#anyways um hope you enjoyed!

[muzzlemouths]

Were the DMD boys ever witnesses to a baby's firsts? Like first words or first steps?

Superstar Shopping Center, circa 1977

“Did you need help with that?”

Sun moseys up to a mother who looks like she’s got her hands full – literally. Four shopping bags balanced on one arm and a baby in the other. A second child — five or six, if he had to guess — clings to the tail of her mother’s jacket in lieu of a free hand, dressed in her Sunday Best. She ducks behind her mother’s arm as Sun nears and addresses him with a look tied between awe and apprehension.

Contrarily, her mother regards Sun with nothing but relief, handing over all but one of her bags the moment his hands extend to take them. “Well, thank you!” She reorients the remaining bag to sit at her elbow so the little girl at her side has a proper handhold and gently scolds her for continuing to hide.

“It’s quite alright,” Sun assures her with a kind smile. He crouches to be more at eye-level with the child and offers her a little wave, taking no offense to the way she peeks only slightly out from behind her mother. “That’s a very pretty dress,” he says. It’s a Carter's collared plaid, Christmas-time red, with a white dog-eared collar and rabbit embroidery. Perfectly suited for the season. “Are you headed somewhere special?”

“Just down to Shutterbug,” the mother laughs, answering Sun’s question when her daughter doesn’t budge. “I know it’s still early in the season, but I have an endless list of things to get around to before the month’s end, so we’re just going to get our photos done now, and the family will just receive their cards a little early, this year.”

“Oh, certainly,” he nods sagely, as if he’s even once sent a Christmas card himself, “better to get it over and done with before everyone and their mother realizes they’ve forgotten to sign and seal their envelopes!”

“Exactly!” She laughs again. “I figure, well, I might as well get some gift shopping done since I’m already here, but–”

Right on cue, the infant in her arms begins to wail his poor little head off, and she grimaces.

“Finding it hard to get anything done with your hands full?” Sun asks, waiting for her nod before continuing. “Well, that’s nothing I can’t fix! I could carry your other bags for you, or–”

“Could you babysit?”

He straightens with a jolt, nearly dropping the bags he already carried in the process. “Oh! Well, um, company policy doesn’t exactly allow me to–”

“It would just be for a few minutes. An hour, at most.” She gives him a pleading look. “You’re coded with childcare protocols, aren’t you?”

“I–” Sun scrambles for an answer. “My training extends to some childcare etiquette, but–”

“Perfect!” She lofts the infant into his arms like he is nothing more than a small sack of potatoes. “This is George. He’s nine months old as of last week, was just changed, and ate an hour ago, so he should be an angel for you.”

“W-What about his shoes?” He tucks the child against his shoulder and gestures worriedly towards his itty little toes, clothed in nothing but the navy blue footie he wears.

“Oh, don’t be silly, he’s still too young!” The woman insists, “George has only just learned how to crawl, I doubt he’ll be walking any time soon. You have nothing to worry about!”

“But–”

“I’ll come find you in an hour when I’m all finished up. Thank you again!”

The mother turns on her heel like she’s being chased out by fire, leaving Sun there in the center of the mall aisle, still as a statue and stunned into silence.

There was a kernel of truth to his words. Both he and Moon had been programmed with the know-how in terms of child rearing basics, and in fact it was the very first frame of coding that he recalls having. For what purpose, he isn’t sure. It has lied dormant beneath layers of more relevant protocols for years and only ever makes an appearance when he’s interacting with the few children the mall sees from time to time. Even still, it is nothing in the way of proper training for how to care for an infant so small, and for so long.

Needless to say, he was panicking.

The first thing he does after quieting the infant’s cries is find another employee and hand off the bags, instructing them to be brought to Shutterbug and kept behind the desk for the time being.

With his hands freed he can focus all of his attention on the child who, for what it’s worth, has been a perfect angel in the short time since he was haphazardly carted into Sun’s arms. Quiet as a church mouse after that first little outburst, and just as cute, too, the little bundle of joy looking up at him with big brown eyes full of wonder.

Sun returns his gaze with a long sigh. “Now then, what are we going to do with you?”

The protocols that once were dormant now rose to the surface and screamed at him to engage the child in “stimulating activities“, whatever that meant. Instructions for playtime involved everything from games like peekaboo and patty-cake to more developmental activities, such as playing music, coloring, or toying with building blocks. Sun doubted that Bee Gees’ hit single “Stayin’ Alive” was anything in the way of educational for the tiny tot as it played over the speakers, and — to the best of his knowledge — he can’t recall ever having access to building blocks or coloring books. That left nothing but the traditional baby games, tried and true, and easy enough!

He borrows a small blanket from a store nearby and finds a cozy spot on the floor, tucked safely between two plant boxes, to set him down. Sun finds that playing these games comes almost naturally to him — but that’s a given, isn’t it? He follows the instruction manual in his code to the letter, pride and joy overwhelming his stint of uncertainty each time he comes out from hiding behind his hands to the sound of shrill laughter, every “Peek-a-boo!” earning him a motley of giggles and a baby-toothed smile.

Distraction arrives in the form of an employee struggling to carry a stack of boxes into the store behind him. He’s on his feet and across the room in an instant as one protocol briefly overrides the other, and it’s only for a moment — just a moment — but when he turns around again it is to the sight of an empty blanket.

His charge has gone missing.

Panic overwhelms every one of his sensors, rushing along his circuits like adrenaline through veins gripping him with a fear so potent it threatens to shut down his system right then and there.

No, think! His mother said he had only just learned to crawl, which meant little George couldn’t have gone far. Unless the infant hadn’t gone anywhere by himself at all, and rather, someone had come along and–

Sun shut down that train of thought the moment it struck him. He would never forgive himself if something so terrible happened on his watch, saying nothing of what management would do to him if a child was abducted right from under his nose.

He decides the best course of action right now is to follow the same protocol he would use for any other “lost” child. Yes, lost, that’s all they were. It’s so easy to get lost in a mall as large as this one. Sun comforts himself with the knowledge that he has never let a lost child go unfound before. His success rate is a perfect 100%, and he intends to keep it that way.

First, he scans the security cameras for any sight of the child. He is sure to look in every nook and cranny, and he deflates with growing dread when that little navy footie doesn’t appear anywhere on the screens. His voice cuts through the employee radio a moment later and describes the child with every possible detail he can think of, asking that any sighting of the little straggler be reported to him immediately. He hopes against every star in the sky that the mother doesn’t happen to overhear from an employee nearby.

Lastly, he heads out in search of help.

Moon is meant to be working on the upper floor today, helping Sun handle the usual holiday rush, and his lack of response to the radio call is concerning. Not too concerning, though, given that Sun finds him right where he’d been expecting to.

That is, sprawled atop the lockers in the employee break room, one arm dangling over the side, the other resting casually over his waist, and a VOGUE magazine draped over his face.

‘Lazy’ doesn’t even scratch the surface of the words Sun wants to use. They’ve talked about this, the bad habit having put Moon in trouble a number of times already, but that’s an argument for another day.

There’s no time to mince words right now, and so he doesn’t. Instead, Sun stalks across the room and slams his fist against the lockers beneath his sleeping coworker, who sits upright with such force that his head makes contact with the ceiling and crashes through like a train into glass.

It might have been funny if Sun wasn’t as whipped up into a panic as he is, but as it stands he can hardly even keep from raising his voice when he addresses Moon with a scowl. “Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Sun hisses, arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently. “I take it you didn’t hear my radio call?”

Moon serves him with a glower of his own, snarling deep within his voicebox as he runs his hand over the glassy side of his faceplate to ensure that it’s still intact. He has the decency to look a little guilty, if only for a moment, cerulean blue eyes lowering to the radio attached at his hip that is visibly turned to OFF.

“Of course not,” Sun tuts.

Griping, Moon dusts the ceiling powder from his shoulders. “What could be so important that you had to–”

“I lost a baby.”

The words render him speechless, a long, uncomfortable silence taking up the space between them for all of a minute before Moon blurts out, “Sun, you don’t have a baby.”

“That’s because I lost him!” Sun shrills, beginning to pace. “I was helping a mother with her bags, and she asked me to babysit, a-and I know we aren’t technically allowed to, but– but it all just happened so fast!” His arms flailed for emphasis. “She said he wasn’t even walking yet, I thought it’d be easy! Everything was going so well, too, we were playing a game of peek-a-boo and then – then someone needed help. I only had my back turned for a minute, Moon. Maybe even less! But then I turned around, and…”

“You lost a baby,” he mutters to himself. Moon runs both hands over his face, sighing into his palms. “You lost a baby,” he repeats. “How do you lose an entire child?”

“I don’t know!” Sun answers, voice cracking with guilt. “Will you help me find them?”

“Obviously.” Moon hops down from the lockers (pointedly ignoring the massive hole in the ceiling – he’d come up with an excuse to tell management later) and is already crossing the room when he speaks again. “Management will take it out on both of us if they find out, so you need to get a grip. Your face looks like you just watched someone plummet to their death, for fucks’s sake.” He pauses at the door. “Did you get a scan of their face?”

“O-Of course!”

“Good. Transfer the image to me along with any other information that might be helpful. I’ll search the exits, you take the first story department stores.”

“What about the second floor?”

He fits him with a quizzical expression, going as far as to form an eyebrow with the stars on his faceplate screen and arch it pointedly. “You said this kid wasn’t walking yet,” Moon reminds him. “If someone ‘napped the little guy, they aren’t going to stick around, much less be caught shopping. They’ll head for the exits, first.”

“I guess that’s true…”

“And if you just coincidentally happened to have been babysitting the world’s fastest crawler, they would still be stuck on the first floor,” he continues, “which is why we’re checking there first.”

“Right. Right. You’re right.” Sun’s nod is shaky at best. His hands wring together with a tension that threatens to pop the joints out of place with each anxious tug.

Moon sighs and crosses the room again to place a hand on Sun’s shoulder. “We’ll find him,” he comforts, giving the shoulder a gentle squeeze, “but we need to go now. You won’t fix anything by standing here worrying.”

“Right,” he repeats, working to smother his nerves for the sake of focusing on the task at hand. “You check the exits, I’ll check the department stores. We’ll meet up at the fountain in thirty minutes if neither of us find anything?”

“Ten minutes,” Moon asserts. He wastes no further time, leaving Sun with only that and a firm nod before pacing out of the room.

Sun hopes they aren’t already too late.

-

Their search yields nothing but more disappointment. Ten painfully long minutes of searching that ends with them meeting at the fountain equally empty handed and with no further leads.

“We’re too late,” wails Sun, already catastrophizing. “How am I going to explain this to their mother? She’ll never forgive me, I’ll never forgive me–” His fingers hook around the rays beside his chin, the thin metal groaning beneath the force and threatening to snap right then and there, “–and management — stars, Moon, we’re going to be dismantled over this!”

“Lower your voice!” Moon snaps. He looks around, ensuring that that their crime — Sun’s crime — hasn’t been overheard. Luckily, it appears the fountain has drowned out their conversation sufficiently. “You need to calm down,” he continues. “I’m sure they’re somewhere around here.”

“We’ve checked everywhere!” His left ray bends under the pressure, molding to the shape of his fingers, slowly but surely. “I should have never let this happen. What was I thinking, turning my back on them? Now they’re all alone, o-or hurt, somewhere, or–”

“Hey, hey.” Moon takes him by the wrist, careful yet firm as he pries Sun’s fingers away from his mangled ray then holds his hand at a distance, so he can’t hurt himself further. “You made a mistake,” he agrees, “but it’s not fair to hold all of that blame yourself. You have no frame of reference for this sort of thing, we aren’t meant to be taking care of children in the first place.”

“I should have known better!” Sun insists. “How can I be expected to run a daycare if I can’t even look after one kid?”

Moon freezes, his optics flickering in a blink. “We–” slowly, he releases Sun’s wrist, “–we aren’t a daycare, Sun. We’re a mall. Are…are you feeling okay?”

“I…” Alarms and notices flood his screen, blocking Moon from view. Corroded files long since forgotten behind firewalls and newly instated protocols. He looks for answers in their overwhelming code and finds nothing but more questions; a lingering sense of awareness always just out of his reach. Then they’re gone, swept away all at once as his system tidies itself up, and he can think clearly again. “We’re in a mall,” he echoes, nodding to himself, “we run a mall. We’re mascots, not – not–” He faces Moon with a calmer disposition, forcing a smile, “I’m alright, now.”

“I always preferred the term Icon,” says Moon, “’mascot’ makes us sound like those people in animal suits waving around signs outside of businesses.” He laughs, and Sun laughs, too, but it’s strained. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He sighs with the last crumb of uncertainty. “I’m fine, just…confused, I guess. I think the anxiety is getting to me.” When he straightens again it’s with newfound gusto, a determination to make things right. “None of our employees have reported seeing anyone carting off with a baby that fits George’s description, so he must still be here. Do you want to try the second floor after all?”

“I guess it’s worth a shot,” says Moon. He takes another look around, eyes scanning the area for any possible lead, until his star-studded eyebrow arches downward. “You said he was wearing a blue footie?”

“Navy blue,” Sun nods his confirmation, “with a little white pocket on the front.”

“Like that?”

He follows Moon’s point all the way to the escalator, where good ol’ George is sat, halfway up to the second story, already, suckling at his thumb like this is any other Tuesday.

“That’s–” Sun feels like he’s going to scream, “that’s him!”

“Huh. Baby on an escalator,” he mutters inquisitively. “Never seen that before.”

“Moon!”

Not wanting to risk any more dillydallying, Sun rushes past him and beelines through the crowd, anxiety pulsing through him tenfold as he gets caught up in a group of customers gathered on the escalator themselves.

Moon takes an alternative route, opting to skip the escalator steps all together. Instead he leaps directly onto the handrail, steady and practiced, and carefully avoids his customer’s fingers as he races upward.

Sun meets him at the top an excruciating few seconds after and feels his composure slip further upon seeing him empty handed. “Where–?”

“I don’t know,” Moon interrupts, looking just as confused. “He was already gone when I got up here.”

“Seriously?” He braces both palms across his arms, hugging himself tightly so he doesn’t just rip out his rays all together. “He’s a baby, for Pete’s sake. How far could he have gone? How does this keep happening?”

“There!” Moon points a little ways off, where little George — somehow, someway — is spotted riding a runaway janitor’s cart, its wheels spiraling uncontrollably forward and headed straight for the wall.

“Stop that cart!” Shrieks Sun, already halfway across the room and hot on the cart’s tail.

The crowd is thick, clusters of customers all aiming to get their holiday shopping in before the real chaos begins, and it makes the already out of hand situation that much harder.

Sun hears the crash before he sees it, and feels his battery operated heart sink. The sight he’s met with upon finally reaching the end of the balcony is disastrous at best. The cart rests in a broken mess on the floor, having evidently bounced into a pair of trash cans rather than collide with the wall. One of said cans has toppled onto its side from the impact, and the trail of garbage leading out of it paints a perplexing picture.

Moon catches up with him a minute later, fans whirring like he’s out of breath. “Is he–”

“Gone,” Sun answers, aghast. He points to the breadcrumbs (literally) that trail out of the toppled can. “I think he fell into the garbage.”

“Well, that’s better than the wall,” hums Moon. “Maybe it cushioned his fall? And then the trashcan fell over…” he trails off.

“And he just…crawled out?” Sun finishes the thought, then raises his chin. The two share a dumbfounded expression.

“Sun, what kind of mutant child did you agree to babysit?”

“Don’t be rude!” He chastises. “George is just…special.”

“Yeah, specially designed to outwit us. They should have called him Curious George.” His eye follows the garbage trail until it peters out a few feet down. “Where do you suppose he went now?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Sun groans. “Should we split up?”

“Good idea. You take the east wing, I’ll go west. Reconvene in thirty minutes?”

“Ten,”‌ corrects Sun, grimacing at the deja vu. “His mother promised an hour, and it’s already been over half of that. If we can’t find him in ten minutes, then we - we–”

“We are going to find him,” Moon assures, bolstering Sun’s confidence as best as he can. “We just need to focus, alright? No more running around like chickens with our heads cut off.”

Sun nods his agreement. “Right, okay. You’re right. I won’t let a baby run me in circles around my own mall.” His frazzled expressions calms, at that, and he smiles. “Just a nine-month infant who crawls a little faster than normal, that’s all he is. Easy peasy!”

-

What happens next is neither easy nor peasy. In fact, calling it ‘running circles’ is an understatement. In the next ten minutes alone, little George sends both of them out on nothing short of a wild goose chase, appearing in nigh impossible positions each and every time and always just out their grasp.

Sun is the first to find him. Tucked into the one corner of a store that the cameras don’t reach, donning a pair of sunglasses of all things (upside-down, mind you), and playing with a silicone whisk from the kitchenware section. Sun is only a short distance away when a customer taps him on the shoulder and asks where they can find the bathroom. Of course, the little tot is already gone when he turns back around.

A few meters down, Moon discovers some discarded sunglasses on the floor. He spots a familiar pair of white padded feet a moment later and finds George climbing the side of an information kiosk. The employee inside is busy with a customer and doesn’t even notice the little rascal scaling the grounded kiosk sign like he was born to climb Everest. They notice Moon, though, and are all too eager to introduce one of the mall’s very own mascots to the customer who is, apparently, visiting for the very first time. It’s all Moon can do just to act polite in front of the woman as his guest-orientation protocols take over, keeping him paralyzed there even as the infant merrily drops from the sign and disappears from his sight.

Five minutes later Sun hears a shrill of laughter and turns around a corner to see George playing in the plant trough like it’s a sandbox, his navy footie all but smothered in dirt. An internal scream rips silently through his system as he grapples with the knowledge that he’s now going to get an earful even if he does successfully get his hands on the kid.

True to character, George is nowhere to be found when Sun winds up in front of the planter. He calms his nerves and protocols alike by fixing the poor flowers back into their proper position from where they had been carelessly plucked out and thrown aside. He knows there’s no saving a few of them, and he’ll need to reorder more seeds to make up for it, but that’s a headache for another day.

The current source of his vexation appears to have shown some mercy, at least. Sun finds a trail of muddy footprints leading out of the trough and down the aisle. An employee glances up from their storefront desk upon seeing him and points to the right, towards the candy store, knowing exactly what he was looking for, already. For the life of him, Sun cannot understand why they — or anyone else for that matter — hasn’t thought to stop the runaway infant. Apparently, a nine month old crawling around without parental supervision is nothing to bat an eye at to anyone in the mall’s entire vicinity.

Moon is passing by Waning Lights theater when he hears a small commotion inside. On a hunch he peeks in, expecting nothing in particular, and instead sees two enormous baby hands covering the screen. That is, two very small baby hands waving in front of the projector.

He’s up the steps in a matter of seconds, mechanics racing with the adrenaline of having finally caught the little devil, only — of course — the little hands have already disappeared, and the seat is empty, leaving only a confused employee where he once was. “You’re joking…” Moon whispers, exhausted. An already irritated customer shushes him from somewhere downstage. Distantly, he hears the telltale sound of infant babbling and begrudgingly follows it out of the theater again.

He bursts through the door and right into Sun, colliding with a loud clatter of metal and recoiling, each holding their heads respectively and groaning in perfect unison.

“Did you find him?” Sun asks around a wince.

“Technically yes, but–”

“He got away from you too?”

Moon nods. “What is it with this kid?”

“I don’t know, but we need to figure out a different plan soon. We’re already over our ten minutes.” He looks around once more for good measure, knowing the child couldn’t have gone too far, already, if they had both just spotted him a moment ago.

That’s when he sees it. Little George, nine months old, walking down the balcony aisle. Rather, the little tike is running like he’s off to the races.

“Well, that explains why he’s been able to get everywhere so fast,” says Moon, following Sun’s gaze. “I thought you said he was only starting to crawl?”

“He’s, um, a fast learner?” Sun answers sheepishly. He watches George go for all of one long, lovestruck moment — feeling like a proud parent himself — before the swell of pride in his chest shatters to make way for circuit frying terror.

See, little George has shown himself to be quite the impressive little acrobat. He can walk, he can run, he can climb, and at that very moment he is making quick work of closing the distance between himself and a stack of boxes pressed up against the balcony railing.

The only thing awaiting him on the other side is a long, long fall.

Sun darts forward without a word, but Moon is faster, weaving through the crowd with a nimble speed that he cannot compete with. “We aren’t going to make it,” Sun gasps, announcing it to himself, mostly, as horror grips him throughout. Even if they reach the railing on time, George is already at the top of the stack, raising himself onto unsteady feet and peering out into the great beyond. He’ll be over the edge before they can stop him, and they won’t make it to the first floor on time to catch him there.

But then Sun hears it; the whir of a wire, quick and sturdy as it races through its ceiling track to Moon’s beck and call. He watches its metal hook begin to lower from a few paces away, just as the infant topples up and over, and his body seizes with fear as Moon leaps over the railing after him.

He hears a click, the wire latching out of sight, going taut. Sun holds his breath until the sound of giggling follows. Peering warily over the railing, hands shaking, he sees Moon dangling halfway to the floor. Little George bounces in his arms, clapping and cheering and laughing away like this is all just another game.

Moon lowers himself the remaining distance to the floor as Sun scrambles down the elevator to meet him. He looks rightfully shaken, his faceplate screen blank of even stars, but his grip remains persistent. He’s not going to risk putting the kid down for a moment, even if he feels like he’s going to bluescreen any second now. Their landing is celebrated with the undeniable sound of George taking the world’s largest shit, and though Moon wants to be angry, all he manages to come up with in response is “Me too, kid.”

A voice calls over their internal radios right as Sun’s feet hit the floor.

“Can someone ring the mascots?” Asks the employee, “I’m stationed at Shutterbug with a customer and she says they have her baby…?”

“I’m on my way!” Sun answers the radio aloud. He takes the baby from Moon, who extends George to him from a distance, grateful — now more than ever — for their ability to turn off their nose receptors.

“What about the footie?” Moon gestures to the dirt-soaked clothes once his hands are free. “I don’t think she’s going to be happy if he’s brought back all dirty – or naked. That might be worse.”

On a whim, Sun turns George over to check the footie’s tag. Relief floods his system when he reads the name. “We carry this brand – I’ll bet anything that we have this exact footie somewhere in the store. Can you go find it?” He makes a face and turns his own nose receptors off a moment after. “Maybe a pack of diapers, too,” he laughs. “Oh! Can you also pick up a rabbit from Fluff-&-Stuff?”

“What about you?”

“I’m headed to the bathrooms so I can clean the little guy up.” He holds George up, then, wielding him like a stinky little weapon. “Unless you want to try changing a diaper?”

“Navy blue footie with a white pocket, got it,” answers Moon, already turning on his heel and heading in the opposite direction.

-

Ten minutes later, Sun exits the bathroom feeling like a brand new person. A scarred, mortified person, but new all the same. Who knew baby poop could be so traumatizing?

Moon had returned a moment before, toting with him the items that Sun had requested, and together they figured out how to dress the freshly cleaned child in a new diaper. Whoever said it wasn’t rocket science was right. It was somehow worse. Still, they persevered, and at the end of it all they had a clean, happy, freshly diapered baby to show for their efforts. Now it was just a matter of delivering him back to his mother.

“Why did you want the rabbit?” Moon asks as he trades over the stuffed animal, happy to hold little George now that the little tike isn’t a stink grenade.

“You’ll see,” answers Sun, refusing to elaborate. He rounds the corner with Moon following at his heel and steps into Shutterbug, greeting the mother with his best customer-pleasing smile. “So sorry for the wait, ma’am. George here had a bit of an accident on our way back.”

The woman tuts guilty, but is happy to see them all the same. “Oh, goodness, how embarrassing. I can pay for the diapers you used.”

“Nonsense!” He tells her with a casual wave of his hand, “We’re happy to lend a hand, and it’s not like the little guy could help himself.”

“You’re a sweetheart,” she smiles. “And he behaved for you, otherwise?”

Sun glances over his shoulder at Moon, and the two share a look.

Nodding, Moon steps forward and hands the child over when his mother extends her arms for him. “He was an angel,” Moon tells her.

They had both already agreed to keep their mouths shut on the entire ordeal, including and up to George’s newfound capabilities. Aside from how much trouble they would both find themselves in if anyone ever found out about the chase this single child had put them through, it simply wasn’t their place to mention it. Sun, especially, didn’t want to take away that special moment when his mother rightfully deserved to have it to herself.

“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” she sighs with relief. “Thank you again for watching her. You two are a real blessing, you know that? I wouldn’t have been able to get all my ducks in a row without your help.”

“Anytime!” Sun answers. He spots a plaid dress hiding behind her, and lowers himself into a crouch. “Hello, again,” he calls to the little girl using his kindest voice, and extends the stuffed rabbit for her to take. “I noticed you had some bunnies on your dress, so I thought you might like this.”

Behind him, Moon relaxes into a fond smile.

“That’s very kind of you,” says her mother, who nudges her forward gently. “Go on, it’s okay,” she reassures her. “It’s a gift.”

The child hesitant, but eventually she peeks out from behind her mother just enough to take the offered rabbit, which she tucks against her chest in a great, big hug. “Th…Thank you,” she whispers. Then, feeling brave, she rewards him with a gap-toothed smile.

Moon clears his voice-box. “Well, we should let you get to it,” he says, full-well knowing that Sun would stay here cooing at the children all day if he let him.

And Sun, for what it’s worth, knows exactly what the vocal nudge means, and detaches himself from the family with a wave and some merry goodbyes before the two of them depart together.

“That was sweet of you,” Moon comments once they’re out of earshot. “You aren’t hoping for kids of our own, are you? I don’t think I’m ready for that level of commitment.” He elbows Sun with a smile, getting a hearty laugh out of him.

“Moon, I’ll be honest. I will be the happiest bot in the world if I never have to change another diaper again.” This time it’s Moon’s turn to laugh, and he laughs until his vocals strain with effort. “But, you know, it wasn’t too bad. Taking care of a baby, I mean. I think we make a pretty good team – and decent parents.”

“I’m the better parent,” Moon says around a wide grin. “You’re too much of a stick in the mud.”

“And you’re too spoiling!” Sun laughs, “Don’t think I haven’t seen you giving out candy to the kids that sneak off without their parents.”

“I’m teaching a valuable lesson,” Moon insists, hand flying over his heart like he’s offended by the notion. “If parents want to leave their children unattended, they have to face the consequences. It won’t be me dealing with the inevitable sugar rush.”

A gasp in the distance interrupts their playful bickering. They turn halfway, back towards Shutterbug. 

“Did you see that?” Chirps the mother, loud and clear. Her giddy voice followed immediately by the shutter of a camera. “Look – look! He’s walking!”

Again, the two share a look. Surprise becomes amusement becomes pride, then joy, and they laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

[ccherrybloom]

Ashtrays & Antihistamines Pt. 1

oc, m, hayfever, wc: 2.8k

Part 2

CW: foul language and allusions to gay sex lol

~~

a.n. + summary: i don't think i've ever posted a snzfic on this blog, but there's a first for everything, right? featuring my lovely little ocs and their stupid dumb little band. i don't normally write them in snzcerions, but...every now and again i can’t help myself and one slips through the cracks lol. This particular one centers around my absolute shithead of an Irishman, Peter, as he deals with a hayfever flare up for the first time in like…twenty years, lol. of course, ever the lucky one, this begins to happen during the band’s first mini-tour. Cue shenanigans. I hope you all enjoy!

~~

“hH’RRSHhiue!” Peter fell into himself with a harsh sneeze, the band’s rundown van jerking sporadically with its driver’s sudden movement. “Goddamnit!”

“Bless.” Geoff offered lazily from the passenger seat as he turned a page of his book, unbothered by the vehicle’s erratic veer. “That’s like the tenth one since we’ve left Dublin.” The bassist pointed out, shooting the guitarist a pointed look from the corner of his eye. “You alright?”

“Fuckin’ hayfever,” Peter answered as he scrubbed his palm aggressively against the underside of his nose, careful not to put too much pressure against his nose rings. He followed it up with a drawn-out sniffle. “I’m fine. Christ.”

“I don’t remember ya being like this before,” Maurice quipped from the back of the van, leaning forward to join in on the conversation. “I mean hell, ya lived in Dublin fer how many years…?”

“Longer than you, Frenchie.” Peter retorted as he thrust a tattooed hand backwards to try and shove the singer away. Maurice easily dodged with a laugh, swatting at Peter’s hand as Geoff instinctively reached out to steady the van as it began to swerve again. “You can piss right off.”

“Look, I’m just sayin’, yer born and bred Irish — who knew all it took was a few months in London for yer own country to turn on ya.”

“I said piss off.”

“Who gives a shit!” Chris suddenly interjected as he pulled his headphones from his ears, a curly lock of the drummer’s dark hair falling between his eyes. “Just keep your bloody eyes on the road! I dunno ‘bout you lot, but I’d like to get there in one piece.”

Maurice backed off with a snicker, hands up in surrender as Peter quickly flipped Chris off in the rear view mirror before returning his full attention to the road.

After Peter and Maurice had both left Dublin for London a few months shy of one another, the four men began to pour almost all of their free time into their passion project, The Undergrounds. Much to their genuine surprise, people seemed to really enjoy their band’s sound and performances, so much so in fact that they’d hit a point where pubs across the UK were beginning to reach out to them, asking the group to come play for their open mic nights, with some even offering payment. With the requests getting further and further away from their homebase in London, the band finally decided to bite the bullet and buy themselves some transportation, namely their shithole of a van lovingly referred to as Van Halen. Despite its old clunkiness, it really did do the trick, and allowed the men to head across the border on their first ever ‘Let’s-Not-Call-It-A-Tour’ Tour. Realistically, with two of the four members being from (or as close to ‘from’ as one could be, in Maurice’s case) Ireland, the band had picked up quite a bit of traction across the small country with the men getting many open mic night requests which they normally had to turn down, much to Peter’s dismay.

At least until now, that is.

Peter had noticed something was off after their show in Dublin the night prior. At first he just assumed he strained his voice singing backup vocals — a product of over-excitement from getting to play in his old stomping grounds. But by morning the scratchiness in his throat lingered and was now accompanied by faint itchiness in his nose that forewarned him of worse yet to come. 

By the time the men packed up their gear and filed into the van late that afternoon, the unwelcoming prickle that had been festering in his nose demanded more attention, and his eyes began to itch in a maddening way that he hadn’t experienced since he was a kid back in Belfast. Initially he tried to ignore it, chalking it up as a residual reaction to dust from the old pub, or that it had been awhile since Van Halen had gotten a good clean. But as time slowly passed on their nearly three hour drive to Cork, and the itchiness in his sinuses progressed into full-blown sneezing, the reality of the situation began to dawn on him. He was immediately thrust back to Belfast, memories of summers spent constantly sneezing thanks to the fields near his old home, his eyes watering, his nose running, each summer spent absolutely miserable. He hadn’t had a hayfever flare-up in years, thinking it was something he had thankfully outgrown once his mum had moved them to Dublin, but yet here it was, back to rear its ugly head once more all these years later. The familiar lush scents of the countryside that used to conjure such vivid memories of home were now turning every intake of breath the guitarist took into a gamble. 

The itchiness in Peter’s nose only seemed to increase in urgency as Van Halen bumped its way through the Irish countryside. The landscape blurred past the windows, a mix of greens and greys under a sky that threatened rain.

“Nearly there.” Geoff hummed, taking a peek at the map app on his phone. “About another twenty or so.”

“Thank fuck.” Peter grumbled with a sniffle, his eyes squinting past the relentless itchiness. He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel and pulled his glasses up slightly before slamming his wrist into one eye and scrubbing hard.

“I think we could all do with a pint,” Maurice chimed in, trying to lighten the mood. “Especially you, Peter.” He added, gently poking the man’s shoulder.

Peter managed a weak chuckle in response, his wrist still pressed hard into the corner of his eye. 

“Just keep it steady Pete, yeah?” Chris leaned himself forward and rested his elbows onto his knees, eyes scanning the road ahead. “Not much longer and you can go ahead and drown yourself in whatever local brew you fancy.”

Peter opened his mouth to reply, but the van hit a particularly bumpy patch of road, jolting everyone inside. Instead he just swore under his breath, turning his full focus back towards the road as Cork began to appear on the horizon.

“There she is.” Geoff whistled, pointing ahead. “Welcome to Cork, lads.”

Peter managed to manoeuvre Van Halen expertly through the narrow streets of Cork despite battling his allergic reaction, the van’s tires crunching over cobblestone as he pulled them into the parking lot of their dingy motel.

“Home sweet home.” Maurice hummed as he clapped a hand onto Peter’s shoulder, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as the other two members filed out. “At least fer the next few days.”

Peter leaned back into the driver’s seat and let his eyes drift closed as he exhaled deeply, shutting off the engine. He only cracked an eye back open when he felt Maurice give his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“You alright?” The singer asked, his voice low and expression soft.

“I’m grand, Mur.” Peter grumbled, his voice heavy with sarcasm. The real truth of the matter was that he was miserable, itchy, and absolutely dying for a cigarette — not that he cared to say any of that out loud. 

The guitarist pulled off his glasses to give his watery eyes another scrub before continuing. “Just got a fierce bad dose of this nonsense…This shite best be all said and done before our show or I’ll–hh! hH’ITSHHhiue!”

“See, but that’s what we don’t wantcha doin’, actually.” The blonde teased as he patted the guitarist’s shoulder before the other quickly slapped it away as if he were swatting a mosquito.

“You fuck right off, Murry.” Peter sniffled hard, dragging the backside of his hand beneath his nose. “Just get yer shit and get goin’.”

Maurice did as he was told and hopped out of the van with Peter not far behind as the pair hurriedly began to help the others unload. With the sky steadily darkening the four moved quickly, eager to avoid the potential rain. Luckily the unloading and reloading of Van Halen had become more and more familiar with each passing gig, and it didn’t take them long to have all the necessities laid out beside the van, ready to go.

The motel itself was a shabby vintage looking two-story building, its neon sign flickering with an almost uncertain intermittence as if it were clinging onto its last shred of life.

Maurice and Geoff took the lead, carrying the group’s heavier equipment while Chris and Peter followed suit with their four bags. They bustled their way to the reception desk where they were met with a disinterested looking clerk who simply handed them a single worn key with a faded plastic tag attached.

“Yer in room 107.” He mumbled, barely looking up from his magazine.

“Cheers, mate.” Geoff scoffed as he shot the others an exasperated look and snatched the key. He led the group down the dimly lit hallway, their feet dragging against a carpet that had clearly seen better days. When they reached their room Geoff wasted no time unlocking the door and shoving it open, revealing a tightly packed space with two queen beds, a small television, and a bathroom that looked like it hadn’t been updated in at least two decades.

“Alright, how we doin’ this?” Chris asked as he tossed the bags he had onto the closest bed.

“By drawing straws, of course.” Geoff instructed as he pulled a set of straws he had prepared earlier out of his pocket. “Shortest straw shares with the other shortest straw.”

The others agreed on this being fair enough and drew their straws, quickly comparing them.

“Well, it’s you and me, innit?” Chris said as he held up his short straw next to Peter’s. He gave the other a playful nudge and smirked. “Just don’t go tryin’ nuffin, yeah?”

Peter sniffled thickly and shoved Chris away before pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger, careful to avoid the rings, and itched it aggressively. “I got enough of ya the first time.” He moved from rubbing his nose to scrubbing his eyes, trying to ignore the way Maurice bristled at the mention of their one-off fling. “Won’t be doin’ that again.” Chris flipped him off and called him a wanker, but he went ahead and ignored that too.

“Hey, Pete,” Geoff called out as he tossed his bag onto the other bed. “Why don’t you take a shower? Might help clear up a bit of that hayfever.”

Peter, who’s eyes had started to glaze over, did his best to nod in the ginger’s general direction. “That’s the best ideee-hha I’ve heard all d—hh! hhUH’DITSHhhiuew! ‘IGKSHhhiueww!” He doubled over hard into cupped hands, his entire body tensing violently with each sneeze before he groaned thickly against his palms. “—all damn day.” He finished on an exhale, voice cracking. “-snf- Jaysus…”

“Bless you.” Geoff offered, a twinge of sympathy in his voice. “You know you really ought to—”

“G’way outta that.” Peter interjected with a dismissive wave of his hand as he trudged his way to the bathroom, eyes half-lidded. “Last thing I need is yer bloody mother hennin’, Geoffrey.” He added before pulling the door closed behind him. 

Flicking the light switch, Peter had to wait a full second before the dull fluorescents sputtered to life, illuminating the unsightly bathroom as he dragged his feet towards the shower. The tiles were cracked and the floor was splotchy, but he didn’t care, he just wanted some relief. 

The pipes whined in protest as he turned on the taps before water began to sputter out from the shower head. The water pressure seemed abysmal at best, and Peter cursed to himself as he leaned his weight against the sink, waiting for the water to warm. As steam steadily started filling the small space, he could feel the tightness in his sinuses ease up slightly, making his nose run. The liquid caught on his septum ring and trailed rapidly down towards his upper lip. Blowing out an annoyed breath, the guitarist took a second to wipe his nose haphazardly against his sleeve before stripping and stepping into the tub, letting the warm water cascade over him with an appreciative sigh.

Outside of the bathroom Geoff and Maurice were seated on each side of their shared bed as they sorted through their bags.

“Think he’ll live?” Maurice asked as he pulled out his plastic toiletry bag, setting it to the side.

Geoff gave a small shrug in return, glancing towards the bathroom door. “I reckon it could go either way with that dumb git.”

Maurice snorted at this, but his knit brow betrayed his feigned air of nonchalance. “Just hope the shower helps, I s’ppose. Don’t think we can really afford to have him down fer the count.”

Chris, already sprawled out on the other bed, headphones back on, piped up. “Eh, he’ll be alright. Just needs to wash off whatever’s settin’ ‘im off. It’s no big, yeah? You French people are wound too tight.”

Maurice rolled his eyes at this but chose to ignore the drummer’s comment. “I just don’t want anythin’ to screw this up for us.” He murmured as his eyes fell onto the bathroom door. “That’s all.”

“hh-Hh! hH’dDZTShiueww!” Peter sneezed loudly and openly, his head snapping downwards as the shower’s stream continued to steadily pelt against his tattooed back. He blinked hard, eyes bleary as the need to sneeze lingered in his nose like an unwelcome houseguest. Instinctively he brought up a hand to hover over the lower half of his face as his breathing began to come out in shuddering, shallow gasps. “hah…Ha’TdSHhhiuew!” This one bent him double and he swore immediately afterwards, more than a little frustrated as he blew his nose harshly into his hand. Had his hayfever always been this maddening? He couldn’t remember. It had been a long time since he’d had a flare-up, probably pushing two decades at least. The thought that it had come back now during the band’s first tour just pissed him off further.

Sighing, Peter turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, reaching out for one of the worn threadbare towels from the hotel rack. He dried himself off quickly before wrapping the towel dangerously loose around his waist – the only member who had yet to see his dick was Geoffrey, and the guitarist couldn’t give less of a shit if today was the day that changed.

Wiping a hand across the fogged bathroom mirror, Peter allowed himself a moment to peer at his reflection as he dragged a hand through his damp, dark hair and threw on his glasses. His green eyes were still red-rimmed and watery, his nose and cheeks were decorated with a soft dusting of pink…he looked pathetic, but at least the shower was helping him breathe a little easier.

Residual steam billowed out into the cooler room as Peter made his way out of the bathroom, catching the eye of Maurice.

“Peter,” The singer looked up from his bag and offered the dark-haired man a small smile, taking in the other’s lean frame. “How ye fairin’?” 

“Bit better, I’d say.” Peter hummed, though a small sniffle still escaped him as he wandered over to his bag, making Maurice frown.

“Reckon you’re up for a drink?” Geoff asked, not looking up from his phone. “We were thinking of checking out this pub nearby. Interested?”

Peter mulled it over for a moment, turning his back on the others before dropping his towel and pulling on a pair of boxer-briefs. “Yeah, g’wan then.” He finally affirmed, clearing his throat against a fist as he fished an old t-shirt from his bag. “Pint’ll do me some good.”

“Are ya sure?” The singer asked, chewing on his lip nervously as Peter wiggled into a pair of jeans. “If yer not feelin’ up for it–”

“Sod off, Maurice, will you?” Chris suddenly retaliated as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. “Actin’ like you’re his bloody mum or somefin’ just cos you’re shaggin’. Prat.”

Peter couldn’t help but snort as Maurice glared daggers at Chris, his face turning a delightful shade of crimson. The fact that he and Maurice slept together on occasion wasn’t exactly a secret – their initial one-night stand was how the two had met in the first place, after all – but it wasn’t something that was often discussed amongst the group. Peter personally didn’t care, but Maurice clearly did.

“You don’t see me actin’ like a bloody bellend even though I’ve also sucked his–”

“Ça commence à bien faire!” Maurice shot up suddenly from the bed, cutting Chris off as his native tongue spilled rapidly from his mouth. “Fer the love of God, no more, thank you!” 

The singer hurriedly made a beeline for the hotel room door, grabbing his coat as he rushed past the others, his face absolutely aghast as the others snickered. “Just…hurry up, then! Christ, I need a feckin’ drink…”

“I think we all do.” Geoff huffed as Maurice stepped into the hall. “C’mon, lads. Let’s go.”

[personinthepalace]

Henry Shields in Mischief Movie Night In -> for @incendiaglacies - Happy Birthday!

[steelycunt]

an um. snippet. from me. for the first time since. july :-)

[evilmagician430]

who up sinning their fest

[99probalos]

beach episode!

[pekiacyunn]

just uh my version of doc

[art--harridan]

[Image description: A digital painting of Johnny and Gheorghe from God's Own Country. It's only of their faces, with Gheorghe's juxtaposed over Johnny's. Both have blank expression, staring off into the distance as if deep in thought. The background resembles the texture of grass, and has some hastily draw pink flowers over it. The pair have a pink outline around them. Above the paintings, there's a vague neon green gradient that lights the side of their faces.]

Inktober Day 31: Farm

Film: God's Own Country

[wileywere]

apocalypse AU original cast doodles

for like my weird next-gen bad timeline thing I never named

they’re just concept sketches tho so like. they *will* probably be changed at somet point

anywho

enjoy I guess :]

[supermarketcrush]

hi dear phoenix!! would love to hear some movie recommendations from u 😽 my usual type is emotional and slow paced but I'll watch anything!! 🩷🩷

HIII ik this ask was eons ago but i feel bad for never answering IM SORRY...... i really recommend days of being wild, to me it's atmospheric like intense petrichor in the summer and hands that come away wet from an ice cold drink so you can't tell if it's sweat or condensation...... if u like wong kar-wai it's definitely worth checking out (ik tumblr only knows like 4 wkw films but we should change that!!!)

[thegreatbluecat72]

Well now I have to ask for a song and/or band rec! I love new music!

aaah here's one of each!!

i started working on a playlist today and one of the songs it's based off of is Library Magic by The Head and The Heart :) i love the vibes of this song, to me it feels like warm sun in a forest glade standing next to someone you love, and it's just so so lovely <3 (youtube link)

if you like rock, give The Gaslight Anthem a try! they're from New Jersey, they've been in and about the heartland rock scene for ages, and they came out with a new album last October that I adore :)) (and another link)

[andro-dino]

smiles at you. how about some hcs for kira and the other dna bladers. they are all so silly to me <3

waaa the gang <3 I love them. These are all gonna be like post-canon, “all of dna live in an apartment together” focused bc that’s my favorite way to think about them.

I’ve been rereading some of my own fics recently and stumbled upon a line I forgot I wrote about Spike and Genjuro sometimes having to force Arrow to drink water because he usually exclusively drinks sugary drinks and I think that’s silly. I think the idea of arrow randomly being like “man I have a killer headache rn idk why :/“ and them going “well how much water have you been drinking?” And arrow being like “how much what have I huh now?” and them being wildly concerned is very funny.

Adding onto that, I think out of DNA, Spike and Genjuro are the best at taking care of themselves when they need to because the others have like zero sense of self preservation. I think that Karura surprisingly can also pretend to be a sensible human being sometimes as well. I love the idea of Karura having his own little mini spice and veggie garden and helping Spike and Genjuro cook sometimes <3

Dunno how much this is a hc so much as it just kinda implied but Arrow is super inspired by Kira and looks up to him a lot, not only just when it comes to beyblade but like, life as a whole. ESPECIALLY when it comes to fashion. He’s experimented a bit with eyeliner before (mostly just to fill out the gaps in his mask) but eventually wants to try getting into makeup more as a whole and he immediately asks Kira for advice with that. I like to think that the two end up really bonding over it and end up going shopping together a lot and Kira helps Arrow pick out outfits and stuff <3

Ok I cannot hold myself back rn I need to be a little bit angsty bc I think about this with post-canon dna way too much (a lot of these ideas have been sparked by our past conversations lol). I think despite the fact that they are trying to be better people and while I do think the general opinion of them comes around eventually, for a long while immediately after the events of shogun steel they are kinda still public enemies #1 and that makes life ROUGH for all of them for a while. They all have very different views and ways of dealing with that as well.

Kira, still upholding his role as leader, feels a certain level of responsibility and, by proxy, guilt about this. He feels a strong sense of duty towards dna to help guide and protect them from then on out, especially realizing that he hadn’t treated them particularly well in the past. He can’t help but partially blame himself for putting them in the position they are now and in his path for redemption, seeks not only to make it up to the main gang and public at large but dna as well. He feels really guilty when he sees them mistreated by others and feels a level of protectiveness over them. He really takes the idea that he needs to take care of them seriously and occasionally that means taking the fall for them or defending them from people who are being particularly assholeish.

Genjuro kinda wants to keep everyone under the radar while all this is happening and although they know he means well, none of the others are particularly fond of this and kind of end up butting heads with him a lot as a result. The main two especially with this are Baihu and Karura.

Karura tries not to argue with Genjuro much, but at Genjuro’s insistence that they should be trying to keep a low profile and thus not dress as flashy as they usually would, Karura is a little peeved. This strikes a particular nerve with him specifically for two reasons. 1. Karura’s a unique looking dude as a whole, and he finds it’s kinda hard to “keep a low profile” when you’ve got a blue mohawk and burn scars all over your face and body. and 2. His appearance is something he takes pride in. He’s not insecure by any means, and his style being as flashy as it is is an act of embracing his uniqueness in a way that suits him, so to have to change that is something that leaves him particularly disgruntled.

Baihu, by contrast, more directly takes opposition to Genjuro and the two get into a lot of fights because of it. Baihu is used to using trickery, mischief, and brute force to gain traction in life and he takes no qualms in doing that not only to defend his name, but to just survive at times. He and Spike are the ones who are the most easily irritated by the way people look down on them and will frequently start fights with strangers over it, despite being told it’s not worth it. Baihu does not like to be held back and does not like letting people just walk all over them, but he’ll bite his tongue from time to time for the sake of the others. What he won’t do, however, is sit back and let his pack struggle under his watch. I think that along with struggling to be in public, it’s also really tough for them to find ways to support themselves and they tend to get turned away by a lot of businesses and tournaments, so it is hard for them to get by for a while. I think eventually, the wbba is informed of this and provides them support in this regard, but before then, all Baihu knows is that they need to eat. Genjuro does not like it when Baihu steals, but Baihu doesn’t care, because if no one else is gonna provide for them, he will, and it doesn’t matter to him by what means that comes by. (I have thought abt drawing a comic with this idea for AGES. Will I ever get around to it? only time will tell)

I also think they have an interesting time trying to get along with the main gang after everything that’s happened. Zyro is obviously the most forgiving, and since he and Kira very quickly become very close after they’ve bonded, he is more than ready to welcome the rest of DNA with open arms, and is very excited to let his friends properly get to know them. The others do not necessarily share the same kind of enthusiasm.

Maru, bless her soul, I think trusts Zyro’s judgment the most and is willing to give them another shot. She doesn’t necessarily look past all the things they’ve done, but she’s seen other people come around, especially due to Zyro’s influence, and so she trusts that they’ll be able to do the same. She ends up getting along well with Kira, Genjuro, and Arrow (cough cough for no reason in particular ahem ahem)

Shinobu is a little more apprehensive, as I think he’s one to hold grudges, but similarly to Maru, he trusts Zyro and is willing to move forward if he is. He’s definitely the most hesitant around Kira and Baihu (partially also Genjuro bc of the glass box battle but I think they’re more easily able to move on from that). Kira particularly is difficult for him to get along with just bc of everything that happened with him at multiple different points, but I think they end up having some very heartfelt conversations at some points about it and Kira communicates that he understands why Shinobu would still hold a grudge, but he really is trying to change and he hopes that him and the others will be able to prove that to him over time. And it does take time, but Shinobu understands that perspective and is willing to give them a shot.

Ren is hesitant at first, though for those she doesn’t have personal beef with, she’s able to forgive relatively quickly. The others though. oo boy. Her beef with Genjuro was settled with their rematch at the qualifier match attacks when she got the upper hand on him, so despite some slight animosity at first, they’re able to go to friendly rival status fairly quickly afterwards. Arrow and Spike however, she has NOT forgiven for what they did during the dna hq invasion and is not their biggest fan right off the bat. In the end, they decide to settle it like bladers do, and after a fair and even match with them (I think it’d be a duo battle with eight since he also has beef with them for the same reason (I’ll get to that too)) they’re able to understand each other a little more and settle their issues. It’s not immediate forgiveness, but it’s a start.

Kite and Eight are the biggest grudge holders of all time. It is very hard for them to move on. Kite has massive beef with Yoshio, not only because their rivalry was never properly settled, but bc he not only picked a fight with kite, but hurt eight and well and kite does NOT play when it comes to eight. He’s also not particularly fond of Baihu either but I think eventually he’s able to understand the more caring side of him and come to terms with him a little more. There’s the obvious route of his rivalry with Karura continuing as well but they don’t have any real animosity towards each other and it’s mostly just very silly and lighthearted. On eight’s end, he equally is not fond of Yoshio and also has a continued hatred towards Spike and Arrow, and anyone who eight hates Kite hates too. His and Ren’s battle with them helps it a bit, but Eight’s a stubborn little kid and doesn’t let that show for a long while still. He needs to get in what he thinks is their deserved amount of teasing and bullying before he can actually start to warm up to them. I think in the end, what ends up bringing them both around, is Kite connecting with Kira. I actually really love these two as a duo (it’s a shame that a lot of the stuff I’ve seen of them together online is from weirdos) and I think they really could have a genuine heart to heart, with Kira opening up about the responsibility he feels towards dna and kite connecting to that as an older brother. Again, kite cares about his brother more than anything, and protecting him and taking care of him is his biggest priority, so understanding that Kira feels a very similar duty towards the other members of dna, it humanizes them more in kite’s mind and he’s able to empathize with them more, and so he’s more willing to give them a chance afterwards. And since eight would follow kite to the ends of the earth, when kite starts to warm up to them a little more, eight starts to give them a chance as well.

OH MAN YOU KNOW WHAT I JUST THOUGHT ABOUT TJATS REALLY GETTING ME GOING RIGHT NOW. Kira talking to Tsubasa and the other adults.

There’s a certain kind of shame that makes his head hang and a certain degree of fear that he can’t quite place that makes him hesitate as he walks inside the wbba building with Zyro. His gut twists when they go up the elevator and his heart drops when Zyro tells him that that’s as far as he’ll take him, and that Kira needs to talk to them on his own. He’s so used to having a degree of control over everything around him like he did with the garcias and like how he thought he did with doji, so going into an environment where he’s just a powerless teenager, it scares him. He would try to be intimidating but he knows that won’t work on them. His magic has no power in this realm.

The treatment he got from the garcias and doji when he was no longer their perfect little puppet leads him to prepare for the worst, especially considering these are people who have every reason to hate him and persecute him for everything he’s done to them, so he’s dumbfounded when they welcome him with open arms and warm smiles. It feels like a trap— there’s no way it’s not a trap, right? Trying to careen him into a false sense of security? But the longer they talk, the more opportunities to drop the ball they don’t take, and Kira realizes that they’re being genuine. It stabs him in the gut in a way he doesn’t understand. They take no hesitance in assuring that him and dna aren’t getting off 100% scott free, but their punishment is so… not grueling? It doesn’t even sound like a punishment when they say that they’ll have to do community service and take mentorship under Benkei, but that’s what they’ve settled on. And when they emphasize that they know that Kira and the others aren’t bad kids, and were just misguided and still deserving of a second chance, Kira doesn’t even realize that he’s crying until he feels the tears drip from his chin or that the stabbing feeling in his gut has intensified until he’s keeling over for a reason he doesn’t understand. He equally doesn’t understand why there’s a warm hand patting him on the shoulder and another two helping him to his feet. It’s a strange kind of feeling that he hasn’t felt before and he’s not quite sure what it means.

[butchniqabi]

you should give your thoughts on machete plant . if you’re thinking them they aren’t silly

okay so: before my appt at 2pm i quickly recorded this rambly video (that is a whopping 11 minutes long lmao) and it was too big to upload to tumblr directly so i had to upload it to my drive.

notes: lots of pauses, the term is "cyborg botany", and any specific information surrounding plant science or robotics should be taken with a grain of salt. i am not a cyborg botanist, roboticist, nor even a normie botanist.

bonus: take a drink every time i say "interesting"

WATCH HERE

[smile-files]

you have your way of looking at it. with the egg. and it's a great analogy!

thanks.

for me, though, i don't see an egg. i see... a chrysalis.

oh?

yeah... y'know, i wonder if caterpillars know how beautiful they'll become. and i wonder if that'd make metamorphosis any less scary.

hm.

well, at least for me, i know how beautiful i'll become. or... at least i'm told. everybody i've met has told me that i'll go on to live an incredibly happy, fulfilling, successful life. a beautiful life.

there's a reason for that, y'know!

well, golly! but that's not important. the point is that i'm a caterpillar on the verge of metamorphosis and everyone around me is telling me how beautiful i'm gonna be.

isn't that a good thing?

yeah, kinda. it's also really scary!

how?

well... i've done well so far in life. i've been relatively happy and fulfilled and successful. my life has been pretty beautiful so far.

mhm.

but y'know... i'm a four-leaf clover. how do i know that wasn't just... a fluke? a big lucky break? how do i know that once i exit that chrysalis i'll actually be as beautiful as everyone thinks i'll be?

hm...

i can't keep banking on that forever. and now, like everyone our age, i have to start making that chrysalis. i guess i'm just worried that my lucky streak will end and my life will go down the drain. no more beautiful butterfly.

...

what makes you think it's all luck?

well, i... well, you know it has some factor in this.

well, sure. but you've had control over your life too. and so have other people. you shouldn't call yourself "lucky" that i decided to be your friend - it was my decision based on my own thoughts and emotions. and the way you are, how nice you are to be around - that's based on your own thoughts and emotions.

i guess...

...

listen. i'm not going to say that every success you've had is one you've built from scratch. everyone starts with something - heck, you started with a lot! but that alone will never get you the whole way there. to like... genuine, meaningful success.

what about all those super rich people who're only rich because of their super rich parents? they started with a lot and they got the whole way there with just that.

yeah, they're successful, but you can't seriously tell me that their success is meaningful.

i suppose not.

you can't make friends with luck. even if literally every other good thing you've done is because of dumb luck... the fact that so many people love you and love to hang out with you is proof that you're a genuinely good person.

...

hey, i never said i wasn't a genuinely good person.

well it comes with the territory. i should know... and y'know, it is really hard to admit to yourself that you are a good person who deserves all of the success they have. but it's important. i think we all should say it more. so it... so it doesn't have to be something to admit. i don't think it should be a secret.

...

so...?

so what?

so spit it out, then, you goofball! say you're a good person.

well, i... well goodness, now i'm just proving my point.

say it!

only if you do!

fine.

...

i'm... i'm a good person.

...

me too.

hey, that doesn't count, you actually have to say the words.

what words?

"i'm a good person".

ha, you said it again!

...clover.

...

...

clover. i'm not going to force you to say that you're a good person. i'm not going to force you to believe in yourself or anything. but i want you to, because i want you to be happy.

...

...

and i want... i want you to want you to be happy. it shouldn't matter whether or not i want that.

...

...

you don't owe it to anyone else to live a good life... you owe it to yourself. and i know you don't believe me. don't tell me i'm lying because i know, trust me, i might as well be.

...

...fan...

and i guess sometimes you just have to tell that lie to yourself over and over and over again. i know it feels wrong to tell the world that you love the person you are because it feels like a lie. but you know everyone else already believes it. you just have to lie to yourself enough that you start to believe it too.

...heh, and just be delusional?

yeah. delusional. but by the time you believe it along with the rest of the world, you'll forget that it was ever a lie to begin with!

i suppose so.

...

...

...

...so, clover, do you think you'll turn into that beautiful butterfly?

no.

no?

i'll be a moth.

[oculusxcaro]

I always look forward to when you write... Well, anything! :) You're always so thoughtful and thorough. I have a lot more to admire about you but very little time to express it, so I'll just say thanks for writing with me and I genuinely enjoy your character. ❤️

Please tell me your favorite things about my portrayal/muse?

Thank you so much, halekulan-i! You might only have had a little time but this meant so much to me, how thoughtful your message was and that you took the time out of your day to send it. Thank you for writing with me and sharing your wonderful Harvey (and Two-Face) with us all; not just that, but also for jumping on the two bagels thing which started off how our two (or three?) started interacting??? I'm so glad you enjoy Khare and I hope she continues to bring you joy!

[tryingtimi]

69/>:3

Hitman's Mistake

Would you look at that, I'm getting a prompt song like All Your Fault by YUGYEOM and I'm re-writing an old piece. It was a short one for a tragic love between a hitman and a woman anyway, so here's a Metalsea AU, my love. Also a reformed aesthetic.

METALSEA AU | HITMAN AU | MODERN AU | BLOOD | DISTURBING THEME | MENTION OF SUGGESTIVE THEME | DEATH | WC: 2,128

It shouldn’t have ended like this.

The black leather’s embrace tightened around Cronyl’s hands as he adjusted his gloves with his teeth. He molded into the shadows of the dimly lit gallery, leaning onto the velvety, red walls.

His fingers carefully held his cigarette, its twirling smoke lost in the darkness. He rose it to his lips again to scratch the itch in his throat, eyes never leaving the elegant pair on the ground floor.

Syonehlia wore the same blood-red dress she had during their first meeting.

A bitter smile crept upon Cronyl’s face, dried blood tightening on his injured upper lip. He soundlessly knocked his head to the wall.

“The deal has been sealed,” she purred on her even tone. He could hear her crystal clear, even from such a distance. “It’s your employer’s signature, is it not?”

Confidence. Delicacy. Fire. She had it all. She always had it. From that first moment which lived inside Cornyl’s mind as a never wearing out filmstrip. That first moment he could recall it anytime.

The job he was entrusted with that night almost felt like an insult. Its easiness stood close to the line where Cronyl could have felt offended. A luxurious event where the high-ranked crowd drowned themselves in gluttonous pleasures, leaving the biggest kingpin of New Eval staying upstairs. Alone. Barely guarded.

Cronyl’s job wasn’t questioning the perfect chance, however. He stayed there nevertheless, boredom accompanying him only as he waited for his turn; so long before Syonehlia approached him. He didn’t notice her right away, but she successfully chained his attention to herself with her platinum locks, her crimson, skin-tight silk dress, and her sharp gaze in the end.

She wore the look of a lady with the eyes of a predator.

Cronyl could still point out all the places her lips traced around his body that night. He gave himself up to her without hesitation, right after he let the kingpin's head hit the table, his throat precisely sliced up in the adjacent room he used as an office. Syonehlia might have treasured resentment towards him for being the one who killed his uncle. Although, if she did, he never saw it on her.

He, the lone exterminator, gained his first, single weakness that night.

Cronyl’s half-smile still tugged the corner of his lips as he squatted down in the darkness. The remnants of his cigarette burned his fingers under the gloves as he inhaled more of the grey stench.

“It is, Mrs. Eval. I must assure you, however, that my employer never has seen these papers. The arrangement does not exist, therefore your demand is not executable.” Eldnar might have worn the same tuxedo as Cronyl, but he couldn’t dress up his manners as finely. He did not try to sound sheepish, even a bit.

And that did its job.

Syonehlia’s curving figure brightened under the chandelier’s prismatic light where her dress showed skin. She didn’t seem pleased with the answer, taking out a cigarette of her own. Her confidence never faltered, however.

It reminded Cronyl of how she was never against his profession. In fact, after every exhausting mission, he stumbled home, bloodied and injured; she gently took his hand and lured him into the bedroom, not taking no for an answer. Only one thing was more heated than their love-makings. Their arguments.

Cronyl absent-mindedly scoffed, grazing over a wound at his eyebrow with the back of his thumb. He got that from the time when she threw a plate at him. A silent breath of giggle bubbled up in his throat as he let his head hang between his shoulders. He pinched the cigarette stub between his fingers, twirled and inspected it, then, eventually stubbed out on the corps’ palm beside him.

He dragged this body upstairs, so he could seat it here. As if it was watching the scene that was happening. As if he was watching it.

The dead man’s long, red hair almost hid half of his ruined face. Cronyl stretched his gloved fingers, feeling the injuries on his knuckles still throbbing with a faint wave of pain. The same blood stained it as the one painting over the man’s face; Cronyl couldn’t tell if it was his or the man’s anymore. He carelessly started fistfights with the guards outside the building as well, but they never stood a chance. It easily could have been a mistake, still.

This physicality wasn’t foreign to Cronyl, in contrast with the situation. He didn’t know where everything went wrong.

Syonehlia knew what being with him meant. To be the lover of a hitman required eternal loyalty and the responsibility of understanding his profession. It meant never-ending danger. She still fought with him over it, not less fierce than a lion with its mate. Not once. Cronyl have sworn her he can protect her and that any of his workmates would do it for him too, but they both knew it was a half-truth. A lover was their own responsibility, and theirs only.

Cronyl would have risked it anytime, nonetheless.

Tension tightened his muscles as he clenched one of his fists and forcefully stretched his neck down. Then, he run his fingers through his long, black hair, not paying close attention to the discourse down there. Instead, he fixated on the redhead’s body, its peaceful face that carried no more satisfied, smug-looking expressions. His ice-cold skin burnt with a nauseating stench where he stubbed his cigarette. On that palm that Cronyl would have skinned it, preferably.

He wasn’t a butcher, however.

“You're the representative of your employer, Mr. Rowan. You must have the liberty to make the right decision on your own. I’m sure we can come to an agreement when my husband arrives back.” Syonehlia gracefully brought the cigarette between her lips, her eyes sparkling with authority and a glimpse of voluptuous might.

Cronyl set his jaw, his bone barely bearing the force without cracking. He stepped and turned on the dead Urien’s lifeless hand as he adjusted himself to reach into his hidden pocket on his jacket; the crunching sound of the movement getting lost in the vast space. Fine silk grazed his gloved fingers as he pulled out a golden bullet with two letters carved into it.

He was sitting in his armchair, wobbling on the edge of insobriety when he received this bullet. It was the night of their most ferocious quarrel. They went too far too quickly, the things they threw at each other heads were beyond painful. And they were well aware of it. She stormed out of the apartment the moment Cronyl uttered the words: “Go then, no one forced you to stay. It was your own choice.” The words echoed in Cronyl’s mind as a neverending record. Syonehlia made him weak, which his lack of self-control displayed perfectly. He never burst out like that. He never became such a twisted version of himself. He was raised as a hitman, he could never have afforded emotions like that. He was warned to be careful.

He did refuse their teachings, still.

He made a lethal mistake; let Syonehlia give him a soul. In that very moment, where she showed up hours later their argument, curled into his lap despite his impossibly tensed state, and pulled out the golden bullet with the letters of her name on it.

This is the pledge of my loyalty, she said. Keep it over your heart, but use it only one time, she said. And she vowed to him that time never comes.

Cronyl took out his revolver along with his silencer. He proficiently fitted at the weapon, not paying real attention. His focus was drawn back to Urien’s body, instead. At that hand, he saw him caress her thigh as she sat beside him at the meeting. At that red hair that was tugged back, when she laced her fingers into it.

Cronyl bit back an awful curse as his fingers slipped off of the revolver when the silencer clicked in place. He run his hand over his face, while he stood up, looking over Eldnar.

The man was staring right at him.

And so Cronyl grabbed the edge of the handrail, climbed out, then down on it with ease so he could hang by his free arm only. He lingered in place for a moment to stabilize his body before he let go of the stone and landed softly on his toes.

The thud he landed with sounded muffled enough to not gain Syonehlia’s attention. He lifted his revolver, his aim precise. Right in the middle of her pretty head.

Cronyl was ready and yet, he did the only thing he never should have done in his entire life.

Hesitated.

“Why?” he uttered, his voice raw and raspy. “Why, why, why?”

He could have repeated it a hundred times. He wanted to. Still, this was enough to make Syonehlia’s poised shoulders tense immediately.

She slowly turned to him, while Eldnar beside her calmly took a drag of his cigarette and quietly walked towards the window. Leaving the two of them by themselves.

Cronyl’s throat tightened, his eyes burning as wildfire when she finally faced him again. He couldn’t see shock or surprise in her gaze, really. Instead, he saw something else entirely.

She took a small breath.

“You’ve caged me.” She knew it. She needed to know.

“Bullshit.”

“You’ve made me paranoid,” she continued. She needed to know he killed Urien. Her husband.

“Lie.”

“I’ve become this, because of you!”

“Enough!” he screamed.

He screamed at her; he never has done that once and yet now, he screamed at her.

He wanted to yell why, again and again, and again. He heard these excuses thousands of times now, but none of it was good enough. He needed something else. She should have answered him properly. At last.

Yet, when he looked at her, Syonehlia was not about to say anything. She just stood there motionless, delicate dress hugging the body he knew better than his own, pale fingers that made his knees weak with a touch laced together and the gaze that bewitched him from the first moment sparkling with anything but resignation.

The trigger burnt under his finger, his tears soaking his face feeling unreal, and the woman he was facing foreign.

Cronyl almost flinched from the muffled sound of gunshot.

Syonehlia fell to the ground with a thud, no grace hidden in the motion. A whimper scratched the pit of his throat as he walked over her steadily. He pushed it back into his gut, however.

When he reached her, he squatted down and gently brushed her platinum hair out of her face. Blood as a tiny river began to stream out from the bullethole. The wedged-in gold ruined her skin, and the blood slowly painted her face from pale pearl to mellow pink.

Yet, she seemed so peaceful finally.

Cronyl caressed her cheek the same way he did the first night they spent together. Then, he stroked her hair and ultimately led his hand to the bullet. He didn’t close his eyes, nor turned his head towards the chandelier as he yanked the bullet out of her skin with one swift pull.

“My condolences,” Eldnar started, his voice flat, but honest. He walked into Cronyl’s peripheral vision, stopping far enough from the pooling blood on the carpet. “What’s next, boss?”

Cronyl brushed the blood off of the deformed bullet to reveal the letters. They remained readable.

He sighed, thinking, then pulled out the empty chain he wore around his neck. With adept movements, he attached the bullet to his necklace, strong enough to never lose it. He pulled on it to test its strength; it was solid and it fit perfectly.

Cronyl stood up, touching the bullet as it fell upon his chest.

He kept it as a reminder. A reminder of the time he had a soul. Of that, he gained it only so she could rip it out with excruciating pain. Of that, to love is a weakness. Of that, he was weak once.

Of that, a hitman couldn’t afford such mistakes.

Cronyl adjusted his jacket, his face itching from the long-dried blood. His chest hollowed, emptiness echoing inside. As it should have been.

He shot a stone-cold glance at Eldnar.

“The rest of them,” he stated, while his mind still wandered back into that moment for a grave second; the moment his eyes caught that blood-red dress.

It shouldn’t have ended like this.