anything at all in his stomach, he’d have thrown up. His throat is convulsing like it’s thinking about trying anyway. There are hands on him, grabbing him roughly, shaking him, and Sanji’s in too much pain to think rationally. He cries and begs and apologises again and again. He’ll do better next time, he will, he promises! It hurts but he can put up with it, he can be strong, he can.

The hands turn gentle.

The pain fades.

The person holding him gasps.

Sanji picks up his head from a very bony shoulder, and sees Sanju perched awkwardly on one of the strange lumpy rocks that litter this island, a thin little silver fish clasped in her beak. She hops closer, and drops it on the stone beside the old man’s severed leg, where it wiggles uselessly in its death throes.

“Fucking hell, kid,” the old man grumbles, but he takes the fish.

And then tears it in half and offers one half to Sanji!

Sanji is too hungry to refuse, but it steels his resolve – their resolve – and Sanju takes flight again, diving back down to the ocean. It hurts just as bad as the first time, and Sanji only avoids throwing the fish right back up again by sheer desperation. And maybe, a little bit, because the old man holds him tucked against his bony ribcage and lets him sob into his shoulder without a word of complaint

In fact, his daemon leans over his shoulder and huffs at Sanji’s head with enough force that it ruffles his hair and almost feels like a caress. She’s so big, and even as worn thin as she is, with her person so close to death, she still radiates warmth. Sanji doesn’t know if it’s real warmth or soul-warmth, but either way, it doesn’t matter. Especially not when she’s crooning comforting nonsense and unfamiliar lullabies at him in her low, rich voice. It sounds nothing like Mama, but it reminds him of her a little bit anyway.

---

They find their feet at the Baratie. They find a purpose that fits them, that they can achieve, and while he’s a demanding teacher, Zeff never asks more of them than they can give. It’s freeing in a way Sanji has never known before, and Sanju takes to trying bigger and bigger shapes with bright-eyed mischief. Or sometimes, with teeth-bared snarling, when the customers decide to be assholes. Sanji is well past the days that he’d take that kind of shit lying down. No, these days he snarls back, and kicks heads in when the snarling doesn’t warn the bastards off, just like Zeff taught him.

These days, though, most daemons will cower in front of Sanju’s bared teeth, whether she’s a wolf or a lioness or a bear, and their people will back away from a teenager with a daemon that big. Sanji almost mourns those opportunities to start a fight, but he supposes Zeff must appreciate the lack of repair bills.

When they head back into the kitchen, Sanju usually turns back into something small, just to keep out of the way of the bustling and busy cooks. Or, at least, smaller. Neither of them are all that comfortable making themselves too small anymore; it leaves an unpleasant taste on the back of their tongue. Lately she’s been draping herself over his shoulders as some kind of rosetted cat.

So when she doesn’t leap up onto his back as they shove through the doors into the kitchen, a napkin pressed to the gash a customer managed to open up across his cheek, Sanji notices. When she dodges out of the way of a hollering Carne instead of changing to something smaller, she notices, too. They pause to stare at each other.

She’s still a cat, large and lithe and elegant, covered in spots, with a dark mantle over her neck and shoulders that turns into three dark stripes down along her spine. There are two dark tear-trails either side of her muzzle, too, and she blinks large amber eyes up at him. Sanji can’t help but smile, because she’s beautiful. A purr rumbles up in her throat, and she head-butts him in the stomach, letting him card his fingers into the lengthening fur at the back of her neck.

It feels… oddly vindicating, that she’s settled into such a fierce daemon, even if a part of him wishes he didn’t care about that anymore. All his childhood, everyone except his mother had mocked and scorned the way Sanju prefered smaller forms, and now look at her.

Not everyone else is as happy as they are at her settled form, however. It only takes a few days for it to become an issue.

“Get your fucking daemon out of the way!” Patty shrieks, sprawled out across a counter in his efforts to save the tray he was carrying when he stumbled trying not to trip directly over Sanju. She’s pressed flat against the back of Sanji’s legs, hissing back at Patty.

“She was out of the way!” Sanji snaps back, hands not pausing in their work chopping up a whole pile of vegetables. “Don’t blame her because you weren’t looking where you were fucking going!”

“I shouldn’t have to be keeping an eye out for rogue daemons! She should be in the cubby with all the other large daemons!” Patty scolds, shaking a fist at Sanji, who recoils, knife stilling.

He’s not wrong, is the thing. The kitchen would be utterly unfunctional if everyone with a large daemon let them dog their heels the way Sanju does Sanji’s. So Zeff – admittedly one of the worst cases, Sulia is huge– had a side room built just off the kitchen to allow the daemons to stay near enough to their people without getting underfoot in the kitchen.

Sanji looks over at the open archway, where he can see Sulia’s tail fwaping irritably at the floor. It’s a good twenty feet away from the far side of the kitchen, and that’s… too far. Sanji can feel all his muscles winding tight just at the thought. Sanju presses even more firmly into his legs, and he looks down at her, swallowing. They should-

“Patty! If that soup goes cold because you were lollygagging, I’ll kick you overbaord!” Zeff roars, and Patty yelps and hurries off. Sanji goes back to his own chopping, not sure how he’s feeling, because he’s pretty sure the fact that Patty got scolded but he didn’t was Zeff’s way of coming down on Sanji’s side of that little argument, but he still feels like he shouldn’t be getting away with breaking the rules of the kitchen like that, when he could-

A peg-leg connects solidly with his hip, and he yelps out a startled curse. “Don’t even think about it, Li’l Eggplant,” Zeff growls as he stomps past, directing a glower down at Sanju, too. “I’ll have Sulia chase you out if you set one paw in that cubby, and she’s still bigger than you are.”

“Fine,” Sanji grouses, feigning irritation as if they both can’t hear Sanju purring up a storm.

For those who're interested, the daemons are: Sanji - King Cheetah Sora - Great Crested Newt Zeff - Pacific Walrus