#so if you’re saying that he’s a well written unlikable character?

[chiyuuchu]

I love ur posts! Can u do more bakugou content?

weight of the world upon her voice <3 (7th August 2024)

Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

Prompt! A mute girl with the loudest voice

a/n my second ask! i’m so glad

Bakugou sat in his usual seat, arms crossed and eyes closed, trying to tune out the usual morning chatter of Class 1-A. The door slid open, and Aizawa-sensei walked in, followed by a girl he hadn’t seen before. She was petite with expressive eyes and an aura of quiet determination.

“This is Y/N,” Aizawa announced. “She’s new to our class. I expect you all to help her adjust.”

Y/N gave a small bow, her hands moving quickly in a series of gestures. The class looked on in confusion until Bakugou, surprisingly, stood up.

“She says, ‘Thank you for having me,’” he translated, his voice gruff but clear.

The class murmured in surprise, not expecting Bakugou to know sign language. He glared at them. “What? You think I’m an idiot or something?”

Throughout the day, Y/N struggled to communicate with her classmates. Kirishima and Mina tried their best, but the gestures were foreign to them. Bakugou, however, stepped in frequently, translating her signs with impatient ease.

“She’s asking if you can pass the salt,” Bakugou snapped at Sero during lunch.

“Wow, Bakugou. Didn’t know you could sign,” Kaminari said, impressed.

“Yeah, well, now you know. Pay attention, idiots.”

Y/N smiled gratefully at Bakugou, who simply shrugged it off with a grumble.

When Aizawa announced battle training for the day, everyone was curious about Y/N’s quirk. She’d been so quiet, they wondered what kind of power she possessed. Paired up against Kaminari, she stepped into the training arena with a calm expression.

The match began, and Kaminari launched his electric attacks. Y/N dodged gracefully, her movements precise. Then, she stopped, her eyes locking onto Kaminari’s. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.

Kaminari froze, his eyes wide in shock. He dropped to his knees, clutching his head. “What’s going on?” he muttered.

“She’s... speaking in his mind?” Midoriya realized aloud.

Y/N’s quirk allowed her to project her voice directly into her opponent’s mind, issuing commands that they couldn’t resist. Kaminari, under her influence, stood still, unable to fight back.

“Her quirk’s incredible,” Todoroki said, watching intently.

Bakugou smirked, crossing his arms. “Told you idiots she was tough.”

After the match, Y/N approached Bakugou. She signed a quick thank you, but this time, she added something more.

“You’re welcome,” Bakugou replied, then translated for the rest of the class, “She says she’s grateful for my help and that she’s glad to have met all of you.”

Y/N looked at Bakugou with appreciation. They had a unique understanding, a connection that didn’t require words. For Bakugou, it was more than just knowing sign language; it was about recognizing strength and resilience in someone who communicated differently.

As the weeks passed, Y/N integrated more into the class, with Bakugou often acting as her unofficial interpreter. Despite his usual rough demeanor, he showed a softer side when it came to helping her. The class began to respect him more, seeing a new dimension to his character through his interactions with Y/N.

In Y/N, Bakugou found a kindred spirit. She was quiet but powerful, and her presence challenged him in ways he hadn’t expected. It wasn’t long before their classmates realized that this unlikely friendship was built on mutual respect and understanding, making their bond unbreakable.

During a lunch break, the class gathered around a table, curiosity written on their faces. Kaminari was the center of attention, animatedly describing Y/N’s voice to those who hadn't experienced her quirk firsthand.

“So, what’s her voice like?” Mina asked, leaning in closer.

Kaminari smiled, recalling the battle training. “It’s really soft-spoken and gentle. It feels like someone whispering directly into your mind. It’s kind of surreal.”

Uraraka's eyes widened. “That sounds amazing! I wish I could hear it.”

Jirou nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I’m curious too. We should ask her to use her quirk again.”

Later that morning, as Y/N entered the classroom, she was met with a sea of eager faces. Bakugou, noticing the unusual excitement, raised an eyebrow.

Kirishima approached her with a gentle smile. “Hey, Y/N. We were all wondering if you could... use your quirk so we could hear your voice?”

Y/N blinked, surprised by the request. She looked around at her classmates, who all nodded encouragingly.

“Please?” Mina added, her hands clasped together in a pleading gesture.

With a shy smile, Y/N nodded. She focused her energy, her quirk activating as she prepared to speak. The room fell silent, everyone leaning in with anticipation.

"Hello, everyone," her voice echoed softly in their minds, gentle and calming. "It's nice to be here with all of you."

A collective gasp of awe filled the room. Uraraka's eyes sparkled with delight. “Wow, that’s incredible!”

Tsuyu nodded. “It’s like she’s speaking directly to our hearts.”

Bakugou, who had already experienced her voice during spar one time , watched the reactions of his classmates with a tiny smile. He was proud of how far Y/N had come in earning their acceptance and admiration.

From that day on, the class felt an even stronger bond with Y/N. They appreciated her uniqueness and the effort she put into communicating with them. The more they learned about her, the more they admired her strength and resilience.

And for Bakugou, seeing Y/N become a cherished member of their class only deepened his feelings for her. She wasn’t just a girl with a powerful quirk; she was someone who brought out the best in everyone around her, including him.

As the days turned into weeks, the class gradually began to pick up bits and pieces of sign language. Y/N often found herself smiling at their efforts, touched by their willingness to communicate with her.

During lunch one day, Kirishima approached her with a hesitant smile. "Hey, Y/N," he said slowly, his hands moving awkwardly but clearly. "How... are... you?"

Y/N beamed and signed back quickly. Kirishima's eyes widened, and he turned to Bakugou for help.

“She said, ‘I’m good, thank you. How are you?’” Bakugou translated with a roll of his eyes. “Seriously, shitty hair, try to keep up.”

Mina joined in, her hands forming the sign for “friend.” She looked to Y/N for confirmation, who nodded enthusiastically. “Friend,” Mina repeated, grinning.

During a lesson, Aizawa decided to incorporate sign language into their curriculum. “It’s important for heroes to communicate in all forms,” he explained. “Today, we’ll learn some basic signs.”

The class was eager to learn, and Aizawa taught them common phrases and terms related to their training. Y/N stood at the front, demonstrating each sign with patience.

“Hero,” she signed, her hand forming an ‘H’ and making a motion over her chest. The class mimicked her, some more successfully than others.

“Villain,” she signed next, her expression serious. Again, the class followed her lead.

Midoriya was particularly focused, taking notes and practicing diligently. “This is really useful,” he muttered to himself. “I’m glad we’re doing this.”

During the break time in class, Uraraka and Tsuyu approached Y/N with shy smiles. “Can you teach us how to sign ‘good job’?” Uraraka asked.

Y/N nodded, demonstrating the sign. Uraraka and Tsuyu practiced a few times, then turned to each other and signed, “Good job.”

Y/N clapped her hands, proud of their progress. Bakugou watched from a distance, a small smile tugging at his lips. It was gratifying to see his classmates making an effort for Y/N.

In the common room one evening, the entire class gathered for a movie night. As the credits rolled, Y/N and Bakugou found themselves sitting together, the glow of the TV illuminating their faces.

“Hey, Y/N,” Kaminari called out from across the room. He made the sign for “thank you,” albeit a bit clumsily.

Y/N giggled and signed back, “You’re welcome.” Bakugou translated for him, and Kaminari grinned, pleased with himself.

As the night wore on, more and more students tried out their new skills, creating a sense of unity and understanding within the class. They were no longer just learning a new language; they were building bridges and forging stronger bonds with Y/N.

And for Bakugou, seeing Y/N become an integral part of the class was more satisfying than he could have ever imagined.

One evening, the Bakusquad gathered in Y/N’s room for a study session. Textbooks were spread out across the floor, and the air was filled with a mix of chatter and the occasional groan of frustration over complex problems.

As the night wore on, one by one, the others began to leave. Kaminari was the first to go, complaining about needing sleep. Kirishima left next, followed by Mina and Jirou, until only Bakugou and Y/N remained.

Y/N glanced up from her notes, watching Bakugou as he continued to read his textbook with intense focus. She hesitated for a moment before using sign language to ask him a question that had been on her mind.

"How do you know sign language?" she signed, her hands moving gracefully.

Bakugou looked up, surprise flickering across his face. He hesitated before responding, his voice quieter than usual. "My mentor, Best Jeanist, taught me."

Y/N’s curiosity was piqued. She signed back, "Why?"

Bakugou sighed, running a hand through his hair. "He said if my quirk keeps damaging my ears, it could lead to deafness. He wanted to make sure I could still communicate if that happened."

Y/N's eyes widened with understanding and empathy. She reached out, placing a hand on his arm, offering silent support.

Bakugou looked down at her hand on his arm, feeling a warmth spread through him. For a moment, they sat in silence, the gravity of his words hanging in the air.

"You’re amazing, Bakugou," Y/N signed with a gentle smile. "Thank you for sharing that with me."

Bakugou’s usual scowl softened slightly. "Yeah, well, don't go spreading it around," he muttered, but there was no real bite to his words.

They continued studying together, a comfortable silence enveloping them. In that quiet room, with only the sound of pages turning and the occasional scribble of a pen, Bakugou felt a sense of peace he rarely experienced.

As the night grew darker, Y/N yawned and stretched. Bakugou glanced at the clock and realized how late it had become.

"You should get some sleep," he said, his voice gruff but caring.

Y/N nodded, signing, "Thank you for staying."

Bakugou gave a curt nod, gathering his things. "Yeah, yeah. See you tomorrow."

As he left her room, Bakugou couldn't help but feel a deeper connection with Y/N. She understood his struggles in a way few others did, and that made their bond even stronger.

By their second year, Bakugou's hearing had worsened significantly. He had always been stubborn, but now, it was taking a toll on his mental state. The once vibrant and fiery Bakugou had become distant, pushing everyone away, including his closest friends.

His friends tried to reach out to him, but he brushed them off, too scared and ashamed to admit what was happening. His depressive and anxious episodes grew more frequent, leaving him isolated and conflicted.

He hasn’t even built the courage to tell his parents that he was deaf and in need of hearing aids.

Y/N had noticed the change in Bakugou from the beginning of the semester. The distance between them hurt her, but she respected his space. However, she couldn’t stand by any longer, knowing something was seriously wrong.

One evening, she found Bakugou alone in the training room, sitting on the floor with his head in his hands. Taking a deep breath, Y/N approached him, her heart pounding.

"Bakugou," she signed gently, trying to catch his attention. "What's been going on?"

Bakugou looked up, his eyes filled with a mix of anger and despair.

For a moment, he didn’t respond, but then, hesitantly, he signed back, "Don’t tell anybody..."

Y/N waited, her heart aching for him.

"I'm deaf," he finally signed, his hands trembling slightly.

Y/N was taken aback by his admission, but she quickly composed herself. She knew how hard this must have been for him to share. Opening her mouth, she used her quirk to speak directly to his mind, "Can you hear me?"

Bakugou’s eyes widened in shock. He nodded slowly, relief washing over his face. Tears welled up in his eyes, and for the first time in a long time, he felt understood. Her voice had been the first thing he could really hear in a long time.

Y/N knelt beside him, her presence a comforting balm to his troubled mind. "It's okay, Bakugou. You don't have to go through this alone," she continued using her quirk, her voice gentle and soothing in his mind.

Bakugou shook his head, frustration evident on his face. "I hate feeling weak," he signed back, his movements sharp and angry.

"You’re not weak," Y/N responded firmly, her voice steady in his mind. "Admitting you need help takes strength. Let me help you."

For a moment, Bakugou was silent, his internal struggle clear on his face. Finally, he nodded, the walls he had built around himself starting to crumble.

"I’m scared," he signed, his vulnerability raw and painful.

Y/N reached out, placing a hand on his. "I know," she said softly. "But we’ll face this together. You’re not alone."

Bakugou squeezed her hand, a sense of relief and gratitude washing over him. For the first time in months, he felt a glimmer of hope. With Y/N by his side, he knew he could face whatever challenges lay ahead.

As they sat in silence, Bakugou suddenly realized something profound. Despite his hearing loss, he could still hear Y/N's voice clearly in his mind, thanks to her quirk. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks. No matter how deaf he became, he would always be able to hear her.

"Y/N," he signed, his eyes intense. "Your voice... I'll always hear it, won't I?"

She nodded, understanding dawning in her eyes. "Yes, Bakugou. My quirk allows me to speak directly into your mind. As long as I'm here, you'll always be able to hear me."

Bakugou's heart swelled with a mixture of relief and gratitude. The fear and despair that had plagued him began to dissipate. Y/N wasn't just a friend or a crush—she was his lifeline, the one constant in his world that he could always count on.

"I don’t deserve you," he signed, his eyes glistening with emotion.

"Yes, you do," she replied, her voice firm in his mind. "You deserve all the happiness in the world, Bakugou. And I’ll be here with you, every step of the way."

Bakugou pulled her into a tight embrace, feeling the weight of his fears lifting. With Y/N by his side, he knew he could face anything. Even in the silence, her voice would always be there to guide him.

[blackbat05]

Open Up

Jason Todd x Library Assistant! Reader

Plot: With a little help, you overcome your internal prejudice with an enigmatic patron.

Rating: PG-13

A/N: Had another writer’s block so really thankful for @the-slumberparty events as always! This is yet another of my self-indulgent pieces but I hope you enjoy it! Thanks for the unwavering support!❤️

************************************************

My choices:

🍧Mint Chocolate: the loner – mint chocolate is an acquired taste, so it is that one of your characters is of a similar flavour. A loner is brought out of their shell. 

🥄Cherries: meet-cute – this can be fluffy or a stereotypical first meeting gone wrong 

“It’s him again!” Miriam, the librarian whispers into my ear as I’m shelving back each book to its rightful place. I carefully climb down from the stool and observe the same man with a streak of white hair and an impressive physique to boot select another book from the Literature section.

Though a frequent visitor of the library, he was a lone wolf. Unlike patrons who greeted each other or strike up conversations, he was a lone wolf. No mingling, just quiet reading for two hours and he was out of the library to only be back the next day with the same routine. Not that it was an issue. He was easy on the eyes. Scary, but definitely easy on the eyes.

“If only I was single,” Miriam sighs fondly. “You have no idea what it’s doing to my woman parts.”

“Miriam!” I gasp, completely ignoring for a millisecond that I almost yelled at my supervisor. My supervisor who’s twenty years older but way cooler than I would ever be. She shrugs, “I just said what all women needed to hear.” She moves closer to me, thrusting a book into my hands.

“What is this?” I asked, afraid to hear her answer.

“Conversational material.” Miriam gently pushes me in the direction where our most frequent patron of the Gotham Public Library has disappeared to. “I got the circulation desk covered.” She winks and I’m not sure if regret ever sharing with her my relationship status that was as dead as a slug.

I walked towards the literature section and made my way further down to the sitting area beside the huge glass windows that stretched towards the ceiling, allowing natural light to give a warm glow to the area.

There he was, sitting casually on the maroon sofa, book in one hand and completely oblivious to the world around him.

I’m rooted to the ground, mesmerized at how his emerald eyes skim through each page carefully, capturing the essence of each word. I nearly fall into a stupor just watching this man when he suddenly closes the book and stares straight at me.

I give a squeak and my cheeks heat up. I must look like a creep to him. My brain tells me to get away from there and pretend that nothing ever happened but my feet are unsurprisingly stubborn. The man stands up to full height and my heart races a beat quicker with each step he takes closer to me.

Quick, come up with a good excuse so that he doesn’t chew you out and humiliate you for the rest of your life!

Before I can defend myself, he beats me to the punch. Not in the way that I expected.

“Hi, you’re the librarian right?”

I’m stunned for a second and have to mentally slap myself back into reality.

“Yeah! Actually, library assistant. How can I help you?” My words come out in a nervous blur and I bite the inside of my cheeks. So much for keeping my cool in front of a mysteriously handsome guy.

“Well, I was wondering if you had any good recommendations. I’ve blitzed through entire sections and re-reading Jane Austen for the fifth time isn’t exactly therapeutic.” His chuckle causes my heart to skip a beat.

“Oh darn, the reading block huh? Well there’s no such thing as that- I mean grammar wise, but I totally know how you feel, how about we go this way?” I direct him to the other section.

“It’s still Literature but it’s written by authors from different countries, different genders and colors.” I explain. “I always like to say that books widen your worldview.” I ramble, unaware of his green eyes piercing intensely into mine.

“Sorry,” I squeak sheepishly. “Am I talking too much? I’ll leave you to it.” I’m about to scurry away and possibly find a corner to die of embarrassment when he holds my wrist gently but firmly.

“I like it.” He gives me a smile that makes my belly do a couple of backflips. “Do you think you could recommend me one to start off?” His request is simple but so genuine that despite his intimidating appearance, I can’t help but to be drawn to this lone wolf that comes to the library every evening.

“Sure. How about Welcome to the Hyunnam-dong Bookshop?” I suggest. “I read it while I was feeling a little lost in life. Kind of a comfort book really.” I carefully pick out a hard cover book and wait with bated breath for his reaction.

He takes the book from me and I notice the scars on his hand are plenty - some superficial, some deep. I’m curious, but I know it’s not my place to pry. After all, the library is a safe place for everyone to be themselves.

Eyes quickly scanning through the summary of the book, he flips the books to the front and stares at it for a few more seconds before coming to a decision.

“It’s perfect.”

***

I learn that his name is Jason.

The next couple of days are no different. He comes in at exactly six on the dot in the evenings. He’ll wait for me patiently if I’m occupied with a patron and we’ll head to one of the many shelves for me to pick out another recommendation. Today was a children’s novel, The Boy At The Back Of The Classroom.

“The author intended to target younger kids as her demographic,” I explain. “But the way she explained the struggles of refugees in a simple yet impactful way through the lenses of a child, was beautiful to read as an adult.”

As always, Jason thanks me for the help. But this time, he doesn’t check the book out at self-help. I’m wondering if he wants more than one book when-

“When do you finish work?”

“Excuse me?” You tilt your head slightly, unsure if you had heard him correctly. Jason coughs to fill the silence and gathers enough courage to repeat his question.

“I was thinking if you don’t have any plans, we could have dinner?” He asks. “I know a place and we could read there. The owner won’t mind.”

My delayed response almost screws everything up when Miriam comes to my rescue.

“Of course she’ll love to! You’ve earned the time off! Go and enjoy your weekend!” She makes a shooing motion and when Jason isn’t looking, she winks at me.

“I’ll love to.” I reaffirm and the delight on his face is absolutely adorable for someone of his stature.

The more I get to know this enigma of a man, I discover more aspects of him that seem to draw me closer like a moth to the flame.

***

I’m usually not like this.

When a book gets my attention, I’ll blitz through chapters at one shot, eager to find out what happens next to the main character.

But I can’t seem to find the focus as I’ve been stuck on the same page of my latest romance novel for ten minutes, taking occasional peeks at the gorgeous man intently reading in front of me. I cover my face with the book, not wanting to appear like a creep when all he wanted was a reading buddy.

I’m starting to get fidgety and I really want to see how his nose scrunches up when he’s engrossed in the material in front of him. How he cracks his right knuckle after every chapter. How he smiles and frowns at the joy and injustices the character faces.

What I didn’t expect to see was Jason fondly watching me as I supposedly attempted to read my own book. My cheeks heat up at the sudden attention.

“Do I have something on my face?” I ask.

“You’re pretty when you’re reading.” Jason says as a matter of fact, ignoring my question. I’m sure that I’m flaming red as a tomato but this only causes him to break into a boyish grin. I’m at a loss so I end up putting the book back in front of my face, earning a chuckle from him.

He reaches out and takes the book out of my hands, putting it aside.

“Do you know why I’ve read Austen five times?”

I shrug. “I thought you just really liked the book. Predictability brings comfort. Knowing how the story ends.”

Jason shakes his head. “I was hoping you would come over and help a guy out. But I guess I was too afraid. I didn’t want to scare you. Most people don’t approach someone like me for a casual conversation.” He gestures and a pang of guilt hits me for immediately stereotyping him during my first encounter.

“I guess that makes two of us.” I say. “I was amazed at your extensive reading choices and I can’t deny that I’ve been trying to work up my courage to talk to the handsome patron at aisle eighteen.”

Jason’s eyes twinkles at my sudden confession. The man in front of me is no longer the big, scary lone wolf. All I see is a man who has come to seek for genuine human connection in the form of art. A man who is sensitive and hopes that someone would be able to embrace his vulnerability.

I know this because that is what I have been looking for all this time.

The owner reminds us that the cafe would be closing soon and we take our leave, walking under the cool spring breeze. On normal days, I wouldn’t be out this late but Jason’s presence is enough to lower my senses to the potential dangers that Gotham has to offer.

While exchanging more talks about books, we reach the bottom of my apartment.

“Thank you for the amazing night. I loved it.” I sincerely thank Jason.

He doesn’t move from his spot, fists jammed tightly in the pockets of his hoodie. It’s endearing that Jason doesn’t want to rush things even though he can. Funny for a man that I once considered mysterious is an open book.

For the first time in my life, I decide to take the first steps. I kiss him on the cheek, allowing myself to linger before pulling away to see Jason smiling bigger than I’ve ever seen before.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at the library?”

“I’ll be there.”

[vagabond-umlaut]

⁙ six seeds, like rubies...

... and the flowers find themselves blooming in decay...

▸ trueform!sukuna x wife!reader; 0.5k wc; inspired by the hades and persephone story; warning: sukuna is sukuna, so expect the expected [mentions of blood & implied violence – not towards the reader]; spicy & fluffy; hints of reincarnation(??)

▸ this was written for the ask submitted by the amazing @heresan as part of my 100 followers celebration. ty tina!! also, i own neither the characters nor the gif nor the divider used. please don't plagiarize or translate or repost this. enjoy reading! ❤️

Ruby is the sky when Sukuna sees you, the very first time.  

Strands of hair fluttering in the summer breeze and a pleased smile playing on your lips, whilst you watch your companions frolic in the meadow – you appear an oasis to his parched eyes. Elixir disguised as your frail body, the curse reckons – nay, he knows – it is fated to be drunk by him. To be devoured by him.  

Ruby is the earth when Sukuna touches you, the very first time.

Velvet-soft skin cradled in one of his calloused palms while the other cards through your hair, marring them with the blood of your kin – the very same dripping down the weapons in the curse’s other two hands. Your eyes stay wide as you gaze upon the sight before – a vision certainly too ghastly for a delicate maiden as you – yet Sukuna makes no move to conceal. Instead, he tilts your chin up with a finger and inquires, mouth twisted into a sneer, “Like what you see, pet?” 

Ruby is your kimono when Sukuna kisses you, the very first time.  

It isn’t tender; he knows. Nor is it loving; he knows this too. Yet, despite the knowledge, the curse finds himself pressing his lips to yours with increasing force; an attempt to draw out your taste and engrave it within himself. So new, so sweet, oh so, so addicting – a satisfied hum leaves him as he parts from you and lowers you onto the bed, a dishevelled mess in lieu of the composed woman you’ve always shown to be – until tonight, your wedding night, that is. 

Ruby is your wine when Sukuna vows to you, the very first time. 

The chalice falls onto the ground below, rendering it a deep red – not unlike the scene he created three summers ago. Amusement makes its way onto his features, a smirk paired with a huffed chuckle, before beating a hasty retreat – you’re staring at him, stunned, staggered, breaths fast and shallow while your dainty hands reach out to cup his cheeks.  

“Say that once more, my king,” You urge him in a whisper – a request Sukuna decides to deny, choosing to instead drag his sharp teeth across your pulse point – before a quiet whimper floats into the air and the curse feels his resolve weaken.

Raising his head from where it lies at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, he brushes the moisture away from your eyes and laughs. A cacophony – greedy, cruel, selfish – yet your expression might as well portray it as a soft melody to one, your husband muses.

Sukuna decides to indulge his Queen, just this one time.

“I’m never letting go of you, woman. Hate me, love me, I fucking don't care. You’re stuck with me. For good. For now. Forever.”

 

Ruby is the gaze you find on the other bank of the river, that fated summer evening – the forbidden hue to your screened palette.  

And ruby is the gaze you find on the other side of the room, this fated summer evening – eons and eons later – the only hue you know you’ll ever need to paint your greyscale life.  

▸ masterlist

▸ taglist: @afortoru, @guccirosegold, @heresan, @luckimoon, @megu-meow, @nanamikentoseyebags, @pupkashi, @ritsatoru, @softsatoru, @sweetdreamssatoru. :))

[katsukikisses]

birds of a feather: chapter two [hawks x reader]

chapter summary: keigo invites you over for the first time and lets you check out his wing-keeping kit. in the process, you learn a few things about his world.

chapter tags: childhood friends; neighbors trope; alternating povs; taking care of keigo's wings as a love language.

cw: prejudice; socioeconomic differences?

prefer to read on ao3? here!

prev. chapter | table of contents | next chapter

“'Do not enter' is written on the door way, Why can't everyone just go away? Except you, you can stay, — Alex G, Treehouse

The first time Keigo invited you over, you were ecstatic. 

The invite in itself was long overdue: the two of you had been friends for a year and neighbors for nearly two, so the fact that you’d never once stepped foot in his house during that period seemed like an intentional oversight. You didn’t mind always hanging out at yours’ (rather, you quite liked having Keigo inside your house), but you were insatiably curious about how your hybrid friend lived. You wanted to know what color his bedsheets were, what kind of cereal lined his pantry—everything there was to know about a person, really. 

However, your parents always told you that inviting yourself over was very rude, so you never pushed. You figured there was a reason for his hesitance and eventually stopped asking “ Your place or mine? ” on the walk home from school, letting your house become the default hang-out spot. That’s why, when, on a gray, inconspicuous Tuesday, Keigo asked if you’d like to come over, you were completely caught off guard.

“Wha—?” you sputtered, suddenly having lost the ability to form sentences, “Me, over? House?”

Keigo looked pleased at the state you’d been reduced to. “Yes, you-over-house,” he mocked, “We can even us-play-video games.”

“Shut up,” you reddened. “I’m just surprised since we usually go to mine. B-but I don’t mind going to yours at all! Let’s hurry.” 

You shifted your backpack higher up on your shoulders and began speed-walking down the street, leaving Keigo behind you. You didn’t want to give him the time to change his mind. The blonde snorted, but quickened his pace to match yours. 

Soon, the two of you made it to your street. You took a brief moment to dash inside your own house and yell that you were going to Keigo’s—eliciting surprised Okays from your parents—before dashing back across the street to Keigo’s side. Laughing at your eagerness, he unlatched the front door and entered, leaving you to follow. 

Your first impression of the Takami household was that it was similar to yours: staircase left of the foyer, living room connected to the kitchen. The similarities were to be expected, given that your houses were most likely built by the same construction company—but that was where they ended. Unlike your house, which your mother kept fastidiously white and empty, Keigo’s was full of life. The walls were painted a pretty sage green, and lined with pictures of Keigo, his mother, and an older couple you assumed were his grandparents. The windowsills were also filled with all sorts of plants and herbs, adding a welcome splash of color to the room. It was a stark contrast to the sad, blank interior of your own abode—Keigo’s house had character .

“I know it’s not as nice as yours,” Keigo apologized as he watched you take in your surroundings. “My mom insists on keeping all these dumb plants and—”

“Keigo, I love your house!” you exclaimed, cutting him off. “It’s so much prettier compared to mine. I wish Mom would let us paint our walls or keep plants, but apparently Architectural Digest says that’s not Beige Chic , or whatever.”

Keigo smiled. He knew he shouldn’t have doubted your reaction. “Okay, well once you’re done admiring my pretty house, come upstairs so I can beat you at Mario Kart.”

Your eyes flashed excitedly, immediately leaving the picture you were inspecting to follow after Keigo. “Sure you will. Hey, remind me again who’s the reigning champion?”

The blonde gave you an irritated look, but before he could retort, you were pushing past him up the stairs and into his bedroom. This was what you’d been most curious about on your walk back, and you couldn’t wait any longer to see it. Ignoring Keigo’s words of protest, you opened the door.

“Wow,” you blinked at the sight. “It’s very…angry.”

You didn’t know what you’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been… this . Keigo’s bedroom was practically devoid of anything except for Endeavor , his favorite superhero. The walls were plastered with posters of the flame hero, and a row of his figurines lined Keigo’s desk. Atop his twin-sized bed sat a small Endeavor stuffie, which smoldered at you menacingly from across the room. 

You spun around to face your friend. “Keigo, I didn’t you were a fanboy!”

In the doorway of his room, Keigo flushed a red that rivaled his plumage. 

“It’s not—I’m not a fanboy ,” he sputtered, “I just happen to like the show! And they always have a lot of his merch at the thrift and—you know what, I don’t need to explain myself to you. Just sit down.”

Laughing, you took a seat on the carpet and faced his XBox. “Whatever you say, fanboy .”

Keigo valiantly ignored your comment and began rifling through a box of controllers. You took this time to take in the rest of his room, which, aside from the Endeavor paraphernalia, was completely unassuming. There wasn’t much furniture other than a bed and desk, and what little else Keigo did possess was painted in dull shades of grey. The only splash of color was the green sweater he’d been wearing yesterday, now stuffed haphazardly into his drawers. Your eyes lazily followed the outline of the cabinet, until they reached the small box resting atop it.  

“What’s that?” you pointed to the box curiously.

Keigo looked up from where he’d been setting up the XBox—an ancient thing he and his mom had scored at Goodwill—and spotted what you were pointing at. “Oh, that’s my wing-keeping kit.”

“Wing-keeping?”

“Yeah,” he shifted his wings, letting them catch rays from the window. The red plumes gleamed like rubies. “You didn’t think they were naturally like this, did you? This kind of exquisiteness requires serious upkeep, YN”

“Oh,” you said dumbly. The sight of Keigo’s feathers fluttering was nothing short of mesmerizing, and, for some reason, you liked that he was showing off to you. “Can I see the tools?”

The words left your mouth before you could think about them. You watched as Keigo’s wings immediately came to a still, and you internally groaned. Here we go. 

Over the course of your year-long friendship with Keigo, you’d come to learn a lot about the blonde. You knew that he liked superhero shows (specifically Endeavor: Legend of the Flame) and that his favorite subject was History. He could run a 7-minute mile—the fastest out of all the fourth-grade boys—and was a fiend for fried chicken. You knew that, despite being relatively popular, he didn’t really like the other kids at school, and you were probably the closest thing to a best friend that he had. And most importantly, you knew to never, ever talk about hybrids around him. 

At first, you figured he was just annoyed by your questions. As the only hybrid in your class, Keigo was constantly being probed by your classmates about his wings or eye markings. He’d never ignore them, of course, always answering their queries good-naturedly—but the tight-lipped smile he wore during those interactions betrayed his agitation. As your friendship progressed and you interacted more frequently with the blonde, though, you realized it wasn’t just questions about himself that irritated Keigo—it was whenever humans talked about hybrids at all. The week your class covered Japan’s history of hybrid discrimination, Keigo had resolutely faced the window and didn’t take a single note; and whenever Endeavor fought a hybrid villain on screen, Keigo huffed and asked to skip the episode. Little incidents like those deterred you from asking any questions related to his bird appendages, and even more from inquiring about the reason behind his anger. 

Thus, you’d gone an entire year avoiding discussing anything hybrid-related with him. You figured that, as with him not inviting you in, he’d eventually get over it—you were sitting in his room right now, weren’t you? Plus, he couldn’t hate humans altogether if he was friends with you. There must be a logical reason behind his behavior, you reasoned.

Except, you’d blown any chance of that happening, now that you opened your big fat mouth and asked about his wings. And the first time he invited me over, too, you bemoaned internally. You’d at least wanted to see the kitchen before you got kicked out!

“Um, sorry,” you backtracked, “I don’t know why I asked that. It’s personal, I know—sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Keigo replied, equally hesitant. He took a deep breath as if preparing himself for a daunting task. “Um, if you really want to see, I can show you. The tools, I mean.”

Your jaw nearly fell to the ground. “Really? I can see?”

“Yeah, it’s no big deal,” he said, sounding as though it were absolutely a big deal. He walked over to his cabinet and swiped the kit off the top. You watched, disbelieving, as he made his way back to you and deposited it unceremoniously in your lap. 

The first thing you registered about the kit was that it was heavy—heavier than it looked. It was constructed of smooth wood paneling and about the size of a book, with no indication of what resided within it save for a small feather engraved on the top, and perhaps the faint smell of essential oils emitting from it Your fingers fluttered over the ridges of the box, and, with one final seeking glance at Keigo, you lifted the lid off the top. 

As the smell suggested, the inside of the kit was lined with various vials of oil, each labeled something different. Laying next to the oils, their sharp edges cushioned by the velvet interior, was a collection of tools: shears of various sizes as well as several brushes and clippers. They glinted menacingly in the afternoon light, causing you to reign in a shudder; you couldn’t imagine using tools like that on your own body. 

Keigo watched your expression carefully. “I have to trim and condition my feathers about every two weeks,” he explained, “Or else they’ll get tangled and torn.” 

“I didn’t realize they required so much attention,” you tore your gaze away from the box and faced him. And, for the second time that day, your mouth moved before your brain. “Can you show me? How you do it?”

“…Sure,” he said after a momentary pause, looking faintly bemused. “It’s been a while since I last trimmed them, anyway.” 

He began picking out various tools and oils from the box. You leaned forward, eager to see which ones he chose. When it came to Keigo, it was like you could never know enough. 

He lined the three oils he’d grabbed—labeled “primaries”, “secondaries”, and “contour”, respectively—on the floor. “The different oils are for different parts of my wings,” he said, extending out his left wing as he spoke. “My primary feathers are these long feathers out here, and the inner ones are called secondaries. And these are my contour feathers, which make me more aerodynamic—they help me fly better, basically,” he amended, noticing your blank stare. “But before I do that, I have to trim them.”

As he finished his explanation, he removed a large tablecloth from the bottom of the kit and unfolded it on the floor. He picked up one of the shears he’d taken out earlier and began trimming off the edges of his wings. Red tufts fluttered to the floor, like autumn leaves shaken out of a tree. You stared, enthralled, before his earlier words registered in your mind. 

“Wait, fly? I thought you weren’t…allowed to,” you trailed off, realizing you were approaching dangerous territory. Hybrid Limitations were one of the most contentious topics in Japan, and you figured that Keigo, as an avian hybrid, would have his share of thoughts on it. 

Instead of becoming upset, though, he merely shook his head. “I’m not,” he confirmed. His words were punctuated by the steady snip of shears coming down around another feather. “This kit was passed down to me from my grandfather, and during his time there weren’t restrictions on winged hybrids. So it still contains flight-care stuff.”

“Oh,” you said, “Do you wish you could fly?” 

Keigo peered at you through the folds of his wing. Randomly, you were struck by the memory of the first time he came to your house; cold and wet, focused on drying off his wings while you chattered annoyingly at him. 

“Maybe,” he set down the shears and picked up one of the vials of oil. Surprised, you realized he was already done with trimming. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get to, though.”

Keigo gave his wings a firm ruffle, shaking off any lingering feather trimmings. Then, he poured a small bit of oil into his palms and began carding them gently through his longest feathers—the primaries, you recalled. You watched in silence as he worked down his wing, coating each plume in a thin layer of oil. Usually when Keigo was focused on something, he had a look of intense concentration on his face: brows pinched, eyes narrowed. Yet, now, his expression was relaxed and peaceful—this must be calming for him.

As he got closer to his inner feathers, though, he had to strain his neck to oil them properly, and his tranquil expression dissolved into a more concentrated one. “My mom usually helps me with the back,” he explained, sounding slightly frustrated, “It’s harder for me to see back there and—”

“I can help you,” you said. Keigo’s hands stilled in his wings, and you wondered a bit too late if your offer had been inappropriate. But you’d already breached all sorts of boundaries today, so what was one more? 

Keigo cleared his throat. “Um, sure. Come, uh—come closer.” 

“Okay,” you shuffled over to behind him. “Um, what do I…”

“Grab the oil labeled ‘secondaries’.”

“Okay.”

“Pour a little into your hands—yeah, that’s good. And let it heat up a bit in your palms.”

“Okay.”

“Now, you see the feathers at the bottom of my wings? The shorter ones.”

“Yeah.”

“Work the oil into them, from the root to the ends.” 

“Okay,” you gulped. Your hands, covered in a sharp-smelling oil, shook as you reached toward the feathers. I have to do this right , you thought determinedly—you couldn’t bear it if you accidentally hurt Keigo. 

Slowly, you grabbed the outermost feather and began working the oil into it. If your own hands hadn’t been shaking so badly, you might’ve noticed the way Keigo’s wings shuddered, too. 

After you got through the first few feathers without doing any damage—and leaving Keigo content, seemingly—you became more confident in your abilities. Your movements were more fluid, and your shoulders untensed—you could see why your friend found this relaxing. 

Once you finished the secondaries, you moved on to the last section: his contour feathers. You picked up the appropriately labeled oil and found that it was much fuller than the other two. Recalling what he said about not being able to fly, you sadly realized that those feathers probably didn’t get as much use as his other ones, therefore needing less maintenance. With newfound vigor, you uncapped the vial and poured a generous amount into your palms.

“I hope,” you began, “That you get a lot of use out of this oil one day.”

“I hope not,” Keigo replied, “That’s the most expensive one.”

(He knew what you meant, though.)

It was rare for Takami Toomie to see her house during the day. 

Well, it was nearing evening, technically, but sunlight was sunlight. Between her job at the restaurant, the hospital, and…the other one, she’d practically become a vampire—she couldn’t remember the last time she came home before midnight. But today all the stars had aligned perfectly: her coworker had agreed to cover her shift, the hospital hadn’t called her in, and—best of all—the fried chicken ordered from their restaurant never got picked up, leaving it up for grabs. 

Toomie recalled staring at the steaming bucket of chicken for the entire pick-up hour, and then snatching it up as soon as time was up. She’d flushed when her coworkers saw her shove the food into her bag, but their judgment would be nothing compared to the joy of seeing Keigo smile—something that happened too infrequently for Toomie’s liking. Though, it's not exactly like I encourage him to be more carefree... 

Shaking off her guilt, Tookie pushed through the front door of her home. She smiled at the sight of rays filtering in through the window and meandered over to the kitchen, where she set down the bucket. A glance at the clock told her that Keigo was already back at school, and her smile widened. They could eat together! 

She grabbed her phone from her bag and began searching for the LNs contact. She assumed Keigo was with them, considering he slept over practically every day now. It was a development she tried not to be too bothered by, as she knew it was lonely for him here. Still, she couldn’t help but be wary of the situation. YN seemed like a sweet kid, on the few occasions she’d met them, but one could never be sure…

She sighed as finally found the contact. Keigo would be a little upset at being called back early, she figured, but his disappointment would definitely disappear as soon as he saw the chicken. Plus, the two of them hadn’t had dinner together in forever. Reaffirmed in her decision, Toomie made to hit Call on the contact—but just as her finger was about to tap the screen, she heard the faintest sounds of conversation emanating from upstairs. 

Toomie paused. It sounded like two kids...did Keigo have a friend over? Curiously, she made her way to the stairwell and strained to listen, wings shifting nervously behind her. Keigo never told her that he was bringing someone over, and he wasn’t the type to sneak around behind her back, either. Immediately, terrible thoughts filled her head. What if someone had followed Keigo home and they were hurting him upstairs? Or what if someone had broken in and were robbing them? Panicked, she dropped her phone and sprinted up the stairs, wings flapping madly behind her. They ached from disuse, but she didn’t even register the pain. Her only thoughts were Keigo, Keigo, Keigo. 

She threw open his bedroom door, and the sight that greeted her was more horrible than any robbery or bullying. Keigo was sitting on the floor, wings spread out to their maximum length, while you kneeled behind him, gently carding oil through his inner-most feathers. Next to you was Keigo’s wing-keeping kit—a gift from his grandfather, her father —with various tools and vials spilling out of it. Everything was out in the open for you to see.

At the sound of the door hitting the wall, Keigo turned around. “Mom?” his eyes widened. “When did you get back?”

“Just now,” she replied, her eyes flitting between the two of you. “You didn’t tell me you were having guests over, Keigo.”

Hearing this, you sheepishly stood and bowed to her. Your hands, still covered in oil, hung awkwardly in the hair. 

“I’m sorry for coming over uninvited, Takami-san,” you apologized, “I should’ve had my parents call you.” 

At the sight of your nervousness, Toomie’s agitation subsided. “It’s alright, YN-chan,” she said, attempting a kind tone. But her day had been long and she’d worked the night shift beforehand and—she just wanted to have dinner with her son. “I’m just surprised, is all. Plus, it’s Keigo who should’ve said something.”

She turned her attention back to her son. “You need to tell me when you have hu—people over, Kei.”

She barely managed to cover her slip-up. Keigo raised an unimpressed eyebrow at her. 

“Well, I didn’t know you were even going to see them, since you don’t usually get back until later. Why are you back this early anyway?”

Toomie groaned internally. Wasn’t he a little young for the rebellious stage? “I got off work early,” she said tightly, “And I thought we could have dinner toge—”

“Is that chicken?” Keigo cut her off, finally registering the mouth-watering smell wafting from the kitchen. His wings, freshly clipped and conditioned, raised excitedly. Toomie couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm.

“Oh, well then I should probably go,” you said awkwardly, wiping your oil-covered hands off on your school uniform. Toomie wished she could’ve told you to not do that, as wing-keeping oils were notoriously difficult to get out of clothes—your skirt would permanently have greasy handprints on them now. But before she could say something, you were nimbly sliding past her in the doorway and into the hall. 

“Please enjoy your dinner!” you smiled at the two of them. 

Keigo jumped up from his spot on the floor and ran after you. “Wait, YN,” he said, “Don’t go yet.” 

He glanced briefly at his mother, asking her an unspoken question. But the woman was looking at you, still wringing your hands awkwardly in the hallway.

Toomie exhaled softly through her nose. After all those free dinners they gave Keigo, she thought miserably, Practically every day of the year…how could I even come close to repaying them? 

“Yes, YN-chan, we would love for you stay for dinner,” she lied, “Do you like fried chicken?” 

Your eyes practically sparkled as you thanked her excitedly, assuring her that, yes, you loved fried chicken. As the three of you made your way down the stairs, Keigo pulling you by the wrist, Toomie couldn’t help but mourn her lost dinner. The bucket was a share-size, yet with how much Keigo ate, he could probably put away the entire thing—it had been a stretch for the two of them to share, much less three people. Looks like you and Keigo would be enjoying an adult-free dinner, tonight. Toomie sighed, resigning herself to a trip to the konbini. She’d refrained from snacking on kitchen scraps and sent-back meals as she usually did during her shift, not wanting to spoil her appetite, and this was what she got. Honestly, with her evening plans now canceled, she might just head back to work—clearly, she could use the extra money. 

Toomie watched as Keigo tugged you into the kitchen and began pulling plates and silverware out of the drawers. She wondered how she could gracefully bow out of the dinner—kids didn’t really think too hard about those sorts of interactions, but she also didn’t want you to report back to your parents that Toomie didn’t bother spending any time with you. She was already going to be the mom who brought back a bucket of fried chicken as dinner, for God’s sake.  

Still ruminating over her dilemma, Toomie didn’t notice you seemingly lost in your own thoughts. Even as Keigo set the dinner table—for three people, the little idealist—you remained standing, simply staring at the bucket. 

“Actually, Keigo-kun, Takami-san,” you started, spinning around to face them, “I have a good idea! My parents are having yakisoba tonight, along with some other vegetables. Fried chicken goes great with yakisoba, doesn’t it? We should take it over to my house and eat together! My mom’s always asking you to come over anyways, Takami-san.”

You finished with a bright grin on your face. Toomie only blinked in response. 

(Perhaps you deserved a little more credit than she gave you.) 

“That’s really nice of you to offer, dear. I think we’ll take you up on that.” Toomie managed. From across the kitchen, Keigo gaped at her—she knew he’d expected her to decline. “You’re too kind, YN-chan.” 

You, too, seemed shocked that Toomie actually accepted—a deserved reaction, considering the amount of times she’d turned down your family’s invitations in the past. But you recovered quickly, your blinding grin overtaking your face once more.

“It’s my pleasure,” you said brightly. You picked up the bucket of chicken and started out the door, suddenly heading the whole operation. “I hope we can eat before the sun sets!” 

Keigo hurriedly shoved the plates back into the drawers and dashed after you, calling for you to wait for him. Toomie smiled at the sight, before sighing again and walking over to the fridge. She began rifling through its contents—some leftovers from work, a pack of expired beer—in hopes of dredging up a side dish. Impromptu as this dinner was, she couldn’t be so pathetic as to only show up with cold fried chicken. 

Yet, even as Toomie peered into her frighteningly empty fridge, she couldn’t help but feel content with the outcome of her evening. Absolutely nothing about it had gone to plan—but Keigo was smiling, wasn’t he?  

Maybe YN would be good for them, Toomie admitted. 

Next Chapter (

author's note: Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! I'm sorry it took so long to come out. This chapter explores more of Keigo's life since the first chapter was very reader-focused, but Toomie's also able to give us an outsider's perspective on YN. I think due to having very present and communicative parents she's become emotionally intelligent at a young age (which I see in a lot of the kids at the private school I work at lol); however, a lot of the practical application still depends on socializing with kids her age and besides Keigo she doesn't have a lot of practice with that…but we'll see more in the coming chapters 🫣🫣

Thanks for reading and I can't wait to see you guys in the next chapter!

[vigilskeep]

Do you have any kind of analysis of Cassandra's character? I find how you talk about her so interesting and different from how the rest of the fandom refers to her

i wouldn’t say i know her very well; i’ve never yet done her personal quest and i don’t bring her out a lot. here are... some notes? displayed messily

cassandra is first and foremost a violent person. when she doesn’t know how to solve a problem, she leads with violence; her interrogation of varric, her reaction when he brought hawke to skyhold, threatening to execute solas simply for failing to produce results with his tests on the anchor when the herald was first found. chancellor roderick says this outright—and you are a thug, but a thug who supposedly serves the chantry—but her use for divinia justinia was as a blunt tool, not capable of subtlety or diplomacy. unlike other members of the inquisition, she is not very capable of exerting power in other ways than violence, and she has spent her entire life expecting to hold power in any situation

cassandra could have been the inquisitor. she’s pretty much the obvious choice. she has to be actively dodging that to go on a wild goose chase to find the hero of ferelden and then the champion, and then still to evade it further and hand it over to the herald, who she may not even approve of. at haven, she at least appears at the war table. at skyhold, she doesn’t, having further and further removed herself from the role. if she does get along with your inquisitor, it suggests faith in your choices, following your lead. but it has a kind of different unique effect if she doesn’t rlly get along with your inquisitor, where it really feels like she’s been pushed out or allowed herself to be pushed out of the movement she started. either way her movement to be divine feels related to not having taken that lead position before

she gets very caught up in her own perspective on a situation. i think often of when she laughs at the herald and says “is that what you see?” when they ask if this isn’t still part of the chantry, which is what literally anyone normal would see. or her infamous comment to lavellan about whether or not there’s room among their gods for one more, completely missing that this would be a bizarre thing for them to ask of her. or describing varric’s andrastianism as “deep down, his heart is virtuous” to a non-andrastian inquisitor. etc, etc. it doesn’t occur to her to censor herself or consider how her words come across to other people who don’t have the same beliefs she does. she probably has mostly only been exposed to people who don’t have the same beliefs she does as idk antagonists and opposition, as the “criminals” she has to interrogate

she overthinks the consequences of her actions, the weight of history bearing down, in a way that suggests a kind of preoccupation with the assumption that her actions and life will be written of. nobody who reads as many of varric tethras’ books as she does isn’t kind of into that, despite her complaints. when a character constantly self-criticises but you only get approval from saying “no you’re totally good and cool and did the best you could!!!” and disapproval and sudden defensiveness from saying “yeah that was a bad move i’m glad you’re thinking about it”, i think i can come to some pretty safe conclusions about what that character really thinks and what they want to hear

her comments about “change” in her vision for the chantry are confusing at best, considering that she distinguishes herself from leliana almost exclusively by saying that leliana would change too much. her point is largely to restore things as they were, but all the things she’s restoring will, you know, somehow be better now. with very little discussion of how that could actually be achieved, as far as i can tell. even if i did agree with her end goal, i don’t think she would instil confidence

i don’t dislike cassandra i think she’s quite interesting but i don’t find her either admirable or sufficiently entertaining in order to want her approval or to hang out with her really so she does get a little left to the wayside in my attempted playthroughs personally

[alltheirdamn]

Chapter 1: Opening Day

Series summary: You've seen it all as the team's lead photographer. You're in the tunnel before the games, on the sidelines for each inning, and always around the players. When Frankie Morales is called up for the new season, you find yourself drawn to him in ways you can't quite explain. Chapter summary: It's opening day at Petco Park, and you finally meet the team's new star catcher. Rating: 18+ (Eventual smut) Word Count: 5k Tags: Triple Frontier AU, OFC! character described as having red hair and freckles, meet-cute, two big dummies bound to catch feelings, mutual pining, slow burn, future smut, duel pov, baseball terminology, etc. A/N: Hi!!! Well, welcome to the series! I'm really excited to share this lil story with you all. I've never really written an OC! before, so hopefully I don't totally butcher it. Anyway, I'm a bit nervous but please enjoy!

Masterlist | Baseball 101

Point. Click. 

Point. Click. 

The camera shutter echoes through the stadium tunnel as you settle into your usual game-day routine. It’s your third year on the media team for the Padres, and you’re beyond eager for the new season to begin. Nothing beats the thrill of baseball season, and it definitely doesn’t suck when an endless array of beautiful men in tight polyester uniforms surrounds you.

Perched on the ground, you angle your camera down the tunnel to capture the boys as they arrive. Benny Miller, the team’s starting shortstop, waltzes through the hall after a few managers get their head start. He’s got on his usual athleisure wear, a workout bag slung over his back, and his blonde hair tousled in a way that’s both messy and intentional.

Point. Click. 

“Welcome back, Benny,” you say, your camera angled a bit higher to adjust to his height.

“Hey to you too, Red,” he grins. 

America’s heartthrob, you think.

Not far behind him is his brother, Will—or Ironhead, as they all call him. He’s been a vet on the team for nearly five years and is one of the top left-handed pitchers in the league. No doubt, with last season's standings, he’ll take them far this year. He’s got the best ERA out of any team in the National League, and his brotherly dynamic with Benny is unmatched. The only difference between Will and Benny, though, is their personalities. Where Benny is outgoing—and a bit flirtatious—Will is reserved and collected. He’s the voice of reason and the glue that holds the entire time together. 

“Hey, Will!” 

You snap a quick photo, all too aware of how much he hates the attention. He gives you a subtle nod and continues down the tunnel behind Benny. 

Santiago Garcia is the next to make his entrance, his infectious smile perfect for a candid moment. Santi was the rookie outfielder last year, securing himself a spot in the All-Star Game with his defensive playing in center field against the stronger teams. You’ve never seen such an arm on someone, and the way he commands the field is wildly impressive. His gigantic ego and self-assurance are also quite impressive and sometimes a bit aggravating. But, you let it slide. He’s a sweet man through and through and has, thankfully, never hit on you. 

Unlike the majority of the sports world. 

Especially when it comes to women working in the media industry. 

You’re convinced Santi has some sort of sixth sense for the camera because the moment you line up for the shot, he’s already sporting a wide grin directed straight at you. 

“Hola, Red,” he says, waving in your direction.

“You know I have a real name, right?” You toss back.

“Whatever you say, Red.”

You roll your eyes as he walks past you, chuckling to yourself as you scroll through the photos logged into your camera. Making a mental note of which to select for the social media posts, you realign the camera back to eye level and squint through the lens. 

The team's newest addition walks straight down the tunnel, with his head low and eyes covered by the visor of his ballcap. Francisco Morales had been called up from triple just a week before opening day. You hadn’t read up much on him or his stats, but you know he’s done quite the work as the catcher for the El Paso Chihuahuas. There had been talks of who they’d have replacing Tom Davis after his season-ending injury last year, and Francisco was their best prospect. 

“Welcome to the team, Francisco!” You holler before snapping a photo.

He barely glances up, but you catch a rosy tint coloring the tanned skin of his face and a slight twitch in the corner of his lips. He’s dressed far differently than the other boys: loose khaki pants, a basic cotton shirt, and a suede bomber jacket. He doesn’t even carry a bag with him, just a plastic bottle of water gripped tightly in one very large hand. 

You’ve been with the team long enough to know his personality is far more reserved than the rest, a bit sheepish and uncomfortable, even. Maybe that’s just the game-day jitters getting to him. 

“Can I get one of you looking at the camera?” You ask before adding a polite please at the end.

He hesitates but ultimately obliges. Through the camera lens, you meet his eyes—the soft, warm brown of his irises boring into you so intensely it causes you to falter over the shutter button. Like any baseball player, he’s got that signature scruffy face, with a distinct mustache over his plush lips and a patchy beard covering his jaw. Despite his introverted demeanor, Francisco steals the air from your lungs just from a simple glance. It’s as if he’s giving you this one moment to capture who he is, and you take it without hesitation.

Point. Click.

“Thank you, Francisco. Good luck today!”

You’re acutely aware of how shaky your voice is, which is unusual given that he hasn’t even spoken to you. 

“Frankie,” he offers as he walks past.

The raspy low pitch of his voice reverbs inside your head, and you only manage to nod in agreement to his wishes. 

Frankie. You can do that. 

**

“So, what are your predictions for game one?” Ryan asks, nudging you slightly.

You’re both crouched behind home plate shooting pre-game warmup photos, the volume in the stadium growing as more fans trickle in. You switch out your sim card and set up your camera for action shots, too focused on getting the right angle of the outfielders to respond. 

Ryan has been your partner in crime on the media team since the start, and both of you got hired right out of college. While you focus more on the game-day action, Ryan usually tends to the off-day social media posts and team engagement with fans. It’s a fair trade-off, plus you’re far more invested in the sport than Ryan is ever willing to admit.

“Hellllooo?” He waves a hand in front of your camera lens.

“I don’t like giving predictions, Ryan. You know that,” you grumble.

“You and your weird superstitions, Red.”

“It’s not weird,” you counter. “Don’t you ever pay attention to the broadcasting curse? If I say something aloud, it’s bound to go the other way, and my hopes will be crushed.”

Ryan adjusts the focus on his lens, shrugging absently at your argument. 

“It’s the first game. Even if they lose today, there’s still six months left in the season.”

“No one wants to lose their first game.”

“You care too much,” he says, but there’s a lightness in his tone.

He knows you care more than you let on. Baseball has been something ingrained in you since you were just a kid. Your dad spent the greater half of his life as the pitching coach for UCLA, dragging you to nearly every game of the season since before you could even walk. You were raised sitting in the dugout with a handful of sunflower seeds in your hand and a baseball cap covering your red hair. Being a part of a baseball team in some capacity had always been in your future, but after your dad passed away when you were just starting college, you centered your entire life around it. You threw yourself into photography, taking every chance at capturing moments that could give you just a second of nostalgia. The photos weren’t just for school, a baseball team, or a social media page… they were for you. It was your way of coping. The longer you could stay on the field, the longer you could live in that bubble of the past. 

Your dad was gone, but you still had baseball. And you’d never give it up. 

“Think Morales is gonna make his mark on the team?” Ryan asks, steering the subject in a different direction.

You tense up, locked on the memory of Frankie’s big brown eyes. There’s something about him that skyrockets your heart rate, and you aren’t sure if it’s in a good way. You search the field for those dark curls, looking at everybody on the field,  trying to spot him during the warmup. Crestfallen, you give up your search and resume snapping photos.

“I think he’ll do just fine,” you say dismissively.

“His batting average in the minors was insane,” Ryan rambles. “Just hopes it sticks here in the big leagues. You know how it is sometimes.”

You did know. Too often, have you seen star minor league players appear on the big stage and choke. Something about Frankie Morales makes you believe he won’t end up like that. There was something in his eyes that told you otherwise, a seriousness that showed this game meant something to him. 

You liked that. 

“Where’s your station for the game?” Ryan asks.

“First base. I might have to step into the bullpen for some shots if they let me.”

“I’m sure the boys will love that,” he teases.

“Oh, fuck off. They’re harmless.”

“I don’t know, Red. I see the way they look at you.”

You deadpan, giving him an icy stare. None of the boys thought of you that way, and you didn’t think of them differently. This was a job. They played the game; you took the photos. 

That was the end of it. 

“I think you’re seeing things,” you argue.

“I mean, Benny is giving you fuck me eyes from across the field right now,” Ryan shrugs.

You steal a glance out to the in-field to find Ryan is, in fact, correct. With his free hand, Benny tosses you a flirtatious wave before throwing the ball back to Santi across the field. 

“He flirts with everyone,” you say pointedly. “Did you see how many girls he brought back to his hotel rooms last season?”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind adding one more.”

You punch Ryan in the arm, clearly annoyed with his pushy behavior toward the subject. Grabbing your equipment bag from the ground, you toss him a quick finger and haul your stuff down to the media room under the stadium. 

**

Frankie isn’t in the right mindset when the National Anthem concludes before the game. He’s not one to get nervous before playing, but something about seeing Petco Park sold out for opening day has him fidgeting. The only saving grace is having Santi playing alongside him. 

He and Santi met back in college, playing together from Sophomore year until Senior year when they got drafted to different teams. Santi was selected in the third round by the Houston Astros and was traded a year later to the Padres. Frankie got drafted by the Padres right away in the fifth round. He spent the last four years in the minors, just waiting to get called up.

Now, the moment is here, and he’s terrified.

Frankie doesn’t like to admit it often, but he holds himself to a higher standard. He’s fucked up in life a few times, and it’s cost him his happiness. He doesn’t want to fuck up now. Not when the entire world is watching. 

“Estás bien?” Santi asks Frankie as they head into the dugout. 

“I’m fine,” Frankie says, but his tone says otherwise. 

There’s a haze over his mind, a fog he can’t shake. Santi claps him on the back, giving him a comforting smile.

“It’s just first-game nerves, Catfish. It’ll pass after the first at-bat.”

Frankie doesn’t respond. He’s got a lump in his throat, and he can’t quite swallow it. The last thing he wants to do is disappoint his closest friend—or the team. He can’t be a disappointment. He has to be good. He has to be the best. 

He has to prove himself.

Frankie runs out onto the field, securing his catcher's mask over his face. The weight of his gear feels like a comforting anchor, leveraging him to keep his mind focused. There’s a roar from the crowd as he takes his place behind home base, and the applause and cheers only make things worse. He’s under the lights, he’s got thousands watching, and this is his one shot. 

The first pitch comes fast, a sinker that falls perfectly into his glove. Strike one. Will is on the mound, his face stoic and focused on the batter standing to the right of Frankie. There’s still some trust to gain between them both, and Frankie hopes he proves himself today. Will throws a slider next, down low and right past the bat. 

Strike two. 

Like a well-rehearsed dance, Frankie and Will waltz between batters. An easy one, two, three, and they’re out of the top of the first. Frankie runs alongside Will as they head toward the dugout, the tension in his shoulders relaxing.

“Great job out there, Morales,” Will says. “Welcome to the show.”

“Thanks, Miller. You’re solid on the mound. Those sliders are insane,” Frankie commends. 

“Gotta keep them on their toes. Now, get ready for the bottom of the inning. Show them what you can do out there.”

As Frankie steps into the dugout, he nearly collides with a body nestled into the corner of the steps. Her red hair is tousled into a ponytail, the bill of her Padres ball cap shielding her eyes from the setting sun.

“Shit, sorry,” she mumbles, stepping out of the way.

He recognizes her from earlier, the media girl in the tunnel. Frankie was so wrapped up in his thoughts earlier he hadn’t noticed how beautiful she was: bright eyes, a gentle smile, and a face covered in freckles. 

“All good,” he huffs, too flustered to choke out any more words.

“You look good out there,” she smiles. 

Frankie runs a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, no doubt looking a mess. He needs to focus—needs to move—but he can’t seem to make his way past her. 

“Be careful with Akin’s pitches,” she adds. “He tends to throw his fastballs up in the corner of the zone.”

“Thanks,” Frankie nods. He’s surprised at how much she pays attention.

“Yo! Catfish!” Santi calls from down in the dugout. “Get your ass over here now.”

“I’m assuming you’re Catfish?” She asks.

“Unfortunately,” Frankie grumbles. “Sorry, I’m just gonna go see what he wants.”

“It’s all good. I’m moving down to first base, so I’ll be out of the way.” 

She rises to her feet and gives Frankie one final smile before stepping onto the dirt. Frankie watches as she walks away, her ponytail swinging behind her with every step. 

Focus. 

**

Halfway through the batting order, you’re already onto your next sim card. You usually space out the amount of footage you take, but the game is electric. The Padres are up three to zero, thanks to a home run from Benny—obviously—and a few quick plays made by Santi and Chris Holmes. 

With two outs in the sixth, Frankie is up to bat. His first plate appearance was abysmal, with a groundout to third base. You saw his shoulders slumped as he walked off the field; he didn’t take it lightly. It’s just the first game, you tell yourself. He’ll do just fine. 

Akin throws the first pitch, a fastball, just as you expect. Frankie takes the strike and readjusts himself for the next pitch. It’s outside the zone, and he tracks it carefully. You hold your breath as he hits a full count, three balls, two strikes… and wait. Akin places a screwball down low, but Frankie manages to get a piece of it and sends it sailing into center field for a double. You startle yourself with how loud you cheer, watching his muscled body run past first and onto second base. You’re so caught up in watching him you forget to snap a photo.  

You scold yourself for missing the opportunity to capture his first hit for the team. Why are you so fixated on him? None of the other guys have ever caused you to miss a shot; no one has ever tripped you up this badly. But Frankie… there’s just something about him. He’s not self-assured like the rest. He’s not cocky in the slightest. Honestly, he looked terrified when you ran into him after the top of the first inning. Before your mind starts wandering off, you check the settings on your camera and return to shooting footage. 

The team wins five to zero. Fireworks sparkle through the night sky as the stadium begins to clear out, and you start to return to the dugout. Benny and Will are in a tight embrace as you step under the awning, your camera gear slung over your back. 

“Great win, boys,” you say, giving them each a high five. 

“Did you ever doubt us?” Benny teases, giving you a smug grin. 

“Not for a minute.”

The Miller brothers make their way down into the clubhouse, leaving you standing alone in the dugout. You peel off your ballcap and remove your ponytail, letting your hair fall down your shoulders. 

“Thanks for the advice on Akin.”

The voice startles you, and you search through the shadows to find Frankie sitting alone at the end of the bench. He’s got his glove resting beside him and his bat propped between his feet. He should be celebrating with the team down in the clubhouse, yet he’s here by himself under the stadium lights and swirling shadows. 

“I’ve got plenty more if you ever need it,” you tell him. 

Frankie doesn’t respond, but his eyes stay locked on yours. The stadium lights illuminate the rich chocolate inside his irises, making it nearly impossible to look anywhere else. 

“Shouldn’t you be with the team?” You wonder. “I’m sure they’re all celebrating the first win of the season.”

“Just wanted some time alone, I guess. Soak it all in, you know?”

You walk toward him, cautious on whether or not to get any closer. You aren’t sure if he even wants company, but you can’t seem to steer yourself away. 

“Was it everything you hoped for?” You ask. 

“It could’ve been better.”

Frankie moves his glove into his lap, offering you a space beside him on the bench. Though you feel reluctant, something inside you forces your legs to move. You want to be nearer to him, to get close enough to see past this wall he’s built up. You’re used to some players being quiet and shy, like Will. At least with Will, though, he’s fun when there’s no stress on his shoulders. He relaxes a bit from time to time and lets his guard down. Something you’ve yet to see with Frankie. 

Sliding onto the bench beside him, you adjust your camera into your lap and lay your ballcap over your knee. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Frankie’s head tilt slightly, his eyes trained on your legs. There’s still a healthy gap between you both, yet the warmth of his body swarms around you. 

“Are you with the team full-time?” He asks. 

You glance at him, studying the way his hair curls around his ears and at the base of his neck. There’s a tension in his jaw that flexes under his beard, a simple twitch that happens after every time he speaks. Despite the timid exterior, you can’t help but to notice the softness in his eyes when he looks at you. 

“Mostly just for home games,” you explain. “I only really travel with the team if they invite me on the road. They like having extra media presence for the bigger series, and whatnot. If I could be at every game, I absolutely would. Sitting on the sidelines beats having to watch it on the TV or listening to the radio.”

Frankie nods along as you talk, his lips pursed as if he’s thinking of what to say. Avoiding any more awkward silence, you flick on your camera and scroll through the photos, presenting him with a few you’d taken during his first appearance at the plate. His arm brushes yours slightly as he leans in closer, staring at the photo far longer than you expect. 

“I kind of fucked up and forgot to take a photo of you after that double in sixth,” you admit. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t be,” he shakes his head. “I like this one.”

It’s a photo of him swinging at a curveball, his bat posed perfectly in the center of the box, and his muscular thighs flexed under his pinstripe uniform. You have to admit, it is a good shot—and he looks amazing mid-swing. Your eyes flick up to his, realizing he’s already looking at you. Thank God for the shadows inside the dugout, or else Frankie would see the way your face warms at his words. You don’t ever share your footage with the guys until it’s posted on the social media pages, but it feels different with Frankie. It strangely feels nice. 

“I feel like an asshole, I don’t think I’ve even asked for your name,” he says. 

“The guy’s normally just call me Red,” you shrug. 

“But that’s not your name.”

You tell him your name, and listen to his gentle voice echo it back. It’s rare you hear your name nowadays. Everyone just refers to you as ‘Red’, like it’s who you are. It doesn’t bother you, necessarily, but finally hearing someone acknowledge you makes your stomach flip. Frankie’s eyes never leave yours, and you realize how close you both have gotten. His leg is pressed against yours, and you can still faintly smell the turf on his uniform. He must notice it, too, because he clears his throat and shifts his legs inward. Shutting your camera off, you let it rest in your lap between your hands. There’s a quiet buzz between your bodies, a comfortable cocoon of shared silence that seems to swell with each passing second. 

“I, um, I should probably head down there with the guys,” Frankie says after a while. 

“Yeah, of course. I’m sorry if I kept you too long.”

Frankie rises from the bench, his thick fingers wrapping around the neck of his bat. He offers you a hand, and you shrink under his height as you move to stand. 

“I didn’t mind the company.”

There’s a hint of a smile on his face, just an easy curve of his lips as he stares at you a moment longer. You should move. You should definitely move. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Frankie,” you say. “Great job out there tonight.”

“Thank you.” He says your name, again, emphasizing it as if to prove a point. A gentle reminder that you’re more than just a nickname. 

**

“What took you so long, Catfish?” Santi yells from across the clubhouse. 

He’s already showered and got on his casual clothes for the drive home, something Frankie should have been doing. Instead, he had been helplessly wasting time sitting next to the photographer he had seen around all day. 

Frankie tears his baseball cap off his head, tossing it into his locker as he unbuttons his uniform. He’s still mentally picking apart the day—what he did wrong, what he could improve on—but in each thought, her shiny red hair and doe eyes make a reappearance. Shaking his head, he strips off his undershirt and searches through his stall for a fresh one. 

“Got to chatting with the team photographer,” he says, shrugging the shirt over his chest.

Santi leans against the locker stall, his mouth quirked up in a teasing grin. Frankie already knows what he’s going to say, and he regrets ever mentioning it. 

“Distracted by Red, huh?” Santi teases. “She’s got that affect.”

“She’s not distracting,” Frankie defends. “She just came down to show me some of the pictures she took, and we talked a bit. That’s all.” 

He hopes his clipped words are enough to steer Santi away from the conversation, but Santi can see right through him. 

“Red never shows anyone her photos. None of us ever see what she’s got on that camera until they’re online.”

For some reason, Frankie loves knowing he’s the exception. He saw the way she lit up as she scrolled through the footage, clearly proud of her work. Hell, he doesn’t even care she missed his big play. She spent that time in the dugout with him while his mind was a mess, and gave him a reprieve from the clouded thoughts that the game left him with. Was it awful that he was only looking forward to tomorrow’s game so he could see her again? 

“Maybe she feels bad for me, I don’t know,” Frankie huffs.

He slips on his jacket and runs a hand through his hair before putting on his hat. Santi watches him suspiciously, tracking the tense movements Frankie makes as he gathers his stuff to leave. 

“She’s a nice girl, you know, and she knows her shit, too. Hell, half the guys have tried to grab her attention the last few years, and she’s never been interested.”

“What makes you think she’s interested in me?” 

“I don’t know,” Santi drawls out the words. “Guess we’ll just have to see what she posts tonight.”

Frankie rolls his eyes, shoving past Santi and out of the clubhouse. He steers clear of the other guys as they walk together out to their cars. No one has said much to him yet, and he’s okay with it. Frankie knows he’s the new guy and it’ll take some time for everyone to warm up to him. The only person that seems to be welcoming so far, was Red. Maybe that’s just who she was, but Frankie found himself working Santi’s words over and over inside his head. Red never shows anyone her photos. What made Frankie so special, then? Was he right to think she felt bad for him? If she hadn’t been interested in anyone else, then why did she spend that time with him? 

The apartment is pitch black when Frankie opens the door. Flicking on the lights, he takes in the empty space. Moving boxes scatter the hallway, leading into the renovated kitchen. Frankie barely got the keys to his new place in San Diego two days ago, leaving him little time to settle in before opening day. After this series he’ll be on the road for a week, without any time to get acclimated. Traveling never bothered him, but he wished he could just stop and breathe for one minute. You wanted this, he reminds himself. He’s worked too hard the last several years to let this opportunity pass. The boxes can wait, at least for now.

Tossing his jacket onto the back of the sofa, Frankie slumps against the cushions, scrubbing a hand over his face. He’s been itching to look at his phone since he left the stadium, but he held off. Guess we’ll just have to see what she posts tonight. Digging out his phone from his pocket, Frankie opens Instagram and refreshes the page. Sure enough, the media team already made a post-game slideshow…with Frankie’s at-bat being the first photo. 

The same one he told her he liked the most. 

His thumb hovers over the post as he debates whether or not to look at the rest. He’s already got his one photo, there wouldn’t be any need to give fans more. Yet, as he slides his thumb left over the screen, there’s another photo of himself—from the pre-game walk through the tunnel. Even though his eyes are staring directly into the camera, he knows that wasn’t what he was looking at. His entire focus had been on the girl behind the camera. 

Frankie opens the team’s Instagram page and scrolls through the ‘following’ tab, searching for her name. It’s just innocent curiosity, that’s all it is, but as he finds her name down the list, he’s tempted to press the button. The blue Follow button taunts him, begging him to make the move. Her profile picture is a simple mirror shot, half her face covered by her camera. He wants to see more, like this odd desperation to know her past the lens she hides behind. Before he talks his way out of it, Frankie taps Follow, and sends his phone sailing across the room. It hits the carpet with a soft thud, and sits there silent on the ground. He tips his head back against the couch, pitching the bridge of his nose. God, he feels stupid. 

A soft buzz resounds through the room. Frankie slides his eyes toward his phone, seeing the carpet illuminated by the screen. Just a coincidence, he thinks. Despite the denial he spews inside his mind, he moves from the couch to retrieve his phone. 

Red has accepted your follow request. 

Red started following you. 

Frankie stares at the screen with a stupid grin on his face. He scrolls through her page, finding a surplus of photographs of the stadium, the beach, and a few cityscape shots from various cities. There isn’t a single photo of her, though. He studies each photo, wondering what she saw through the lens of the camera, wishing he could see just one of her face. As he makes his way down her page, a message notification pops onto the screen. 

Red: I hope it’s okay I posted that photo of you. 

Frankie: Absolutely. 

Red: Ok, good. I liked it, too. 

Frankie: Santi told me you don’t show anyone your photos. 

Red: Of course he did. LOL. I’m just protective over my work. I like to keep things private.

Frankie: Why’d you show them to me? 

Frankie watches as text bubbles appear and disappear over and over for at least a minute. He half considers turning his phone off for the night to avoid her response. He shouldn’t care why she showed him, but the thought of it would keep him up all night, wondering why he was deserving of it and not anyone else. His phone buzzes in his hands, and Frankie quickly opens the message. 

Red: I don’t know. You’re the only person I really felt like sharing it with. 

Frankie: I feel honored. Any time you want to share them, I’m always around. 

Red: I’m holding you to that. 

Frankie thinks of a million things to reply with, but his fingers don’t move; all he can think about is seeing her again tomorrow.

[suna-cerely-yours]

Thirsty ft Miya Atsumu

warnings: drabble, fem!bodied reader, suggestive

a/n: we will most certainly be back in the reporter!reader and msby! character verse, just- maybe not with atsumu.

Gripping your phone you stand on the side of the court, waiting for the winners of the match to start post-game interviews. There’s about dozen other reporters surrounding you, each eager to get a few words from the star players of the match. You, however, are on a mission tonight. Your eyes are fixed on one man alone- Miya Atsumu. Well, technically speaking, everyone’s got their eye on the blonde currently signing jerseys and- was that, yep, he’s signing someone’s bare tits. Miya Atsumu, tonight’s MVP- and arguably the best active setter in the V-league (you personally thought Kageyama Tobio was better, but the magazine you worked for was a die-hard MSBY supporter, so you kept your opinions to yourself). Narrowing your eyes, you get ready to shove and claw your way through the mass of reporters that’ll form once he makes his way to your side.

There’s a sudden movement, that almost knocks you over as cameras start flashing at the first player over. You catch a glimpse of dark curls and a face mask, before you’re pushed back. Stumbling, you regain your balance, cursing at no one in particular. Great, now you’ll probably miss Atsumu even walking by, much less interview him. Straightening the lanyard with PRESS written on it in bold, you look around for an opening, hoping he’s still on the court.

He’s still on the court. You watch as he sits down on a side bench, wiping sweat from his face before putting the towel down. Slowly he spreads his legs, his shorts stretching obscenely across his thick thighs, (fuck, what does he squat to get those thighs?) riding up even further. A vision flashes through your mind- of you kneeling between his parted legs, hands running up those thighs as you lean forward to press your mouth to his-

You’re unable to blink as he grabs a water bottle from the icebox, uncapping it with the same hand, before bringing it to his lips. He tips his head back, revealing the strong, sweaty column of his neck as he drinks, throat bobbing. Rivulets of water messily drip from his mouth, running down his neck, wetting the front of his jersey. You bite your lips, feeling a distinct throb, as you shift uncomfortably. Who on earth makes drinking water look so R- rated?

He empties the bottle in three gulps, before crushing the plastic and dropping it in his bag, open at his feet. You stare as he grabs another water bottle, uncapping it the same as before, but to your horror instead of bringing it to his mouth he overturns it on his head, wetting his hair and face. Your panties feel distinctly sticky as he wipes the water from his eyes, shaking his wet hair, not unlike a dog- you note (a small part of brain supplies golden retriever helpfully, but you’re kind of preoccupied). He stands, running a hand through his hair, before lifting the bottom of his jersey to properly wipe his face, revealing an expanse of golden skin and muscle- a body carved to perfection through hours of dedication. Your mouth feels dry as you swallow, what was wrong with you?

Trying to compose yourself, you miss Atsumu pick up his bag and grab another water bottle, before making his way to your side. You’re shoved aside once again, as reporters try to catch Atsumu- but he ignores all that. 

“Here ya go, babe.”

You glance at the outstretched water bottle, before locking eyes with the man of the night. Incredulously, you open your mouth, hoping to say something ('you have an entire list of questions you prepared for him' your brain chimes in, you ignore it.)

“I-”

“Ya looked a little thirsty there, do ya want my number along with this?”

[scienceandstorytelling]

I can’t stop thinking about Will Branner’s performance as Max Jägerman and how it leads to my favorite usage of the Nightmare Time leitmotif in all the Hatchetfield musicals (and why I voted for NPMD as having my favorite title number in the poll I made a while back).

Max is a well-written character who already gives me hints of a tragic villain vibe, and then Will’s performance just fleshes that out tenfold. It features the duality Starkid has been playing a lot with in this series, where you’re sympathetic towards a character while also acknowledging the terrible things they do. Max is horrible and abusive towards his classmates and has given them years of trauma. But a teenage boy does not become a Literal Monster in a vacuum.

Alongside his role as a bully, the script gives us images of Max as someone who is struggling academically and would have probably fallen through the cracks if adults didn’t idolize him for his football prowess so they can live vicariously through him as he beats the rival town in the big game. We find out that he has a shitty dad who verbally abuses him for not being macho enough. That he probably doesn’t have all the sex people say he does. That the people he bullies hate-pranking him in revenge is “the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for [him].” And then Will’s acting keeps showing us glimpses of this goofier side of Max, glimpses of the person he might have been if he wasn’t such a bully.

And for those few moments in the aftermath of the prank, you think maybe he’s going to change now that someone has shown him what he perceives to be kindness. And then he falls through the floor and that opportunity is lost. But unlike what Mayor Lauter implies, I would argue that his fate isn’t fully sealed when he dies in the Waylon House. I think the moment of no return is when he kills Richie while the leitmotif plays.

Lots of people ship Max and Richie and have headcanons that they used to be friends, and I think it’s because of the parallels between them in this song. Here we have two 18 year old boys who have both been failed by the adults around them. Both are harmed by being stereotyped. Both are in the liminal social role of being in the process of stepping out of childhood and into living their adult lives after high school. And both of them are denied those adult lives. And then they fucking sing about it. The “will you pray for me” duet is such a powerful part of the song for many reasons, and I think it’s the moment that shows us that Max is still in the process of committing to being nothing more than a vengeful spirit, or at the very least is in the last stage of that process. The thing that strikes me the most is that Max is simultaneously trying to make Richie feel insignificant and alone while also projecting his own feelings onto him. “Is this the eternal dark without a dawn?” he asks, reaching up to the sky and not looking at Richie at all.

And what fucks me up is that Max fails in this moment. Richie is not alone. He never was, and now he’s even less alone. Not only will Pete and Ruth mourn him, so will Max’s former friends. Its so notable to me that this takes place immediately after Go Go Nighthawks, where we’ve just seen everyone, including, again, Max’s “friends,” sing about how great it is that he’s gone. It’s a real Ebeneezer Scrooge moment that makes me wonder if Max has been silently haunting the school these weeks since his death and it’s only now, having watched that, that he tips over into full villain mode. Max is the one with no one to pray for him, not Richie. And Richie basically says as much, and Max kills him anyway. Richie was doomed from the start in the sense that the show literally opens with a flashforward to his death, but I think Max is doomed too. “Don’t need no one to tell me high school will be my peak,” he says in his own introductory song. I said before how they’re both on the cusp of living their whole adult lives, but I wonder if Max had trouble seeing himself that way. He already didn’t think he would amount to anything after high school. A lot of these “peaked in high school” football star characters spend their adult lives being metaphorically stuck in high school, in their teenage years, because they can’t let themselves move on from their glory days. And here Max is, literally stuck in his teenage years forever as a ghost - but not literally stuck in high school, as we see when he follows them all to the Witchwood. When he makes he grand ghostly return he says to Richie, “I’m free!” (Free from what, Max?) He certainly has the freedom of a ghost to go anywhere and do anything. And yet he traps himself in high school. He prevents himself from moving forward. And all of that is why it makes me emotional every time when he casts aside any last chance of not being the villain and strikes the first blow on Richie, these two teenagers failed by the adults and the structures around them, their fates locked together, while the leitmotif plays and takes us back to that original line from Alice’s corpse singing to Bill about how he should have been a better father: Look what happens, nightmare time.

[kyberblade]

Give It To Me In Basic (Din x Reader)

A/N: This is just something that the premise came to mind when I listened to a song and I couldn’t let it sit. I wrote it in practically one sitting and just saw where it went - it was basically an exercise to stretch my writing muscles after a while away, and it felt really good! It’s incredibly sappy and domestic and I hope you like it. 🥹 (Not a part of my other series, this is an entirely new Din x Reader to me. Hi. Hello.) I also wanted to try writing in “she/her” instead of “you”, but this is still definitely an entirely blank reader insert. No physical descriptions are used. No mention of Y/N.

I do not own Star Wars or it’s characters. Sadly. But I carry them in my heart. Does that count for something? My soul says yes.

Summary: Din finds softness after a life of rigidity, and he’s not willing to let it go. (*Chandler Bing voice* Could I have been more vague?)

Warnings: Fluff? Like tooth rotting amounts of fluff and domesticity. Din being a sap. Grogu being the cutest thing you ever did see, and Din is once again a warning in and of himself in this one. Swearing. Mentions of typical show violence. Mando’a. Swearing. Mentions of pregnancy at the end. Some spoilers if you squint? (But if you’re here, you know how this works.) (No but like really, it follows the plot of season 2 and TBoBF, so mentions of that briefly, if you don’t want that spoiled, don’t read.) Helmetless Din. What? Who said that? 👀😬 Again: No mention of Y/N. (In fact this is written as “she/her” instead of “you”, but is an entirely blank reader insert.)

Word count: 1,206 (I know. I am as shocked as you are at how brief this is.)

Thanks to @fordo-kixed-rex for reading over this and sending me a caps locked series of texts as a response. And to @what-the-heckin-heck and @littlemisspascal for telling me it’s not too fluffy/sappy/much.

Masterlist

Xxx

There was a softness Din had come to know, grown familiar with, and let it entangle with his life like a well kept plant on someone’s warm windowsill.

It had snuck up on him when he’d least expected it. Not in the middle of a battle, or on some backwater planet, but in the quiet moments in between.

It had a heart unlike anything he’d ever seen. Something vibrant and larger than life, that welcomed him and his son with open arms and without a second glance.

The heart was worn on the sleeve of a woman, who by every standard was normal, nothing brilliant or captivating, but to Din she was everything. He couldn’t look away whenever she was nearby, her beauty both inside and out something that pulled him in with a force he didn’t understand.

Her touch sent shockwaves across his skin, the first time she shook his hand making him shudder even through his gloves. As time went on and he found himself lost in a darkened hull of the Crest, the woman at his side as they tangled further up in one another, his breath caught in his chest as her slight hand reached up to cup his cheek.

It wasn’t the touch of a lover, the sensuality of the trace of her fingers that stole from him. It was the closeness. The nearness. Something in the touch felt like home.

And he never felt at home again unless those hands were cradling him in some way, even through his armor. He’d lean into the touch, though he couldn’t feel it through his beskar, he swore he could. This was home. This is what he was trying to come back to.

Her laugh made him laugh. A foreign and buzzing feeling climbing out of his chest. Just the thought of it made him chuckle, shaking his head and telling his contact it was nothing, he was just amazed the bounty was so stupid.

Maybe it was selfish, but he didn’t want to share her with anyone. He’d found a little slice of happiness in this godforsaken galaxy, why did he have to let anyone else know about it?

When he lay on the ground, wind knocked out of him after an enemy had gotten a lucky hit, it wasn’t the sky above he saw, it was her eyes. They sparkled mischievously at him anytime she plotted her next move, often to get him to just relax. 

For years he’d seen calculating gazes, sneers, narrowed eyes of distrust and hate. He saw none of these with her. Only peace.

How ironic, he thought, getting back to his feet before causing carnage. To get back to the softness, there must first be all this chaos.

He saw it each time he came home. The light dulled just slightly in her eyes. She loved him just as much, if not more than before, but she longed to tell him while looking into his own eyes. She knew the Creed. She understood. Doesn’t mean it hurt any less. For either of them.

It was a night on the Crest, he woke with a start at the silence. He didn’t hear the child’s snores. Realization sunk in as he remembered the kid was with the Jedi. He was used to the silence as he slept, then he became used to the kids soft sounds, but they’re gone now. But slowly he eased back asleep, his eyes falling slowly shut when he realized she was there, in his arms, breathing deep and sound asleep…. His new familiar. He softly smiled as she started to snore.

Now the child was back in his care, and he was off to Mandalore to restore his honor, become a Mandalorian in the eyes of the Creed once more. His new ship had no room for anyone other than himself and Grogu, so he made arrangements to leave her on Navarro with Karga. 

After a private goodbye, where he saw the disappointment she would never voice once again painting her features, he set the ship to ascend up into the atmosphere. Once he was just above the clouds, he made a last minute decision, hailing her on her comm as he made a loop to come back around under the cloud cover.

“Look up,” was all he would say. 

But as he made a final pass by, just under the clouds without his helmet, he could see her on the ground, her smile like a beacon for miles around. From this distance the only thing she could really see clearly was his smile, but that was everything.

Her breath stuttered over the comm. “Meh'shab? Me'dinuir…. Ranov'la. Me'dinuir…. Mesh’la.” (“The fuck? To share…. Secret. To give each other…. Beautiful.”)

Din laughed. “Wanna try that again?”

She huffed. “Sorry. Ori'meshla.” (“Very beautiful.”)

Din snorted out a laugh.

She sighed, her words coming out barely above a breath. “Stars, I hope our ad has your smile.” (“Child.”)

Din paused, about to pull up on the controls. “What?”

“Wayii! Did I say that out loud?” She looked up to see Din circling lower and lower. “Don’t you dare land, Din Djarin.” The N1 was getting lower still as she spoke. “I mean it. You have planets to save. People to meet and-” The exhaust of the starfighter sent her hair every which way, her face scrunching up against the gust. “What was I thinking you would do, I don’t know?” The last words were mumbled into Din’s chest plate, his arms pulling her into him as soon as he was back on the ground. (Exclamation of surprise)

“Are you….?” His voice was barely above a whisper, his modulator popping with the lack of sound behind it.

She nodded into his beskar. “Yaihadla.”

“As much as I love you speaking Mando’a, just give it to me in Basic. My brain isn’t working properly right now-”

She tilted her head back to look up into his visor, her voice soft. “I’m pregnant, Din.” Her eyes scanned over his helmet, searching for purchase. “You’re gonna be a dad, Djarin.” Grogu squealed from the cockpit of the N1, pulling her eyes over toward the tiny green ward, and a smile up her face. “Well, again. You’ll be a dad, again.”

Din froze for a moment before reaching up and ripping his helmet off, immediately pulling her into a searing kiss. Her muffled sounds of surprise melted away after just a moment, her arms coming up around his neck to pull him closer still, and causing his lips to pull up into a smile against her own. Finally breaking the kiss, he leaned his forehead against hers, both of them breathing heavily.

“Careful,” she teased, “that’s how we got into this situation in the first place.”

Din just shook his head in amusement at her, chuckling, and never removing his forehead from hers. Looking up through his lashes, he found her already doing the same to him. “Hi,” he muttered quietly.

“Hi,” she replied on a breath, making his smile pull higher still. “Osik,” she continued on a breath, going on when he cocked his head to the side, pulling back just slightly. “I really hope they get your smile.” (“Shit.”)

Xxx

Everything Tags: @lam-ila @oliviajdjarin @peonyophelia @itsavicf @jxvipike @momc95 @babygirlrex0504 @harriedandharassed @burningfieldof-clover @theclassicvinyldragon What’s This?

[amiishinzou]

❀ Motherly ❀

Summary: the electro archon may be his creator and technically his mother, but it’s safe to say that you’re Kabukimono’s mama.

Kabukimono x fem!Reader (platonic)

Genre: fluff to angst

Word Count: 1,277

Notes/Warnings: Character death, Reader is related to Niwa, Niwa is still the second betrayal but Reader's heart is used, events take place before and during the Tatarasuna Incident

Author's Note: I haven't written a fic since 2020 so my writing might be wonky, please don't flop 🙏 EDIT: part two here (i forgot to post it TwT)

Ever since your cousin, Niwa, had introduced you to a lovely boy, who was referred to as Kabukimono by the other workers in Tatarasuna, the two of you had become inseparable. You always treated him as if he was your own son (not that you’d be ashamed of admitting it).

Whenever he wasn’t helping Niwa and Katsuragi with forging and smithing swords, he usually stays with you in his free time. In no way you’re swordsmith like your cousin but you resided with Niwa since you had no other family to stay with you. 

During the early days of his stay, Kabukimono didn't quite know how to blend in with human society, so you took it as your job to teach him various things and eventually the two of you bonded together that way. Teaching him how to read and write, do basic house chores, cook simple meals, and now currently how to sew. 

“There you go, you did a good job at stitching, Kabukimono.” You said with a gentle voice, watching the short boy make a simple stitch on the embroidery fabric. Giving him a gentle pat on his head like a reward, the young puppet giggled in response. “Thank you, mama!” Kabukimono replied, looking up at you with his indigo eyes that sparkled with fondness. The familial name he had for you always made your heart swell, remembering the time he had accidentally called you that for the first time when you soothed him from a nightmare. The young puppet was embarrassed at first and didn’t know what came to him, but you insisted that it was okay for him to keep calling you his mama.

In fact, that only made Kabukimono really see you as his mother. After all, you were sweet, kind, and caring like how a mother should be. Unlike his creator who had betrayed and abandoned him upon his creation.

“Alright, I should be cooking up some lunch now before Niwa comes ba- Hm?” As you tried to stand up, your words were cut off when the young puppet quickly grabbed hold of your hand.

“Yes, what is it darling?” you watched his eyes light up at the term of endearment that you always used for him.

“Um… can you please hold me? Just for a little while?” The young puppet innocently asks, his expression slightly bashful. Well, how could you refuse your sweet son?

Chortling at his adorable request, you sat down next to him again and picked him up with ease, setting him down gently in between your legs and giving Kabukimono his needed embrace.

“Just ten minutes, okay?” you told him and he responded with an “okay” back, Kabukimono then nuzzled into your shoulder affectionately as he relaxed into your hold. He was always grateful that you will always spoil him with your motherly affection.

You had initially thought that he was being clingy as usual (not that you mind), but your motherly instincts told you otherwise.

“Darling, you seem a little sad.” Kabukimono looked at you, surprised.

“You can tell?”   

“Of course, I can tell if my son is feeling blue.” you giggled, squeezing him tightly in your arms before giving him a soft yet concerned expression. “What’s got my darling sad?”

The young puppet frowned to himself, averting his gaze from you for a bit before looking back up at you. “Mama… do you think I’m human?” he asked, the question making your eyes widen in slight surprise. Smiling at your son again, you answered.

“Well… you have two eyes, two ears, a nose, and a mouth. You’ve also got hands and feet. I think it’s safe to say you’re human.” you grinned, booping Kabukimono on the nose which caused him to giggle a bit, but his smile faltered after.

“But mama… I don’t have a heart.” Kabukimono said sadly, placing his hand over where his heart should be.

It was true, he was a puppet that had no heart beating inside his chest. “So how can I be a human without one?”

You wanted to console the poor boy, thinking deeply for a while as you hummed. When an idea came up in your mind, you gave Kabukimono a warm smile, gently cupping his face with your hand.

“How about this: why don’t I share my heart with you?” 

“Share your heart with me? I don’t understand…” Your proposal made the young puppet confused.

“You see, the heart makes you feel different emotions, right? So when you feel happy, then I’ll feel happy. And when you feel sad like now, then I’ll feel sad too.” You explained, gently taking Kabukimono’s hand to press it against your chest.

He felt the beating of your heart through the palm of his hand. “As my son, you have the right to own my heart. And as long as I’m alive, my heart beats for you.”

The young puppet eyes sparkled at your proposal, a warm and fluttering feeling flowed from within his chest. It’s as if the vibration of your heart beat made him more alive and it made him very happy that he now found himself a heart! Brushing his bangs away, you placed a soft kiss on his forehead

“Kabukimono, my sweet darling son… you’re human just as I am. I’ll always love you no matter what, that’s my duty as a mother. Can you trust your mama on that?” You asked, hoping that your words will give him the confidence he needed.

Fortunately for you, Kabukimono wholeheartedly understood your words and nodded his head happily.

“Thank you mama,” the young puppet beamed, hugging you tightly. “I love you!” 

“I love you too, my sweet son.”

Amongst such a heartwarming scene, it unfortunately caused a cruel idea to pop up in a certain Doctor’s mind.

. . .

“Niwa, have you seen Kabukimono? He’s been gone for days and I’m worried sick-” Your eyes widen at the sight before you. Your cousin was dying on the floor, a stab wound on his stomach as blood gushed on the floor.

“Niwa!” You cried out as you rushed to his side, kneeling down on the ground to get to his level.

“Ah, looks like I can pursue my plan immediately now that you’re here.” An evil chuckle emitted from the unknown man in front of you, his face hidden behind a mask.

Your heart races in fear as you protectively held your cousin. “Who are you and what have you done to my cousin!?” 

The masked man approached you and he forcefully grabbed your neck, raising you up from the ground. You choked as you try to remain calm, but alas you were terribly scared as you struggled from his hold.

“I wonder how that poor, pathetic puppet will react when his heart stops beating for him?”

Your breath hitches as you realize what this meant. “N-No, don’t you dare-!”

. . .

“This device seemed to have protected me… what’s in it?” Kabukimono looked at the man before him, holding the box in his hands.

“Your friend Niwa was too cowardly to stop the furnace and fled. But he was kind enough to at least give you what you’ve always desired.” The Doctor then ripped out the withered heart from the device, handing it to the puppet.

“Your heart that came from your mother.”

Kabukimono was horrified, his hands trembled as he looked down on the withered heart. He was angry that his friend had betrayed him, but most of all… he was anguished that his mother is dead.

His first and only heart stopped beating for him.

He was back to being a heartless puppet once again.

likes and reblogs will be highly appreciated!

[writingseaslugs]

Heartslabyul: When They're Sick

So my best friend and I had been discussing what the boys would be like if we had to take care of them while sick…and this happened. Hope you enjoy! Also please keep in mind this series and the one right after was written literally MONTHS ago, and that includes authors notes at the start.

Disclaimer: All characters in this series are aged up. For more information about my version of this world and the type of reader you can expect, please click the “Au Information” below!

Request Information | Masterlist | Au Information

Heartslabyul: When They’re Sick

It was that beautiful time of year when the world was getting colder and everyone and their mother was getting the flu. Sadly, when it came to Heartslabyul, the flu ran rampant. With all their tea parties and chores, everyone worked closely together. This meant that if one person got sick, the rest of the dorm was going to be following close behind.

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle actually gets sick more often than most think, he’s just good at treating it the moment it happens. He’s almost always stressed with his studies or running his dorm, so it’s not odd to think that he gets sick pretty often. Normally he’s just a slight cold that can be treated with over the counter medicine, and it’s rare that it’s ever anything more.

As per usual Riddle style, asking for help isn’t something he’s very fond of. However, even he knows his limits so when you notice him looking like he’s on death’s door and ask him if you can take care of him, he’ll reluctantly agree. He’s a good patient for the most part, but he will be criticizing some of your methods since he does have a background with medicine due to his parents.

The only hard part with Riddle is getting him to take medication that isn’t in a pill form. It’s no secret he prefers sweeter things, so he’ll be grimacing when you show him the disgusting liquid in the cup. He might even insist that he doesn’t need it knowing full well he does. Get Trey to work his magic and make it taste less vile and he’ll down it in one go.

When it comes down to what he eats when he’s sick, he’s very picky. It has to have all the correct nutritional value. He probably had a cookbook of things that are acceptable for you to make him while he’s on the mend. If you can’t cook then you best grab someone who can, because not a single one of these recipes are simple. They do seem to be amazing for healing someone though, so it’s worth a shot at making him some.

Once he’s all better he might be a bit more bashful around you for a while. You did just see him at his most vulnerable…well one of the times he was most vulnerable. He’s going to be thanking you, and promising if you ever find yourself in a similar situation, he’ll make sure you’re well cared for.

Trey Clover

It’s a bit harder to know if Trey is actually sick; he’s the oldest of his siblings and therefore was the one who always had to act like he was fine. When the flu swept through his home every year, he’d be the one taking care of everyone despite being sick himself. So when he’s sick he’ll just carry on as though it’s nothing and hope for the best. Not to say he won’t relax though if it gets bad, but it had to actually be bad for him to care about it.

He’s going to try and assure you that he’s fine despite the horrible wet cough he has going on, but if you insist even a little bit then he’ll give in and let you take care of him. It’s nice to have someone actually being the one to care for him since normally he’s by himself. He’ll make sure to express his gratitude while being spoiled by you.

Unlike some of his dorm members, he’s fine with gross tasting medicine. He swears he doesn’t even use magic to make it taste palatable…but you figure otherwise. Even while sick he’ll have that mischievous smirk and try to trick you, which normally means he’s starting to feel better.

He’s happy with whatever you make him to eat while he’s sick. He prefers things that are more bland while he’s feeling ill, but he’ll take something with a lot of spices as well to help unclog his sinuses. He’ll take whatever, as long as it’s not sweets. He knows the importance of eating correctly when sick, and can’t be coerced into eating a slice of pie for his mental well being.

Once he’s better he’s going to be thanking you a lot. Expect a delicious tart to be delivered to your dorm the moment he can move freely again without wanting to faint. He’s another one who’s promising you the sun and moon that if you ever get sick, he’ll make sure to take care of you.

Cater Diamond

Cater can be a bit dramatic when he’s not feeling well. In fact, you’ll probably be finding out through social media that he’s sick before you even see him. Probably captioning a post of “If only there was a nice nurse who’d come and save me from my misery”. It’s a hint, to whom though…well nobody other than you knows. Because it’s you. He’s hinting that you should take care of him since you’re one of the few people at Night Raven that don’t have another agenda and would care for him just because you’re his friend.

As soon as you knock on his door, the floodgates are opening. Cater hates feeling sick and anything but energetic, so being sick absolutely sucked for him. He’s going to be happy you’re there, but also asking if you’re sure about helping him since he doesn't want to make you sick. He’s conflicted to the max about you helping, but just give him some assurance that you’re fine and want to make him feel better.

He’s one of the best in the dorm when it comes to taking medication. Unlike Trey and Riddle, he doesn’t care much about the taste. He’ll down it in one go like he’s taking a shot of liquor and be done with it. He doesn’t put up a fuss and is overall a very easy patient, but he’s going to be asking for you to stay with him until he’s all better. Be prepared to grab a chair and drag it over to his bedside because he doesn’t want to be left alone.

Only time you really get to leave him is to go to the restroom and grab him something to eat. He’s simple when he’s sick, grab him some chicken noodle soup and call it a day. He doesn’t care if it’s from a can or homemade, as long as he has some he swears he’ll recover in no time. He even says it's more like a magical potion than actual food.

You’re probably going to be waking up with a fully recovered Cater hoping about. He’s always recovered fast from being sick, and this is no different. Just a little bit of rest and medicine and he’ll be ready for anything. Expect to be showered in affection the moment he can, thanking you over and over again and telling you that you’re the best nurse to ever exist.

Ace Trappola

Ace is one of the more dramatic members of NRC when he’s sick, but he’s going to be more whiny if anything. He hates the fact that he can’t do what he wants, but he also isn’t going to turn down the fact that this means he doesn’t have to go to class. It’s a win-lose situation for him really. If he is sick for more than three days though he will be regretting life and would rather be in class than dealing with this icky feeling.

If you offer him help then you just signed up to be his full time maid while he’s on the mend. Be expecting him to text you when he’s hungry or needs more water. He’s a huge baby, and will be teasing you the entire time. The good news is when the fever hits its peak his personality takes a dramatic turn. He becomes significantly more honest and is thanking you, even going so far to hold your hand and playing with it, letting you know he appreciates you helping him. When he’s no longer sick you best never mention this though, he’ll deny it since he can’t remember his fever induced haze.

He doesn’t like taking medicine, at all. He can down it in one go, sure, but he still hates it. He especially hates medicine that makes you drowsy since he despises the sedated feeling that takes over him. So if you’re going to be giving him medicine, make sure it won’t make him sleepy. If he gets that drowsy feeling where his mind can’t think straight and it’s not just from the fever, he’s going to be mad and refuse to take anything else.

He won’t turn down anything you make him, honestly. He’ll happily eat anything you bring him, even if it’s just something from the cafeteria. Just be careful if Grim comes with you, because the little cat is going to be trying to snag food off of Ace’s plate. The good news is if they begin arguing, you know Ace is starting to feel better.

The moment he’s better he is out of bed, ready to take on the world. He refuses to stay another minute in his shared dorm room, wanting to get out and cause some trouble. Of course he’ll be thanking you, but also saying that if you ever get sick, count him out of helping. He saw all the shit you had to put up with when taking care of him, and he’d rather not deal with that himself. At least he thanked you though…right?

Deuce Spade

Deuce is a mama’s boy, and whenever he got sick his mother would be the one to figure it out right away. This meant he was used to being taken care of the moment he got even the slightest of colds. Half the time he wouldn’t even realize he was getting sick, and since it was caught so early it was over before it even began. Sadly coming to Night Raven meant when he got sick and he didn’t realize it, it got bad and fast.

He’s the one reaching out for help before you even know he’s sick. Messaging you and informing you of his situation, asking if you could bring over some medicine and soup. He’s not asking to be babied, but he doubted his dorm mates would be much help. His best bet was Trey when it came to being taken care of, and he was too weak to leave the bed and inform his Vice Dorm Leader that he was in need of help.

When it comes to taking medicine, he dislikes it, but does it anyway without much fuss. He would always remember his mom’s disappointed face when he didn’t take medication as a child and learned how to just down it. Don’t be surprised if you hear him mumbling “Around the teeth, through the gums, watch out guts, here it comes.” Before drinking the meds. He’s going to be pounding a water bottle after it though to get the sickening taste out of his mouth.

Deuce will take anything you hand him while sick and be thanking you the entire time. He’ll even insist you eat with him and move over on his bed to have you sit down with your bowl of soup. He gets a bit more talkative despite his throat being sore, so tell him that he needs to rest after eating something. If you want huge brownie points, grab his phone and call his mom to find out what she puts in her lentil soup that she always makes when Deuce is sick. The boy will be crying tears of happiness the moment the first spoonful hits his tongue.

Deuce is a bit slower on recovering, and will take a few days to be back to his normal energy levels. After the first two days though you don’t have to worry about playing nurse anymore, it’s mainly just the after effects. He is thanking you though and expect a present to be in your mailbox when he is better. Mama Spade did teach her son to always thank people properly, so you’ll have a handwritten letter that’s barely legible and some snacks along with it.

[pumpkinpie59]

ranking the tmnt shows based on plot writing, character writing, and what my preferences are:

first off, plot writing

6, tnm

idk what to put here.

5, 2012

it really sucks because its first season’s writing is unironically my favorite writing in the franchise. but then the show steadily gets messier and more inconsistent writing as it goes forward. especially in season 4. i wish i could defend it more but it is at the bottom for me. besides tnm ig

4, 87

i actually like the arcs in 87, but the thing with 87 is that … the plot isn’t the point! but i don’t consider that a flaw. the show is a comedy first, and it’s great at what it does. so yes, even if the plot episodes are pretty forgettable compared to the goofier episodes, it’s not the worst thing in the world. but it’s still number 4.

3, rise

rise is kinda weird because even tho most of the series is comedy filler like 87, it’s most known for its plot. but i think it earns that because sometimes the show will throw in episodes that foreshadow the big plot at the end of the season, and it handles it pretty well for the most part.

2, tales

i honestly really enjoyed the way the plots were set up in tales. since it’s pretty new, i won’t spoil it, but i think my only actual complaint was the framing devices they used. but otherwise it was pretty good.

1, 03

every once in a while, the show would have a hiccup writing-wise, but overall i liked the flow of the arcs and stories it was trying to tell. out of all the tmnt shows, 03 was the best at juggling several arcs at once and committing to giving them closure (cough. unlike 2012-).

okay character writing rankings.

6, tnm

tbf this one has venus. and a pretty good donnie.

5, rise

this is so controversial i know. but i just get so frustrated with how the show handles leo and donnie’s writing specifically. they feel ooc half the time and there’s little consistency. and then raph and mikey (my favorites of the team) were sidelined a lot.

4, 2012

mikey has no character growth whatsoever and is an adhd stereotype. donnie’s development gets thrown to the background so you only notice it if you’re paying attention to him the entire time. leonardo gradually gets worse over the course of the series and we never see him get better. they couldn’t decide what to do with karai half the time. april’s arc got switched for a different one halfway through (i still love her tho). the only one with a decent arc is raph, and i still think it could’ve been better ://

3, 03

this is not a knock at 03. i just think that character growth wasn’t its priority. telling stories was. however we do occasionally see them go through arcs. most obvious is leo, but i also enjoy seeing raph get less hostile and trusting leo more over the course of the first season.

2, 87

you’d have to watch the whole show to see it, but there’s almost … an accidental ?? arc for each turtle??? raphael gets angrier up until it reaches typical raphael levels in red sky, donatello goes through ups and downs of wishing he was never mutated while still pursuing human-level knowledge, michelangelo early on in the show wished he was more human (he changes his mind after becoming human once, but the feeling lingers a bit sometimes), and leonardo goes through anxieties related to his team (he acts differently about being without them depending on the season). but even without considering development, their personalities are written fantastically and i love seeing how they interact with the world around them.

1, tales

this is suspect to change since we’ve only had a movie and a 12-episode show. but what i’ve seen so far, i’ve really liked. my only complaint is that donnie feels different in the show vs the movie ://

and ,,, my biases

6, rise

sorry.

5, tnm

guilty pleasure idk what to say. uh. venus de milo. and turtlelamb <33

4, tales

i liked it a lot! i just want more characters and world building. we’ll see where it goes in the future.

3, 03

i love many aspects of the show. it’s not quite as entertaining to me as the next to tho. idk why but my attention span just can’t handle too much of it.

2, 2012

i grew up with this one. does it suck? oh yeah for sure lmao. but it’s nostalgic and i like a lot of the characters. and season 1 particularly is amazing. sucks for the rest of the show tho lol. i will unashamedly bully it.

1, 87

wow. who would’ve— i mean. man. who could have possibly guessed— this one has lotus blossom so i’d say this one can’t be beat.

[folklauerate]

I’ll say something else while I’m here-one of my biggest issues with Bridgerton s2 was the lack of cohesiveness. Jesus Christ no one is upset with characters making unlikable decisions and if you want a wedding for the sake of drama, Shondaland, have a fucking wedding, but make it earned! And on top of that, the wedding episode had the fucking audacity to be boring as shit! Just all trodding on and operating off of the assumption the viewer would be aghast and would sit through nearly an hour of boring yawn snooze because there were “stakes” and it seemed like the main pair might not get together. Like for fuck’s sake have as much drama as you like but at least make it well written! Instead the wedding episode is a dirge and not because it’s a reflection of some character’s mental state or any seemingly deep reason, no; it’s like they decided there would be a wedding and shrugged when it came to getting the character’s there. It doesn’t count as good writing if you’ve spent the past months/years trying to wrap your head around or write fic around the reasons why x decision by y characters make sense to fill in gaps that shouldn’t be there in the first place and that’s all this fandom has done.

People’s issue with side plots taking up too much time isn’t really that they take up too much time-it’s that none of them follow a set of overarching themes of the season and feed into them or a main storyline in a significant way, giving the illusion to the viewer that they’re completely separate from the romance at the core and therefore taking away from it, as opposed to everything being harmonious.

On top of that, the characterizations are so fucking varied and there’s a large tonal shift between s1 and s2 in terms of the way the Bridgersibs interact with one another. Siblings can fight and be rude and whatever to one another but for them to turn into completely different people out of nowhere is so ??

And on the topic of characterizations-WHERE WAS KATE’S??? Anthony gets 28363938 motivations for why he is the way he is and then is honestly left floundering with all of them, until you’re honestly a bit ?? as to why he can’t marry for love, and then you get Kate who is just… There. Why can’t she marry for love? Why is she hellbent against marrying? Why is she prioritizing her family’s finances and Mary/Edwina above herself? What conversations did she have with her father before he died to make her this way or was she always like this? What were their lives like in India? I could keep going! At least in the book you get some half hearted “I’m too ugly and old to get a match” reason but in the show no one is going to fucking believe Simone Ashley is too ugly or old to get whatever lord she wants 😭✋ and THEN???? To top it all off-Kate and Anthony don’t have a single meaningful discussion around an entire eight episodes!!!!! Not one!!!!!!!!! What fucking growth happens between them fucking and the coma and then their fucking dance to have them propose? If the actors themselves had to invent all these so called secret conversations their characters had in between everything to make things make sense, I really don’t think that’s a hallmark of good writing. They rush that happy ending in there at the end and it feels like they forgot they had to end the fucking show with these two characters together and they just said “fuck it let them kiss” and that’s what we got. WHAT CONVERSATION OF SUBSTANCE DID THEY HAVE. And what fucking argument can you make that it’s okay that it didn’t happen on screen??) NONE!!! It’s TV! It’s a VISUAL FORMAT??? Oh my god.

I told myself I wouldn’t rant about this, just redirect people to walle’s thoughts on this, which is (in her own words) how she sat shiva for the fucking wreck of what Bridgerton s2 is. Walle if you don’t know wrote a thousand cuts and s2 was the nail in the coffin for her. It was so so so bad. It went against such basic principles of storytelling. The writing was so abhorrent. It was insane. And to defend it feels more insane it feels like you’ve been taken hostage by this damn show and you’re writing thinkpieces on tumblr and twitter to make it make sense!

What grates me is that it really could’ve been good. The juice was there. The actors are amazing. The production team is clearly so so dedicated and hard working. IT WAS ALL THERE. Honestly the way the show was marketed in the trailer feels completely different from how it came out and I have to think there was some fuckshit going on behind the scenes given the large tonal shift during/after ep 4 and CVD’s hasty and odd departure.

[mish-anthropy]

This week's featured smut: "When Undead Hearts Beat 🔞" featuring Astarion & Devi

Once again, I come bearing smut!

The smut demon ordained to visit me, and I entered a kind of fugue state and ended up writing a fic about Astarion Ancunin and Devi Sharae - two characters I've only written about once before.

I hereby present: When Undead Hearts Beat 🔞

This is an AU where Astarion's nightmare from my work No Harm Shall Come to You has come true. In this story, Cazador turned Devi into another of his spawn, carved infernal runes on her back and tried to use her for the Rite of Profane Ascension in Astarion's stead. He found her just in time, their companions slaying Cazador as Astarion rescued Devi.

But now they have to make sense of a world where they're both vampire spawn. And it's up to him to help her come to grips with her new powers—and her new weaknesses.

Summary:

Astarion Ancunin and Devi Sharae have had a rough few months. And what's the best thing to do when things get rough? Well, if you were to ask them, they would say it would be a good time to have sex. And they've done a lot of that recently. But all they've really managed to do is avoid having a long overdue conversation about how they really feel about one another. Finally, they take the time to do that. And then they have sex again. :3

Tags include:

NSFW, M/F oral sex, P/V sex, Edging

Full tags and a snippet below the fold! Please leave a comment & kudo if you enjoy it, and pic of the smutty couple in question below 💜

Reblogs appreciated!

When Undead Hearts Beat

Astarion chuckled in response, his heart feeling lighter at her words. He looked at her, his eyes roaming over her tear-stained cheeks and her soft smile. “You’re so brave, Devi. Always trying to make me feel better when you’re the one who needs comfort.”

She reached to stroke his face gently. “I don’t need comfort, Astarion,” she said softly. “I just need you.”

He leaned into her touch, nuzzling his face into her palm. “I need you too, Devi. More than anything.” He looked up at her, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “Devi...” he whispered.

He reached for her face and pulled her closer before kissing her deeply. His tongue gently stroked against her lips, requesting access. As she opens her mouth, he deepens the kiss, his tongue dancing with hers. “Devi,” he said again, panting against her lips.

She gasped for air as he broke the kiss. “What is it, Astarion?”

He swallowed hard, his voice cracking with emotion. “Devi... I want to make love to you. I want to hold you and just forget about everything we’ve been through.”

“‘Make love’?” she repeated after him. “You mean, as opposed to what we did earlier?” She smiled at him teasingly.

He laughed softly, a genuine, warm sound, and very much unlike him. “Yes, something more gentle. I want to make love to you, Devi. Not just take you like a wild beast in heat.”

She chuckled. “I do so enjoy when you do that though,” she smiled against his lips. “But yes... let’s try something different.”

He grinned as he kisses her again, his fingers entwining with hers. “I’m glad you enjoy it, my darling. But tonight I want to cherish every moment with you.” He wrapped his arms around her, lifting her up as he stood and carried her to the bedroom. He placed her gently on the bed before climbing on top of the mattress beside her. “Once we’re settled, I think a nice, slow love making session is in order,” he said, his voice low and teasing.

“Mmm... That would be a welcome change from our usual fare,” she smiled at him. “Not that I have any complaints whatsoever,” she added with a smirk.

He smirked, running his fingers down her arm as he lay facing her on the bed. “I mean, I can only agree. But sometimes it’s nice to take things slow and really enjoy each other’s company,” he said, leaning in to kiss her neck softly.

Devi gasped as his cool lips touch her skin. She pushed him away gently, rolling him onto his back with a smile.

He let out a soft chuckle as she rolled him over. “I see you have other plans,” he said, grinning up at her.

“Not entirely,” she smiled. “I just thought after how you devoured me earlier, it’s only fair that I repay the favour.” She moved lower on the bed before shifting between his legs. Leaning down, she gently kissed his inner thigh. “What do you think?”

Astarion’s breath hitched as she moved down between his legs. “Oh, I most certainly approve of this plan.” He let out a low groan as Devi’s lips touched his skin. “You have such a way with your mouth, my darling.”

“So I’ve been told,” she said, nipping at him. “It’s a good thing I know my way around a flute,” she quipped, before flicking her tongue along the head of his cock.

Read the rest on AO3 here!

Please leave kudos if you enjoy it and let me know what you think in the comments! 💜

[carulenes]

an analysis of wolfwood’s characterization in trigun stampede as well as his connection to vash (+ why i believe he’s likely much older than we think)

okay i’ve been thinking abt this since eps 10 or 11 were released (this show became my special interest the second it dropped if i'm being completely honest) but its been scratching at my brain ever since i read the sakuracon radio interview and since i haven’t seen anyone talking abt this yet i figured i may as well because it’s clear they really did pull very extensively from the manga and i really am loving how they adapted his character. also i occasionally keep seeing the “tristamp wolfwood is a kid/is 14-15” takes which i need to at least try to help put to rest bc they make no sense given his other iterations and would actively make the story worse.

a quick tldr of my main points before i get on my very long winded soapbox:

wolfwood in trigun stampede has been used as an undying, unkillable soldier by the eye of michael for decades.

rollo as a character, as opposed to monev the gale, was designed specifically as a metaphor for wolfwood’s backstory.

wolfwood and vash are written to be literal complements to one another.

I literally don’t think I have the space to talk abt all my thoughts, and ofc these are all my personal thoughts so any and all of what i’m saying could be wrong, but direct analysis of eps 4-7 (as I think they’re the most important) and discussion of his trajectory in general under the cut (obvious spoilers for the show but also the manga as well as tw: discussions of suicide/suicidal ideation as well as the general tw list for the show's graphic content):

Starting first with a side point that Wolfwood was never a child at any point he was with Vash during thecourse of the story, including the manga. He has always been a man in his 20s, with trimax ww having the appearance of being in his 30s or 40s. It is absolutely crucial to his and Vash’s characterizations, as well as their entire dynamic together, that Wolfwood is an adult. Could make an entire separate post about this, but I feel like starting here is important.

Onto the sakuracon japan radio interview. The team gave a LOT of interesting insight into the development of the show, but one specific point stood out to me:

This is important, because I definitely missed it during the show’s initial run, but I think it’s REALLY obvious once you know what you’re looking for, and is a big factor in why I think he’s likely older than we realized.

————

EP 4: These are the very first lines that are said about him in the show, and the very first time we see him, he is absolutely exhausted:

We know that at this point, Wolfwood is likely on his way to Jeneora Rock to meet up with Vash to fulfill his contract...until Vash and co. quite literally slam into him (and his life) unexpectedly, nearly killing him with their van. He probably should’ve died except… he’s on his feet almost instantly, able to walk perfectly fine and being a jackass as though he didn’t get launched halfway across the desert by a moving vehicle. Which is… odd, naturally.

When they try to find help and instead find the dead couple, he specifically mentions that he isn't a priest like he's been in other iterations. He's now an undertaker, someone meant to guide others through their deaths:

His personality is hard to tap down. He's goofy and childish and downright unlikeable, and there's a hint of something lurking deeper, something menacing and potentially dangerous. So much so that Roberto is on edge the entire time their group is together after being swallowed by the Grand Worm, and flat out tells Vash that Wolfwood is untrustworthy and likely an assassin, "a man who can kill with a smile on his face". And Vash’s response is… really fucking weird, given how long the two have known each other:

not to mention he's wearing sunglasses Wolfwood is rightfully very ??? in response because, what the fuck is he talking about, and why is he so genuine about it, they just met???

Fast forward to a bit later, when Wolfwood is like "hey man, you really shouldn't be so trusting. I could've shot you in the back several times now." To which Vash is like "but you didn't, though." And Wolfwood is even more confused because is this guy stupid???

And then it's time for the final act: Wolfwood reveals his Punisher, destroying the Grand Worm while giving the illusion of taking out Zazie as well. Meryl was informed by someone that Wolfwood had been the one to save them all, but when she tries to thank him, he immediately shifts the subject, being annoying and arguably completely unlikeable. Roberto points out that Wolfwood had lied about who he was, trying to get Vash to realize that he still can't be trusted, and again Vash shoots it down: "We're alive because of him."

Wolfwood showed his role as the Punisher without hesitation, and not only was Vash not really phased by it, but he actually seemed to be inspired by him, stopping his self-destructive tendencies and even repeating his own words back to him. And that's the moment we finally learn his name in the show:

But then, almost immediately, we have a complete reversal of his scene with Vash in the Worm. It’s also of note that Zazie always specifically says human lives:

————

EP 5: One of the most important episodes in this discussion, and it starts with the name alone, "Child of Blessing". Here’s a very general summary:

A young boy in a much less than ideal living situation is chosen to be 'a blessing upon the world through his sacrifice', which turns out to secretly be mutilative experimentation on children in search of a subject compatible with a mysterious medicine that can heal any injury. The meds warp him, morph him into something that doesn't even appear to be human. He tries to return home, but his mother, the only family he knows and loves, is terrified of him. She calls him a monster, and the boy finds himself struggling to articulate who he is. Then, he wanders alone alone without purpose in that unchanging altered body, a body that can withstand lethal amounts of damage directly because of the meds, for at least 20 years. All he has is a single name: Vash the Stampede, the person who promised to save him, and the one person who managed to bring back his consciousness in the end, if only for a moment.

The moment Nicholas sees Rollo regenerate is the second the switch flips. He instantly demands to know what the fuck is up with him, and when Vash responds telling him that he was too late to give him the medicine he needed, Wolfwood shuts down, because he recognizes himself. From this moment until the rest of the episode, we are no longer seeing Nicholas D. Wolfwood; we're seeing Nicholas the Punisher.

Vash continues to push Rollo to remember who he is, while Nicholas continuously says that there's no way to save him, that he's already a monster now. In the final moments, Nicholas inevitably feels tasked with Rollo's death like the undertaker he is, and when Vash angrily demands to know why he took the shot, his response is:

When discussing Rollo's killer, Elendira refers to Nicholas by name, but Conrad specifically states that no, he is the Punisher.

In vol 10 of the manga, Vash thinks to himself: “I met a strange man. Just as I thought we had come to an understanding, I found that our core beliefs were opposed to each other. I was used to such situations, but I wonder how he felt.”

————

EP 6: This episode builds directly upon the foundations set by the episode prior. Child of Blessing ended with Rollo being referred to repeatedly as a monster, and this episode begins with Nicholas in the middle of completing a kill. Right before he does, his victim gets one final glance at his assailant, an inhuman looking executioner, and calls him a monster… directly because he will not die. He’s also been shown knocking back meds like tequila shots in tristamp, which we all know was NOT possible in the manga. During the flashback scene, Nicholas is literally called the Child of Blessing.

We see a very similar sequence with Nicholas that we saw with Rollo; the horrific torture, the bodily mutilation (during which Conrad specifically mentions that the drug will heal all damage done the body, as well as rebuild and strengthen the cells), and the attempt to return home:

Something different happens with Nicholas, though. Nicholas can't go home; he’s literally yanked away from his chance at freedom by Legato. Nicholas can’t go home, likely ever again in his mind, because Hopeland Orphanage and the Eye of Michael represent two fundamentally different ideals.

Hopeland (and thus Livio) is exactly like its name for Nicholas: it is is land of hope, the only place in the world where Wolfwood was allowed to exist freely. When Nicholas was taken by EoM, Wolfwood began to die.

The entirety of the EoM is shrouded in imagery of death and rebirth, specifically in regards to humanity. Humanity in this case has a dual meaning: humanity as a species, and humanity as a concept. Their philosophy is that the end justifies the means in that humans in this form will be preserved and would likely live exceedingly longer lives but, as repeatedly mentioned, there are side effects.

Aging and death are integral parts of the human experience, the two aspects of life that we ALL experience regardless of circumstance. Can you be human without humanity?

The message behind these two episodes is to show that the process of becoming part of the EoM is a metaphorical crucifixion symbolizing the death of one’s humanity. And Nicholas is interesting, because he’s almost the perfect specimen in their eyes and is treated as such. Almost. The only thing holding him back are the two strands of humanity he has left, both which are nearly destroyed in the very next episode.

————

EP 7: In the previous episode, during the animated flashback of Nicholas and Livio, we see a few scattered scenes of other people living at the orphanage. Interestingly, while almost all of the children are seen with very sparse detail (or even none really at all), there is one person, the caretaker, whose face we get a pretty clear picture of. At the very beginning of this episode, we have the first and only shot of the inside of the orphanage in the usual style. While none of the children are familiar and actually aren’t incredibly distinguishable from one another, there is one figure in the room with recognizable hair, but looks considerably older than in the flashback:

During the majority of their interactions, you don’t see Nicholas and Livio interacting with any of the other children. They are simply a background, a set piece to the story and a representation of just how other they were forced to become.

This episode features them fighting each other, dealing each other what should be mortal wounds, but somehow remain standing, as though they’re perfectly fine. As if on cue, the soldiers stationed call them both monsters and run away in fear.

But Vash doesn’t run from the danger. He runs towards it.

Nicholas tries to stop him, and all he gets in return is “he’s important to you, isn’t he?” as though that’s enough. But it is enough for Vash. And Nicholas doesn’t know what to do with that.

Nicholas comes dangerously close to giving up, to giving into his role as the Punisher and killing the last bit of Wolfwood to do so, but it’s Vash who stops him. He diverts his shot and, instead of hurting Livio, literally frees Nicholas from Legato and Zazie’s trap. Vash tells him to make him remember, and Nicholas thinks it’s bullshit… until he doesn’t.

And when he finally relents, when he tries to emulate what the silly blonde idiot keeps screaming at him about… It works. For a moment, but Livio does wake up for a moment. Nicholas hadn’t been able to see Rollo, but he did see this. And he really doesn’t know what to do about it.

To drive the point home, Livio drives a bullet into his own head and falls to the ground in a scene very reminiscent of Rollo’s death… but is implied to still be alive. With him saved, now it’s time for Hopeland. And this is when the narrative really turns a focus to the balance between Nicholas and Vash.

The group is half convinced that they’re about to die snd that the town will be destroyed when, all of a sudden, it’s Nicholas who’s yelling that they have to do something. Because despite all the noise Nicholas makes about self-sacrifice and calling Vash a weirdo, he’s directly inspired by his energy, which is proven correct when Vash is the first one to side with him.

Then, somehow despite the odds, the two of them manage to work together to stop the ion cannon. Which should have been impossible. And because of this, Nicholas is finally willing to give Vash the chance to take the lead on things.

When Vash and Wolfwood discuss their plan to save Hopeland, and after they argue about which method is the correct one, the conversation they have is probably the clearest depiction of Nicholas’ inner struggle:

Nicholas: Have it your way. Just for today. I do owe you one… but if the orphanage doesn’t survive this, I’ll hurt you so bad you’ll wish you were dead before I kill you.

Vash: Wolfwood…

Nicholas: Shut up! I’m the Punisher! I’m not like you… I’m Nicholas the Punisher…

He murmurs the last line as though he’s trying to convince himself. He uses his persona as the Punisher almost like a mask, like a cat puffing up and hissing to deter predators. It’s a defense mechanism, and a trauma response. Except.. it still doesn’t work, because the entire time Vash is simply not listening. Regardless of what Nicholas says, Vash does not stop fighting Nicholas on the title that was forced on him by the EoM and, in fact, blatantly rejects it. And the moment Nicholas finishes speaking, when he declares himself to be the Punisher, the episode’s title card finally appears: Wolfwood.

It's a direct representation of this panel of Nicholas' inner monologue from the manga:

——

Nicholas and Vash’s roles as each other’s complements is emphasized very deliberately when the two work to stop the sand steamer from smashing into Hopeland. These screenshots occur one directly after the other:

Another detail the team mentioned often during the interview was attention to use of color. In color theory, blue and orange are complementary colors: hues that are opposite each other on the color wheel but, when used together, come together to create harmony and balance. Additionally, Vash is the character typically associated with warm hues, while Nicholas is paired with colder ones; with the colors flipped, it’s almost as if they are literally mirror images of each other.

The two are in the same position, in the middle of similar actions, both drawing strength from that which makes them “other” in order to work together to protect a common goal. And once again, miraculously, they succeed, able to do together what neither could ever have done together.

This mirror motif is even clearer when comparing these respective scenes from each of their respective backstory episodes:

For Nicholas and Vash, on top of sharing such a crucial common thread in their backstories, often in the show they are seen together, either side by side or back to back. Often they’re shown doing the same thing at the same time, almost as though they’re moving as one. And they consistently save each other over and over again, with Nicholas acting to save Vash physically, and Vash working to protect Nicholas’ psyche. Vash refuses to let anyone continue to see themselves as a monster, as lesser than, in much the same way Nicholas refuses to let anyone else be used as one.

They are a pair, a unit working together to create a force that is stronger than the sum of its parts.

They are both “other”, they are both different, and they both seek to protect the things they love and care about despite the excruciating pain it can put them through.

Nicholas and Vash’s entite dynamic is basically “I don’t understand you, but I recognize you. I recognize myself in you. And somehow, that’s enough for me to trust you.”

————

So with all this in mind, here is how I’ve come to understand Nicholas’ arc throughout tristamp:

When we first meet Nicholas D. Wolfwood we meet a weary man longing for death to save him, longing to be free from the purposelessness of his life but knowing the hope is futile. He works for the Eye of Michael as an assassin against his will and has for God knows how long. Not only is he no longer a priest, but he’s no longer religious at all, having no belief in God at all and a particular disdain for the false promises and hopes of salvation that are portrayed by it. He doesn’t care about the clothes he wears, whether he looks messy, whether it’s suited for the desert, because he literally doesn’t care about anything, really. He has no home, and can never go back to the orphanage— there’s likely no one left there that he knows anyway, and even of there were, they wouldn’t recognize the monster he’s become. Nicholas is tired, he’s angry, he’s potentially depressed. He fights impractically, sometimes leaving himself open to attacks he could probably block with his Punisher, but he just doesn’t care. He’s just here to do his job, which is to escort his piece of shit CEO’s assumedly equally piece of shit brother to him so they can destroy the world together and he can hopefully die off in peace.

Until he actually meets Vash, and he’s… really fucking weird. He’s dumb and naive and acts like he knows Nicholas on some deep level after they’ve just met, but… he’s not a bad guy. Just another crybaby who doesn’t understand the world. He can see the Punisher and not be frightened by it. That means something, means enough that he feels that he can introduce himself now. He still doesn’t know how to handle kindness, so he deflects whenever it’s shown to him, making irreverent jokes and being annoying in order push people away. But then he meets Rollo and has a flashback to himself. He learns that Vash is no stranger to false promises, has sold the same thing to the kid who ended up just like him, and yeah, Vash is no better than the EoM. He talks a big game but doesn’t actually know anything. Nicholas kills Rollo out of mercy because it’s what he wishes could be done to him; every day of living his life is torture.

But then his hometown and childhood best friend are suddenly in danger. He’d completely forgotten what it felt like to have something to lose, to protect. And without planning for it, Vash also becomes something to protect, because even if he doesn’t act like it, Nicholas desperately wants to believe in him. He doesn’t want the EoM to be right. But the feeling of having something to protect is terrifying, because it means you have something to lose. Nicholas gets incredibly stressed out by this, because it’s been so long that he doesn’t even remember what it feels like. But it’s enough to get him, for likely the first time in a very long time, to hope. And it’s Vash who helps him so that he’s able to hang on to that hope for a little while longer.

He still can’t get too excited, because he hasn’t actually finished his job yet. Before he does, though, he sees Vash’s scars (which was a deliberate choice, as in both the manga AND the og anime this scene went to the girls) and wow, if it weren’t for the regenerative properties of the drug, he would likely look the same. He drops Vash off with Knives and knows that Vash will likely be killed, but he’s also expecting to die himself in the fallout, so it doesn’t matter, really. Except for some reason, it does a bit. And then, yet again, Vash miraculously doesn’t die, and in fact changes the game and actually looks like he might stand a chance against Knives, and is clearly willing to die to do it.

And then July is destroyed. But, miraculously, Nicholas isn’t dead. He still finished the contract, but now… now what?

The show began with Nicholas at his lowest, and ends with Vash at his lowest point. And Nicholas owes him one.

————

INCREDIBLY long story short, it really is clear that they weren’t kidding, the team really drew SO MUCH inspiration from the themes trimax it’s unbelievable and I really really think we’re in for something incredible during the second phase. I also think it’s gonna hurt like a bitch.

[smilingformoney]

An Unlikely Reunion | Elliott Marston/OC

Summary: When a visitor to the station sets his eye on Elliott Marston's wife, Elliott must remind her who she belongs to.

AN: Guys, I have a confession to make.

When I started writing Sins of the Flesh, I only expected to write a one shot, so I made the main character our beloved Y/n. But as it snowballed into the story it is today, she became a character of her own, with backstory and personality, and quite frankly I think she's my favourite character I've ever written.

So from now on when I write her, she'll be Mary Taylor, the OC she was always meant to be. I hope you love her as much as I do <3

Also, you'll note this takes place in the timeline where Mary and Elliott end up together. I still consider the ending where he dies to be canon but Mary and Elliott are too cute not to play with!

Tags: fluff, smut, jealousy, outdoor sex

Word Count: 6.6k

Read on Ao3 or below the cut:

When Mary had first arrived at Marston Waters with Elliott, one of the first things he did was to build an extra room to his house for her to use as a workshop. She appreciated having the space, although she preferred if she could to be in the lounge to be closer to Elliott while he worked at his desk.

She was in her workshop, putting the finishing touches on a new jacket she was making for Elliott, when the door opened, and she had to quickly shield the unfinished jacket from view to prevent him seeing it before it was done. She giggled when she saw that Elliott was holding his hand over his eyes.

“Don’t worry, darling, I’m not peeking,” he said. “We’ll be having a guest for dinner tonight. Be ready for six o’clock, won’t you?”

“Of course, my love.”

Mary scurried over to him to plant a kiss to his lips, and he smiled.

“I’ll leave you to your work, darling.”

Elliott left, and Mary returned to her work, wondering just who the guest might be.

At half past five, Mary put down her fabrics and needle to get ready for dinner. She made sure to choose her nicest dress, though not too extravagant - while she didn’t know who the guest was, she knew Elliott would be wanting to impress them, so she chose a dress one might believe was a day-to-day dress while also thinking it very nice indeed.

When she came into the dining room at five minutes to six, she found Elliott and his guest already seated, both smoking cigars as Elliott told the other man about his interest in the American West.

“Ah, and here’s my darling wife,” Elliott interrupted himself with a grin, his eyes lighting up at the sight of her dressed so nicely for him. “Mary, this is Mr Samuel Bloome. Bloome, this is my wife, Mary.”

“How do you do, sir,” Mary said with a polite curtsy.

Bloome smiled, stood up and kissed Mary’s hand.

“A pleasure to meet such a stunning young lady out here,” he said.

Mary blushed, and was too busy taking her seat next to Elliott to notice the way her husband’s eyes narrowed at the young man.

“What grants us the honour of your company, Mr Bloome? It’s not often my husband invites a guest to join us for dinner.”

“You may have heard of my father, Marcus Bloome; he owns the land to the west of Mr Marston’s land. Or he did, until he passed away a few weeks ago; now the land falls to me. I wrote to Mr Marston to introduce myself and he invited me to visit to discuss business.”

Mary had heard Elliott speak about a landowner to the west named Bloome, but truthfully he never had anything positive to say about the man. She thought it best not to mention that for the moment.

“Oh, dear, I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr Bloome. I do hope he didn’t suffer.”

“Oh, he was old; while I mourn his passing, it wasn’t unexpected. Still, I thank you for your kind words, Mary.”

Elliott’s jaw twitched.

“I don’t know how you treat women to the west, Bloome, but while you’re on my land you’ll show my wife respect and address her as Mrs Marston.”

“Oh, Elliott, don’t be silly,” Mary said with a wave of her hand. “Just Mary is fine with me.”

“Well, it’s not fine with me,” Elliott said firmly.

Mary ducked her head slightly. “Of course, darling.”

Noticing her sudden tension, Elliott placed his hand over hers gently, a silent reassurance that he wasn’t angry at her.

The clock chimed six o’clock, and on cue the butler entered from the kitchen with a tray, carrying three plates of delicious-smelling steak. He served Mary first, as Elliott had instructed him to always do, then Elliott, and finally Bloome.

“So Mrs Marston, I notice you have a London accent,” Bloome said conversationally as they all began to eat. “Are you from there?”

“Yes, I arrived in Australia four months ago,” Mary replied. “I met Elliott when he visited London, we fell in love and were married there before he returned here with me.”

Elliott smiled at her. “Yes, I went to London to execute my cousin’s estate and came back with the sweetest lady in London as my wife. I count myself lucky every day.”

Mary blushed. “Oh, Elliott, hush. Are you married, Mr Bloome?”

“Not yet. I’ve had various gentlemen offer me their daughters, especially when it became apparent that I was shortly to inherit my father’s land, but never a woman who’s piqued my interest. Charming girls, of course, but clearly more interested in my father’s land than myself. Call me a romantic fool, but I’d rather marry for love than a transaction. The problem is, of course, that any woman worthy of loving is snatched up quickly.” He raised his glass of wine to Mary. “A clear example. I’m not surprised Mr Marston married a woman as beautiful as yourself so promptly. If I’d met you and learned you were available, I’d have dropped to one knee there and then.”

“Do you encounter many deserters to the west, Bloome?” Elliott said quickly. “I usually send those I find on my land to Major Ashley-Pitt, although sometimes I have to administer justice myself.”

He withdrew his revolver from his belt and placed it on the table with a smug smile. “This is my administrator of choice. The colt revolver, created by Samuel Colt himself and imported from America. Some people say I’m the fastest draw in Australia.”

“And are you one of those people, Mr Marston?”

Mary had to disguise her laugh as a cough. Elliott glanced at Mary, then back at Bloome. He placed his revolver back in his belt, then said, “I’m not one to toot my own horn, but I’m yet to be bested. Unless you’d care to challenge me? A friendly competition between neighbours, of course.”

Bloome held his hands up. “I’m not a gunman myself. More of a man of letters - my younger brother was always the brawn, and I was the brains.”

“And who’s the beauty?” Mary asked.

“Oh, my sister, naturally. She had suitors from every direction until she married a man from Canada and moved there with him.”

The conversation continued as they ate, and Mary found Mr Bloome more and more interesting as he told more stories about his life. Although they hadn’t discussed it, Mary felt that Elliott didn’t want it mentioned that she had previously been married to his cousin, and so she skirted around the topic when it almost came up.

After dinner, Elliott and Mr Bloome were to discuss business, so with a curtsy to Mr Bloome and a kiss to Elliott’s cheek, she left them to it and took herself on a stroll around the station. She ended up, as she usually did, in the stable, keeping company with the horses. She found it soothing to brush their manes, and when Elliott found her there, the sun had long since set in the sky.

“There’s my little kola bear,” he said endearingly as he approached her from behind and wrapped his arms around her. “It’s not safe for you out here after dark, darling, you know that.”

“Nonsense, El, I’m perfectly safe. Chestnut will look after me, won’t you, girl?”

She stroked the horse she’d been grooming, and Chestnut whinnied in response.

“Besides, what’s the worst that could happen? The natives wouldn’t dare approach the station, and your men know better than to harm me.”

“Mmm, maybe, but I’m not so sure about that Bloome fellow,” Elliott replied as he nuzzled his nose against his wife’s hair, as if he were sniffing her to pick up her scent. “I don’t like the way he was looking at you - or talking to you. He said himself that if we weren’t married he’d have proposed to you himself.”

“Are you jealous, Elliott?” Mary giggled. She turned in his arms so that they were facing one another, and she leant up on her toes to kiss him.

“Silly man. You know you’re the only one for me. What would I possibly see in Bloome?”

“He’s younger than me, for a start. Much closer to your age. A more appropriate match, some would say.”

“I don’t care about that, El. I like that you’re older than me. It means you have more experience, in life and in… other matters.”

“He’s handsome.”

“Is he? I hadn’t noticed. Not as handsome as you, that’s for certain.”

“His lands are bigger.”

“Now I know you’re being silly. There’s only one matter in which I care about size, darling, and I suspect you’re leagues ahead of him in that department.”

Elliott raised an eyebrow, a flirtatious smirk forming on his face.

“Oh, really? And what matter is that, exactly?”

Mary smiled coyly.

“Well… your hat, of course.”

Elliott blinked. “My what?”

“I saw his hat hanging by the door during dinner. Have you seen the brim on it? It’s abysmal. Yours is much more practical, darling, especially since you started wearing the one I made you, if I do say so myself. And you look so very handsome in it.”

Elliott laughed and kissed the top of her head.

“Thank you, darling. So I have nothing to worry about from Bloome then?”

“Hmm, well… now you mention it, he does have a lot of land…”

“Right, that’s it.”

Elliott lifted her up with ease, and her squeal of surprise startled Chestnut slightly, although when she saw that the apparent assailant was only Elliott, the horse seemed to let it slide. Elliott threw Mary over his shoulder and carried her out of the stable, only to take her around the back to where the hay was stored and throw her onto a bale.

“What are you doing?” Mary asked playfully.

“I’m going to remind you who you belong to,” Elliott said darkly, his hand already unbuckling his belt as he loomed over her. “I can’t have my wife admiring another man’s land, can I?”

“I admire all of Australia, Elliott, not just your part of it. Perhaps you could take Bloome’s land and have it all to yourself.”

“Maybe I will. I’ll have the land and the most beautiful wife in Australia, and he’ll have nothing.”

“Not even a good hat.”

Elliott grinned. He pulled his cock out of his trousers and began fondling it, watching Mary hungrily as she lay against the hay bale, her legs spread and her skirt riding up her legs to reveal her shins.

“Pull your skirt up, darling. Let me see what’s mine.”

She obeyed like the good wife she was, allowing Elliott to pull her bloomers off and toss them aside, and even in the moonlight Elliott could see her cunt glistening with her desire.

“God, you’re so fucking beautiful,” Elliott groaned as he tugged languidly on his cock, encouraging it to life as he stared hungrily at his wife. “And so wet already. Is that all for me, darling, or did Bloome turn you on at the dinner table?”

“It’s all for you, my love,” Mary panted, her breaths getting heavier as her arousal took over. “You’re the only one my cunt obeys.”

“Mmm, we know that’s not true, don’t we? It obeys you too. Go on - show me. Use your fingers. I want to watch you pleasure yourself.”

Mary obeyed, one hand sliding between her legs to circle her lips before she dipped a finger into her entrance, just deep enough to gather up her arousal, then withdrew and circled her sweet spot just right, in the way she’d learnt to give herself pleasure far too recently.

“Fuck yourself with your fingers,” Elliott growled, his wrist pumping a little faster now. “Tell me how wet you are in there.”

Mary let out a gasp as she slid two fingers inside her, and she could feel just how wet she was getting for him.

“I’m so - so wet for you, El,” she moaned. “I want you inside me.”

He grinned hungrily. “Oh you do, do you? You want my cock to fill you up, is that it?”

“Yes - yes, please, Elliott. I need you… need you to take me hard, claim me as yours…”

“Oh, with pleasure, darling.”

Elliott leant her over, positioning himself between her legs. He rubbed his cock up her slit, coating it with her desire, before pressing his cockhead against her entrance.

“Who do you belong to?” Elliott demanded between gritted teeth, clearly resisting thrusting straight into her.

“I’m - I’m yours,” Mary gasped. “I’m all yours, Elliott. My body is yours… my heart is yours… I am yours…”

Elliott thrust forwards, sliding easily inside her, and Mary groaned with relief to feel her husband filling her up. It had been a few days since they’d last made love, and she hadn’t realised until now just how much she craved him.

“Mmm… my wife,” Elliott sighed as he filled her up completely, his cock hilted inside her with a firm, possessive stretch. “My good little slut, opening her legs for me behind the stable. No one around but God to witness, and even if someone were to see, what would it matter, hm? I have every right to fuck my wife on my land. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

“Yes, Elliott, yes… take me here, please, fill me up…”

“As my wife commands.”

She cried out with pleasure as he pounded into her, both of them still fully clothed but for the bare essentials. Mary grabbed at Elliott’s waistcoat, unbuttoning it desperately as she sought to uncover her husband’s bare chest. Thanks to her nimble tailor’s fingers, Mary was able to unbutton the waistcoat without Elliott needing to slow his thrusts, and she slid her hands hungrily under his shirt to slip her arms around his shoulders and hold him close to her.

“I’m going to make you cum under the stars,” Elliott growled. “And I want you to cum loud . Let everyone know the pleasure only I can give you.”

“By everyone, do you really mean Bloome?”

Elliott snarled at the mention of the other man’s name. “If he wants to covet my wife, let him. I’d covet you too if you were another man’s wife. But you’re mine, and it’s going to stay that way.”

“Of course, El, I - I only want you,” Mary gasped, her grip on his shoulders tightening as she came closer and closer to her peak. “I’m yours - all yours - never - never want anyone else, Elliott, only you…”

“Mmm, I’m going to fill you up with my seed, give you a baby, then nobody will ever doubt that you’re mine,” Elliott panted. “I can’t wait to see your belly grow big with child… you’ll be even more beautiful than you are now…”

“Oh, yes, El, give it to me. I want your seed, want your baby… please… oh God, Elliott, please, fuck me harder…”

He obeyed, and when Mary came with a loud cry of his name, Elliott’s pleasure came shortly after, his seed shooting inside her just as he promised, filling her up with a relaxing warmth. His moan of pleasure was the most beautiful sound in the world, and Mary felt a peculiar kind of comfort in taking her husband’s seed under the stars. It felt so good, so right, as if making love in the open air was the only thing that she needed in the world.

“I love you, Elliott,” Mary mumbled as she came down from her high, both of them breathing heavily as they basked in the moment. “Thank you for… well, for everything.”

Elliott chuckled and kissed her cheek.

“Thank you for choosing to marry me, darling. Now how about we get ourselves inside, hm? It’s getting cold and I don’t want you to catch a chill.”

He pulled out of her and stood up to tuck himself away before putting his hand out to help Mary to her feet.

“I don’t believe there’s such a thing as cold in Australia,” Mary said as she straightened down her dress. Elliott plucked a stray piece of hay from her hair. “Even the nights are warmer than the days in London. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to it.”

“Hm, I suppose it would be warm to you, wouldn’t it?” Elliott mused as he put an arm around her waist to escort her back around the stable towards their home. “Just as a warm day in London to you would be cold to me.”

“It’s a good thing you came during summer; if you’d come during winter, you might have frozen to death.” She gasped as she came to a sudden realisation. “If it’s never cold here, does that mean you’ve never seen snow?”

“I’ve not seen it myself, though I believe it snows in the mountains to the east.”

“Can we visit next winter? Oh, please let’s, El, I love snow. Tommy and I used to build snowmen every Christmas, and all the children would have snowball fights in Hyde Park! It was so wonderful, because it really was all the children - even those from the manor houses would play in the snow with us street urchins. There was no class or status in a snowball fight - only who had the better aim!”

“And did you have the better aim?” Elliott asked.

“Well, of course. We were quite a formidable duo, Tommy and I - he’d make the snowballs, I’d throw them. I particularly enjoyed throwing them at the boys, because they daren’t hit a girl, even with a snowball!”

They were approaching the house now, and Mary was still buzzing with excitement as she reminisced about the happier moments of her childhood with her brother. She continued chattering away as they entered the house, Elliott listening with close attention and complete adoration.

They were both unaware that Bloome and some of the men were still awake, smoking and playing cards on the porch of the men’s cabin. They’d heard every word of Mary and Elliott’s conversation - as well as the unmistakable moans from behind the stable.

Bloome placed a card down and said casually, “Such childlike wonder. Is that really the same woman we heard moaning like a whore just now?”

“She practically is a child,” Kelly snorted. “She must be, what, eighteen? He’s forty-four, I know that. Could be her father.”

“Ah, you’re just jealous ‘cause your wife’s an old hag,” Dogen said, and the others laughed.

“Eighteen, you say?” Bloom said thoughtfully, taking a puff from his cigar. “Interesting…”

Meanwhile, inside the house, Mary had exhausted herself of stories about playing in the snow and was now telling Elliott about Christmas in London as they readied themselves for bed.

“Oh, and Mrs Harris - that’s the seamstress I used to work for - she always made the most delicious plum pudding at Christmas, and she always saved me a slice after her family had devoured most of it. I’d share half with Tommy, of course, and so I only ever had a mouthful or two, but oh, it was the most delicious mouthful I’d have all year!” Mary gasped. “Do you have plum pudding here, Elliott? I’d love to have a whole slice to myself this year — if that’s not too much to ask, of course.”

Elliott chuckled and placed his hands on Mary’s shoulders.

“Mary, your excitement is endearing as always, but you’re getting yourself all worked up before bed. You’ll be up all night if you keep getting yourself excited.”

“Oh, yes, of course. I’m sorry, I do get carried away sometimes —”

“Don’t apologise, my love. Your excitement at life’s pleasures is one of my favourite things about you. But I don’t want you bouncing off the walls when you should be bouncing on my lap.”

Mary blushed.

“Elliott! We just made love not five minutes ago! Are you truly that insatiable?”

He smiled and reached around to squeeze her bum.

“You make me insatiable, darling. I simply can’t get enough of you. Come, let’s get into bed. Would you like me to read to you tonight?”

Mary’s eyes lit up. She loved the sound of her husband’s voice, so deep and smooth, and it did always soothe her to listen to him reading aloud, even if she didn’t understand the books he read.

“Yes, please, darling. If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course I don’t mind. You know I love to read to you. But I’ll warn you, I’m reading a book on the American Constitution, you might find it boring.”

“Oh, good, I’m more likely to fall asleep,” Mary teased. She kissed him on the nose, then climbed into bed and patted the space beside her. “Come on, El, bore me to sleep with talk of constitutions.”

Elliott shook his head and laughed, wondering for what must have been the thousandth time how he’d been so fortunate to find himself such an endearing wife.

He climbed into bed with her, picking up his book from his nightstand as he did so, and waited until she was comfortably curled up against his chest before he began to read.

“Assuming it therefore as an established truth that the several States, in case of disunion, or such combinations of them as might happen to be formed out of the wreck of the general Confederacy…”

---

To her surprise, Mary woke the next day before Elliott did.

He was often up much earlier than her, and either he’d get up to start working, or he’d stay in bed and coax her awake for some early morning lovemaking.

She stayed in bed a little while, watching him sleep. He looked so peaceful, and when she grazed his lips with a light kiss, he smiled and held her tighter to his chest.

Eventually, Mary had to wriggle out of her husband’s grasp, because she needed the toilet. When she was finished, she peered out the window, and noticed that the sun was only just beginning to rise. Why she was awake so early, she had no idea, but she was wide awake now and thought she might as well make use of her time.

After dressing herself, she made her way into the kitchen, which usually the butler used, but even he was asleep. She explored the cupboards, found some ingredients along with some pots and pans, and set to work making breakfast for Elliott.

“I hope you don’t mind me using your space, Kunkurra,” Mary called out when she heard the back door opening and closing behind her. “I woke early for some reason, and I thought Elliott might like it if I brought him breakfast. You can go back to bed for a little while, if you’d like.”

She turned around to gauge the servant’s reaction, since she knew he wouldn’t vocalise a response, and to her surprise she realised that it wasn’t Kunkurra at all, but Samuel Bloome.

“Oh, Mr Bloome! I apologise, I thought you were the butler. What are you doing up so early? And - in my kitchen?”

“I’ve always been an early riser,” Bloome replied casually, his hands behind his back as he looked around the kitchen. “As for my coming here, I saw you through the windowpane and was curious why a lady such as yourself would be at work in the kitchen.”

“Well, as I said, I thought I’d make Elliott some breakfast. I don’t often wake before him, so it’s a nice treat.”

“And what are you making?” Bloome asked, stepping closer to her to peer at her worktop.

“Nothing much. Some eggs, bacon, sausage - oh, I should get some bread out! He likes toasted bread with his breakfast. Coffee, too, but I’ll be honest, I’m not entirely sure how to make it. I may wait for the butler to make that.”

“Your devotion to your husband is incredible.”

“Don’t tell him I told you, but the tough gunslinger act is just a façade. He’s really the sweetest man in the world. He does so much for me… I like to do what I can in return.”

“You say you met in London - how did you meet, exactly?”

Mary glanced nervously at Bloome, who had lifted himself to sit on an empty countertop as if he were as comfortable here as in his own home.

“Oh, um… I suppose it’s not uncommon knowledge, as the whole station knows, but Elliott’s not my first husband. My late husband was Elliott’s cousin — the one whose estate Elliott came to London to execute. He came to my house to introduce himself, I offered him a place to stay… we ended up spending a lot of time together, and we fell in love, so we married, sold my late husband’s estate, and I came back to Australia with him.”

“You left London behind for him?”

“Well, I had nothing left, you see,” Mary explained as she carefully lifted the cooked eggs onto a plate. “My family are gone, then I lost my husband too… all I had was the estate, and I knew if I stayed there alone I’d be hounded with suitors itching for my late husband’s estate. There - I think I’ve done a rather good job, if I say so myself!”

Mary looked proudly at the plate, and she thought honestly that each piece of food was cooked just to Elliott’s liking.

“Such a good wife you are,” said Bloome.

There was something strange in the way he spoke that gave Mary pause, as if there were some veiled threat behind it. She glanced at him and was discomforted by the way he was looking at her, as if one wrong move from her might cause him to do something rash.

“Yes, well, I - I’ll be taking this to Elliott now before it gets cold. A pleasure to talk to you, Mr Bloome - do make sure to say goodbye before you leave this morning.”

With a quick curtsy, Mary left the kitchen with the plate of food, some cutlery and a glass of orange juice on a tray.

She entered the bedroom to find Elliott was half awake, stirring in bed, perhaps just realising she wasn’t there.

“Good morning, my love. I thought you might like some breakfast in bed today.”

Elliott sat up groggily and looked over at her, smiling when he saw her and his eyes widening when he spotted the tray of food.

“For me, darling?”

“Of course, who else? I woke before you and thought I might make you some breakfast as a treat.”

Elliott sat himself up in bed, and Mary thought it incredibly endearing the way his hair stood up from the night’s sleep. She placed the tray over his lap, and Elliott stared at it in wonder.

“Mary, this is so thoughtful. Thank you. Did you make this all yourself?”

“Yes, so if anything’s wrong the blame’s all mine; I don’t believe Kunkurra is even awake yet. Although I think I managed to match the way you like it.”

Elliott cut a piece of bacon, dipped it in the egg yolk, and tasted it. He closed his eyes and sighed a mmph of approval.

“It’s perfect, darling. A perfect breakfast from a perfect wife. What more could I ask for?”

“A napkin to wipe the egg from your face?” Mary giggled when she saw that some of the yolk had clung to her husband’s moustache. She took a napkin from the tray and gently dabbed at his face.

“You couldn’t kiss it off?” he suggested with a smile.

“I don’t want to kiss you with egg on your face! I like to taste you, not some egg yolk, no matter how perfectly I cooked it. There. Only one mouthful, and you’re already getting it caught in your moustache! You need a trim, El.”

“Hm, yes, I suppose,” Elliott said thoughtfully, stroking his face to feel the length of the hair. “I’ll have a shave later. First, I need to eat this delicious breakfast before it gets cold.”

“Alright. I’ll leave you to it, darling.”

Mary kissed him on the cheek, then left to seek out her own breakfast.

She had the butler bring her some fresh fruits and instructed him not to bother himself with Elliott’s breakfast, only to bring him some coffee. She sat on the porch in the morning sun, picking through her plate of fruit as she watched the rest of the station gradually wake up and start working.

Near the gates, Samuel Bloome’s horse was tied up, waiting for its owner to saddle up to ride back to his own land. A boy was loading the horse with supplies, and Mary wondered to herself if Elliott ought to hire a boy for running messages and helping out with the animals.

Her mind wandered to her brother Tommy, who was also in Australia somewhere, working away the sentence her first husband had imposed. She had wondered if she might see him in Australia, but when she expressed this to Elliott on their departure from London, he told her in the kindest words he had that London could fit into Australia over four thousand times and the likelihood of bumping into her brother was slim.

Elliott’s porch purposely had a vantage point over the entire station, and so Mary had a clear view of Bloome as he came striding out of the lodge, dressed ready for travel.

“Taylor! Are those horses ready yet?”

Mary’s heart jumped in surprise. At first she thought he had been addressing her, but then she realised that was silly, not least because there was no way Bloome would even know her maiden name, let alone use it. He was clearly talking to the boy, who by coincidence shared her last name - or perhaps it was his first name.

The boy spoke quieter than Bloome and he was too far for Mary to hear, but she surmised from the way he moved towards the stables that he was going to ready his own horse.

Mary smiled to herself as she remembered her escapades with Elliott in the stables last night — then, with a spike of fear to her heart, she realised she remembered Elliott taking her bloomers off and throwing them to the side… but she didn’t recall putting them back on.

She jumped up quickly and walked quickly to catch up with the boy, hoping she could find a way to locate and hide her discarded bloomers without him noticing — that was, if none of the men had found them already. How embarrassing if they were to be found by anyone other than her husband!

Fortunately, when Mary entered the stable, she saw that the boy was attending to a horse near the entrance, the opposite end to where she and Elliott had snuck off to last night.

“Do you need some help with your horse? I’m quite good with them, you know,” Mary said to the boy, hoping that if she assisted him he’d leave sooner and give her a chance to search for her bloomers.

The boy turned around, and his eyes widened.

“Mary?”

She almost admonished him for calling her by her first name, but then she really looked at him, and she let out a shocked squeak.

“Tommy?”

Could it really be him? He was taller, his strong frame almost indistinguishable from the skinny boy she’d last seen in the back of a prison carriage. She’d not recognised him from behind - but now, seeing his face up close, Mary knew her baby brother even after two years of labour in the Australian desert.

She rushed forward and took him in her arms, both of them laughing at the incredulity of the situation, neither having expected to see the other so far from home — Tommy, particularly, had no reason to believe his sister was even on the same continent.

“Oh, Tom, you’re so tall!” Mary gushed, finally releasing him from their tight embrace to look at him properly. “And so strong - you almost winded me! And brown too - have you been protecting yourself from the sun properly? Sun sickness can kill, you know.”

“Yes, mum,” Tommy said with a roll of his eyes. He couldn’t believe that his sister had appeared suddenly out here - and was immediately nagging him! “But I don’t understand - what are you doing in Australia, and here of all places?”

“Well, in fact I —”

“There you are!” Elliott’s voice interrupted her as he entered the stable, apparently looking for one or both of them. He glanced between the two of them, frowning when he saw Mary was holding Tommy’s hands in hers. “Am I interrupting?”

“No, sir,” Tommy said quickly, dropping his hands and ducking his head.

“Oh, Tommy, don’t be silly. Elliott, you won’t believe it — you’ll remember I told you about my brother?”

“The one my cousin transported? Yes, I remember.”

He glanced at Tommy with a frown.

“Do you mean to say this is him?”

“Yes!” Mary beamed, putting a hand around Tommy’s shoulder proudly. “He must be working his sentence with Mr Bloome!”

Elliott looked at Tommy questioningly. “Is that right, boy?”

“Y - yes, sir,” Tommy mumbled, his eyes nervously fixed on the floor. “I’ve worked for the Bloome family since I arrived, sir.”

Elliott folded his arms and looked at Tommy appraisingly.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

Tommy raised his chin to look at Elliott, albeit with great reluctance. Elliott looked at him thoughtfully, then seemed to decide something with himself because he nodded and looked back at Mary.

“Darling, we should say goodbye to Bloome.”

“Yes, of course. Tommy, do you need a hand with your horse?”

“No need,” Elliott said dismissively. “Leave the horse for now. Both of you, come with me.”

Curious, Mary and Tommy followed Elliott back outside to where Bloome was waiting with his horse, leaning against a fence post and smoking a cigarette.

“Where’s your horse, Taylor?” Bloome asked, but Elliott held up a hand.

“I’ll keep the horse. And I’ll keep the boy.”

Mary had to stop herself from gaping at Elliott. Bloome scoffed incredulously.

“Oh, you will, will you? He’s a good lad, and the horse too. Why would I give them to you?”

Elliott put his hands in his pockets casually.

“Oh, you won’t. You’ll sell them to me.”

Bloome narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.

“And how much am I selling them for?”

“Name your price. I’ve got gold.”

“So do I, plenty of it. Strong, hardworking boys like Taylor here are few and far between. I’m afraid I’ll need something a bit more valuable than some gold.”

Mary didn’t like the way Bloome was looking at her.

“I’ve got plenty of good men here,” Elliott replied. “Take your pick. Except Dobkin, I like him.”

“Oh, it’s not a man I want,” Bloome said with a hungry look in his eye. He stepped towards Mary predatorially, his eyes fixed on her. “I want your wife.”

Mary took a step back instinctively; both Elliott and Tommy took a step towards her protectively.

“Absolutely not,” Elliott snarled.

Bloome shrugged. “You’re the one desperate to buy, Marston. Why you want my boy and his horse so bad, I don’t know, but you said to name my price and I’ve named it. I want her.”

Elliott’s hand twitched near his gun.

“Mary is not chattel to be bartered with, Bloome. She’s the one who wants the boy, not me - trading them would defeat the point.”

“Not a trade, then. A… loan, let’s call it. An hour would do.”

Bloome didn’t specify exactly what he meant to do with this hour, but he didn’t need to. Mary knew. They all did.

“You really think I would whore my wife out to you, Bloome?” Elliott growled.

“Those are my terms,” Bloome said smugly, clearly revelling in the fact that he held all the cards. “Take it or leave it.”

Mary grabbed Elliott’s hand before it could twitch any closer to his gun.

“It’s okay, El,” she said quietly. “It… it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve exchanged my body for Tommy’s safety.”

Elliott turned to face her, his eyes dark with anger.

“And I swore you’d never have to do something like that again,” he said through gritted teeth.

“You also swore you’d let me make my own choices.”

“And you’d choose this? To - to whore yourself out to this bastard? No. I won’t allow it, Mary.”

“But Tommy —”

“Will stay with us. But I will pay the price, not you.”

Bloome scoffed. “Respectfully, Marston, you’re not my type.”

In a split second, Elliott had pulled his hand from Mary’s grip, and his revolver was out, the trigger pulled, and Bloome cried out in pain and shock as a bullet lodged itself in his knee. He fell to the floor, clutching the bleeding limb, and Elliott just laughed.

“Go and get the butler,” Mary said to Tommy urgently. “Tell him a man’s been shot. He’ll know what to do.”

Tommy nodded, then set off running to Elliott’s house. Mary turned back to her husband, who was now standing over Bloome, his gun still in his hand as he watched the other man writhing in pain.

“Stop crying, you’ll be fine,” Elliott taunted him. “I could have killed you, but then I’d have to dispose of the body, and I can’t be bothered with the effort for a pathetic worm like you.”

Mary knew she should be frightened, and perhaps in some way she was, but she also found it extremely arousing to see Elliott so strong, so powerful, so clever — and all to protect her honour.

Kunkurra came hurrying over with his usual kit to patch up gunshot wounds. Without questioning what had happened, the servant knelt down by Bloome and began working on patching up the leg. Bloome wailed as the bullet was fished out of his flesh, and Elliott just rolled his eyes.

He turned back to Mary and Tommy, and his expression softened.

“Tommy, get your belongings and head to the men’s quarters. There’ll be a spare bed for you in there. Mary - come with me, let’s get you inside. We’ve had enough excitement for one morning, don’t you think?”

Tommy obeyed, and Elliott put a hand on Mary’s back to escort her back to the house.

“Do you think that was a good idea?” Mary asked, her voice low so as not to be overheard. “You might have just made a powerful enemy, Elliott.”

Elliott scoffed. “He said it himself, Mary, he’s a man of letters, not a fighter. We’ve nothing to fear from him.”

“Bulwer-Lytton said the pen is mightier than the sword.”

“And Marston said the gun can shoot the pen and the sword out of a man’s hands before he has a chance to lift them.”

Mary laughed. Only Elliott would refer to himself as if he were some great poet.

“I’m serious, El. Don’t let your confidence be your downfall. I - I don’t want to lose you.”

Elliott paused as they entered the house. He turned to Mary and took her hands in his, bringing them to his lips to kiss them gently.

“I promise, you’re not losing me.”

“Swear it?”

“On my mother’s grave.”

Mary smiled, and Elliott’s heart softened just to see that sweet smile he loved so much.

“Now, let’s give Bloome some gold for Tommy and send him on his way. I’m sure you and Tommy have plenty of catching up to do, hm?”

Mary beamed.

“You’ll really keep him?”

Elliott kissed the top of her head gently, and she practically melted into his gentle touch. How could a man so fierce and terrifying be so kind and gentle?

“Of course I will, darling. I know how much you love him. And I hope you know how much I love you.”

Mary looked up at him, her eyes wide and adoring.

“I love you too, Elliott. With all my heart.”