#more out of the principle of them fucking with his dna in a way that breaks their contract

[gh0st-c0mpany]

The Kaminoans 100% went behind Jango's back to make Omega. If Jango found out they made another "unaltered" clone that ages regularly and isn't intended to be canon fodder for the Republic, He'd be pissed! He'd go marching straight to the Kaminoan scientists and start causing a fit. He'd snatch her from their arms and pull a gun on them.

Next you'll see him sitting on his Kaminoan Lazy Boy, two babies in his arms with a big ass scowl on his face thinking, "I guess this is my life now >:( "

[jennawynn]

Chronotrek SNW to season 2 finale

Wow, I thought I had written at least one other post here. Turns out the show, like Discovery, is interesting enough that I couldn't watch it while working, which meant it was competing with all my other free time goals. Took me a while to get through them all! But I'll be headed to TOS next, which means I'll be able to watch while working again.

2x3 Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow

They really like to use timeline fuckery in Trek, don't they?

I had a realization- this Jim Kirk actor was in Army Wives (he was a soldier who tried to marry the general's 17 year old daughter) and one of the brothers in Vampire Diaries and even though I didn't _consciously_ remember either of those parts, that might have had something to do with why I was not a fan initially.

La'an has to shoulder so much. Survivor of gorn, bearer of her name, temporal agent to protect a genocidal murderer... and she can't talk about a lot of it and has nobody to share the burden with.

2x4

Why does the computer specify "officer's quarters" if everyone is officers? I don't know if you can tell, but this still really bothers me. Like... someone mentioned it's because they all have college degrees and are astronauts, etc., but... lots of enlisted have college degrees. That's not what makes you an officer. And AS a former enlisted, to me, it's 'if you work with your hands, you're enlisted'. If you're an officer, your job is more about either managing people or being the mouthpiece. When I see lieutenants and commanders holding tools it bothers me.

"I'm Erica Ortegas and I fly the ship"

2x5 Charades

It's going to bother me if Spock's mannerisms are treated like they're genetic and not cultural. He's not stilted and his language choices aren't because he has Vulcan blood, but because he has grown up on Vulcan around other Vulcans. Changing his DNA to human wouldnn't change how he acts. /sigh I'm trying to be better about recognizing the difference between storytelling device and realism and when one can be sacrificed for the other.

Amanda looked so different here, I needed to look it up to see if it was the same actress.

Charades? Really?

So by the end of the episode, I decided that they handled the mannerisms better than I had expected.

Demiromantic Nurse Chapel?

2x6

Zombie!Hemmer is fucking terrifying.

2x7? Crossover

The crossover was funny, which bodes well for me enjoying Lower Decks when I get to it in about 17 years. It's _AFTER VOYAGER_.

2x8

Digging M'Benga. He reminds me of a character I built once- a war vet who wanted to help instead of hurt. Except where my character was a True Believer on the Enemy Side who sought his own redemption, M'Benga was corrupted by the violence surrounding him and struggles with the consequences of sticking to your principles. It's very compelling.

The scene with the injured boy really spoke to it- you may have the luxury to sit out the fight and be pacifist, but that only means that someone else will be taking up arms in your absence. If you're a better warrior than most, is it ethical for you to put your weapons down when others will die because you weren't there? People who might not have died had you used your talents?

2x9 Subspace Rhapsody

Musical episode. Just when I was thinking that I was surprised Pike didn't sing his intro, the music was acapella.

Were all the bunny lines references to Buffy?

I like the relationship between Una and La'an.

Why exactly was it a two-person job if they're at the same console? I would have expected 'cross-targeting' to be like triangulating, needing to target from two different locations to better identify the target. Preferably from two SHIPS but at least two locations on the same ship.

I don't really like the way the singing was implemented. It feels like over-studio polished lip sync instead of being organic.

Why would they skew the frequencies like that on the UI panel?? future.

2x10 Hegemony

This one snuck up on me. I didn't realize the season was so short OR that it was over after this.

There was another "My God" that confuses me because I thought ST was post-religion.

Pike was willing to risk everything for Wynnona Earp Batel, but is he willing to do the same for his crew?

Does he feel a little invincible because he 'knows' his future? Is he aware of his Plot Armor? If he tried to kill himself prematurely, would it work? Confusing time stuff.

Anyway, I'm off to TOS. I'm not sure yet how I'll handle when SNW comes back.

[onwhatcaptain]

Predictions for Star Trek Strange New Worlds S2 E5 "Charades"

Ahead are my predictions for the upcoming Star Trek SNW episode "Charades." Possible spoilers below the line since I am making specific guesses.

We've been told that the episode is a comedy, so I worry a bit. Mainly because when the SNW writers get their hands on a comedy concept, character integrity can go out the window. This is just my current take on SNW, it may change. But the showrunners have said that they want to see more comedy and that the story takes precedence over what's been written before them. When it comes to how they write for Spock, it can be hit or miss. In my opinion, it's usually a miss, because they prefer to focus on Spock's comedic angles and this relegates his actual characterization and identity struggles to an afterthought. And it's not that playing it safe is the answer, either. Last week's E4 played it safe, which I'll get to in another review, and found itself weaker for it for a few reasons, even though I liked it in general.

What makes me have low hopes is that the Star Trek writers implied that a bowl cut is a genetic trait in the trailers so far. I think that saying removing Spock's Vulcan DNA makes him change his hair, or be prone to eating bacon and forgetting how to be a Vulcan is a bit stupid. Yeah, maybe his digestive system normally can't eat bacon so he could now, but his Vulcan behaviors and beliefs are not biological. Vulcans are the way they are because of a set of philosophical choices and cultural norms. The only thing missing should be his telepathy and ability to control emotions/shielding. That's kind of the point of Spock's struggle with his identity. A fanfiction writer would absolutely recognize that, which makes me wonder if the writers don't, or are willing to disrespect the character integrity for comedy, and in my personal opinion, both are bad choices.

Vulcans are vegetarian on principle (they even used to eat meat) and may have consequently evolved to have a digestive system that rejects meat. Many humans are like this, too. My younger sibling is a vegetarian. If they woke up tomorrow as a carnivorous alien, they would still not want to eat bacon, unless their identity was changed too. And then they wouldn't be my younger sibling, they'd simply be a carnivorous alien that looks like my sibling. It stands to reason, therefore, that having your DNA changed wouldn't make you a meat eater.

That's sort of WHY Spock has a dual identity and rejects one constantly—because it's not genetic, there's norms that pressure him. It's what makes scenes like TOS' "The Naked Time" so valuable ("When I feel friendship for you, I'm ashamed.") That's cultural conditioning. It's not genetic. It's so central to Spock as a character that when he dies, he reaffirms he feels friendship, because it's been hard for him to get to that point. To say this is genetic is cheapening it. So I hope they'll address this adequately and not just chalk everything about his identity to his biology, because that's weak character concept. So if you're going to do this, I ask that you give us an actual reason for Spock to eat bacon and say "fuck." Just don't tell us he's like this because they removed his "DNA." Michael Burnham had a whole thing about how she was raised Vulcan as a human, and was alienated by her peers. And Sybok is an emotional Vulcan.

Anyways, what is charades? It's a game where you act out a phrase without speaking. I assume there will be a sort of tongue in cheek attempt at trying to fix Spock (superficially) and make him seem more Vulcan in time, along with them actually putting fake ears on the man. Actually, they'll probably have Chapel give him the temporary genetic change like they did in the very first ever episode of SNW (the one that made him scream in pain- is this why he's screaming in the trailer or is my boy just having a bad time?)

Anyways, if it were like a bit of My Fair Lady (or Pygmalion) that would be kind of fun. Or perhaps a Comedy of Errors type beat. What I hope they do not mean is for Charades to be a meta reference to Star Trek mimicking its own tropes. Eventually it becomes self referential and that can be tired.

We know he's relatively recently engaged to T'Pring, so maybe this is his engagement party or the Vulcan equivalent. Vulcans have a lot of traditions rooted in their past. I expect we'll see a bit of push and pull between Spock's feelings towards T'Pring and Chapel. I expect T'Pring will demonstrate she cares for him and this may somehow draw him away from Chapel, since we know that doesn't last. Amok Time doesn't tell us much about their history, so it would make sense if T'Pring's family is exerting intense Vulcan norms on him, and she defends Spock for who he is. I think we deserve to see that from T'Pring and we deserve that kind of demonstration of Spock's identity struggle.

I kind of get the sense Captain Pike is mostly going to stand around being in hot Captain dad mode because he's wearing the green shirt. Calling it. He seems more like he's actually playing host to the Vulcan get together, even though he's ship Captain. Maybe Pike'll cover for Spock while he is eating bacon and saying fuck.

Spock's mom is going to be hot. This is not a prediction. It's a fact.

I think by the end Spock is going to be comprehending his feelings a bit more and getting clarity because he lacks the ability to simply bury them as a human. And maybe this somehow sets the stage for his emotional maturity and the person he'll become by the time Kirk is Captain.

I really think the Chapel tension resolves here. After all, there are no real stakes. We know the ending. We know there's nothing in the way to threaten that. Star Trek's storytelling is constrained by itself. So the stakes are going to be just the "will they won't they" between Spock and Chapel, which I personally don't like anyway. I would think a reasonable resolution is for Spock to realize that all the deep emotions he's feeling are those of platonic love. It would make sense to say that he didn't really understand the difference between romantic and platonic love because Chapel has very strong feelings and he's never had close friends or romantic love before. His engagement to T'Pring is not born of love. I could see Spock outright saying to Chapel something like "I now know that I care deeply for you. And know I know that I do have a lot of feelings for you: as a friend." It would do them both justice and give Chapel the ability to grow as a character outside of the romance tension.

Ultimately I think Chapel might get sidelined for Spock to get development time with Jim Kirk and Uhura. Ten episodes gives them so little time to show us relationships. And that's not the fault of Chapel's character. I believe she needs more substance still. She's a vast improvement from her 60's counterpart but I think she's still not particularly well written. I assume she pursues her two month archaeological project on Vulcan and gets with her canon partner, Roger Korby. I think she'll take that up by the end of the season and we'll hear more about it by the end of episode 8.

Strange New Worlds often spends more time telling us it is Star Trek than being Star Trek and I think ultimately this episode will be like that. The show falls victim to itself on occasion. I do like SNW and I love Star Trek, but I suppose I'm a bit of a cynic. If they were a bit more brave and a little less reliant on pandering to the mainstream and the endless belief that the modern audience needs love life drama in the form of people who behave just like 21st century people, they'd be better for it.

It would also be quite meaningful if the crew were to decide that they prefer Spock how he really is as a person. Let's see.

As for the literal plot resolution, I'm curious about how this'll happen. The plot concept is kind of weird to begin with. Aliens removed his DNA? Maybe they send Chapel and Ortegas (an experienced pilot and has some tension with her also) to go again and try replicating the conditions under which the change to Spock happened or try to contact the aliens. After all, why did they remove the DNA in the first place? Maybe they just talk to the aliens and they're like, "Oh, my bad, we thought he was upset by being Vulcan. It was causing him pain. We'll put it back." And then they restore him, shields and all, and he's the most Vulcan he's ever been. Maybe they just find a contrived cure. It really could go any way.

Okay, that's all for this week.

[yoghurtsgirl]

Obviously no disrespect to OP and prev, but I wouldn’t even say it was a retread, as they’re doing two different things with the same core concept of “space alien who happens to be a penis and will eat you”. Romulus is far more a haunted house runaround than Alien, while serving as a continuation of plot threads left hanging from the Prometheus films. It stars a cast of young adults in over their heads, looking for an out from the capitalist hellscape they live in

Prometheus made such a big point to draw from the myths of Prometheus, how he took fire from the Gods and was punished for it. Drawing a parallel between that and man’s hubris and transgression for touching the stars, for infecting the universe with our sins and wants and desires. Our evils, our innate cruelty, even if it’s cruelty we’ve learnt from our Gods. And here we see a group of kids, desperate to survive, looking for any way out. They’ve been beaten down by their Gods their whole lives, forced to do their bidding so they can turn a profit. So they plan to steal technology that contains a hidden truth of man, something beyond our understanding. Something with no rational. A lit flame sent by the Gods. The punishment for that transgression has become so much more personal and relatable, and it really makes you hope the characters can make it out alive. Where they can beat God at his own game. It’s so fucking cool and such good theming while expanding on everything that’s come before??

Something that I really really admire about Alien is that while it essentially acts as a slasher film but in space, the principle cast are a good bit older than what you'd see in those kinds of films. It's not a bunch of teens and young adults fucking about and getting into trouble, they're professionals who should know what they're doing but are so out of their depth. Here, these are teens and young adults, and the reason why that works so well is because we've had six other Alien films where we see an older cast become less and less interesting. Returning to the slasher routes and showcasing the fucked up capitalist hellscape through the eyes of these young adults, allowing us to see what state the universe is in from a completely new perspective, is genuinely genius. We grow to love these meddling kids, and love to hate the ones we're certainly meant to

Romulus acts as a sandbox exploration of all things Alien. It cherry-picks the best bits and pieces to play with, all neatly tying the lore up in a lil bow and allowing this to be its perfect own lil thing. Even down to the Offspring being reminiscent of the Newborn hybrid creature from Alien 4, but being its own spin on it with it having the DNA from the Engineers in the mix too. The found family teen nature of it; the haunted house in space vibes; the allegories of Romulus and Remus and how their disagreements about the lives of others under their protection needed to be solved by the Gods and how one would die for his belief - and how Rain refuses to kill Andy even after his AI becomes corrupted and allows for the harm of their friends

It’s kinda the same deal as when people say The Force Awakens is the same movie as A New Hope when thematically, character wise, and purpose behind it are so different and it’s important to acknowledge the differences when discussing them through an analytical lens. I definitely see why people may call it a retread in parts and I do prefer Alien, but Romulus is so 100% my cup of tea and I so so so wish future Alien properties are this well thought out and crafted, because when we’ve seen the dregs of this franchise (Alien 3, 4, and AVP Requiem) and squandered of great ideas (AVP, Prometheus, and Covenant), we badly needed this third good Alien movie <3

was alien romulus a retread of the first movie except with more explicit pregnancy/body horror yes. did it absolutely rip grossnasty style. yes

[mslevkindle]

Tammie Jean Colfax and John Ulbrecht were hostage by a mysterious man on a ski mask. The following day, Amelia Sachs went patrol on a possible homicide case where she saw a protruding tree on the ground until she realized it was not, but a hand sticking out of the ground.

Sachs caught herself in a predicament when she met Lincoln Rhyme, a C4 quad but brilliant Criminologist, together they unravel complex clues leading to the victims.

Review (May contain spoilers)

STORY: 3.8/5

GOOD

The forensic science, I absolutely love the technicalities of this book, I relate to it. The novel shows that the success of homicide investigation lies on the procedure and proper collection of evidences. One of the strengths of this book is the immense attention of details particularly places like the old New York, Rhyme's condition, and the crime scene procedure.

I also like how the forensic experts work together to establish the identity of the perpetrator, investigators cannot solely rely on evidences alone, through FS the evidences can tell you a story on what has happened. The book includes psychology, anthropology, pathology and DNA fingerprinting, which I really liked.

BAD (not really)

This book is considered to be my longest read, it took me 1 month to finish it, damn I almost DNF’ed. The book is divided into 5 parts with lengthy ass chapters, for a 599 page book it is quite a slow pace.

I did say I like the book right? But it turned out to be a textbook rather than a novel. Sure I understand the basic principles of criminal investigation and forensic science, but it is too analytical and scientific I almost lost my interest. It didn't bore but it exhaust me because of too much information.

Moreover, the terminologies used by the police in the US and my country is far different, I had difficulties understanding some of it, UNSUB for instance, while the book explained the acronyms and terminologies, I forgot about them and can't even remember some of them, lol.

WRITING STYLE: 3.7/5

As mentioned, I almost dnf the book because the chapters were too lengthy and kinda slow for my taste, nonetheless Deaver is a good writer, his writing style is very much descriptive, very sensory-rich at the same time very expository because he used a lot of information and facts.

CHARACTERS: 4.5/5

Lincoln Rhyme is a genius like I'm in awe, aside from being handsome, he is detail-oriented, analytical, truly a detective and favours trace evidence over other types of evidences, I mean obviously, he is an Edmond Locard zealot lol! I would definitely listen to his banters and spend time with him because FUCK YEAH, I like Locard too!

Rhyme however, lacks empathy and a snob, this man's priority is the evidences alone, I understand him though, you only get one shot at the homicide crime scene. What's also very interesting is the fact that he wanted to end himself but was horrified when he almost got killed, he even had the adrenaline to save himself.

Frankly, I was actually perplexed about his ability, he is a genius without a doubt but I could hardly believe that he was able to decipher every evidences the perpetrator has left in the crime scene, I was thinking it doesn't really make any sense especially he was not physically present in every grid, yes, trace evidences can definitely identify a certain perpetrator but there's no way they can do that in a span of 48 hours especially with class C evidences.

Eventually, my skepticism was addressed on the final part of the novel, the perpetrator used Rhyme's book and learn CS to his advantage, that also explains why he (Rhyme) was able to decode every single piece of evidences, it's not that I don't trust his wits but with the quality of evidences it is somehow questionable.

Amelia Sachs on the other hand is your typical beautiful girl, but more than meets the eye. I almost hate her though, she is quite a pushover and find physical evidences as a boring subject during her time is academy, (girl c'mon you gotta be kidding me), but as the story progresses, her character develops significantly, she became the eyes, ears, hands and legs of Rhyme. Sachs is definitely one of the reason why he choose to stay alive (despite saying she is the reason why he doesn't want to live anymore).

Thom is worth mentioning as well, I like him so much, I think that he and Rhyme compliments very well, and oh Sellitto and Banks too!

OVERALL THOUGHTS

My overall rating for this book is 4/5

If you want a graphic/morbid but technical book I highly recommend The Bone Collector, this book can teach you a lot in terms of police investigation and forensic science, some of the parts were quite silly but that's what fiction is all about.

[nexusnox]

HOW IT WORKS;

Now, it's important to note that Assassin's Creed is where Alex began and it's where he'll return to in the end.

Less dramatically, this is less a multiverse blog and more of an Assassin's Creed blog disguised as a multiverse blog.

What that means is that Alex being an Assassin is always a constant; this sometimes manifests in different ways, but usually it means that he's lived out his AC story before something happens that results in a crossover. Usually, I use the Eye as the catalyst for this, as that's where Alex's story ends in the AC verse.

Regardless, I've chosen four 'main' verses to put here, the ones that I write Alex in most often. These are only a baseline, however; I can work Alex into just about anything I'm familiar with, and sometimes even things I'm not!

Please note that these aren't for explaining the game/show/etc itself, this is just explaining how Alex fits into them.

That said, the verses themselves are below the cut.

-

verse : the promise is in the point of the blade | Assassin's Creed

I won't go into detail about his story here, that belongs in his bio, but the long and short of it is that Alex has an unusually high percentage of Isu DNA, which, when activated by someone using a Piece of Eden on him, has some unusual effects.

One of these is immortality, after a fashion. He doesn't age, and won't die naturally, though he can still be killed- even if it won't stick.

Due to this immortality, and the now-endless time on his hands, Alex travels around the world and ends up in the background/sidelines of most of the events of the games.

I've played at least partway through most of them, so I can run pretty well with just about anything.

[BIO]

-

verse : nothing has ever lived that will not die | Destiny 2

This one meshes nicely with AC because of the way Alex dies his first final death in that storyline.

Alex doesn't remember everything, but he remembers most of it. Definitely enough to be pissed at being alive again.

This one's pretty flexible, because Alex could be the Young Wolf but generally I prefer him as a former Warlord. Either way, just let me know what works best for you!

[BIO]

-

verse : the flightless blind venturing out into the dark | Star Trek Online

I've toyed with several different ideas for this one, from a Romulan to one of Khan's Augments, but in the end I settled on a Joined Trill. This makes it somewhat difficult to mesh his AC lore in, but in the end I decided he's still an Assassin, just not an immortal one. He still has the training, instincts, and reflexes.

Theoretically I could cast Alex in just about any role, but I went for a Starfleet Captain; he's in command of the U.S.S. Alsafar.

I'm fairly familiar with most of the shows, but I chose Star Trek Online as the 'base verse', so to speak, because it's timeline is easier to fuck around with. Also, most of my notes on Alex in this verse are through the lens of Star Trek Online.

Still, I could probably shuffle things up fairly easily, especially because time travel is a thing, so I could work with most anything!

[BIO]

-

verse : names mean nothing to the dead | Apocalypse Media

Another that meshes well with Assassin's Creed, in that Alex waking up to a very different Earth after using the Eye is such a fun thing to write and something I contemplate often.

This one is more of a generic apocalypse verse than something for a specific media, but it should be easily enough adjusted to anything needed, such as Walking Dead, Fallout 4, or Horizon Zero Dawn- all of which are very different kinds of apocalyptic but still all equally easily compatible.

Disclaimer; of those, I'm only familiar with Fallout 4 and HZD, though I'm currently reading the Walking Dead comic. Honestly, I don't have much experience with zombie media because I find it more enjoyable to write than read, but I know the general principles.

[BIO]

verse : there must be blood and this I knew (I believe there must be wonders too) | Other

This is for any other verses that may end up being written in! They'll be added here as they come up. They may or may not get their own tags if they're written in often, too.

[mutable-manifestation]

#principal doesn't call CPS but only because this is a public school in Gotham#the student body just assumes whoever Danny's bio mom is out of the bunch really gets around#dp x dc#accidental child acquisition

"Polycule got pregnant and didn't dna test that's all their baby ig" - the principle, probably

tbh it wouldn't be too surprising that it works out.

Like.

It's Gotham, like you said.

And it's a small army of parental figures that clearly care about him at least enough to care a lot about his education.

So they call CPS and he, what, gets tossed into the system probably with a foster that cares way less unless he somehow gets lucky? As much as they joke, Gotham is a big city and Bruce Wayne can't adopt every kid even if he does narrow the criteria via eye and hair colors.

Then Dani shows up. Just barely old enough looking to reasonably be put in high school and she has the knowledge (ala Danny memories + self-study, not that the school people know that).

And, okay, sure. A second kid out of nowhere.

But she looks just like Danny. Two kids for the polycule? They can accept that.

(Dani was the easiest to adjust the summoning circle for. She's startled when she first arrives, but when she gets the story from Danny? She can stick around for a little while.

Except the cult is...great. They aren't fruitloopy. They don't do evil stuff. They just... act kinda like the Far Frozen. Except human. And with more merch.

And Dani...kinda likes it. Slumming it in a warehouse is familiar - she couldn't always find an empty hotel room to crash in while traveling, after all. And while they care, they aren't suffocating about it. They don't demand she be present at certain hours or nag about where she's been. They just. Ask if she had fun, offer her leftovers if she didn't make the usual mealtime, lend a listening ear... They're just. Kind.

Dani still intends to explore, but.... She's a fast flier. She have both. She decides to live with them.)

Then, months later, the polycule rocks up to enroll a senior.

A redhead named Jazz.

While she shares similar facial features to the Danni (latin plural pronunciation), she looks different enough that...while she could take after a different parent...it's just... none of the polycule are redheads.

The school doesn't call CPS.

But.

Some of them are concerned about the possible kidnapping situation.

As it happens, the secretary ends up running into (getting rescued by) a bat not long after.

She decides, fuck it, and lets them know that, hey, possible kidnapping group, possibly just a polycule with a weird thing about having legal ID's. Maybe check it out, but she's done her civic duty and now it's time to go get a bucket of ice cream to help repress the memory of almost getting mugged.

Again, thank you so much Gotham you shining beacon of all things peace and safety

She moves on with her life.

Ofc the bats check into it.

And. That is. Definitely the cult that got therapized by their summonee.

Now, did they all start behaving better and improving all of their lives after that? Yeah absolutely. It was great and the batfam was happy for them.

But do people sometimes relapse? Also yes.

Now there could be totally innocent, benevolent reasons the cult (kind of? Is it just a support group with a theme at this point???) has these kids.

But it could also be kidnapping. They gotta check.

How protective of their Reasonable, Attentive, and Caring adults are the Danni and Jazz? And precisely how hard do they troll the bats once they realize what's going on?

You know the drill.

Cultists want to summon the Ghost King, the League pull up to stop them, failed summoning successfully and got Ghost Prince Danny.

With a twist.

The head cultist tells Danny what they want, but it's so pitiful that Danny just sits them down, each and every one of the cultists and explains that maybe it isn't the best idea to give your soul to an otherworldly entity just for that.

Then it somehow turns into therapy because Jesus Christ these people have been living some pretty shit lives, then Danny decides to pull some favors with Frostbite and the Yetis to get some of the cultists family members medical treatment for their Mother/Father/Siblings that they're too poor to pay for.

Other times he just kinda tries to get a few others to get more confidence after being drawn in by a few bad people against their will and try and give them ways to get out of said situation.

The entire time the Justice League was just, there, watching all of this go down and questioning a lot of things. Simultaneously Batman is thinking of starting up a program to not make this a repeat, wherein people think they have no other options than to give up their literal soul to an otherworldly entity in hopes to turn their life around.

[pyode-luar-ke]

carnation | part i | poly!yautja x reader

A/N: this is sooooo self-indulgent, i almost didn’t post lol. but it turned out really good, and i’m proud of it so fuck it, y’know? also, i take sooooo many creative liberties with yautja lore and canon, so if anything like... doesn’t make sense, lmk and i’ll try to clarify LOL 💀

i have part 2 outlined, and it’s probs not gonna be as long as this one, so it should be out soonish. 💕

summary: you have a baby with your mates.

word count: 7,005

content: 18+, smut, fem!afab!reader, polyamorous relationship (F/M/M/M/M/M) (good lord lmao), reverse harem, pregnancy, mention of abortion, lactation, pregnancy kink, breeding kink, lactation kink, body image issues, a whole lotta love, public sex, voyeurism

part ii → (out now!!)

—

No one really anticipated you getting pregnant. Not really.

Sure, it was a possibility, but an incredibly improbable one. Human and Yautja DNA held some fundamental differences, in spite of being surprisingly similar in some regards. Thus, if the laws of biology and physiology were to be true, it dictated that procreation was exceedingly rare, if not entirely impossible to achieve.

Yet, here you were, against the odds, a testament to the universe’s principle of: If there is a will, there is a way.

—

Bhu’kei goes completely silent, not even a stray whicker or growl escapes him. He’s deathly still too, his only movement coming from his clawed fingertips as he taps at his gauntlet, again. This is enough to notify you without words that he’s rerunning the pregnancy test, confirmed when a green light scans over your midsection.

A part of you wants to stop him, to sit up and place a palm on his black-scaled arm, to say “It’s true, Bhu’kei, and it’s okay!”— but you don’t. There’s a small part of you that still reels from disbelief, that wants to recoil in shock and gasp, “It’s not possible!”

A small beep echoes in the dead quiet yurt, and Bhu’kei is still silent. And then he meets your gaze, the expression in his eyes paradoxically unreadable and completely decipherable. He looks apologetic, almost— like he’s waiting for the gravity of the situation to dawn on you, for you to realize just how rare and dangerous and life-threatening this is for you.

Yautja females are larger than their male counterparts; taller, more muscled, and sometimes even stronger. They are built to withstand the 12-month gestation of a Yautja pup, and the entirety of labor and delivery, with ease— an evolutionary gift bestowed upon them due to the fact that most approach childbirth completely alone.

Your disbelief morphs into raw terror— How the Hell do you expect your body to survive this?— and as quickly as that occurs, the raw terror morphs into absolute elation— Well, damn it, you’ll sure try. A smile so big and bright— one you didn’t even know you were capable of doing— splits across your face before you can stop it.

“I’m pregnant!”

—

Announcing your pregnancy to the rest of the camp was initially met with some pushback. Ap-tui, for one, argued that an oomani-di carrying a Yautja pup would be detrimental at best and fatal at worst. True to his blunt nature, he encouraged you to terminate the pregnancy, which probably should have upset you more than it did, but you saw his point.

You had considered abortion, but the thought was fleeting. Despite the potential (and possibly fatal) consequences of carrying a Yautja pup, you rationalized that due to the little to no information on interspecies breeding between humans and Yautja, that your pregnancy was somewhat of a miracle of nature.

Yautja document their history, they transcribe what they learn and all their knowledge about other planets and species and races into databases accessible to all. They have been hunting humans (a morbid thought to you, but one you’ve learned to reconcile with) for hundreds of years, ever since Earth made a blip on their radars.

There is nothing on interspecies breeding. It simply hasn’t happened yet.

That thought partly fueled your decision to keep the baby. More so, however, you wanted the pup— Children were always a desire of yours, and with the development of gaining a handful of Yautja males as your significant others, you had thought the dream had turned to complete fantasy.

Not anymore, you finally got your wish, and you wanted to see it play out, to be the first. Not so much in a selfish, glorifying way— But to stick the finger to the universe and say “Look what love can do.”

Your decision may have also been influenced by your very human strain of curiosity— Something that Van’chaa once told you Yautja lacked in spades.

So, with your mind dead-set on growing that fetus inside you, you shook your head and said, “No, I’m keeping it. It’s my pup.”

Ap-tui was not pleased with your response. Nor was Van’chaa and Th’chi. However, they did not try to press you further. Bhu’kei had already told them that while yes, it was dangerous; It was clearly a risk you were willing to take. And it was not a decision any of them could make for you.

Ultimately, their begrudging support was because you were still female. The Yautja males could do nothing but yield to your wishes. You may be of a different and much less capable species, but honorable and respected Yautja males obeyed their females. So, they would pay that same regard to you.

Thankfully, Ta’kaa’s propensity to celebrate the good in situations garnered a positive reaction that distracted you from the overall dour moods of his hunting brothers.

—

You break your glare with Ap-tui when you hear Ta’kaa whicker in excitement. He meets your gaze, molten eyes cheery and bright, and all the negative emotions leak out of you in an instant. The moss green Yautja scoops you up in his arms, all the while clicking happy noises from his mandibles. You can’t understand a word Ta’kaa says, so far gone in his elation the full Yautja tongue took hold.

Your arms wrapped loose around his neck, tears prick hot at your eyeballs as you watch Ta’kaa growl and clack and nuzzle his mandibles against the soft of your cheek. His body is like fire, and his touch is so tender, so you lean into his affections, smiling.

If there was one Yautja you could rely on for some positivity, it was Ta’kaa.

He is the youngest of the hunting party, and it shows. Ta’kaa acts far more on emotional impulse than the rest, but sometimes it makes him feel a little more human, so you don’t complain. Sometimes though, you have to remind yourself that Ta’kaa passed his Chiva and was Blooded decades before you were born. That often makes you remember that he is a Yautja, born and raised to be a hunter.

But you take his enthusiastic clicking and nuzzling with open arms, offering him kisses to his fluttering mandibles in return.

His elder brothers and cousins click and grumble amongst themselves, allowing their frustrations to air before they silence their grievances for good. Yautja are blunt and direct, so they know to speak out once and then never again. Issues of a more diplomatic blend tend to resolve quickly in Yautja circles.

Off on the sidelines, Ap-tui smothers his concerns deep inside his chest. He opts for watching you joyfully play with his younger brother, absorbing the way your strange, beautiful ooman face contorts with emotion. It took him a while to recognize that when you bare your teeth it means that you are happy, not attempting to threaten.

You are happy now, happy because you carry a pup in your womb, happy because Ap-tui remembers nights when he’s mated you, after which you’ve shed wetness from your eyes because all you’ve ever wanted was children. Another strange ability that oomans have: Crying.

He sees you’re crying now, but he knows it’s not from sadness.

A fairly important question arises in Ap-tui’s mind.

“Who is the sire?” He asks Bhu’kei, who pulls one of his daggers from its hilt at his shin. Bhu’kei doesn’t regard the hunt leader for a moment, instead opting to flip the blade in his hand, looking for impurities. When he finishes, the ink black Yautja glances out the corner of his eye at his cousin.

“You are.” Bhu’kei replies simply.

Ap-tui freezes.

—

“Bhu’kei told me that you’re the sire.” You murmur, coming behind your mate and placing your chin on his shoulder. His inky, blood red tresses tickle your cheek and neck, smooth and warm against your skin. He grunts in response, not moving from his stiff meditation pose.

Ap-tui had distanced himself from the group not long ago, escaping to his private yurt out of the corners of your peripheral. You had asked Bhu’kei what happened, as he was the last to speak to him, and the Yautja had told you then that the hunt leader was the biological father to your unborn pup.

Apparently, it was a semi big deal, as Ap-tui is the Firstborn of his bearer’s bloodline. Bhu’kei explained that, essentially, Firstborns split from their bearer’s clan when they bear or sire a pup of their own. This results in the Firstborn creating their own clan, one adjacent to their bearer’s, and in Yautja culture the position holds some weight.

It also surprised you to learn that, up until now, Ap-tui had not sired a single pup. Strange, considering he’s an elder Blooded warrior, not quite as old or experienced to be considered an Elder, but certainly no Youngblood. He should have already had many sucklings since accomplishing his Chiva, and learning that he didn’t— and that yours would be the first— filled you with a sense of pride.

Your baby with him would begin his clan with strength and status. Arrangements would need to be made, certain rites and bureaucratic agreements, but those could be saved for the future. You would give him his clan.

For now, you simply wrap your arms around Ap-tui’s torso, his corded muscles hot and strong under your arms. You kiss his shoulder.

“He also told me that’s very important.” You continue, and you kiss his reptilian-like mahogany hide again. This time, Ap-tui turns his head to look back at you, mandibles relaxed but set. His eyes look troubled.

“I am… conflicted.” He admits, and it must take all his strength to swallow his Yautja pride, if only for that little confession. You hum, and take a couple steps around him to settle yourself on his lap. Your hands rub at his broad pectoral muscles, fingers purposely catching on the twine-like string of his netted outfit.

Ap-tui looks away, jaws flaring and pulling tight rhythmically. You stare at his face, then at the scar he has that runs jagged across the crown of his head— One he received on a hunt when searching for a gift for you. The kiande amedha th’syra sits on the trophy wall in your quarters back on the hunting party’s ship, as do other gifts from the others.

“Mm. I could tell.” You reply, placing one of your hands on the side of his face. Gingerly, you turn his head so that he faces you directly, thumb rubbing lazy circles on the bone of his eye socket. A slow smile pulls the corners of your mouth up, and Ap-tui watches with hawk-like precision as your cute pink tongue wets your bottom lip.

He meets your gaze, your ooman eyes half-lidded and hungry.

“What troubles you?” You murmur, leaning in and kissing the scales above where his quad-rhythm heartbeat resides. He can tell you are trying to seduce him to wheedle out his deepest concerns. Ap-tui shivers a growl, heat settling in his bones, and he has to resist the urge to flood the yurt with his dia-shui.

“I do not want to risk you.” He confesses, running a gentle claw down the side of your face, admiring your soft, plump flesh. Ooman faces have always been captivating to him: The way you wear your emotions— blatant and raw and unforgiving.

“You’re not.” You kiss his palm as it comes to cup your cheek, and smile, “None of you are.”

Ap-tui is still hesitant and stubborn.

“Gestation may leech you.”

“Maybe— Who knows?”

His large paws trap your waist, claws brushing your skin, causing goosebumps to pepper your flesh.

“Birth will be disastrous. Perhaps fatal.”

“Isn’t it always?”

You cling to Ap-tui like he’s your lifeline. His dia-shui permeates the air, honeying it. The glaze of your arousal drives him wild. His pupils dilate to eclipse his fiery irises. He cannot help himself when he asks,

“Would you do it again? Bear our pups like a lou-dte kale?”

“Yes.”

You did not leave Ap-tui’s yurt for nearly two days.

—

The beginning months of pregnancy really only made your body fatigued and your mind sluggish. You found yourself sleeping far more often, usually clocking out well before the sun set past the horizon. This was usually in tandem to sleeping in until Ta’kaa or Th’chi awoke you to either let you know your mates would be going on a kv’var, or to just get you out from your bed of furs.

The latter usually resulted in them receiving the brunt of your sour mood and cold shoulder— A feat genuinely impressive, considering the lengths you’d go to shirk them.

Until, of course, you came to them in near tears, apologizing profusely and requiring many assurances. They would purr for you until all the wetness from your eyes dried. Th’chi especially did not like seeing you cry.

It was another can of worms pregnancy hormones opened: Mood swings.

—

You’re sure that this may be the angriest you’ve ever been.

The day could not be going worse: Th’chi wakes you at the asscrack of dawn, he doesn’t even bother helping you fix a fire for your breakfast, and then teases you to no end like he usually does, but this time he’s crossed the line.

Fury— molten hot and rising— boils under your skin. Such an intense anger you have to clench your hands into fists. You’re shaking.

“What. Did. You. Say. To. Me?” You growl through grit teeth, each word holding a venom that Th’chi is surprised you have within you, but he pays it no mind. It’ll take more than an angry oomani-di to threaten him. So, he only chortles, lilting his head. His eyes are mirthful, and you want to bash his face in.

“I said: You are rounding out impressively considering it’s only your forth month of gestation.” Th’chi says simply, poking the swell of your belly. Truly, despite only being four months along, you easily look as though you may be six. A side effect of carrying a fetus that’s almost too big for your womb.

That doesn’t dispel the fact that Th’chi is standing before you, a shit-eating look in his eye, and telling you that he thinks you’re fat. You already have been struggling with your changing body and self image. Th’chi only confirms your fears.

“I must also say, your thighs are fattening nicely as well.”

Th’chi must know he’s digging his own grave. He’s not this stupid. Or maybe he is. You’re starting to not care either way.

Bhu’kei has enough sense to stay put on the opposite side of camp.

Ta’kaa, Ap-tui, and Van’chaa have made themselves scarce. Faintly, you recall Van’chaa muttering something about an impromptu kv’var and cursing his younger brother’s name.

This is Th’chi’s mess.

You take a deep breath.

And then Hell breaks loose.

—

By the time you’ve finished your rant, you’re panting, hot in the face, and immediately regretting every word that came out of your mouth. Th’chi looks shocked, his shoulders set, and your heart breaks further when his eyes go stony and hard. He growls lightly, then pivots on his heel and stalks off, clearly upset.

Bhu’kei is looking at you, incredulous, but he only snorts and shakes his head. A pang of regret makes your heart clench behind your ribs. Oh God.

Salvaging whatever remaining anger you have, you turn on your heel and wander off to Ap-tui’s yurt that is halfway across camp. You don’t look back.

The second the yurt door closes, the heat of your anger completely dissipates and leaves you cold with shame and regret. Embarrassment, almost as liquid hot as the wrath before, comes crashing down on you. Immediately, you want to run back out and jump into Th’chi’s arms and tell him over and over how much you love him.

“Oh my God.” Your head falls into your palms, hot tears finally breaking through and wetting your lashes and hands. You said some absolutely heinous things to your mate, words that you made sure would sting. Sniffling wetly, you lower yourself on the edge of Ap-tui’s nest, wringing your fingers in the fibers of the fur beneath you. 

Part of you wonders if you should just stay here until the situation blows over. Another, louder part of you screams to tell you to suck it up and go apologize. A few minutes pass as you let yourself cry some more and ponder. The louder part wins: Shame is a powerful beast.

You rise (an action becoming harder and harder with your swelling middle) and make your way out Ap-tui’s yurt.

—

Hesitant steps take you to Th’chi’s personal yurt that sits adjacent to Bhu’kei’s. Said Yautja is where you last saw him, his midnight hide blending him into the dark metal of his yurt. He dips his head when he sees you and whickers in support when you stall in front of Th’chi’s door. His golden eyes are soft when he says, “Go to him. He needs only your presence.”

You smile sadly and nod, placing one hand atop the door’s biometric scanner and the other on your belly. The door opens and you step inside the yurt. His space smells like home.

When you spot Th’chi lounging on his bed, tears bubble up and spill over again, and he only clicks and opens his arms to you. You bound over as fast as you can, practically tossing yourself into his arms. He’s warm, and his chest begins to rumble with purrs— Calming, like the way that Yautja males do for distressed females.

“‘M sorry.” You mumble against Th’chi’s chest, “I dunno what came over me.”

He chitters, smoothing a palm down your hair like he’s petting you. His hand cradles the back of your skull and holds you close. Th’chi has dealt with the wrath of Yautja both in combat and in mating— Your spat was nothing short of amusing to him. Sure, your words had been hurtful in the moment, but he knew that none of them reflected your true intentions.

“Such fire, little mate.” He teases, tusks tickling your tear-stricken cheeks, “Our little sain’ja.”

Thankfully, his disregard for your outburst and comforting words lends to your tears to stop so profusely flowing. One of his rough thumbs smooths across the arch of cheek and wipes away the tears. Th’chi has never understood why and how oomans leak from their eyes (seems incredibly inconvenient) but he hates when you do.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of it.” You can’t help but say again, kissing his sternum. Th’chi only purrs louder, the velvety rumble beckoning your now exhausted self to sleep. You press closer to him, shifting in his lap as he grabs a fur to toss around your shoulders.

“I forgive you. Words spoken in the heat of anger often lack substance.” He replies, mandibles quivering when you place kisses to his chin. Th’chi will never admit it out loud, but he loves and desires your kisses like no other. He especially loves when your weird fleshy lips press against his face.

“I said such terrible things, Th’chi. I don’t know if I can forgive myself.” You murmur between soft pecks you leave on his slate blue skin, around the quills that grow from his collarbones. The hand he has on the back of your skull trembles almost imperceptibly before moving to grip your chin. Th’chi holds you as if you are glass.

“A Yautja female would never even entertain the thought of apologizing to a male. Even if she’s wronged him. Little mate,” Th’chi guides your eyes to look up at him, “You are more precious to me than the kv’var. You show yin’tekai in being here, with me, sharing my yurt and bearing my kin.”

Th’chi’s canary yellow eyes bore into yours. They look like twin suns.

“I love you, you big dope, y’know that?” You blubber after a stretch of silence, tears falling down your cheeks again, and this time Th’chi understands this wetness to mean you are happy.

He still doesn’t like it, so he purrs even louder to calm you down. You fall asleep only minutes later.

—

The mood swings began to taper around the time other parts of your body began to really feel the pregnancy. It was difficult to be distracted with your haywire emotions when your back started to hurt at all times, you were thirsty and hungry at all times, you peed a lot, and your ankles and hips were sore (and not the pleasant sore from having sex with one or more of your Yautja).

Not to mention the bowling ball that sat in your belly. The pup was big, heavy, and it was active. Your organs started to feel like punching bags. Especially your bladder, which is what your pup seemed to favor jabbing a foot into. It also liked squirming around when you slept, so the lack of sleep was fun.

And then there was the debacle with your breasts. It seemed that your human pregnancy hormones went into hyperdrive to compensate for the Yautja pup growing in your womb. The pup would need thrice the amount of milk as a human child once it was born, and the moment you entered your approximate second trimester, your already tender breasts ballooned to sizes you thought unimaginable. 

At first, it was difficult to reconcile your new, curvaceous bosom— Often you found yourself weeping at the sight of your engorged chest. Your swollen, flush tits hung nearly to your waist on either side of your round belly, nipples darkened and pointed straight to the floor. You missed your old breasts, and mourned the fact that they’d never be the same again.

Not to mention that they were awfully heavy, like two pendulous dumbbells that pulled at your upper back muscles. It was enough that your ankles, hips, and lower back ached, but your breasts added your shoulders to the list too.

—

“I can’t look at myself!” You sob into Van’chaa’s netted chest like a baby, blubbering about how much you hate your new figure, and that it makes you feel and look ugly. Van’chaa doesn’t say anything, only patting your head with a gentle paw as you weep against him.

He is desperately confused— Yautja do not suffer the same body issues as oomans do, and he thinks that the near-obsessive paranoia that you display about losing “your figure” is ridiculous. Of course, he would never tell you that directly, especially in the... tender mindset you’re currently in.

You are pregnant, carrying a Yautja pup— a future hunter to an apex predator race. Not to mention a Firstborn of a strong clan. That should bring you honor and respect. It should not bring you despair.

“Little mate,” He decides to coo, nuzzling your hair with his tusks, “No tears. Pregnancy is honorable, and it gives you status. You are like Paya.”

You sniffle, listening to his words and recognizing that Paya is the Yautja deity, and that any form of comparison is a big deal, but your self-image has still been utterly shattered. Confidence that you once had in your body has fallen to the wayside. You tell this to Van’chaa, and he chuffs, then stands up. He looks expectantly down at you, offering his hand, which you take to stand with still a lot of effort.

“Come.” He replies simply, and he starts walking off in the direction of the common yurt, the biggest one in the center of camp where your hunters store miscellaneous goods or shared objects. You walk after him, slowly and with a hand planted on your aching back, ignoring (for now) the hungry look Ta’kaa gives you from across the clearing.

Van’chaa stops at the yurt’s door, opening it and gesturing for you to step in first. You do, keeping your wary gaze on your mate as he strides to the opposite side of the hut, pulling from a wall compartment a sleek black box. Van’chaa strides just as confidently back to you, placing the box in front of you. He opens its top with a click of its latches, like a chest.

The direction of the box prevents you from seeing what Van’chaa is digging for, and you’re about to walk over and see for yourself when the midnight blue Yautja reveals four silver items in his paws. They look like mini gauntlets, obviously made for your human body, but they don’t seem to have any weapons or fancy technology attached.

“Remove your coverings.” Van’chaa rumbles, and the request has you recoiling. The simple white cotton dress you’re wearing really has no special connection to you, but it was one of the few articles of clothing you had. Plus, it was flowy and loose enough for your seemingly ever-growing body and covered up your Problem Areas quite effectively.

“Why?” You ask, shuffling on your feet and Van’chaa can smell your apprehension. He clicks and tilts his head to the side, his long, rubbery black tresses falling past his shoulder. 

“Do you trust me, little mate?” He asks, his low, gravelly voice is tender, like the way it gets when he reminisces to you about his bearer on nights when you’re both tipsy on c’ntlip. It’s the same voice he uses when he confesses his love for you under the blanket secrecy of midnight. Van’chaa reaches and cups your cheek in his palm, marveling at how his hand dwarfs you, purring.

“Yes.” You whisper, smiling softly and turning to kiss the palm of his hand. Van’chaa trills in delight, and withdraws his hand to pick up one of the metal cuff-like objects. He holds it out towards you, clicking.

“Then remove your coverings.” He says simple, and with a long, somewhat shaky sigh, you undo the tie at the front of your dress and bare yourself in one swoop. Van’chaa sees the apprehension and disgust towards your own body flash on your face, and once again he is so confused as to why you think so poorly of your own flesh.

He can’t help but marvel— Ooman physiology has always intrigued him, though he’d never admit it out loud. There’s something about the way your oomani-di body is so close to a Yautja female, similar in its curves and decidedly female traits.

And your specific ooman-ness draws him in further. Van’chaa always secretly admired your even, smooth skin, the softness of your plush flesh, your legs and thighs… Admittedly, it had taken him some time to get used to your strange, and by Yautja standards, ugly face, but now he looks forward to it each morning he wakes. He cannot imagine life without you.

Pregnancy does nothing to change his mind on this. If anything, watching your belly swell with pup and your breasts become milk-laden has been… titillating. It arouses some deep intimate, primal fire in his core— One that drives him to the edge (and sometimes over) of desire and back.

Van’chaa wants to lick the taut dome of your belly. He wants to feel you squirm and pant below him, wants to watch those bloated tits of yours bounce in time with his thrusts. One day, he wants to mate you until his seed takes hold. Then he will watch you swell again with his pup. The thought has him relaxing his mandibles.

“Van’chaa?” Your quiet pry pulls him from his reverie and makes him realize that he’d been flooding the air with his dia-shui. You’ve taken notice, as you’ve come to recognize the earthy musk, and your eyelids are now drooped halfway, lustful.

“Wrists. Ankles.” Van’chaa growls, ignoring (for now) the heady scent of your arousal that permeates the air around you. If he glances down, he’ll surely see the slick ambrosia dripping from your cunt. Van’chaa decides today is an exercise in self control. He all but tosses the cuffs to you.

—

The strange cuffs lock around your wrists and ankles firmly, yet gently. When you test one by flexing your arm, the metal seems to have some uncharacteristic give. It feels breathable and acts more like leather than steel. You go to ask Van’chaa why exactly you’re wearing them, when he presses a button on one of the cuffs.

You yelp as netting flows from all four cuffs, racing over your body like water on rocks. It’s very similar to what the Yautja wear beneath their armor, the same black thread-like material. But you can tell it’s stronger, more durable, and somehow it even provides you with some warmth. It must be temperature regulated in some way.

In addition, the net outfit must work in a way that provides support, as the usual pull on your back from your breasts and heavy belly is noticeably lessened. For that, you are eternally grateful.

... However, the net bodysuit— like your mates— acts more like a birthday suit than much else and does very little in the way of modesty. It practically leaves you half naked, though the netting over your crotch does seem to be a bit denser. The same can not be said for your breasts— the netting on your bloated tits and puffy nipples is exceptionally light in comparison.

“Van’chaa, what is this?” You grumble, crossing your arms over your chest and internally wincing at how much squishy yield your rack gives. He only chitters, those deep-set blue eyes of his shining in what you can only describe as mischief. You watch as his paws disappear back inside of the box, reappearing with a tiny, bird-like skull in hand.

You don’t recognize what animal it may be from— Earthen or otherwise— but you watch with bated breath as Van’chaa, in a way that can only be described as sacred, attaches the skull to the netting at the center of your chest. It sits atop the shelf of your cleavage, a centerpiece for what’s to come.

Van’chaa continues to decorate you, lining bones of all sorts on your hips in alternating patterns, always using sterling white ones. Before he pulls away from you, he adorns your neck with a bone necklace, clicking softly as he does. It’s like he’s whispering prayer, like the necklace of ivory and claws is as if you’re being bestowed a crown.

“Van’chaa...” You breathe, still taken aback at how tenderly and religiously your mate dressed you in items that his people would wear. He secures a leather-like cloth around your hips that ties below the bones on either side. The fabric covers your crotch and backside, giving you at least some modem of modesty. It’s not much, but at least you feel less nude.

Van’chaa pulls away from you, trilling. He’s elated, eyes bright and proud of his handiwork. Then, he visits the box again and this time pulls out a larger, thin item. He sets it in front of you, the glint of its surface catching the light— and your reflection.

It’s a mirror. A long, full body mirror that captures you in all your fat, pregnant glory. 

Body covered in fishnet netting, adorned with bones, dressed in leather; You honestly believe this is the most beautiful you’ve felt in a while. Your new body is complimented and spotlighted in this outfit, belly and breasts and all. The slopes and curves of your figure are hugged in a way that doesn’t make you want to look away.

You also notice, for the first time, how beautifully glossy your hair’s become. And the healthy glow on the apples of your cheeks. You look at the strange, bird-like skull on your sternum.

You look like a Yautja.

Van’chaa chuffs beside you, and you break your gaze from your reflection to see him offering you a pair of tiny sandals. The soles look to be made of thick leather, but the ties seem to be a softer material. When you take them from him, it all clicks in your mind.

“Van’chaa... did you make this all for me?” You ask softly, staring at the shoes in your hands before glancing back up at your mate. Van’chaa dips his head once in response, his electric blue eyes alight like lightning. His dia-shui is unavoidable and unignorable.

“Thank you.” You breathe, sighing in content when Van’chaa sweeps you up into his arms and deposits you onto his bed. The plush furs are soft and support you well. Your core is so hot at this point you nearly whimper. The air is glazed and thick and it’s like breathing in honey. Van’chaa situates himself above you, his tresses fall on either side of your head and he leans in close.

“Would you like me to show my thanks?” You coo, kissing the pink flesh of his flared mandibles, meeting his eyes when you lick up one of his tusks. Van’chaa growls in warning. He sees your coy play and calls you on it. One of his paws grips your thighs and spreads you for him. The leather flap is easily moved out of the way and it’s then you notice there’s an opening in the netting at the base of your core.

Easy access, you suppose, and all other thought escapes you when your mate snarls and presses the tent under his loincloth to your aching pussy. His other hand slides up your belly, then cups one of your breasts. Van’chaa squeezes, and you moan.

“Please fuck me.” You gasp, gripping his bicep when his claws toy with your nipple. The bones you wear click together like wind chimes. You say again, desperate and horny and feeling beautiful: 

“Please.”

Van’chaa happily obliges.

—

Another milestone you pass during the duration of your pregnancy also has to do with your breasts. Seemingly, they just don’t let you catch a break. Aside from being heavy and bouncy and literally swaying while you walk (despite your new clothes), they’ve also begun to leak.

You lactate for the first time in front of Bhu’kei, right as he’s about to perform the routine health screen on you. Just as the light flickers over your belly (where the pup had been doing flips as of late) you feel... wet. A dampness made itself very known on your chest, then spread.

“Oh my God!” Bhu’kei’s attention snaps back to you at your incredulous remark, and he is met with the sight of you pinching your nipples between your fingers. Thick droplets of milk still leak past and he notices the trails on your belly. Your face has gone ashen and hot at the same time. Bhu’kei recognizes this as mortification.

“You have started your lactation. This is good.” Bhu’kei states with a swift nod of his head and turns back to your scan. Speaking of good, all of your vitals are also stellar. The pup is stable as well. Bhu’kei is content at this knowledge.

“I’m fucking leaking!” Your voice raises an octave and Bhu’kei watches as you scramble to find a cloth to press to your bosom. When your fingers leave your nipples, a white spray occurs that has you yelping and pinching them again, Bhu’kei clicks in amusement, but you shoot him a withering glare.

“Not. Funny. I can’t go around dripping milk everywhere.” You frown, skin feeling moist and sticky from your milk that’s left trails on your belly. You want to wipe it up, but your fingers can’t leave your nipples. Though... the longer you’re pinching to stop the flow, the more your breasts begin to feel... tight.

More so than usual. Like the pressure’s building. Experimentally, you release one of your sensitive nipples and the torrent of milk is powerful enough to spurt from you like a faucet. Your jaw drops.

Bhu’kei whickers, impressed.

The pressure cedes, and when pinch them again, it begins to grow.

It seems your stuck between a rock and a hard place.

You look to Bhu’kei, and your eyes are pleading. You pout, “What do I do now?”

—

The solution Bhu’kei ultimately recommended was unorthodox. 

Usually, pumping milk would’ve been an affair saved for after the pup was born, but you started lactating and profusely leaking so early on that it needed to be done. Plus, you and Bhu’kei did not want you to risk developing mastitis, which would be just the cherry-on-top to your pregnancy.

The issue was, the Yautja didn’t have any suitable equipment to perform the duty of pumping, so it had to be done manually. At first, you were able to squeeze your breasts rhythmically, draining milk into large glass vials that would be frozen and stored for later, but your hands soon tired.

So, with the help of your mates, you pumped milk.

—

“Bhu’kei! Bhu’kei! Bhu’kei!”

The only word your mouth seems to know is his name. Your pussy throbs with need, clit aching for contact. Bhu’kei is planted firmly behind you, but he won’t concede and fill your dripping core with his cock. Instead, he rests the hot rod between your ass cheeks, teasing you by thrusting lazily.

It’s all so much. You can hardly breathe. His dia-shui is suffocating in the best way possible. Bhu’kei’s hands are working magic on you.

Large paws alternate the respective tit they squeeze, drawing long streams of milk from your chest. He tweaks and pinches the stiff peaks of your nipples like he’s toying with them. The sensation is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced— Strange, yet natural, yet absolutely dirty.

You hazy mind and glossy eyes focus enough to process that the glass vial is nearly halfway full. The session is far from over. You don’t want it to end.

It’s almost humiliating. You’re being milked like a fucking cow. But you have Bhu’kei, nearly rabid with horniness, all-too-enthusiastically rutting wildly between your thighs as if he’s experiencing his rut. Hell, maybe he is. You might just be tempting enough to speed up the waiting time.

It became apparent very quickly that lactation did not sway any of the hunting brothers from gladly warming your bed. They fought over who got to help you pump, and the winner, often bloody and bruised, would be bolstered enough to claim you in the middle of camp.

You whine and moan, and Bhu’kei finally relents and on the next thrust the tip of his cock catches on your weeping slit then sinks home. You wail with pleasure, eyes rolling back as Bhu’kei stretches you in one fell swoop. You grip his wrists, feeling the tendons beneath your hands work. Milk is drawn from you. Your face is flush with heat, your hair sticks to the nape of your neck and temples, sweat gathers beneath your belly and the junctions where you are propped on a pile of furs.

“Bhu’kei!~” You bay his name like a wounded dog, high pitched and airy, and he starts to thrust with fervor. He snarls and growls, gripping your tits firm, but remembering to perform the job. Bhu’kei won’t admit, but it’s becoming harder and harder to focus on aiding you with pumping when your tight, hot cunt is stretched around his shaft.

Mating you is always like this: Soft, raw, and wet like the humid jungle around you. Bhu’kei doesn’t even consider taking you to his yurt like he did earlier, the low growling and pointed glares of his hunting brothers around him is far too satisfying.

He catches the stare of Ap-tui and purposely gives you a sharp thrust that has you gasping just to spite him. His cousin flares his mandibles, his own dia-shui flooding around him. The same can be said of the others as well, all the Yautja males bristle and pace like ravenous wolves wanting a bite of the ripe flesh before them.

Bhu’kei understands fully. You are beneath him like prey, spread out and whining and quivering... How could anyone not find you tempting?

“Her cunt is sweet. Tight and soft and wet. My cock is blessed.” Bhu’kei teases the hunting party and a chorus of roars and growls lifts the air. You’re too far gone to comprehend it. Bhu’kei slides the blunt of tusks down the side of your cheek, trapping you beneath him. His cock works in tandem with his hands.

“Come for me.” He urges you, whickering into your ear. Tears of pleasure roll down your cheeks. It’s all so much. Bhu’kei draws back, then thrusts and hits the special, spongy part inside your cunt.

You orgasm so hard you pass out.

The pumping session had to come to an end.

—

In general, your pregnancy had relatively few hiccups along the way. Most of the time you and your mates spent preparing for the upcoming birth, stocking enough food to last so that none of them had to leave your side until well after you’d given birth. It was something you wanted, just time with them and your new pup for a little while.

Thus, the days were often long and unexciting. You and your mates either fucked or slept or ate. They would take turns leaving for a couple days to replenish more food. The Yautja would sometimes fight one another for entertainment, and to keep their abilities sharp.

In the waning months of pregnancy, however, something eventful did occur.

You were nearly nine and a half months along when your party received a visitor. A Yautja ship appeared out of the blue, snapping your mates into action. They suited up in full armor, on edge.

Apparently, it’s bad form to intrude on occupied hunting territories without an invitation (which your party never gave) or asking first (which they never did). So when the ship landed, your already peeved Yautja were downright hostile towards whoever was bold enough to invade their space.

Ap-tui was particularly pissed, being the hunt leader and all. You had never seen him that bristly before.

But then the most curious turn of events happened.

The ship's docking bay opened to reveal a very tall, very tough looking, very female Yautja.

—

yautja translations

Chiva →  the trial of which a Youngblood Yautja is Blooded should they succeed in killing a kiande amedha (Xenomorph) c’ntlip → a Yautja alcoholic beverage dia-shui → musk, specifically that of a male lou-dte kale → child maker (derogatory) ooman / oomani-di → human / human female Paya → Yautja creation goddess sain’ja → warrior yin’tekai → honor

[elisamaza]

"I can't annoy a demon by talking about how much shadow the hedgehog character has been butchered"

That's not annoying, please do! I would like to hear some opinions on it

OwO (i’ll include context for those who don’t know a thing about him)

Shadow the Hedgehog was created by Gerald Robotnik for the purpose of finding a cure for a deadly illness that Maria Robotnik suffered from, Gerald’s granddaughter. But he became more than a science experiment and was a companion of Maria’s, more like family. Together on the space colony ARK, they dreamed of what it would be like to someday live on earth.

There was not much shown on how Shadow behaved with Maria, we were only given the context that he loved her deeply, and was shattered when Maria was murdered.

Our first impression of him however is that he looks down on others, especially humans. He was the Ultimate Life Form. And he wanted to avenge Maria. However, we learn those were never his true intentions, his memories were altered by Gerald Robotnik so that Shadow could act as a vessel for Gerald’s revenge.

A detail I find is often looked over is that Shadow cries when he learns the truth—after Amy helped him remember the real memory he had of Maria. She asked him to protect the people on the planet. That drives him to work with Sonic and even sacrifice himself. Hell, he is even humble to say that he believes Sonic is the Ultimate Life Form because of his selfless heroism and impressive abilities.

Then when it turns out Shadow did not perish, he…lost his memory. This makes him put his walls up again, making his attitude guarded, but he does not look down on Rouge and Omega, they become his friends that he appreciates. In fact, he appreciated them so much, that at the end of Sonic Heroes, he no longer cared about finding out if he was the real Shadow or just a copy. He had what he needed: a family. Right?

WELL NOT ACCORDING TO HIS OWN GAME.

It opens with him lamenting about his memories again, and questioning where he came from. He also suddenly doesn’t care about others and turns his back on the city when a fucking assload of aliens are unleashed. I don’t wanna talk about the aliens. I think it’s fine that he was made from partial alien DNA, whatever. But I think this was a shitty way to handle it, especially since it resulted in undoing his arc in Heroes. (Apparently, the reason this game was made was because fans were like “Sonic should have a gun!!!” HUH?) So in order for it to make sense for Shadow to have a gun was to make him this edgy anti-hero who plays by his own rules and fuck everyone else.

*heavy sigh* Even at the end when he regains the truth about his past, he says “Goodbye, Shadow the Hedgehog”, quite literally trying to erase the personality he had before.

Ironically, in one of the most notoriously hated games, Sonic 06…it acts as a soft reboot, and they get Shadow’s character RIGHT. He loves Rouge and Omega, and he wants to fight on the side of justice and principle. When a bad guy shows up, he doesn’t turn away—in fact, he jumps in to Sonic’s defense when Silver is attacking! Then, Shadow quickly pieces it together that Silver has been misled and he’s not an enemy—that he in fact needs help. And Shadow does help him!

Fuuuuck, even when he’s told that humans will betray him and imprison him, his integrity does not waver even a little bit! He still says he will fight to protect them even if it means it will be his downfall. He would never betray his friends, and he is fulfilled as long as they’re fighting beside him.

But then it was all for nothing because at the end, all those events are undone so they never happened. I’m sensing a pattern here…

Ever since then, for the most part, Shadow has been given the role of the edgelord that is always butting heads with the main protag and thinks having friends is for babies. This is apparently contractual in terms of writing him, which is BULLSHIT. HE DESERVES SO MUCH BETTER THAN TO BE REDUCED TO A GODDAMN “OPPOSITE OF THE PROTAG” TROPE.

This is why upon hearing the news that he won’t be in Sonic Frontiers, I was actually relieved. I didn’t want to have to hate the game if they got his character wrong again.

I fear for him in Sonic Prime, but fingers crossed that they take it easy on the edgelord stuff. Since Rouge is a part of it, I am at least hoping they are friends.

ANYWAY if you want relatively new content that gets his character RIGHT, have a listen to Sonic and Tails R. It’s so underrated and SO GOOD. Great character arc for Tails.

[ghostdrew22]

Angel || Draco Malfoy

Requested: No. Pairing: post-war Draco Malfoy x fem!reader Warnings: Lots of angst in the beginning, mentions of self-harm/self-destructive behavior, mentions of blood, quite a few mentions of the devil, ptsd, just a lot of dark themes ig (let me know if i need to add another warning) Summary: You’ve always been an angel in Draco’s eyes and now, years after the war, he’s reminded why once again.

WORDS: 3440

I’ve been wanting to write about the ‘devil on the shoulder’ trope for a while and I felt like @anchoeritic‘s 3K WRITING CHALLENGE was the perfect opportunity though i think i lost the plot a bit at some point and this probably isn’t what you had in mind.

i had to do so much research for this, probably the most research i’ve ever done for a fic. It’s a lot heavier than I’d intended for it to be (i almost cried at certain points) but I still really love it.

anyway this fic is inspired by ‘Angel’ by FINNEAS (which is a great song that I recommend listening to) and i hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

~~~

Anger.

So much anger that he doesn’t know what to do with it. Red, hot, fury just begging to be unleashed.

He takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes. When he opens them again his fist collides with the wall. “Fuck!”

The miniature Mephistopheles that’s made home on his shoulder tells him to keep going, that this is the only rational response. Draco heeds the advice until his knuckles are bleeding and there’s a dent in the wall.

He lets out a frustrated sigh as he thinks about you returning in a few hours, then he punches the spot one last time out of frustration. Draco’s own love for destruction lies parallel to the myths surrounding Beelzebub, his own virtues bringing him to peril instead of an unseen force of evil. But it’s much easier to believe that the voice always telling him to do wrong, is not his own.

Maybe this is who he is, a fucked up kid with anger issues. Maybe this is all he’ll ever be, knuckles spotted in crimson and harmful thoughts being shoved down as to not raise alarm.

He feels violated by the mark on his arm. Sobs stacking up in his lungs at the very thought, but all he can express is anger- all he can understand is the resent that crawls beneath his skin and settles into his bones like calcium.

Was it his choice? No. Did it matter? No. Choice means nothing in a world run by circumstance. Intention holds no value when there’s no action to follow through. In another world, a better world perhaps, he would’ve had the right to choose and he hopes that he would’ve chosen the right side- the good side.

Forgiveness, they say, is often practiced by the strong willed. He’d tried to forgive, he really had, but Iblis had told him that it didn’t matter who he forgave because they’d still done this to him anyway- they’d still sold his soul to the Devil.

“Draco, when will you forgive me?” She pleads and he shrugs with a thin smile.

“I don’t know mother. I don’t know.”

“It’s been years.” He turns a steal glaze toward her.

“And yet I still can’t get the mark off.”

“What am I meant to do?”

“There’s nothing you can do. It’s too late to do the right thing.”

“What would the right thing have been back then? Huh?”

“The right thing to do would’ve been to protect me.”

“I did protect you. I took the Vow for you!” She yells as she stands out of her chair and points an accusatory finger toward him. He’s seen this scene so many times before that it’s permanently imprinted in his mind, but this time he’s not a scared teenager being scolded by his mother.

“I didn’t ask you to do that.” He stands as well, “I just asked you to save me. Why didn’t you save me?”

“What?” She’s taken aback,

“Summer before fifth. You told me that you’d had enough of him, you told me that we were going to leave and run away so that you could save me from him, from all of them.”

“So now you hate me because I couldn’t leave your bigoted father?”

“No, mother. I hate myself because you couldn’t leave my bigoted father.” He tucks his chair back into the table and pulls out his wand, “Thank you for dinner mother, it was lovely.”

Then he’s gone, and he doesn’t come back.

Draco had shut himself out from the world, hoping that his loathing would dissipate with time but it hadn’t. He still wakes up every morning with that tiny voice reminding him that he’s worthless, and he still believes it.

Why had he done it? Why had he allowed them to put the mark on his arm in the first place? Why had he put his own morals, his own principles, on the line to save a family who might not have done the same for him? Why had he allowed himself to succumb to the many ministrations of Diabolous, which dragged him further and further down the dark side?

Weakness. That’s the only answer he can conceive. Or maybe that’s the sound of Lucifer on his shoulder, consistently reminding him that he’s no match for the evil that resides deep within his soul. He can’t fight it, it’s who he is. He’s weak and he’s unholy. Bathed so often in sin that it’s sunk into his DNA. Does that even make sense?

Draco shakes his head and runs his hands down his face in an attempt to ground himself. But it doesn’t work, all he can see is red and all he can hear is his own conscience belittling him for continuously making the wrong choices. Why does he always make the wrong choices?

His throat so dry it feels as though he’s swallowed sand. His palms sweaty like he’s dipped them in oil. He paces around the room in a desperate effort to remember where you’d placed the box last time this happened. He can feel himself disconnecting from the world, feel himself sinking further and further into the dredges of his mind that torment him most.

That part of his brain that holds the memories, the shame, the anguish, is his biggest obstacle in recovery. It’s always on good days, days when… He blinks when he realizes that no fond memories come to mind. Does he even have good days? Or does this always happen, is this what’s become normal for him?

He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and steps back in shock, completely forgetting about his mission to find the box. The man in front of him looks clean, taken care of. When had he become this man and stopped being the terrified teenager that never ate and wore bags beneath his eyelids like name tags.

There is muscle on his arms, taut beneath the dress shirt that he must’ve put on that morning before going to classes… or work? When had he earned the right to stop looking the way he felt? Which of his actions had merited his beauty returning, when the dark mark still lays clear beneath the dress shirt that he’s got on? There are hickeys along his chest- one, two, three, littered around his torso like a map to his heart- and he can only assume that they’d been left in the wake of your last meeting, because he can’t seem to piece together the memory of them being made.

You. Where are you? Why can’t he remember where you are or what you look like? Did you finally leave? Did you finally realise that he wasn’t worth any of the pain and anguish that he’d put you through? Had you ultimately decided that Draco and the dark mark could not be separated, both physically and mentally? Maybe he never managed to redeem himself in your eyes, and it hurt so much to lose you that he made himself forget.

Redemption, he’d searched far and wide for it. He’d spent the months after the war trying to find some spiritual cleanse for the ailment in his essence, had dabbled in every muggle religion he came across in hopes of finding something that would provide him freedom from guilt. The Bible, the Qur’an, the Gita, the Torah, the Guru Granth Sahib, the Tripitaka- none of the holy books he’d read had promised him enough solace to feel deserving of love from a higher entity. They had all just reminded him of the purity and innocence that muggles embodied, the same qualities he came so close to erasing.

Redemption wasn’t in the cards for him. If it had been a game of Poker, Draco would’ve been the first fold with the knowledge that he didn’t stand a chance against the better players at the table. Who were the better players? He didn’t really know, he just knew that he wasn’t one of them.

His eyes drift toward his reflection once more and he feels disgust crawl through his anatomy. Nausea, a familiar friend in times like these, making itself comfortable in the barrel of his gut. Why had he even eaten today anyway? Sustenance won’t fill the emptiness that’s making domicile in his chest, it won’t make him less of a habitat to repulsive regret and desolation.

He walks toward the dresser and picks up a pocket knife that’s sitting in-between some make up and a music box. Then like deja vu he can already feel the weapon pinching, digging beneath his skin as if it’s trying to excavate bone. He recalls blood pouring out, drowning his pale skin in spills of vermillion and carmine, and dropping to the floor. The floor, chalky tile with tiny chards of black glass engrained in it, something that he hadn’t come up with himself but liked anyway. Who had come up with that again?

Screams, familiar but unrecognizable, had filled his ears soon after. He remembers his arm being wrapped in a bandage, him being carried off the bathroom floor and taken to the Hogwarts infirmary, no, it was actually St Mungo’s. He remembers being treated and loud cries settling down into comforting whispers beside him. He remembers feather light touches being placed on his face and kisses settling onto the skin of his palm.

He remembers something good, but he doesn’t know what.

He remembers the injury, and knows that it didn’t work.

Draco takes a deep breath and puts the knife back down. Staring at his reflection once more he sees that the man standing before him is not the same child that had stepped into battle way back when. When was that? Months? Years? He can’t tell.

The box. The box will tell him. But he doesn’t know where it is, he doesn’t even know where he is anymore. This room is definitely not his Hogwarts dorm room, it’s not in Hogwarts at all, and it’s not his room in the Manor either. Where is he?

His eyes shoot up when he hears a door shutting, and soon after voices follow suit. The voices are coming toward him, in this strange room that he’s in, and Draco struggles to identify them. His dorm mates potentially? No, this clearly isn’t Hogwarts. Friends? His mother? You?

Then there’s a laugh, from a child, from two children, and suddenly none of it makes sense any more. He knows those voices, he knows those laughs, so well that they might as well be his own, but he can’t seem to attach faces or names to them.

A few of the voices drift off, further down the hall, and one gets louder as the door to the bedroom opens. Draco holds his breath as the person walks in, not knowing what to expect, and feels a confused sense of relief wash over him when he sees you standing there.

You laugh as you enter the room, “If you can get an outstanding in Transfiguration then we’ll get you whatever your heart desires.” You respond to your daughter as you recall how both you and Draco had struggled with the subject during your Hogwarts years.

You furrow your eyebrows at the state of your bedroom- documents scattered across the bed, clothes in tiny piles all over the floor, and a tiny dent in the wall beside the bathroom door. A sigh escapes your lips as you process the mess and prepare yourself for what’s about to come. You turn and your eyes land on your husband, and your heart breaks at the sight of him. He’d promised this morning that he’d be fine, it was the only reason that you’d left him alone, but clearly he wasn’t.

“Love? Are you okay?” You ask softly as you take the shoes off of your feet and close your bedroom door behind you. He tilts his head to the side momentarily in confusion, but then realisation flashes across his eyes and he takes quick strides toward you.

“Oof.” You breathe out when he pulls you into his chest and rests his forehead on your shoulder.

“Y/N.” He muffles into your shoulder and you feel your heart swell with love for him- this man who recognizes you instantly, even when the entire world is nothing more than a distant memory.

“Miss me?” You ask with a small laugh as you bring your hands up to wrap around him tightly. He mumbles an agreement and you smile, “I missed you too.”

“Bad day.” He whispers and you nod, rubbing his back in an effort to soothe him.

“I know baby, wanna talk about it?”

“No. Can’t remember.”

“Okay, that’s fine.” You pull him away from you and kiss his forehead with a warm smile, “We can just lie down for a while.”

He obliges as you pull him toward the bed and shuffle the papers off of it, climbing on after you and setting his head in your chest. You run your fingers through his hair and hum, trying to your best to make him feel calm and prevent another breakdown.

But your efforts are futile, within the hours that Draco had been alone he’d thought every terrible thought that he possibly could, Al-Shaitan had already tormented your husband through a series of painful misconceptions. Draco had never really subscribed to religion or faith but after the war he’d identified quite quickly with the concept of the Devil- confessing that he believed he had an evil conspirator sitting on his shoulder- and felt that his own soul deserved to be damned. You’d tried to rid him of that notion, many times, but it never worked, he was in too deep.

You tense up when you feel a cry escape his lips and his fingers tighten into the space of your torso. “I’m sorry.”

He feels terrible, terrible for ruining all of your hard work. All the effort you’d put into rebuilding him now disintegrating in the blink of an eye. But you’re here now, you’re going to fix him again, he knows it.

You try to level your breathing so that you don’t cry too, so that you don’t fall into this pit of despair with him, because Merlin knows that any pain Draco feels takes as rough a toll on you. You pull him off of you and sit up, bringing him to sit as well, so that you can look him in the eyes.

“Sorry for what Bub?”

“For being broken. I-“ He feels another sob rock through him and you pull him into your chest. “Please fix me Y/N.” He pleads, a whimper following suit.

His fingers are digging into you again, he’s clinging so tightly to you like you’ll disappear if he doesn’t stay close enough, and it hurts you to know that even after all these years he’s scared that you’ll leave.

“You’re not broken Draco, there’s nothing to fix.”

“But I’m- I’m-“  Cries start to escape rapidly and interrupt him. He can’t see clearly anymore as tears form in his waterline and obstruct his view of you. It hurts, everything just hurts.

“You’re not broken, my love.” You whisper as you cup his face, “You’re not evil, you’re not bad. You’re good. You’re my husband, I love you. Did you open the box?”

He shakes his head, “Couldn’t find it.”

“Okay, let me get i-“ You’re cut off by your bedroom door opening and your children marching in.

“Dad, you’ll never guess what happened at school today- Oh, is this a bad time?” Ariel, your daughter, stops in her tracks as she raises her eyebrows at you.

You shake your head and gesture for them to come in. “I think it just got a little much for him this year. Please get me the box, love.”

Ariel goes to the headboard and pulls out the aforementioned box from the first drawer, before her and Cael, your son, get comfortable on the bed beside you and Draco. But Draco doesn’t need it anymore, he can already sense himself coming back down to earth. He knows where he is- with you, in your house, with your children, in your bed. He’s home, he’s safe.

He takes the box anyway and begins to unload its contents in silence, the three of you observing him with admiration. It’s a small circular box that your children made a few years back after witnessing one of his episodes for the first time, containing momentos from the last 18 years of you and Draco’s lives together. Pictures, notes, a few school projects.

“Tell him about what happened at school today, it’ll probably make him laugh.” Cael encourages his older sister Ariel, and she does as told.

Draco pays a significant amount of attention to the story, piecing together facts that he’s slowly starting to understand and recognize as a part of his normal life. He intertwines his fingers with Cael’s as Ariel continues telling the story from her spot on your lap.

Love.

So much love that he doesn’t know what to do with it. Bursts of it just choking him out.

Draco remembers everything now. He remembers this house of yours, the one he’d bought straight out of Hogwarts and begged you to live in with him because “It’s nothing without you in it”. These children that you’d had 14 years ago, that’d he’d been so scared to raise because he thought they’d resent him, and that made everything in the world just seem brighter. This life that he modeled with you on the embers of his haunting past, this life that reminds him he’s good.

Before you, he would’ve been terrified to show any one his vulnerable side, especially his children, but you’d taught him that loving someone means loving all the good bits and the bad bits, all the happy moments and the sad moments. Now he knows that when days like this happen, when he gets so lost inside the mental maze of his own construction, the three of you will always be waiting to help him out.

Ariel finishes her story and Draco bellows out a laugh, feeling thankful to have you three around in his moments of weakness.

His three guardian angels- the only people who can always lead him away from the shadow in his mind and toward the luminescence that he carries within him. “All the good within us is split in the middle, half from you and half from mum, just as it should be. I hope you remember that we wouldn’t be who we are without you both.” Cael suddenly speaks up and you smile pridefully at him.

“They wouldn’t.” You add once he’s done and smile, “I couldn’t have done such a bad job without you.”

“Hey!” Ariel accuses and you all laugh.

“She’s right though, I am the one who taught you hexes at age 7.” Draco grins bashfully and you roll your eyes.

“And look at us now, acing Charms!”

“See love,” Draco turns to you, “There is a method to my madness.”

“Mhmm.” You hum with a small smile. “Go do your homework, dinner soon.”

“Yes, I’m making pizza tonight.” Draco adds as he kisses both of your children on their foreheads.

They excitedly hop off the bed and run out of the room. “I can’t belie-“

“Harry called.” Draco interrupts you and your eyes go wide at his statement but you nod for him to continue, “He wanted to know how I was doing, you know with it having been 18 years since the war and all. Offered to come spend the day with me and make sure I’d be alright while you were gone.”

“And you said no?” You raise your eyebrows and he shakes his head.

“No, I told him that I’d come by his office instead. Then when I was getting ready… I just started having flashbacks again, and my mark hurt. I felt horrible all of a sudden, like there was huge weight on my chest and this fog obscuring my vision.”

There are few things that Draco has faith in, but you, you he never runs short on trust for. You’re a constant in his life, a shoulder that he can always rely on when he needs it, and as he sits here and tells you about his day, he feels love for you hit him tenfold.

You, this beautiful, kind, ethereal being that has no place on earth. You, the one who’s managed to convince him that saints are real. You, who has given him your entire life, along with all the love that you have to offer. You, Y/N, the love of his life.

You.

An angel.

~~~

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[shehungthemoon]

👁️‍🗨️Ep. 7

👁️‍🗨️Competency kink active for missus doctor reghabi. Hatred activated for stupid head dna wimpy baby mark

👁️‍🗨️but it's ok he makes up for it by consistently being a good liar on the spot.

👁️‍🗨️Is there a reason Milchick is milking those automatic doors? Or is he just weird?

👁️‍🗨️~14:00 7199-G, "Oscar's" work

👁️‍🗨️Burt is not just an old man or just Burt's lover!!! He's got more rebellion against Lumon in him than anyone else we've seen (bar Helly lol), but he's simultaneously got Irving's same temperament and the same love for Lumon's principles. A really interesting dichotomy that I think even Irv loses after Burt retires. He's independent and willing to bend rules but he still knows the rules front and back, still finds Kier and his mission beautiful. How interesting. Maybe he's actually the most intriguing guy here who's knows. I really hope he gets to be a bigger character in season two instead of being demoted.

👁️‍🗨️Also just going by phrasing, I don't think this was Burt's first time in the break room.

👁️‍🗨️It's just hitting me that there is a chance that Petey actually showed up to work reintegrated before he went into hiding??! Maybe the Petey that made the map was reintegrated. Maybe Innie!Petey never had a serious rebellious thought in his life (don't believe it for a second but still. it's a possibility. especially given that Reghabi just told us that there's an undefined period post-reintegration where you aren't affected by the sickness.)

👁️‍🗨️ honestly Dylan is kind of fucked up and horrifying 

👁️‍🗨️ Irving B. knows what a "tetanus toxoid panel" is

👁️‍🗨️~29:00 Dylan believes you and your outie are the same person, Irving believes that you are separate entirely from your outtie. Would love to see these differing world-views come back up again. Says a lot about them and might dictate their future actions.

👁️‍🗨️ The severed floor had a fire alarm the year before. I can't help but think that this might be important. & would love to know where the innies are shepherded to when there's a fire? Mark says Petey found it and then showed Mark, which also implies that they were separated during the alarm AND that they were walking around the hallways looking for other rooms way before Helly even arrived. So kind of refutes my straight laced Petey idea above. Which I'm so okay with.

👁️‍🗨️~31:00 Again, Irving breaks the laws and rules that he lets guide his entire life just and only for Burt 

👁️‍🗨️Helly is wearing solid yellow today despite always having something blue in her clothing up until this point. Mmm color symbolism. Last episode she was wearing a in between color, a mustardy brown shirt, also for the first time.

List time!

CL Department

CATHERINE. M #1176 🟨 -> 7510 🔺

MELISSA. Q #2021 🔸 -> #1266 🟪

DAN. S #7510 🔺 -> #9191

LUKE. T #0000 🟡 -> #0134 🔴

TYLER. S #0924 -> #4952

ANNA. L #1226 🟪 -> #3964 🟩 ⭐️ not severed at that time

WN Department

JASON. T #1224 🔹

ACE. H #1935 🟦 -> #2021 🔸

FRANK. A #5555 🔘

JONATHAN. A #1176 🟨 -> 7510 🔺

ALEEZA. D #3210 -> 8026

NICK. G #9891 🟤 -> #1288 ⚫️

JOE. H #2021 🔸 -> #1266 🟪

MADDY. L #1224 🔹

🔸 Share the same number.

🔹 "

🟨 "

MDR Department

Helly AND Irving #1112 ⭐️

Mark #5100

Dylan #1266 🟪

CE Department

KATHY. F #1288 ⚫️

SAM. E #7510 🔺

DEBBIE. D #1288 ⚫️ -> #5600

JULIA. B #0134 🔴

ALICE B. #9891 🟤

MATTHEW. B #0000 🟡

⚫️ Share the same number.

🟤 "

🔴 "

🟡 "

🔺 "

Another list of name is shown very blurry, the only thing that can be made out completely clear is #s: 1935 🟦, 3964 🟩, 1266 🟪 (⭐️ not currently severed), 5555 🔘 -> 8675, and another unsevered worker ⭐️. Potential department name is WBA.

🟩 Share the same number.

🟪 "

🟦 "

🔘 "

(Yes, I'm aware that they're probably just random props and if there IS thought behind this, it's just a cycle of a handful of set numbers. I had fun writing it all out anyway.)

👁️‍🗨️ The Security Terminal has a window for "GLOBAL SENSORS," meaning that not only do Kier's follows have some sort of planet-wide goal/surveillance purpose, but the Severed Floor of their Lumon company has a personal weight in it too.

👁️‍🗨️33:24 There are a total of 4 elevators that go down to the severed floor AND beyond. The floors we know are: 12. Machine, 11. EXEC STE, 10. SR. STE, 9. CONF. RM, 8. CONF. RM, 7. IT, 6. ACQ (a little blurry, could read something else), 5. DATA P., 4. NET.SYS. Floor 13 is listed but no title is given. The executive suite is where Cobel enters from.

👁️‍🗨️ The Severance Wikia has all the Security Operations lmao. Reference bc I'm tired of typing now! Nothing to analyze further there.

👁️‍🗨️??? Can't believe I've never thought about this before but very explicitly you need two people (one if you're Dylan G)  to be in security to activate the overtime procedure, but Milchick did it without Cobel's knowledge and presumably are on the same time Graner was dealing with her and Mark. Even if Graner was helping Milchick that night too,  either the custodial staff have a lot more power than we thought or there's still somebody walking around the halls that we haven't seen yet.

👁️‍🗨️ Hearing Irving curse is so delightful. Man can THROW DOWN you can just tell from his tone.

👁️‍🗨️ can't remember if they found this out earlier so could be wrong, but I think that Irving pieced together on his own that milchick wasn't severed and I think that's so sexy of him

👁️‍🗨️ Irving breaks because Burt is leaving but also moreso because he's faced with the actual reality of death. That is to say also that I'll Burt was the catalyst and crucible for Irv realizing he has his own soul <3

👁️‍🗨️ Milchick is just fucking done it's so hilarious.

👁️‍🗨️It really kills me that they just shake hands and that's it? Did they exchange words we didn't get to see or do they really just look at each other and say goodbye without the pain of goodbye 🥺

👁️‍🗨️ God. Mark and Gemma. He loved her so much it's scary. I remember when I first watched the show I didn't realize that that was also Dichen Lachman in the photograph at all for some reason, so the big reveal totally went over my head and I did not feel that emotional punch 😂 feeling it now though! And Billie Holliday to hit it home ;( I think it's interesting Mark's voice over during this part, obviously phrased like Ms. Casey's wellness sessions, but I don't know if that was just a stylistic choice for the viewers benefit to help connect the dots, or if it's actually an audio clip from some thing we haven't seen yet. 

All of my Severance thoughts and observations from my rewatch will go here 🥳

[tenthgrove]

can i order a uhhhh... a hc scenario with la squadra members where s/o is kidnapped by a rival gang/syndicate no matter if s/o is a stand user or not? you don't have to do all the members if you don't want to c:

La Squadra rescues their beloved

La Squadra (separate) x Reader, Romantic, SFW

They left this morning with menial business. A hit, no complicating factors, minimal difficulty. There was no cause for concern in leaving you to watch the base. You relaxed on the sofa, content in the promise of a date that night and unaware of the figures creeping towards you from behind. Maybe if you had known what was happening, you could have saved yourself, but even the most powerful stand users in Passione are useless when knocked out. The intruders dragged your unconscious body out the window and into the trunk of the waiting car. If their intel on you was correct, the weight of your loss would immobilize the assassins for days. If only they knew the lengths your love would go to to bring you back.

Formaggio- There’s no way to beat around the bush. Formaggio panics. While he doesn’t doubt the capacity of his team to break you out, that relies on them actually knowing where you are. And that’s going to take hours of slow, excruciating investigation. Formaggio doesn’t have time for that! His baby’s life is on the line! But then, the young man bearing the conditions of your release arrives at the hideout, and Formaggio gets an idea. They aren’t going to comply with the terms, but they aren’t going to take Ghiaccio’s idea of just killing the agent and his escorts either. Instead, as Risotto is sending them on their way, Formaggio slips himself into the agent’s bag. How kind of the man to give him a ride all the way back to the enemy’s hideout! Once there, Formaggio shrinks himself further to the size of a keyhole, and slips his way through doors until he reaches the dingy room you’re being kept in. He crawls into your lap and nudges you to wake up. You’re amazed and overjoyed, and spare no delay in letting him shrink you down as well so you can sneak out together. Your captors will never know what happened! After a couple days of recuperation, the two of you will be sure to return with the rest of the team to give the group who took you their payback. Formaggio wants them to know what happens to anyone who hurts his beloved, and he’s going to make sure the two of you have fun doing it.

Illuso- Illuso’s first concern is to balance the dangers of busting in to save you without adequate planning, with the dangers of leaving you alone too long. Fortunately, Illuso’s stand is perfect for observation without risk of being spotted, so it’s easy for him to spy on the enemy syndicate’s associates and follow the right leads until he finds you. Taking a prisoner from La Squadra di Esecuzione has everyone in the syndicate talking, so it’s only a matter of hours until Illuso collects the information he needs to find you. With that sorted, Illuso seeks you out and pulls you into the safety of the mirror world immediately so you can’t be harmed, but then, he’s going to fuck with your captors. The doors are barred from the outside and they find their colleagues disappearing one by one until suddenly, the hallways start to look wrong. It’s as though the layout of the building has been flipped somehow. Then they see the laughing figure approach them, and they know it’s too late. You watch this all go down from the safety of behind Illuso, content to watch your captors cower like children as your boyfriend avenges your imprisonment.

Prosciutto- For a day, there is silence. The success of their plan is almost surprising to your captors, who fully expected at least one reprisal from La Squadra by now. They’re ready to present the terms of your safe return when, another shock, Prosciutto beats them to it. He phones them up. In exchange for your safety, he promises to switch sides. Your captors are floored. He’s actually willing to take their deal without them even needing to hurt you? Perhaps he won’t be worth much to them at all if he’s this spineless! Nonetheless, they agree to a meet up. Prosciutto can come, but he has to come alone and with no weapons. They’re fully aware his stand is indiscriminate, so if they bring you to the meet-up, the risk of hurting you would render him powerless. Surely. When the meet up begins it seems Prosciutto has kept to his word. He is alone, free of any weapons and carrying nothing but a suitcase of ransom money to smooth things over. Everything goes as expected and you find yourself staring dumbstruck as Prosciutto so willingly signs away his loyalty to Passione. Finally, Prosciutto hands the leader of the enemy suitcase the briefcase. A token of goodwill, he assures him. The leader unlocks the latch and opens the case, and is hit by a wave of cold air. The case is packed with nothing but bags of ice. Your heart leaps. “(Y/N)! CATCH!” Prosciutto yells, ripping the suitcase back from the mobster’s hands and tossing it at you. As the confused mobsters try to make sense of what is going on, Prosciutto summons his stand and begins its deadly effect. You hurriedly stuff the ice bags down your clothes to save yourself, but nobody around you is in any state to make the connection. One by one, they wither and fall. Grateful Dead snaps into nothingness and Prosciutto lends you a hand, helping you to your feet.

Pesci- You’d think he’d freeze up. You’d think he would become paralysed and indecisive with the fear of losing you. But no. When Pesci realises what has happened to you, all he can feel is anger. Anger and resolve. He sits down immediately and begins compiling everything that is known about the group that took you, having no qualms with ordering about anyone who volunteers to help him. Within a couple of hours he knows where you most likely are and has a concrete plan to get you out. And yes, it involves a lot of blood. Pesci will accept help in getting you back, as he knows it increases your chances, but he still wants to be the one to avenge the wrongs against you. Make no mistake that Risotto and Prosciutto are only there for support. The unprepared kidnappers have no chance against Beach Boy, when Pesci’s insecurities are completely buried under an overwhelming desire to be back in your arms. The battle is over in minutes and Pesci is holding you tight, muttering that he’ll never let anyone harm you again. Prosciutto is proud of him, as are you.

Melone- Now this is somewhat fortunate. With your permission, Melone collected some of your DNA a while ago in case you ever became useful as an emergency mother or father for his stand. He doesn’t make a habit of tracking you, but with your profile saved to Baby Face’s memory he can activate that ability whenever he wishes, and have your location in a matter of minutes. Deciding that with your life on the line, there isn’t time for him to take the lengthy route of creating a junior to attack your captors, he calls on the help of the rest of the team to break you out by force. But even with Risotto or Ghiaccio leading the attack, Melone will still ask to come along just to be reunited with you all the sooner. He’s going to be at his absolute best in taking care of you after you’re safe, making sure you’re unharmed and reassuring you with his attention. In terms of revenge, Melone would like to see you take your own against your captors. If any were taken alive, he wants to see you make them pay.

Ghiaccio- There’s no sense of hesitation as Ghiaccio speeds out the front door the second he realises what happened. It’s a good thing that La Squadra already has some knowledge of the group that took you, because Ghiaccio’s going to make up his plan as he goes along. All he can think about is having you safe and alive, and those thoughts possess him as he goes from place to place, tearing up every known haunt of the syndicate holding you captive until he finds you. When he finally arrives at the correct place, your capturers know to expect him. They’ve increased their security to the max until there’s a veritable army present to greet him at the door. But it’s no match for White Album. Nothing is. Ghiaccio doesn’t stop running when he gets to you. He carries you in his arms at full speed all the way home, terrified of any small injury you might have gained. Your close-call will leave him shaken, and he’ll guard you very closely for a long time. However, there won’t be any talks of revenge. After Ghiaccio’s rampage, there is nobody in the enemy syndicate left to pursue.

Risotto- A darkness falls over Risotto’s eyes when he finds you missing. His mind is filled with regret- regret for not following up on this new enemy sooner and regret for leaving you alone while the rest of them went out. But the time for remorse will come later. Now, he’s going to get you out. He scowers his contacts for clues as to your whereabouts, and he’s not afraid to threaten anyone he suspects of being compliant with your capture to find out what he needs to know. Anyone in the building when Risotto arrives might as well already be dead; he’s not showing mercy to any of them. After ensuring your safety, Risotto has no need to finish things quickly, so your captors will be subject to slow, agonising deaths courtesy of Metallica. Risotto believes strongly in principles of revenge, so he invites you to take the finishing blows if you so wish. Once the enemy hideout is coated wall to wall in crimson, Risotto wordlessly picks you up, regardless of whether you’re hurt, and carries you home. He takes you to your shared room and cradles you gently until morning comes.

Sorbet and Gelato- When the team discovers what has happened Sorbet and Gelato share a silent, all-telling look. They disappear to their room shortly after and anyone who passes can hear the distinct noise of weapons being moved around and loaded. They leave the information gathering to those more suited, but as soon as your location is known they emerge from their room armed to the teeth, announcing that they’ll be leaving right this second regardless of who will be joining them. They ram down the gates of the enemy hideout with a car, before bursting in, firing off their guns at whoever is unfortunate enough to be near. Gelato keeps everyone occupied at the front of the house, while Sorbet takes the mildly more stealthy route to seek you out. When they find you, you’re struck by the fact they seem almost gleeful to be presented with the opportunity for such bloodshed. But make no mistake, they’re absolutely furious. Never have either of them had to deal with one of their lovers threatened to this extent. Like Risotto, they’ll be looking to make your kidnappers suffer, but it won’t be over so quickly for them. They’ll be dragging the worst offenders home, to be subject to their torment for however long they please. The rest of La Squadra knows better than to ask questions. When they aren’t down in the basement getting revenge against those who hurt them, they’ll be sandwiching you between them on the bed or the sofa, whispering words of affection into your ear. You’ll be lucky if they let you get up any time this year.

[nautilusopus]

Cloud adopts a cat. Or vice versa

for monkey's paw askbox fics

fuck you you KNEW where this was going to go this is selection bias

or

what's the opposite of that. coercion. bottlenecking. something. it's that.

fuck it, two birds one stone

The draft I wrote this on is named "fuck you kaley" just so you know

Cloud stared into the mirror and grimaced at what Cid had called "some kinda space puberty", which was entirely too generous of a word for it in Cloud's opinion. He had to actively work to keep his ears from flattening against his skull in order to take a look at them. 

A few days ago he could've hidden them in his hair, or worn a hat. Now, though, the large, fuzzy triangles sitting atop his head were far too noticeable for what they were. To say nothing of his tail. That he now had. Apparently. He had a tail now. 

He knew Hojo had done a lot more gene splicing with him than just Jenova, but he'd sort of figured that meant taking a gene that helped him produce more or less of a certain chemical, or improved his resistance to cold. Not... whatever this was. 

The ears he could sort of understand -- with them now much wider and on top of his head, able to swivel independently, his already enhanced hearing improved that much more. What advantage did the tail possibly offer, though? Aside from making chairs harder to sit in, or getting caught in doors, or making everyone stare at him because it was obvious they were absolutely dying to touch it, to see if it was real.

He could cut it off, probably -- but then, due to his healing factor and the fact that this was apparently coded into his DNA, it would just grow back. His ears were another matter; they wouldn't migrate back down to the sides of his head if he cut those off. And taking a blade to something attached to his head was just asking for trouble.

He glanced back at the bathroom door. He'd been locked in here for two hours, after Tifa had given one an experimental scratch and he'd leaned into her and actually started purring, to his complete and utter mortification. He'd have to go back out eventually. Someone was gonna have to use the toilet or something. 

It wasn't just the ears, though. Or even the tail. Nanaki had a tail and he managed just fine -- even gave Cloud some tips to help him keep it out of the way of slamming doors. Going out in public with cat ears and a tail wasn't the worst thing in the world when he already got looks for going out in public with his freak eyes. He'd been getting stares from disapproving strangers as long as he could remember. And at the end of the day, his family certainly didn't seem to mind. (Barret and Tifa had been entirely too enthusiastic about them, in fact.) They were either neutral or in-denial-about-not-being-neutral-leaning-towards-positive about the whole thing, and those were the only opinions he cared about anyway. 

They'd been neutral-to-positive about the skirts, and he'd been way more anxious to let them find out about that. In isolation, a tail really wasn't that bad.

But...

It was his body. It was his body, he'd fought tooth and nail for years to be able to say that. What would he look like in two years? In ten? Would he even be recognisable? At least Sephiroth had been born looking the way he had. 

It was the principle of the thing. He had purred earlier: How much of his body had changed internally to allow that without him even realising it until the tail had sprouted? Could he still eat fruit, or was he an obligate carnivore now? Even after all these years, he still didn't know exactly what had been done to him.

Maybe he could just decide to look different, the way things infected with Jenova could. But he'd never tried before, and there was no one left that could teach him, the way Nanaki could teach him how to have a tail. 

He rubbed the bridge of his nose with a heavy sigh and allowed his ears to flatten. And now he was thinking about the lifespan thing, and he really, really didn't want to have to think about the lifespan thing. 

It didn't do any good to think about the lifespan thing, he forcibly reminded himself even as he continued to think about it, when he was still young and wouldn't be visibly aging that much anyway. If he was lucky, he'd get to grow old along with his family the normal way. If he was a bit less lucky, he'd either die young from cancer, or after two or three centuries, both as a result of the enhancements as well. If it was the former, well... he could make his peace with that. If it was the latter, he'd get to keep Nanaki and Vincent company for a while, before eventually returning to the Planet to rest. 

Worst case scenario, he wound up like Jenova Herself, and just kept going. Until his loved ones, even Nanaki and Vincent, grew old and died, until he didn't even recognise the world anymore, much less himself. Until they were both too warped by time and all the hidden defects in the building blocks that made them up to be anything he could call home. Until the Planet itself crumbled into dust. Until -- 

One of his ears itched. Without even thinking, he flicked it a few times before reaching up to scratch it. Like a cat. Like a fucking cat. 

He took a deep breath, and let it out, and immediately felt stupid. Maybe he'd gradually devolve into a pile of meat over ten thousand years and maybe he wouldn't, and in the meantime he had no way of knowing and he was standing here in a bathroom panicking over his ears. 

He could deal with them first. Maybe Nanaki had tips. Though, Nanaki didn't bother to hide half his body language around them, since not many of them knew how to interpret a tail.

His own was puffed up and curled down between his legs, he realised. And, more to the point, he was going to have to cut holes in a lot of pairs of pants, unless he wanted to resign himself to the discomfort of sitting on it. 

That might not be a bad idea, he mused. Definitely an improvement over broadcasting how stressed out he was. 

"You're not coughing up hairballs in there, are you?" came a voice from outside the door. Cloud grunted. Yuffie. Figures it'd be her. 

"Yeah, laugh it up," he shot. "Out in a sec." He straightened up, and did his best to relax his tail, and then the rest of him. Just ears. Just a tail. Just more parts of his body.

Then he adjusted the collar of his maid outfit and stepped back outside. 

[makeste]

1.) I'll dislike it if it turns out that Best Jeanist is still alive since I don't see a scenario where Hawks not killing him makes sense, unless of course if it turns out that it was all staged before hand for the villains (for some reason). The reason why I think this is that Hawks pulled out his swords on BJ after saying "how unfortunate" when BJ say's he'll be going public again. To me this reads as the equivalents as you and a "friend" being together alone in your home.

see, I see it differently. to me, what doesn’t make sense is for Horikoshi to not show us the conclusion of that flashback scene even after Hawks kills Twice. like, if he originally intended for it to build up suspense at the start of this arc, back when we weren’t sure whether or not Hawks would go through with it, that’s one thing. that actually played out beautifully. but to leave Jeanist’s fate up in the air even after Twice’s death makes no sense to me in a scenario where Jeanist is actually dead. at that point there’s no reason to keep it hidden anymore. we know Hawks is a murderer; we know how far he’s willing to go to complete his mission. so at that point there’s no longer any narrative purpose in leaving it ambiguous, right?

like, so we’ve got this mystery. did Hawks kill Jeanist or not? and there are only two possible outcomes. either the twist is that he did kill him, thus stunning the readers with the reveal that a hero would actually go so far as to kill another hero; or the twist is that he didn’t kill him, in which case the payoff comes later, when Jeanist makes a surprise entrance revealing that he’s still very much alive.

as far as the first of those two outcomes is concerned, there’s no longer any reason to keep Jeanist’s death a “secret” now if that’s the case. we’ve already seen his body. we’ve already seen Hawks kill someone else. what possible reason is there for Horikoshi to still be cryptic about it? we already know he’s not above showing us VERY detailed and gory and plain fucked-up things in character flashbacks, so it’s not like he’s barred from showing it to us because it’s too controversial or disturbing. there is just no reason I can think of why he would be so deliberately wishy-washy about it for so long only to have the eventual twist be “yes actually he really has been dead this whole time.”

but if the payoff is instead meant to be “surprise he’s actually alive!!”, then it makes perfect sense to not reveal it beforehand. in this case Twice’s death only adds to the twist and makes it that much more of a surprise. and imo it’s a much more satisfying outcome, and much more consistent with what we know about Hawks’s character. there’s all this talk about how this twist makes him “less morally gray”, as if moral ambiguity is something all characters should aspire to, but what this shows instead is that his morals are consistent, which is much more important to character-building in the long run. Hawks is someone who can see and understand the big picture and figure out the best action to take for the objective, logical greater good. but he is also someone who’s still fueled by his emotions enough that he’ll put the Greater Good at risk in order to try and do what he thinks is the right thing. and so he almost blows his cover at Fukuoka because he helps Endeavor battle the High End Noumu, and he does blow his cover at Gunga Mountain and is nearly killed by Dabi because he tries to arrest and capture Twice rather than killing him. it’s not until he has no other choice that he finally does the deed, and he pays dearly for it.

it is entirely in character for Hawks, when faced with a situation where the Greater Good requires him to make a sacrifice that doesn’t sit right with his conscience, to instead attempt some risky and convoluted “fuck it, let’s see if we can fool ‘em” solution which puts the whole operation at risk, but which allows him to spare the life of a man who’s done nothing wrong. the hubris of Hawks’s character is that because he’s so clever and is usually one step ahead of everyone else, he tries to have it both ways, and attempts to simultaneously stick to his principles and be faithful to his mission, and eventually that’s what does him in. you can’t be a walking, talking Icarus allegory and not expect your wings to eventually be burned off by the metaphorical sun.

anyway. so this outcome ultimately makes a whole lot more sense to me, ngl. as for why Hawks pulled out his feather sword when he was talking to Jeanist, I don’t know! we literally cut off right after that! almost as if whatever action or line of dialogue immediately followed that scene would have explained everything, and so is being withheld from us for exactly that reason lmao. it absolutely is a very odd thing to do while chatting with your friend; but speaking of said chat, let’s take another look at the dialogue here.

Jeanist says he’s planning to step back into the public eye shortly, and Hawks replies with, “that’s too bad.” of course we’re immediately meant to jump to the conclusion of “WTF, JEANIST, RUN,” but there’s another possible interpretation, which is that Hawks is apologizing because he’s about to explain to Jeanist that he’s gonna have to put a rain check on those plans. the sword might simply be his not-so-subtle way of saying “okay you better listen up you beautiful bedenimed man, because shit’s about to get real, and you’re either going to have to go along with the completely ridiculous plan that I am about to propose, or else I am going to have to straight up kill you, which I do not under any circumstances want to do.”

at which point Jeanist is presumably all “okay calm down kid wtf”, and Hawks proceeds to explain how they’re gonna take some random John Doe body from the county morgue and have one of the HPSC’s people use their quirk to transform the body into a perfect clone of Jeanist using a sample of Jeanist’s DNA or something. or whatever secret agent bullshit they pulled out of a hat in order to fool Dabi and the rest of the League. only we don’t see any of it, because Horikoshi does not want us to see any of it, because it would have removed too much of the tension and suspense from the Hawks spy arc.

this to me makes sense. it makes sense with what we know of Hawks’s character, and doesn’t sacrifice all of the work that Horikoshi put into writing his arc for the sake of cheap shock value. it builds on the conflict between Hawks’s own personal morals and the things he is asked to do by the HPSC for the sake of the Greater Good that don’t always sit well with him. it leaves room for the continuation of that arc as more of the HPSC’s secrets come to light, and as the heroes face widespread criticism in the wake of the Jakku disaster, which seems more and more inevitable. and, as a bonus, it provides an unexpected yet plausible last minute save for the heroes against Gigantomachia and Tomura and the rest. because it’s honestly going to take a miracle for them to make it out otherwise at this point lol.

anyway, so I think it works! we’re still missing some pieces here obviously, but all in all I’m more than willing to give Horikoshi the benefit of the doubt until he fills us in on whatever we’ve missed. I just wish we didn’t have to wait two weeks until the next chapter yet again sob, but such is manga-reading life.

[lambourngb]

Ooooooh an update on the This Hard Love series ☺️☺️🧡🧡 ?

I have literally 3 more scenes to write to wrap this up- it’s so close but I’m also trying to finish my rough draft of my big bang by Wed night... so hopefully I can get this finished off next weekend. 🤞

Here’s the last scene I wrote: 

****

“It’s been too long, what if she’s hurting him? Do we even know what the long term effects are on humans with alien mind control-”

Michael winced at Max’s annoyed glance, reminded again how little his brother thought of Kyle Valenti, past and present, before placing his hand on Kyle’s arm to attempt to calm him. Seated stiffly in one of the formal dining room chairs, knee to knee with Isobel, was Jim Valenti, currently caught in her mindspace as she examined his intentions. Candles were lit all around lending an otherworldly glow to the scene.

Meanwhile, Alex was in the kitchen on the phone to an electrician, while Max’s partner Jenna Cameron swept up the broken glass from the ceiling pod lights. The revelation that his boss was aware of who and what he was triggered what Michael called a ‘Max Special’.

“Hey remember Coach Collins?” Michael prodded Kyle.

Not taking his eyes off the scene in front of him, Kyle replied distractedly, “What?”

“You wanted to know about the long term effects on humans, I’m tryin’ to tell you. Isobel never attended gym class for a reason and Coach Collins is just fine.”

“Are you telling me your alien sister- wait, of course she would. She was also homecoming queen as a freshman.” 

Michael squeezed Kyle’s arm in acknowledgment before letting go. “See? You’ve got nothin’ to worry about.”

“Unless your dad is planning to round us up,” Max put in quietly with crossed arms. The secret expanding to include three more people was still not sitting well, even though Max had been somewhat resigned in knowing that Alex was one of three. Their past relationship, the way Alex had helped temper Michael’s feelings toward Max after graduation, had bought a lot of goodwill with Max.

“He’s not,” Isobel replied, suddenly coming out of her still trance. She immediately reached for her handbag to dig out a bottle of nail polish remover to drink from, causing Kyle to make an aborted move to stop her. “We’re not considered threats in his opinion, we’ve been too humanized by our adopted parents. Michael was on the radar for a little while after high school, but-” Isobel gestured toward the kitchen where Alex’s voice was barely audible. “True love mellowed him out, neutered him so to speak.”

“Isobel, that’s- you’re taking that out of context,” Jim protested, as he rubbed his eyes tiredly, ducking the concern from Kyle. “When you kids were found, of course I knew what you were, but I never said anything to the Project. You were all so frightened, but trusting. I thought, violence is learned in a lot of ways. Sp Michelle and I did our best to find you good homes-”

“Seriously? Fucking nature versus nuture shit?” Michael took a deep breath trying to push down the sudden rage. “Your principles suck man, you let me, the fucked up and agitated one, the one was scrawling on the walls, rot in the foster care system. I was considered too much work to be adoptable, you’re lucky I’m not a serial killer after what humans put me through.” Abruptly he realized that Alex was at his side again, a comforting strength to lean on. 

It was Jim’s turn to frown, “Michael, you weren’t the one considered unadoptable at the group home.” His dark eyes flickered toward his protege and back to Michael. Max pushed himself away from the wall, his arms uncrossing slowly as the meaning sank in.

“It’s true, I saw it in his mind,” Isobel smiled sadly. “Max was the wild one, but you took the crayon from him, Michael. You took the blame.”

“Ann and Dave are good people, I knew that they could handle Max, raise him with love and understanding, and they did.” Jim straightened, his shoulders firming in resolve and meeting Max’s wounded expression, “You’re a good man, Max. I’ve watched you grow up and be a fine police officer, honorable to the core. You may not like what I did, but I stand by it.”

“Right,” Max spat out with a thick voice, “I’ve been blaming myself my whole life for leaving Michael behind, feeling guilty that I got the family, and you’re telling me that I was right to feel that way, that it was my fault.”

Michael cleared his throat, feeling Alex nudge his shoulder gently as his mind raced over the possibilities. The familiar irritation of past fights flared up, sparked as always by Max wanted to martyr himself over Michael’s life. Old feelings stirred with the new information, wounds that still bled slowly inside, raked rawly anew. The time to deal with that was after.

“We can debate our fucked up family dynamics later, the important issue is there’s a prison full of our people being held by the military and we need to figure out how to save them.” The focus of the group returned to Jim Valenti, as Michael stepped closer to the sheriff. 

“Um, before we move off of fucked up family dynamics, why did you decide to kill my dad now after all these years? He’s been a monster from day one, which you knew, so I’m just curious about the timing.”

The Sheriff shifted in the chair, as Kyle leaned forward with interest. Once again, Isobel spoked up, “He got tired of being blackmailed by your dad, Alex.”

“Blackmail?” Kyle echoed.

This time, Jim beat Isobel to the disclosure, getting up to approach his son directly. “You know I’m not a perfect man, that I made mistakes in the past, and Jesse knew-”

“I know you cheated on Mom, okay?”

“There was a child-”

“Wait, I have a sibling?”

“Had a sibling. Yes. She was murdered in 2008 by an alien.”

Michael bit his cheek deeply, not daring to look at Max as the penny dropped for him during the tense exchange between Jim and Kyle Valenti. The source of Jesse Manes’s hold on Jim Valenti was Rosa Ortecho. He wondered if Liz had known that her high school boyfriend and her sister shared a father. That was drama on the level of a morning talk show that sported thrown chairs and DNA test revelations. 

[bodytoflame-ao3]

born for this // two

a series of moments in the life of one lyra jackson-chase

read from the beginning // AO3 Link

v //

“She’s crying again, Percy.” Annabeth yawns, refusing to open her eyes. No one told her she’d still be waking up in the middle of the night with a one year old.

He kisses her forehead, and rolls off the bed. “I got it.”

She thinks about how lucky she is — to have him; to have this beautiful part of both of them. The thoughts calm her — she’s almost back to sleep when she hears a thud, jolting upright and alert immediately. “What is it?”

“Sorry,” Percy rushes to her side, “I just stubbed my toe.”

“No monsters?”

“No monsters, Annabeth.” At least not tonight. “Everything’s okay.”

And it is, for a little while.

vi //

They do come. Once, twice; as she gets older, they lose count. Sometimes they’re real, sometimes they’re not.

“Daddy.” Percy can barely see Lyra rubbing her eyes in the shadow of the doorframe, tottering over to his side of the bed, only illuminated by the moonlight and light pollution.

He whispers, trying not to wake Annabeth (as he knows it’s hard enough for her to get to sleep once), “What’s wrong, baby?”

“Monsters.”

It’s silent, save for the ever-present hum of the city that his ears have learned to regard as background noise. There’s no monsters tonight.

“C’mere.” He scoops her up, tucking her in tight under the covers in the middle of their bed. “You just had a bad dream.”

vii //

Tonight, it’s gorgons. It’s nothing they haven’t dealt with before, and it won’t be the last time, but after he’s stowed Riptide back in his pocket, Percy feels an intense wave of exhaustion roll over him. It feels like he’s just going through the motions, fight after fight; living each day wondering if they’ll get any sleep. 

“Annabeth.” Percy’s hand ghosts over her shoulder blade, seeing the rapidly forming bruise peeking out of her tank top. She winces. “Sorry.”

She turns to face him, taking his hand, “It’s okay. I love you.” It’s going to hurt, and she knows that — but it’s better than the pain she would feel seeing her daughter get hurt. She could get a paper cut, or a splinter, or some other normal kid injury, and Annabeth would have to hold back tears just to bandage her up. This pain is as familiar as her own skin, and she knows how to deal with it. So she will.

Percy squeezes her hand softly, and kisses her cheek. “I love you.” Just saying it brings a sense of peace to his tired body.

“I’m gonna go make sure she’s okay.” If they’re lucky, she’s fallen back asleep. If not...

Lyra runs straight to her, towing a blanket draped over her head, and clings to Annabeth’s leg, crying. She must’ve had a real scare.  

“It’s okay. It’s gone.” Annabeth scoops her up, and holds her close, fingers threaded through soft brown curls. “You’re safe now.”

Lyra’s sniffles grow quieter; more infrequent as she calms in her mother’s arms. “Gone?”

“All gone, baby. I promise.” She lays her down into her bed, tucking her tightly into a sea of blankets.

Annabeth sings her to sleep, and as Percy stands in the doorway, still brushing dirt off his clothes, he thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.

She gets up, smiling when she notices him, and the awed look on his face, “What?”

“I never knew you could sing like that. Thirteen years and I never knew how beautiful your voice is.”

Annabeth has no idea how to respond. All she knows for sure is how eternally grateful she is for him, and the life they’ve built together; and they’re safe, and alive, and happy, most of the time, and that’s all that matters. So she wraps her arms around him, strong and tight, and tries to hold back the tears that threaten to come. They both cry for everything they still don’t know.

viii //

“I hope you realize, this is extremely unprecedented.”

“You’re telling me we’re the only demigod couples to ever have kids?” Piper raises an eyebrow.

“Not the only, but one of the few.” Chiron pauses, leaving it to them to come to a conclusion as to why. It’s not something they want to dwell on. “And certainly not any of such… heritage.” He glances toward Percy and Jason. “When you all were born you received half of each parent’s DNA — in your case, half god, half mortal. The same principles apply to your children. With the way we’ve seen their powers develop already, at such young ages, I believe Calliope and Lyra may have a greater percentage of godly blood. I can’t say with any certainty just how much or from who — I’m sure we’ll see their powers grow with time — but I fear this is going to put them in danger. There’s a prophecy—”

“No,” Percy says, firm, “I don’t want to hear about another fucking prophecy.”

Annabeth smooths her hand against his back. “Percy…”

“I won’t let her grow up the same way we did.” His voice cracks as he finishes his sentence, trying to hide how upset the idea makes him.

She holds him closer. “I know.”

Chiron continues, “I’m afraid there’s not much I can tell you. It’s incredibly vague, as these things tend to be. A warning of descendants of powerful gods from two sides.”

“You thought it was us,” Jason says, “Percy and me. That’s why you wanted to see us.”

“Correct. It seems, though…”

“They shouldn’t see each other.” Annabeth juts in, quiet. “Lyra can already spill her sippy cups when she’s upset, and Piper’s seen Callie make people’s hair stand on end. That’s not a good combination.”

Piper looks like she’s about to speak up, but Jason takes her hand. “She’s probably right. It’s too dangerous.” She knows it is. It doesn’t make it any harder. When she found out Annabeth was pregnant all she could think about was how wonderful it would be to watch them grow up alongside each other.

“I want to hear it,” Piper says, loud and clear, demanding. “The prophecy.”

ix //

“Fuck,” Percy swears, wincing.

“Stay still.” She threads the needle between the edges of the laceration with a steady hand. It’s like her brain completely shuts off, its only directive to stitch him back together. “You wouldn’t be sitting here if you’d listened when I said to double back.” She know she sounds bitter, but her words are so disconnected from her thoughts, they feel foreign in her mouth.

“I thought I had enough time.”

“Percy,” she warns, “Don’t scare me like that. When you get overconfident you get reckless. You know that.” I know. I do too.

“I know, but— ow —if we get sloppy that’s just putting her in danger.”

Annabeth pauses, tying the last stitch off without another word. The silence doesn’t last long. “Maybe we should tell her.” It all feels selfish, like she's a bad mom just for thinking it. They’re her parents — it’s their job to protect her, not the other way around. But it’s painful to keep fighting, after so many years. “I wouldn’t have to worry about losing you like this. We could take her somewhere safe.”

“Annabeth… She’s 6. I don’t want her to have to carry that weight until it’s absolutely necessary.” This little girl is everything to him. He sees so much of himself in her, and every second they have to talk about the prophecy, it hurts him.

Annabeth stays silent; he’s right, even if she doesn’t want to say it out loud. And she hurts, too. So she nods — she never wanted to lie to her, ever. But this is too much to put on the shoulders of a child. One just as little as she was. She wishes someone would’ve considered that when she was young.

x //

“Are you two coming up for lunch anytime soon?” Annabeth rolls her eyes, standing at the edge of the lake. “It’s been half an hour.”

Percy surfaces, Lyra right behind him, giggling profusely.

“Did Daddy say something funny?” She raises an eyebrow, glaring at Percy.

“Daddy talks to the fish.” It sounds more like fith. She smiles wide, a toothy grin showing off her missing front teeth.

“Great,” she stares right into his soul, trying not to let on the slight bit of amusement it brings her, “She thinks you’re crazy.”

A tenet of her limited attention span, Lyra starts playing with her powers, splashing about, seemingly not paying any attention to their conversation.

He protests, “She just figured out the bubble thing, I had to show her something new!”

“And does she understand them, Percy?”

His face falls. “Uh. No. I see your point,” he laughs. It seemed she hadn’t inherited that particular power from him. “She’s pretty amused by this, though.”

Tens of tiny blobs of water circle her, weaving around Percy, up into the air, and back into the lake.

“It took you a long time to be able to do stuff that precise,” Annabeth notes, wading into the water up to her ankles and handing him a sandwich from her bag.

“Yeah. It did.”

xi //

“How come you never told me about this?”

“Because it’s scary.”

“I can handle scary.”

Annabeth sighs, “I heard the Great Prophecy for the first time when I was your age.” It kept her awake with nightmares far too often, knowing she’d eventually be a part of it — which is why she’s so reluctant to tell these things to Lyra, despite knowing how important it is that she knows. “I spent two years waiting for a sign until I finally got one. He was annoying, and dense, and the son of my mother’s biggest rival. And then he was my friend — my best friend. Someone who was loyal to me no matter what. I wouldn’t change that for the world.” Not when it’s brought her here. “But we had to make a lot of hard decisions. And I—” She shakes her head. “I know you don’t completely understand.” Annabeth never intended her to. “I need you to know that it’s not always going to be easy.”

xii //

“I’m 11 now,” Lyra states, with an air of unparalleled confidence, “I can keep secrets.”

“Hey,” Percy says, patting her back, “We trust you. It’s just a big change.”

She crosses her arms. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“That also means you can’t use your powers,” Annabeth says, handing Lyra her lunchbox.

“I know.” You told me. Many times.

Annabeth kisses her cheek, pretending she doesn’t see her dramatically wipe her face off with the back of her hand mere seconds later. “Okay. I love you. Tell me all about it later.”

Percy walks her out the door, and down to the subway stop. They stand, and wait. “So, middle school. Kind of a big deal?” He sure thought so.

“I guess,” she shrugs. “I’m excited to make friends.” It’s the one thing that sucked about being homeschooled. She knows, as they’ve told her so many times, it was for her protection, because she never was able to completely control her powers as a kid. But the only kids she��s ever really known otherwise are other demigods; and what fleeting interactions she had with them while visiting Camp. And they weren’t like her, not really.

Percy reaches out his arms as the car doors open, beckoning her for a hug. She wraps her arms as far as they’ll reach around him, as tight as she can. So he holds her close against his chest for as long as he knows the doors will remain open, “You got this.”

xiii //

“Keep your feet apart. Knees bent.” Annabeth instructs her, feet firmly planted in the grass, beckoning for Lyra to follow.

Lyra clutches the sword, an iron-clad grip Annabeth recognizes from when she was this age — still too young to fully understand the weight of what she was doing, but old enough to feel the fear that came with the inherent danger of every battle she fought. “Loosen your grip.” Lyra follows, feeling the handle bounce with her new stance. “There you go.”

“Now remember, be ready to move. Stay on the balls of your feet.” That got her last time. And it had plagued Annabeth many times — feeling frozen, for even with a plan, there were so many unpredictable variables within combat.

Lyra nods, and takes a tentative swing, blocked by Annabeth. She staggers back, preparing a counterattack. Her blade catches against Lyra’s before she even gets close. “Good. Nice block,” Annabeth says, directing Lyra’s sword away with her sheer strength. “Now try for a hit.”

“You’re too quick.” Lyra breathes heavily, clearly intensely focused and growing weary. She blocks again, against her advice.

“No, you’re doing great. Keep going.” Annabeth encourages her, gearing up to test her reflexes. “Find an opening.”

She almost takes Annabeth by surprise; going on the offensive with such short notice. Her swing aims low, and Annabeth has to think quick, readjusting her stance to block the incoming blow. “You’re getting really good at this.”

Lyra sighs, her sword swinging at her side. “Thanks.”

xiv //

“Zeph! Lemme in!” Lyra’s voice sounds over the intercom, and he buzzes her up.

“Why is it always my place?” Zephyr asks, opening the door right as she’s about to knock.

“Our apartment is tiny,” Lyra shrugs, squeezing past him in the doorway. And we have a truly impressive stash of weaponry in the coat closet which I’d rather not have to explain.

“So. Graduation’s only a few weeks away.” he says. “Are you excited? For high school?”

“I don’t know. I guess.” It doesn’t seem like that big of a change. Same kinds of classrooms, cinderblock hallways; the usual cliques and groups. The same tendencies of teachers to constantly breathe down her neck about assignments and paying attention, despite her accommodations. She sinks into the couch, feeling the relief of taking her backpack off.

“That doesn’t seem very enthusiastic.”

“I just hate the drama. Did you see what they did to Jenna Thompson the other day?”

“Jenna hates you, Ly,” he laughs.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean she deserves to get gum stuck in her hair,” Lyra mumbles, hugging her knees into a ball. Sure, she’s a menace and has never said a single nice word to Lyra, but she doesn’t wish ill on her for it. Everyone’s got their own shit, bullies included, and she’s trying her best to ignore it. Plus, she already got what she deserved.

“She called you—”

Her head snaps up to stare at him. “I know what she called me, I don’t need to hear it from you too.”

“Sorry. I just… I don’t understand how you can…” he sighs, “It just makes me so angry I—”

“Let’s just. Talk about something else.” She takes a deep breath, shifting the topic. “How’d you do on your finals?”

“Pretty good. Got straight B’s. Bombed the English essay though. And you know I killed that science project. So yeah, average all around.”

“As if you would ever get anything less than an A+. How’s the tomato plants?” He’s always liked gardening. Especially to bring a cold, industrial apartment to life. And of course it’d earn him an A — he knew how to take care of them, even in such a cramped space.

“Just picked ‘em yesterday. You ever had homemade ketchup?”

Her eyes widen. “No. You better have some left!”

“Of course I do. Meanwhile, I’m guessing you aced everything—”

“Except math,” they say, at the same time, bursting into laughter.

“Yeah. You know me.”

“Sure do.” He grabs a plate from the kitchen, setting it down on the coffee table. “All homegrown. I present to you, gourmet french fries and ketchup.”

She tastes it. “That’s… amazing.”

“You know you only like me for the food.”

“You’re gonna be on some Top Chef shit, or something,” she chuckles, imagining it. “And not true!”

“Yeah, you’re gonna miss me this summer. But especially the food.”

“I wish you didn’t have to visit your mom all summer.”

Zeph sighs. “I know. But it’ll be over before you know it.”

xv //

“I can’t do this, Percy. I can’t keep pretending this is okay. It’s getting worse. They’re getting stronger. We can’t keep doing this.”

“Annabeth,” he sighs, and she can hear the sheer exhaustion in his voice. “We have to.”

“And what happens if we get seriously hurt?” I can’t lose you. Her body aches, scrapes and bruises staining a fair amount of her skin, even with the ambrosia. She feels defeated, and battered. And there’s only so much she can hide with long sleeves and pants. It’s been a week of fending off monsters everywhere she goes, sometimes without their help; it hurts them to see the marks on her body from fighting.

“Better us than her.”

She doesn’t disagree, but it’s more than that. She can’t lose us. “Percy, look at me.” He does. “You know what we have to do.”

He sighs, staring out the window to study the city skyline. “I just thought we had more time.”

“It’s longer than either of us had,” Annabeth reminds him.

Percy lets the concept of two more years sink in, and it hits him hard. Two more years of normalcy. Of not fighting for his life. “Okay. But... let her have her birthday.” It’s the least he can do when there’s so much anxiety centered around his own. She deserves a day for herself.

“Okay.” Annabeth echoes, quieter. “Come here?” He slides into bed and wraps his arms tightly around her; stubble pricking at her neck as he curls up closer. She fits so perfectly into his embrace, like the curves of her body were made to fit against him. Like he was made to hold her.

“She’ll be alright.” She has to be.

Part Three