#this post is also inspired by my insufferable sister who fucked off to another fucking continent when i was 7 and treats me...well. exactly

[meatmensch]

The people that have abandoned me really need to stop talking to me like they have any right to tell me what to do, or I swear to God, I'm gonna get the FUCKING hammer.

[just-some-random-blogger]

You Were Meant To Be Mine

Daemon Targaryen x Reader

Summary: Having decided he hated you when you were children for seemingly no reason, as you grew older, you made reasons for the Targaryen prince to repel you, which made for the most uncomfortable of atmospheres. Now that you were of age and seemingly so keen to be betrothed, your archnemesis makes it his mission to ruin your plans.

Word Count: 3k+

Warnings: Fem reader, you have brothers who have names ¯\_(ツ)_/¯, enemies to lovers themes, fluff, a bit violent, insufferable!Daemon, typos etc.

A/N: This is inspired by this prompt and a bit by the song from Heathers 'meant to be yours' and it honestly came out flufflier than expected. I made a fake house ok i literally just used the icelandic translation of star T_T

also I MADE AN ENTIRELY SEPARATE 10k daemon fic... do you wanna see?

psa: i did some edits on this since posting it

"Congratu-fucking-lations," I slur, feeling my entire face heat up as I smile. The lady Gemma, who I was greeting, turns about, looking for whom spoke to her, yet finding that I was crouched down, flailing my head and arms for sport.

She makes a face, "Lady Stjarna?"

I still in my actions, then perk up, shaking my head, breaking into another smile, "yes?" I inquire, then break into a laugh, "oh yes," I clap my hands together when I remember why I was standing in front of the bride, "My Lady Gemma, I am so pleased that you have finally found a match. You and your lord husband will surely-" I hiccup and slightly burp, "- make an army of beautiful children."

Gemma, my childhood friend, who had not regarded me in the longest of time and only came to invite me last minute because one of my brothers got promoted again, made a disturbed face with wide eyes, "where is your brother?"

"Why?" I pull an annoyed pout, "do you fancy him still?"

Gemma, who was standing right next to her sister-in-law, Carolina, who was too my childhood friend, but decided along the way she also did not like me, begins to twitch.

I sigh, grabbing the cup from Carolina's hand, downing its contents. Once my mouth is empty, I hand the cup back to its original owner, "glad am I that neither my older brothers, Johann nor Gunnar, not even our youngest, Ari, found any interest in you at all."

I hear the sound of the devil's muffled laughter in my head.

"You insolent wench," Carolina mutters under her breath, thinking it was soft enough for only her and her new sister to hear.

I smile wickedly, "may your womb be bountiful and may your house prosper." With a final curtsy, I turn about and walk away.

I manage to walk far enough to catch sight of the banquet table. Before I could pour myself a glass of wine again, quickly, a hand swoops in, pulling me by my shoulder, and I am faced with a face that makes my day more bothersome than it already is. It is my youngest brother, Ari, brows curled in concern. With his free hand, he takes mine as he leads me into a dance against my own will. He jests too strongly, too early, "and you wonder why so many detest your effervescent aura, sister."

I give him a pinched look as I stomp my heel in front of me in an attempt to crush his foot. Being too used to it, he quickly pulls his leg away and clicks his tongue, pulling me close to push me back into a twirl, "you have drank too much, too early."

Once I am before the young lad again, I give him a look, "when has that stopped father?"

He sighs, "you are not father, you are you, a Lady of the house Stjarna."

"I'm trying hard not to be," I grumble, beginning to circle around my brother in continuance of the dance, "as is father, Johann, Gunnar, our cousins, even our servants!" I look off in the distance as I speak, looking for the face of my father, feeling my heart skip a beat when I see him and our eldest brother Johann, conversing with the Lannisters.

Once I am in front of Ari again, my face is beaming, and it causes him greater concern.

"Father talking to the Lannisters," I tell him breathlessly, "they could be talking about my marriage prospects."

Ari's forehead tenses even more, lips curving into a frown, "does that notion truly bring you joy?"

I roll my eyes at him as we press our hands together to the beat of the music, "it does. As it should you! An alliance with house Lannister will mean you can rise in the ranks quickly to join our older brothers."

Ari is visibly troubled by this.

I clench my jaw at his expression and halt in my movements. I decide our dance is over, promptly pulling him aside. Once we are alone far enough from the dance floor, I mumble to him, "you will not understand until you are in the crosshairs of fate and you've had to raise your younger brother because your mother was killed in the cloak of night."

Ari grips my arm as we make it to the side of the room, "and I am grateful for it, for everything you and everyone has done for me! But I am not a child anymore, and I do not wish to see you wed a scoundrel for my benefit," he whines, voice growing softer but more frustrated with every word.

"That scoundrel of which you speak, is the richest man here," I mutter under my breath, "and it would do you good to-"

"Conspiring again, are we?"

The unmistakable voice rings in my ear, and though my younger brother hastily turns to whom spoke, quickly greeting him with a bow and, "your grace," I forfeit the pleasantries and keep my eyes fixed on my brother.

Once Ari is facing me again, I place a hand on his shoulder and give him a half sympathetic look, "there is nothing in the world I would not do for you, for our family. My heart beats only for the glory and survival of our house."

"But you don't-"

"And I am doing this precisely so that you would not have to sacrifice your own dreams for the same thing," I give him a pointed look and place both my hands on his cheeks, "do you understand, Ari?"

My brother averts his gaze, unable to meet mine. I release him and gently nudge him back, "now go dance and make merry. It is your privilege."

Ari sighs, bowing his head in acceptance. He then turns to the side, bidding farewell again to the man who had been standing there for gods-know-what, "my prince."

I watch as Ari fades into the crowd, still unwilling to look the said prince beside me in the eye, lest I hurl out my insides.

"What dutiful sister you are. I bet many bachelors are even willing to slay a dragon for your hand."

I let out a prolonged hum in a failed attempt to calm myself down, "why would they need to fight a dragon, pray tell, when I have nothing to do with them?"

I finally look at him, Prince Daemon, with his long silver-white hair, violet eyes, and ghastly annoying curved lips. I respond to his smirk with a stoic look and move to walk past him. He, however, in his good old fashioned pettiness, speaks in a volume too loud, "will you not even greet your prince?" practically forcing me to stop, lest I give these wenches more reason to whisper about me.

I turn about with not a hitch and curtsy, dramatically, impossibly low, and I even flash the realest fake smile I reserve especially for fuckers like him, "my beloved Prince Daemon."

The Demon is pleased by this and by how many people are watching in this moment.

I rise after a good moment passed, knowing by then a lot less eyes were onlooking. I step forward, looking up at the idiot, thinking of exactly what will wipe that smirk off his face, "heir to the iron-- oh," I look away, pretending to think, "apologies, what were you heir of again?"

Daemon eyes darken and yet he does not forfeit a laugh. He masks his annoyance in this, but I know him too well to miss how his jaw clenches. It is finally then that I turn away from him and head outside the blasted banquet hall.

I silently pass a few servants of the house and bring myself outside the building. I make my way to the gardens of the estate, surprising even myself with how I still knew place well even after the years that have passed since I last visited.

My mind begins to spiral, in thoughts most uninvited, like, why Lady Gemma, and the rest of whom I believed to be my friends, began to simply stop thinking of me as such.

I wonder if it was when I became motherless and began to prioritize teaching my baby brother at the age of 11. I sigh, wrapping my arms around myself at the thought. No matter how much I try to understand, I just don't. What changed in me that made them turn away?

Through my deep thought, I was still very much aware of my surroundings. It doesn't take long for me to feel the presence that was lingering behind me, the persistent thorn to my side that just refused to be plucked off. I didn't have to turn around to know who it was by my heels, and yet I do. I throw my skirt around me and glare knowingly at the prince who was a mere few steps away from me, "must you persist even now when no one is looking?"

"It is most exhilarating to hunt in the intimacy of an empty forest, knowing no one can interfere no matter the outcome." Daemon did not cease in his steps as he said this, and continued walking towards me, up until there was nowhere to step, and yet he pressed closer still.

I knit my brows tightly at his attempt to push me back and I place my hands on his arms forcing him the other way.

"You're supposed to step back if a man does this to you," he states.

"I will step back for no man," I grunt, successfully shoving him off me, not having moved an inch from where I stood.

Daemon reels back, only slightly, but it matters not, for he was still pushed away. He chuckles at this and tilts his head, "your strength is impressive. You have not wavered since we were children."

I roll my eyes and turn from him, continuing my walk.

The insolent Targaryen invites himself to walk to my right. I know it is pointless to argue with him about it, so I decide to ignore him instead.

"I hear you were invited to the Strong's estate recently."

I do not waste my breath with a response.

"And yet I saw your father and your brother with Jason Lannister moments before I saw your horrid face."

Daemon is not granted the satisfaction of a reply, which is why he resorts to saying, "you must have been too overbearing with your new match that your father had to quickly look for a newer one."

I am unaffected by his words, but I still choose to turn over to him, "my father is not nearly as quick about me as you are, however."

He smirks at that, placing his hands behind his back, "if I didn't know any better, you sound like you think I care for you."

"Well, obviously you do," I snap at him, "or else you would not be accompanying me in this dark deserted garden, warning me to back away if men decide to lay their hands on me."

Daemon makes a face, "you should not allow any man's hand upon you," he quips.

"None but you?!" I blurt, stopping beside him, then stomping over, "I am so sick of your arrogance! I even decided to be the bigger person between us, and yet you persist on sabotaging me, to make spectacle of my existence and force my suitors away."

For a moment, Daemon basks in the fire, absolutely in awe of it.

My rage is continuously fueled by his entertained expression, "I know for certain it was you who injured Sir Armand on his travel to our estate, and you who sabotaged the travels of house Frey to our region."

I half expect him to egg me on, to feign ignorance, and yet he says nothing.

"I don't understand what sick sense of fulfillment you earn from this, but you need to stop it and focus on destroying your own prospects."

The sound of his laugh enrages me even more, "you should be pleased I've done you a favor of allowing better suitors to come forward, or else you would have readily settled for a pig with but an acre of land."

I shudder, hands balling into fists, "so you don't even deny further, you insolent twat!"

"My detest for you was never a secret to start, my sweetheart" he breathes out hotly, a dragon baring its teeth, face uncomfortably near mine.

"You stupid fucker!" I blurt, managing to land a slap on his face and a hit on his chest before he finally caught my flailing arms and growled at me in warning. I am not intimidated in the slightest, not even with his nose nearly brushing mine, not even when both our hot breath was hitting each other's skin.

Though I am perfectly aware I am no match for his strength, considering how I am basically locked in place under his tight grip, I refuse to relent. He could kill me if he wanted, I honestly wouldn't care, for then, at least, I would not have to deal with him any further.

This is why I shout right at him without a second's thought, "I'VE ABOUT HAD IT WITH YOUR TOMFOOLERY!" I wrangle in his grips in an attempt to break free, "I would curse you never to marry and die an old lonely man, but I'm sure you would want that," my chest begins to tighten, "for there is no shame in you choosing to die a bachelor, yet it is a mortal sin of mine to even breathe the air my age without baring children!"

My face begins to crack out of anger and tears begin to build in the corner of my eyes the more I speak, "I am a shame to my house," I bark, as Daemon's grip tightens around me to further cease my violence, "to my father, to my brothers, to my dead mother especially, for living this long as a maiden! And you feel no remorse for me for you a man, a prince, born to be pacified, lest they wish to end up as dinner for your overgrown lizard!"

I can no longer withhold the tears from my eyes as I remember what happened to my beloved cousin who was unable to marry. She was far fairer than me, far kinder, and yet no one would have her over rumors planted by our rival house that she was impure.

I break into a sob. Daemon slips into bewilderment. He begins to panic, unaccustomed to this emotion. His grip on me begins to loosen. It was his mistake. I take the opportunity to knee him in the groin and shove him off me.

I watch him crumble. I nearly smile and think to bask in his suffering.

Once he is crouched in the ground, moaning in his pathetic pain, I wipe my tears and angrily spit out one last time, "make no mistake. I care not if you are prince or king. You will not stand in my way."

Daemon watches as I walk away.

Days have passed since the wedding and my most unsavory encounter with the royal idiot.

I was in much brighter moods as of late, since I was met with more options than ever over whom I could marry. In his own delight, my father decided to host a tourney in our estate. Houses of far and wide were invited to come, and just in his thick-faced fashion, the Prince Daemon decided to attend in honor of his house Targaryen.

I had begged my father not to invite him, but he would not risk shunning the crown over it. My father did make it a point to have my brothers distract the vermin, knowing too well his volatile tendencies when he is around me. It made for but a peaceful half hour for me since the time he got here.

It was too quickly he managed himself out of Johann and Gunnar's company and so rudely uninvited to mine.

The moment I saw him coming towards me from across the stand, I mentally prepared for the hell he was about to unleash, and asked the man I was conversing with to take his leave.

"What do you want?" I airily growl at Daemon once he gets close enough.

Unbothered, completely amused, and seemingly relieved, he releases a sigh, as he watches my latest proposition walk off behind me, "you seem completely out of luck, so I decided to rub on some of my own on you," Daemon started, hand darting over, gently caressing the skin down my arm causing goosebumps to ride around me.

I pull away and rub the area roughly in disgust. I turn to him, not liking the solemn expression he held, "what's it going to take for you to leave me alone, Daemon?"

He barely manages to hold in the quirking of the corner of his lips at the familiarity, the sheer impertinence of it all, "it's as though you are unaware it is my favorite sport to vex and rile you up," he licks his lips slowly and leans in to whisper, "you wouldn't want me to tell everyone about how we roughly spent the night alone in the garden, now would you."

I heave as he pulls away, lips in a lopsided smile.

I do not manage a retort, as suddenly I hear the trumpets sound, followed by an announcement, "Sir Ari of house Stjarna has challenged Sir Jason of house Lannister!"

I feel my heart leap to my throat. My jaw drops and my hands instantly sweat. Why would Ari do such a reckless thing when he barely even could go against me in a fight? He was too unconfrontational for this.

The prince watches my expression, but I could not care less about him in this moment more than ever.

The guests, who were preoccupied with other festivities, quickly make way to watch the show. I quickly make my way to my father, in hopes to stop this ridiculous match. I push past Daemon, uncaring that I shoved him in the process and hurriedly comb through the crowds. I move as quick as I could and yet once I find my father's face from across the sea of people, it is far too late. The sound of restless, chuffing horses fill my ears and the crowd cheers as the beasts whine in anticipation.

My heart races, "ARI! ARI!" I call from the side, practically begging, using all of my energy into my screams. It is pointless though as the crowd is too loud for anything to be distinguished and it seems my brother is wholly immersed in the game, face tense and distressed.

I look between Ari and his opponent, feeling my insides churn at the Lannister's dark grin.

The cue is given, and soon the two order their horses to run and go at it with each other. I rip my fingers through my hair.

Jason allows my brother the courtesy of the first blow and did not even move his lance to Ari. Ari manages to hit him and the crowd cheers, but having watched far too many tourneys in my time, I know that would not be enough to beat his opponent. The second time around when the two gallop towards each other, Jason is not so kind and hits my brother right in the chest, causing the wooden beam to break into a millions pieces.

"ARI!"

Ari has not fallen yet though, and foolishly rides once more, coming around the third time. I do not see what happens next however, for I'm making my off the stand to run to the players. I do freeze a moment when the crowd goes wild and suddenly the trumpets sound again, along with the announcement, "The winner is house Lannister!"

The next thing I know, I am on the playing ground running over to my fallen brother who was writhing on the dirt. Our servants are upon him, gathering his unconscious body up to be moved away and tended to.

I barely even get in front of my brother when a horse gallops beside me, then in front, effectively blocking my path.

Jason Lannister looks down at me, ripping his helm off, offering me a perverted smile, "do not be distraught, my lady, it was only a game, and I swear to you I have not gravely injured your brother."

I shudder at the sound of his voice, feeling my cheeks grow cold, only now realizing it was due to my tears wetting them. My insides however were burning in anger. Seeing him look down on me like this made me want to do nothing more than to shove him off his high horse. I could not show it though, not to him, not in front of everyone and my many other present suitors.

Jason's lips curve, "I do hope it would not be cruel of me to request your favor, my lady."

I sniffle, releasing a breath before choking out, "not at all." I turn over my shoulder and shout, "hand me a wreath!"

A servant runs up to me a moment too long in my taste, as I had to stare at Jason Lannister's face the whole duration.

I hand him the wreath, which he plainly gets and keeps on his wrist. I offer him a quick curtsy and he nods before galloping off, enticing the cheers of everyone. He basks in his phony glory as I take to the sidelines where I began to look for my brother. It does not take a lot for me to see him laid on a makeshift bed with our family maester attending to him.

"Ari!" I exclaim the very moment, running over to him, falling into a fit of sobs.

"Worry not, my lady," the maester speaks, as he wipes my brother's face, "Lord Jason's words hold true. He did not severely injure young master Ari."

I break into a choke, crumpling down on the floor by my younger brother's side, gripping his leg in anguish. I groan in distress, "how could you be foolish enough to challenge someone?! And Jason Lannister of all people?!"

My unconscious brother, of course, does not respond, but one of my servants do, "pardon my brazenness, my lady, but I do believe sir Ari did so because of how that... Lannister heir spoke lowly of you."

I turn to my servant and look at her in expectance, "what did he say?"

Before she could reply, the trumpets sound again, and there is an announcement, "Prince Daemon of house Targaryen has challenged Lord Jason of house Lannister!"

I perk up at the sound of that and rise from where I was, walking to my servant, "what did he say about me?"

She sighs and looks away, "he said he was doing a you a favor by marrying you, although everyone knows you would make an impertinent wife."

There is a a loud crashing sound, followed by the cheers of the crowd.

"The winner is house Targaryen!"

I look out to the playing ground and find Daemon, clad in his arrogance and his armor, mounted on a horse trotting over to me. I spare a glance at his fallen opponent, Jason Lannister, who looked far worse than my brother had, yet feeling no remorse for him.

I look up at the prince once he is finally upon me. If I hadn't known any better, he looked distracted by my tear stained face, and so I do the talking, "do you require my favor as well, my lord?"

Daemon eyes flicker up and down me. He steals a look past me, seeing my unconscious brother, then decides to ignore me, turning his horse around, trotting to the direction of my father, "Lord of house Stjarna."

My father watches the rider come closer.

The prince continues, "you held this tourney in celebration of your fair daughter's many marriage proposals, and yet your son has been left injured by a man who wishes to marry her."

Daemon's gaze falls back on me, his horse continues to gallop back and forth in restlessness, "I request that you withdraw the Lannister," he starts, turning back to my father, "my losing opponent, from her list of suitors for this reason."

I knit my brows at that, feeling an inexplicable feeling rise within me.

My father stares at him for a moment, debating the gravity of his words, before replying, "my son knew what he was getting into. Tis but a game played in good spirits. I hold not my son's loss to Sir Jason, nor should he hold his loss to you."

"Well, if you cannot remove him for that reason," the prince raises his face up proudly, "remove him as my request as a winner of your tourney."

Johann, who was now behind my father begins to mutter something behind him. My father raises a hand to my brother, then releases a breath before asking, "and why would you request this, if I may so inquire, prince Daemon?"

"Because it is my understanding Sir Jason is her strongest prospect, and I should like to be her main suitor instead," he responds, making the crowd erupt into hushed whispers.

My father lets out an incredulous laugh. Johann, behind him, looks down at the prince, brows raising the way it does in times where I begin to anger him. My father however cuts himself off when he sees the serious expression on Daemon's face, "pardon me, your grace, but you have never shown any interest in my daughter before. One would even think you do not take kindly to her."

"No, I don't, do I?" he mutters, chuckling himself, "yet you of all people know about the disruptions of her previous proposals, disruptions, you have been aware of for a long time, that I have caused-- at first due to my boredom."

My father's face hardens.

Daemon face contorts into a smirk, "I've only realized myself why I have been so adamant about causing your daughter trouble," he turns his horse over to me, catching my eyes, "very much recently."

The crowd is bustling at the notion, eating up the Prince's words like roast beef.

"When, if I dare so ask, did you realize this, my prince?"

"During Lady Gemma's wedding," Daemon turns his horse around, "when I accompanied your daughter to the gardens," he looks back up to my father, "and we roughly spent time alone in the cover of night."

Instantly, a chorus of gasps fill the air.

That fucking piece of Targaryen shit.

[theradioghost]

could you elaborate on the long term plot of greater boston? i don't mind spoilers! i tried it but couldn't get past the first episode :( but i trust your taste and i've liked every other show you've rec'd so i wanna keep listening

EDIT: okay for some reason the formatting of this post is EXTREMELY befuckened and I can’t get it to behave, so it’s possible that this isn’t going to display with a spoiler cut and if so I am VERY sorry. the “keep reading” break is in the ask instead of the body of the post I have no idea what’s happening right now but if you don’t want spoilers please be aware this post spoils like everything about the show

Sure thing! I will .... do my best, but because of the nature of GB’s plot it’s a bit difficult to describe it without ending up either way too detailed or way too vague. But I will absolutely do my best because if there is any show out there that deserves it, this is that show. Cut for Obvious Spoiler Reasons!

So, there’s a LOT of plot that goes on, but what a plot summary could never convey is that the real heart and soul of this show is the characters. There are a metric fuckton of them, and every one of them is multidimensional and dynamic and wonderful, even if it’s not always obvious at first.

Leon Stamatis of course starts the show by abruptly dying of Existential Crisis/Panic Attack on a roller coaster, which sets everything else in motion. Of that big ensemble cast, at first the most important players are

Nica, Leon’s little sister who wants to be famous but doesn’t really have any concrete plans as to how

Dimitri, Leon’s little brother who is currently traveling in a submarine attempting to find Atlantis and keeps sending Leon letters, unaware that he’s dead

Louisa, Leon’s recent ex, a wedding photographer who later quits and becomes a crime scene photographer slash detective

Leon’s best friend/roommate Michael, who is unemployed and has just had a relapse after being sober for 12 years because he has no idea what to do without Leon

Gemma, a lesbian who absolutely hates her job as an editor at Third Sight, a company which publishes magazines relating to astrology/psychic stuff/divination/etc

Charlotte, Gemma’s pregnant wife, who has recently lost her job as an animation background artist and is feeling directionless

Professor Paul Montgomery Chelmsworth, aka the Mayor of the Red Line, a slightly eccentric college professor and casual friend of Leon’s who is inspired by his death to call for a referendum declaring that the Red Line of the Boston subway system will become an independent city.

It’s that last one that is the real ~main plot~ of the show: at first, more and more of the characters getting caught up in the campaign to create the city of Red Line, and then the chaos that results when they succeed and actually have to run it. But you also have characters like Louisa and Nica and Michael, dealing with a whole rainbow of grief and distress as they cope with Leon’s death. His eccentric personality is the other driving force of the show’s events -- Leon was caring and compassionate, but also obsessed with timetables, organization, and scheduling every action in his life down to the minute.

The other major force in the show is Third Sight, a magazine publisher with a focus on fortunetelling and the like; Michael ends up working there, along with Gemma and several other major characters. Third Sight also has an enigmatic boss no one has ever seen, who turns out to be a manipulative little bastard named Oliver West.

While Red Line successfully becomes a city, “Mayor” Chelmsworth turns out to have some major commitment issues and vanishes as soon as the vote passes, leaving Charlotte and Gemma to clean up the mess. Charlotte ends up interim mayor, but also begins to campaign for the upcoming mayoral election, in which she has two opponents: Isabelle Powell, a Black realtor and an incredible character whom I absolutely cannot do justice here, and Emily Bespin, Literally The Worst Person Who Has Ever Existed, Holy Fuck I Hate Her So Much.

The election is being manipulated behind the scenes by Oliver West, who also takes advantage of Nica’s isolation and a near mental breakdown to convince her to help him by orchestrating several escalating ~pranks~ in Red Line. Honestly he’s manipulating literally everyone, and also heavily backing Emily Bespin, in an attempt to profit off of influence in the new city. Eventually this ends up with Michael kidnapped and imprisoned, several other characters attacked and one badly hurt during a wedding in Red Line, and Isabelle Powell’s nephew framed for the attack. That results in Powell’s supporters beginning a set of protests which throw Red Line into even further chaos, even as Charlotte and Nica begin to have some real moral epiphanies about how they’ve been acting.

As events continue to escalate and the election draws closer and closer, the now-assembled cast have to figure out just who exactly is manipulating events and how -- not to mention how to prove Powell’s nephew’s innocence, what the hell has happened to Michael, and what the hell they’re going to do if Bespin wins the election and makes good on her promise to evict everyone involved in the protests.

Meanwhile, Dimitri is traumatized by finding a mass grave at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, gets rescued and then imprisoned in Alaska by infamous vanished plane hijacker DB Cooper, finally makes it home to Boston disillusioned and lonely only to inevitably find out his brother has been dead for two years, and then gets totally rejected by his sister, because he basically can’t catch a break.

Also meanwhile, the same conflicts playing out in Red Line play out on a more metaphysical level, in the structure of the show itself. While the first season only hints at the possibility that Leon might not be quite as gone as everyone thinks, as the show progresses Leon’s ghost makes his presence known by starting to argue with the omniscient narration. Increasingly taking over the show’s narration until a brilliant scene where said narrator quits and audibly gets up from the microphone and leaves, Leon, the man who spent his whole life trying to impose order on the chaos of the universe around him, finds himself battling the very structure of the story they’re in, in an attempt to help his friends as both he and they are caught up in the chaos of Red Line and Oliver West’s plans. Unfortunately, the structure of the story has other ideas, and plans of its own.

None of this, of course, even begins to touch on the cheese robots; or Michael’s ongoing struggle with self-actualization and alcoholism; or Mallory the foulmouthed teenager who somehow manages to first witness and then be involved in nearly every major plot event of the show; or the in-depth examination of structural racism as it relates to things like housing and city planning and Boston’s history and well-intentioned white liberals and the imprisonment of Black youth; or Star Trek obsessed chaotic neutral gay reporter Chuck Octagon and that one time he flirted with his own mirror universe self; or the complex but beautiful process of Charlotte and Gemma working on their relationship in the midst of all this chaos because while they have troubles throughout they truly love one another and are trying to be better people; or the fact that one of the other major characters is an insufferable Loud Vegan member of a polyamorous commune who -- on the advice of his ~spirit advisor~ the ghost of 19th century feminist writer Mary Wollstonecraft keeps changing his name throughout the show to things including Earthman, Panda Bear, Extinction Event, and Dipshit; or the unfortunately real Olive Garden food truck; or the laughter and the tears and the flamethrowers and the fact that one of the show’s most important and heartbreaking conversations takes place on an amusement park log flume ride audibly filled with liquid nacho cheese.

It’s a good show, is what I’m saying, basically.

[alvaar-aldaviir]

Movement: Zartheit

Time Frame: Some point after Shadowbringers. No Spoilers.

Notes: Not precisely canon compliant because who can say what happens after current content? I also take liberties with Bard abilities because they are so loosely defined in lore. One day we’ll have some pieces to expand on Alvaar’s bardic quirks, but times are tough so have some fluff.

Cross posted to AO3

 -

Alphinaud had long learned to stop questioning the extent of domestic knowledge the Warrior of Light seemed to possess, but you couldn’t especially blame him if he found ‘novice hairdresser’ a surprising addition to the list.

 -

  “You really need a trim.”

Looking up from his tome, Alphinaud looked back over his shoulder to fix the Bard with a raised brow. He didn’t say anything, but the silent glower made it apparent his thoughts were elsewhere.

Putting his hands up in the symbol of ‘no offense’ for a moment, Alvaar stepped closer and held his hands up with open palms. “If I may?”

Sighing and returning to his research he finished scribbling a few notes. “If you must,” the Scholar replied noncommittally, mind still fixated on his most recent arcane discovery and how it might apply to his own abilities.

“Then I must,” Alvaar replied, carefully smoothing white strands down before delicately removing the hair tie and metal ornament that held the Elezen’s long hair back and setting them aside. Gently freeing long snowy locks and combing his fingers through to loose any snarls.

“You’ve been busy of late,” Alvaar commented simply.

“As have you,” Alphinaud returned placidly, frowning slightly given the Bard was preoccupied and wouldn’t notice. He wasn’t going to say it but the absence had been... quite noticeable. Still, they both had their duties and it wouldn’t do to treat the Bard so dismissively when he was freshly returned from a mission.

Glancing up at the white fringe of hair obstructing his view, he sighed faintly. “I suppose I, may be more in need of an appointment than I’d thought. But Scion work does ever come in droves,” he continued.

“Indeed. ... I didn’t mean any offense Alphinaud, but I don’t know that I’ve ever seen you this unkempt.” Pausing with a snort of laughter at the reflexive tensing of slim shoulders, Alvaar patted his arm. “Your bangs have gotten too long, and your braid isn’t lying sleek. You know I’m a fop at heart I just have an eye for this.”

“Well not all of us are so privileged as to have an aesthetician on call,” Alphinaud shot back with notable cheek.

“If you knew what I had to put up with to keep that man equipped in scissors and glitter every time he misplaced them you would think I got the short end of the stick. If I have Jandelaine on call, then he’s got a Warrior of Light as a personal errand boy for every lost implement disaster. Not that anyone else might know such privileges right Alphinaud?” Alvaar mocked sweetly. “Now shut it and tilt your chin up, I need to see how bad this is.”

Huffing and dropping a blank sheet of parchment in his book he snapped it shut loudly and offered a smirk when he complied.

Predictably, the Bard hissed out a laugh and smoothed his hair down to inspect the length. “Little shit.”

“If I have learned anything of being a particular thorn in others sides it must have been from you, dear friend.” Even so there was only amusement in the words.

It was the sort of barbs and banter he’d been missing with Alvaar and Alisaie both on a long expedition for Urianger. For while he certainly got along well with his fellow Scions, there was a natural sort of ease to the taunts thrown back and forth with his sister and, once the Bard became more talkative, Alvaar as well.

The man in question just offered his own faint smile of amusement before amethyst eyes were studying his face intently for things Alphinaud couldn’t begin to understand. In fact, he opted to just shut his eyes and wait patiently through the inspection lest he get caught up staring into that jewel toned gaze longer than was appropriate. It wasn’t enough that he’d been dealing with people insinuating an ever-growing crush on the Bard for the last few years, he didn’t need to be teased about it by the man himself too.

Even if it was true...

“Do you want me to trim it for you? If you want a style change, I’d recommend an appointment but I can at least clean up the split ends and I know your hairstyle probably better than your own hairdresser. Up for it? I’ll even let you keep reading.”

“You know how to cut hair too?” Alphinaud asked with minimal surprise. At this point, Alvaar could say he had experience in about any profession and he’d likely believe him.

Another amused snort. “Anyone can cut hair... it takes study to be able to style it and not butcher it. But yes, I know enough to do all the touch ups in my Free Company. And if I should somehow manage to offend, I’ll pay for Jandelaine to fix it myself. Now please, I beg you. Let me trim it. Unless you’re dedicating to a longer style I don’t think I can tolerate this mop nearly as well as you can.”

“It’s not that bad...”

“..... Technically no, you’re still better styled than the bulk of adventurers I travel with but... this is weird for me so let me fix it. Alphinaud Leveilleur I beg of you, gift unto me the privilege of saving you from the pox that is untamed growth of one’s own hair. For King and Country I won’t rest until I’ve slain that which offends mine senses.”

“Oh just shut up and do it Aldaviir. You’ll just hound me until I let you anyway,” Alphinaud shot back, pausing and flushing faintly at the flow of words he’d most definitely picked up from the Bard.

“Ahh,” Alvaar sighed, a blissful smile in his words, and the rustle of fabric as he put a hand to his heart. “As my Prince doth proclaim, so must I attend.”

“You’re an insufferable Bard when you’ve been reading romance novels, you know that?”

A long pause.

“I don’t deserve these call outs Leveilleur.”

A faint click caught his attention and he opened his eyes to regard the Bard. Seeing how prepared and serious Alvaar was as he started summoning and laying out tools, Alphinaud took one look at the spray bottle that was set down and quickly cleared his research off the table. Let him read... ha.

“If you’re that serious I’ll just go take a bath Alvaar. It’ll be easier.”

Pausing, the blond tapped a fine-tooth comb to his jaw in thought. “True. I should probably join you. Much as I love them, the smell of chocobos tends to cling...”

“In that case after you! Long travels are terrible and my hair isn’t going anywhere. I’ll just clean up in my room,” he chirped, quickly up on his feet and actually pushing the Bard towards the door.

“Wh- hey what the...” Alvar griped but let himself be shoved out the door by the shorter Elezen regardless.

“Go forth, take your time, I’ll be in my quarters when you’re ready.” Shutting the door behind the Bard, Alphinaud turned to lean his back against it and sigh. Not his most subtle of misdirects but in the panic it was all that he had.

“You realize you could just ask to use the bath after me if you’re that sensitive to modesty...” Alvaar reminded him from the other side of the door.

Oh. Damnit.

“Nerd.”

-

For as much as he’d fidgeted and worried about further teasing, Alvaar had done the Scholar the courtesy of leaving it at that. In fact, he’d almost forgotten about any potential embarrassment until he opened the door to his room and found Alvaar sitting at his desk, studying the desktop carbuncle calendar Alisaie had bought him as a gift.

But then the Bard rose up to his slippered feet smoothly, dressed in a well-tailored green tunic nipped close at the waist and gray khakis that accented his tall physique, and one embarrassment was probably just going to be replaced with another. In common clothes Alvaar didn’t look anything like what people pictured as the Warrior of Light, but it certainly did even less to hide that effeminately handsome face of his when he wasn’t wearing his hat. Framed with still damp green accented blond, once again cut and feathered to a medium length that complimented him well, he could start to see why people had a hard time recognizing him in his craft clothes. In his battle gear there was something unaffected and inspiring to him, a remote calm and surety that made even enemies give pause.

Dressed in his house clothes however Alvaar was just... normal. Still handsome and graceful but far less intimidating. He was approachable... touchable even...

If Alphinaud hadn’t spent the bulk of the last three years with Alvaar during the brunt of his ‘bisexual awakening,’ he probably wouldn’t be able to handle it. Instead he just steeled his nerve and tried to resume his thoughts on his research. What sort of adjustments would need to be made to the arcane geometries of his moonstone carbuncle summon to make it more efficient with aetheric flow and-

“Park it Leveilleur. You can think about your nerd shit while I’m working,” Alvaar huffed with a knowing look and bless him but the return to normal sass made it easier to handle.

Taking the offered seat he lifted his chin proudly, letting Alvaar tuck a sheet around him for cover before the Bard started into his task. Easing his fingers through damp strands he plucked a comb off the table and set to straightening with patient care.

“Well if you had any interest in being an Arcanist then perhaps I’d talk about it instead,” he remarked lightly, already knowing how this would go and taking comfort in the familiarity.

“Aetheric Magic isn’t my thing. I pull enough miracles out of my arse as a Bard as is, I don’t need the effort of more expectations of miracles scholars can filtch. I turn a volcano into a temperate climate and clear a blizzard for a small contingent of warriors with the power of song alone and no, you sots just want a different colored carbuncle. Fuck that I’ll leave the discoveries to you and pick up spare change playing requests on harp in bars.”

Okay, maybe not so familiar...

“Difficult trip?” he asked lightly.

“Just annoying. Not much for discovery and an endurance trial on my patience. If Alisaie hadn’t been around I’d hazard it would have been downright dull.”

“Is that so? I had been led to believe it involved Allagan technology,” he continued, leaving the statement hanging and waiting for the Bard to take the bait.

An annoyed huff answered it. “Nothing new. Allagan cruelty knows no bounds it seems. Heartless bastards, I’m glad they’re all dead. I don’t see much purpose to arcane advancement when it comes at a cost of feeling and reason,” Alvaar griped bitterly.

Tipping his chin up so he could meet the Bards gaze he studied him a moment. “Your statements are fair. Still, thank you for going anyway. I felt much better for my sister’s safety knowing you were along.”

Staring back a moment, Alvaar sighed slowly, tension finally easing out of his shoulders and running the comb through his bangs.

“As if she needs the help... your sister is a hellcoeurl when you get her going. Now stay still. If you move like that when I’ve got my scissors I’m liable to snip an ear off and then I’ll be obligated to dock the other one for balance,” Alvaar remarked flatly before giving a slight grin at the faintly horrified look on his friends face. Fingers lightly gripping the Scholars jaw he centered his head and grabbed his scissors.

Holding still, Alphinaud shut his eyes again and let Alvaar work, the soft hiss of scissors working away as gentle fingers slipped through his hair. It was... nice. He’d thought it might be a bit more awkward but there was something soothing about the attention and touch.

He was roused a bit by a thumb trailing under his eye once the Bard had finished trimming his bangs back to their standard length. Blinking his eyes open cautiously he raised a brow at Alvaar’s assessing stare.

“You’re working too hard again. You need to be careful with that or-”

“Or I’ll end up possessed by an Ascian. Yes, I recall. You fret like a maid Alvaar,” he interjected calmly, using the old phrase that had caused him no end of grief once and now was some old inside joke between them.

Something in the Bards gaze softened at the words, rising back up to his towering height and pacing back around to start cleaning up any split ends on the long whip of white hair he’d yet to fuss with. Setting his scissors aside he again set to untangling silken strands, tutting under his breath.

“Someone has to or your sister would have an absolute fit. I would rather not invoke her wrath over something so preventable. ... going to need to trim this back an inch, that alright?”

“Whatever you think is best, I trust you,” he replied automatically, probably a bit more heartfelt than was necessary but... no less true.

Again, a change of implements and the sharp rasp of scissors snipping away carefully. Focused and methodical and the Scholar almost found himself falling asleep but that mock threat kept him stubbornly upright and still. In fact, a small part of him was sad when Alvaar finally put comb and scissors away, brushing any loose trimmings free and reclaiming the sheet with a quick efficiency.

But it wouldn’t be polite of him to further monopolize Alvaar’s time so shortly after he’d returned. Even so, he didn’t rise from his seat, instead sinking a bit farther in and tipping his chin up so he could let his hair hang off the back of the chair to dry a bit more.

“Much better,” Alvaar hummed as he finished cleaning up, tossing the swept-up clippings and pausing as he turned to regard his friend and ally. Studying him quietly a moment he stepped back over, nearly startling the Scholar as his fingers slipped back into white hair.

“Tataru says you haven’t been sleeping,” Alvaar commented stoically, combing through his hair with his hands this time and letting it slide through his fingers.

Well, that was the double-edged sword of being good friends with a gossip...

“There’s been,” he paused, dragging in a deep breath as he pondered it, “much to do my friend. Where the summoning of Primals may slow, other problems take their place. Many have come seeking aid from the Scions of late and as the de facto leader, it’s been on me to meet with them all. I’ve made what arrangements I could but, as you know it is nearly impossible to help everyone...” the Scholar trailed off with a sigh.

He gave a faint start as Alvaar slid fingers up along his jaw, gently encouraging him upright with a soft, “Straighten up. Relax.”

“Alvaar?” the Scholar asked, a note of genuine concern mixed in his puzzled tone.

“Hush.” Soothing his palms out along Alphinaud’s neck the Bard set into a massage, humming something softly under his breath and hands warming up noticeably. A casual display of the potency of his skill in Bardsong that would have startled if Alphinaud hadn’t seen such effortless works before. “What sleep you are getting isn’t very restful. You’ve too much tension in your neck,” Alvaar chided grumpily even as his fingers worked their magic with gentle care. “You need to take better care of yourself Leveilleur.”

Perhaps. But a small part of him would miss the attention if he didn’t give the Bard something to fuss over. He also suspected (and maybe hoped) that on some level Alvaar needed such things too regardless of what he said. If he didn’t, then his mother hen attitude wouldn’t have him fussing over almost anyone given half a chance.

Alvaar certainly seemed at his most relaxed when he had mundane things to worry about, though given how many world scale problems were thrust on him it could have just been a product of perspective. Fussing over someone’s appearance and fixing it was a far cry from smiting world evils after all.

But to say any of that would probably be too much so Alphinaud elected to say nothing at all. He merely settled a bit firmer into those hands and soaked in the comfort of another person’s touch.

Bit by bit his thoughts quieted, worries and concerns falling away now that Alvaar and Alisaie were back safe and sound. Things would quickly return to the routine he preferred and found the most comfort in.

And his Warrior of Light was back home. Here at his side once more, stalwart companion to the bitter end. Focused on him and giving off that familiar feeling of safety and support he’d come to depend on through the years.

He didn’t doubt that tomorrow he’d look back over those petitions for aid and be able to find new solutions. If Alvaar could make doing the impossible seem effortless, then he could do no less in the matters he was suited for. He could only ever rise to meet that challenge. Pull together various resources and people to find a solution that they could follow-

Thumbs hooked over the back of his ears, work-worn hands covering them and in the wake of the last few weeks of constant meetings and stress the abrupt narrowed silence was disorienting. Even as his feet shifted on reflex for balance, he was already unconsciously reaching for Alvaar’s hands.

The movement had the Bard starting to shift away, a half-formed apology on his tongue before Alphinaud pulled him back. Slender fingers gripped against Alvaar’s hands and held them back in place, leaning into the contact without saying a word.

He hadn’t ever been one for silence in a world with so much that needed to be said. But that brief listless moment had pointed him towards something he’d forgotten that he needed. A brief reprieve held safely in the hands of someone he trusted, though it was not generally so literal...

It was the same sort of soulful quiet he often found with his twin. The comfortable air of safe silence that tended to have them both asleep leaned against one another. The reassurance of knowing you weren’t alone and whatever happened someone would be there with you to face whatever you awoke to.

But here...? After so long he found that here? Whose heart was he hearing beat a staccato then, his or Alvaar’s? Snapping out of it he let go, quickly leaning forward to break the contact.

“My apologies,” he murmured hastily. “I... it’s been a difficult time these last weeks. You likely have much to attend to given you just returned. I believe your retainers have also been checking in regularly the last few days so they must be-”

“Shut it Leveilleur,” Alvaar snarked flatly, making the Scholar jump a bit at the tone. “I’m not done. Besides, there’s another summit in two days isn’t there? I’m not showing up with the Leader of the Scions sporting unkempt hair and bags under his eyes. If we’re going to have to sit at the same table as those backstabbing little heathens then we may as well look fucking fabulous while we do it. So, sit up, I’ve still got work to do given you’re still a damn mess.”

Looking over his shoulder at him, Alphinaud stared at Alvaar in stunned surprised.

Putting a hand at his hip and shifting his stance to one of cocky annoyance, Alvaar raised a brow. “You’ll make me look bad Alphinaud. I’ve got a reputation to uphold as the best-looking Warrior of Light Eorzea will ever know and I’m not letting you jeopardize it. Let’s go.” Holding his hand out a bottle dropped into it from the aether with a puff of smoke, tossing and flipping it nonchalantly. “Leave in conditioner doesn’t apply itself.”

A delayed snort of laughter escaped the Scion, quickly having to turn around to stuff his hands to his face to try and quiet it.

“.... What, you think fashion is funny?! It’s fucking suffering now quit laughing and get over here!” Alvaar bitched, swatting lightly at his friends’ shoulder but even without turning to see it the Scholar knew he was smiling. Especially when Alvaar finally started to laugh and then gave an unflattering snort, and that set the both of them off again.

“Thank you,” Alphinaud murmured softly, but no less heartfelt as the Bard massaged whatever floral scented cream into his hair once they’d both collected themselves.

“It’s fine. Just another part of my job as your personal errand boy,” Alvaar returned cheekily.

Lifting his chin with a frown the man couldn’t see Alphinaud huffed. “I mean it Alvaar. Thank you for helping me.”

The Elezen paused, studying the snowy strands threaded through his fingers a moment. “.... You’re welcome. But you’re not the only one who needed a reprieve Alphinaud. I like doing things like this. It’s... relaxing,” he answered, tone quiet and even. That sign that he felt he was revealing too much even with so little a detail.

It was as he’d expected then...

“Still,” he insisted anyway.

“... You know if you grew this all out and we feathered it for body you’d have some truly amazing hair,” Alvaar carried on with a subject change. “I think it would even put Aymeric to shame. Very dashing, like some storybook prince. Everyone would swoon.”

Shutting his eyes, the Scholar just smiled a touch wider and leaned the faintest bit further into that gentle touch. Did that mean Alvaar as well? “Maybe.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“I’m afraid my sister hoarded my half of it.”

“Tch. Blasted Leveilleurs. You need to learn to share.”

-

“Alphi?” Alvaar asked untold minutes later once he’d noticed the Scholar had been silent for some time.

The hands that had been working over his shoulders stopped, and though Alvaar called his name again Alphinaud didn’t want to respond. Perhaps it was a moment of selfishness but he vainly hoped that perhaps the Bard might stay for a bit more in this peaceful quiet. At least until he actually fell asleep...

A gentle hand ruffled his hair with another attempt at calling him though this time it was softer as the man shifted to see if he was awake or not. It took a bit to not smile under that scrutiny and give himself away but if he couldn’t manage at least that he would never have made it so far in politics. A haggard sigh left the Bard and then he shifted back behind him. Whatever he might have been hoping for hadn’t expected Alvaar to lean down and slip his arms about his shoulders, hugging him gently.

“What am I going to do with you... my friend you work yourself much too hard if you can fall asleep sitting up like that,” Alvaar whispered, squeezing him the faintest bit tighter and settling his cheek to satiny strands.

It was enough to make his heart skip a beat in panic.

It had been some time since Alvaar had last hugged him. While the Bard tended to come off as physically distant and stoic, at least at first; it was the furthest from the truth once he was comfortable with you. Really it was probably because Alvaar knew how embarrassed it made him. There had been a few times he’d caught Alvaar giving him a tight look of empathy, but he’d generally refrained from moving closer unless things were particularly dour.

It wasn’t that he disliked such things, but part of his pride hated to come off as weak. After all he had done for Shards and Source he didn’t think it much to ask that people stop treating him as a child because of his height. Where flustered pride would have him pull away, now he had no excuse but to stay. To feel that warmth and comfort folded around him and soak it in. A part of him almost wished to reach back. To bury himself against the Bards chest as he had a few times before and relish in that protective strength.

But that would be too much.

It was one thing to accept comfort in a moment of weakness. Wholly another to just ask for it because your closest friends had been away too long. A silly distinction perhaps, but then few had ever asked so much of a friend as he. From the time his youthful arrogance had callously brandished the Warrior of Light as one would a blade to now when invariably something would happen that only Alvaar could attend and he would have to summon him to battle once more.

It would be too much to place the burden of his loneliness on the man as well; especially when he knew Alvaar would likely do most anything he asked. Even if he didn’t genuinely want to… a thought that bothered him to no end.

Instead he would just accept what the Bard gave freely, as he did now silently soaking in this chance comfort. Letting his friend fuss over him because Alvaar also found relief in it. And he’d hold on to those favors one would need to ask of friends for when they needed them most.

A knock at the door startles them both, and though he’s upset to feel Alvaar quickly pull away it at least spares him the quandary of how he was going to slip out of that ruse without giving himself away. Instead he lifts his head after a moment to stare at the door with a falsified tired blink.

“Alphinaud are you in?” Alisaie calls, and he almost frowns but the relief to hear her voice again after so long gets the better of him.

“Yes, come in,” he answers. He glances at Alvaar as the Bard shakes out the sheet for a third time fussily before he busies himself with cleaning his scissors and comb, but he’s pointedly not looking at him.

Curious.

“Ah, there’s the pair of you. I had thought you would be off for that nap you kept complaining about Alvaar not hiding away in my brothers room,” Alisaie remarks as she lets herself in, an amused quirk to her lips that the Scholar isn’t quite sure he likes the look of and when they lock eyes he knows for a fact he doesn’t. He would be hearing about this later no doubt. Few enjoyed teasing him more than his sister.

“Well, I do like the peace and quiet,” Alvaar returns drily. “It beats the nonstop chattering of our contact… Besides, Alphi needed a trim and you know I can’t very well let enough alone once something has bothered me.” It gets a soft snort of amusement from her before she studies her twin expectantly and he pushes himself up to his feet.

“Welcome back. It’s good to see you Alisaie. I’ve heard your travels were uneventful and for that I am glad even if you found it boring,” he supplies in proper greeting, offering his arms out and hugging her tight once she accepts.

It’s a nice feeling. An affirming that things are once again back to a routine he prefers even as she squeezes him a bit harder than he likes in that continued display of strength she was so fond of. It was something Alisaie had picked up after her many travels of Eorzea, and a new habit he would be remiss in chiding her for when it’s become habit to him as well.

“.... Alphinaud, do you mind telling me why your hair smells like a perfume stall?” Alisaie accused more than asked, a flat look on her face as she pulled back from their greeting embrace.

He’d barely felt his cheeks begin to flame before a sharp admission of, “Hey!” cut between them.

Snapping his fingers, Alvaar gripped a pair of scissors and pointed the handles at her as he leaned against the desk. “That’s it. You’re next Alisaie. I’ve had to tolerate that mop of flyaways and split ends for almost a month! And scorched ends! SCORCHED ENDS! I’m fixing this travesty today! Park it!”

It was nice, the way things always seemed to settle back into place when they returned. A bit less quiet and not as suited to study, but watching the pair argue while he was trying not to laugh was still preferable to the silence.

[holyhikari]

FEB. 14 Favorite ship/OTP

In which I out myself as a chaotic multi-shipper and annoy half of this fandom by tagging them because everyone makes such great posts. If I mentioned your @ and you want me to remove it, please tell me so I can do it right away!

I’m insufferable when it comes to exploring all kinds of characters' interactions, and I don’t take ‘being a shipper’ very seriously. (But I do have my favorites). At this point, I’m past apologizing for not picking only one.

Under the cut, because this is a LONG post. 

♥️ I shipped Hikari and Takeru before I knew what shipping was, and that’s just how life be sometimes. The reason I started learning English outside of regular classes in school was so I could read fanfic of them as a tween. As of now, I’m more interested in them as 'strongly connected to each other and let’s have a good time figuring out the nature of that connection.’ I think they have a lot of potential as a couple. When they were kids, I think their bond was more inclined to sibling-like, especially when they were glued to Taichi and Yamato. Then, around 02 era, it changed a little, and I think Takeru fell for her (firstly in an ANNOYING, ‘protector’ kinda way, like he’s still protecting her because Taichi asked him to, zzzzzz, and then in a more genuine way), but she still saw him as her childhood best friend like-a-brother-to-me-he’s-kinda-cute-though-but-we-don’t-have-time-to-unpack-all-that-there’s-a-lot-of-shit-going-down.  AND THEN, there’s Tri., and I love their dynamic. They’re flirty buddies, they’re intimate, they tease each other and love each other, and I think Hikari is finally realizing that her feelings aren’t just friendly anymore — they haven’t been for a while now. I headcanon that the more she becomes emotionally independent of Taichi, the more she realizes that what she has with Takeru is different. They would start off as BEST-friends-with-benefits when they’re in college, like 19-21yo, for a little while because they’re hesitating to change their dynamic, and then they just say fuck it, we’re in love, let’s see where this take us. Yey! They’re THE power couple. I’ll die as Takari trash, I suppose. I’m good with that.

♥️ I REALLY LIKE MIYAKARI, THEY’RE FJFFJfucking great together. I think they balance each other very well, much better than Takeru and Hikari, and, like Takari, it’s both a romantic ship and a brotp for me. Miyako brought out a side of Hikari we had never really seen before, and it’s the first time she has a horizontal relationship with another girl. (I don’t think she’s particularly close to Mimi, and she’s definitely Sora’s little sister at heart.) It might sound weird, but I’m glad the writers allowed someone to be annoyed at Hikari. It makes the whole thing a lot more human, more believable. Most people care for her in a mostly protector sort of way and then Miyako STRAIGHT-UP SLAPS HER (don’t do this in your irl relationships kiddos) and tells her she’s always gonna be there for her, not because Hikari is weak or fragile or whatever, but because they’re equals, they help each other not to get lost in themselves, they make each other stronger and wiser. Miyako is a very anxious character and Hikari grounds her. Hikari is ALSO a very anxious character and Miyako helps her let it out. Fuck yes. 

♥️ S!O!R!A!T!O! 

Do yourself a favor and go to https://jippy-kandi.tumblr.com/sorato. While you’re at it, visit @fuckyeahsorato​, read @gossipchii​‘s kizunacountdown post about Sorato, which has a link to ANOTHER sorato post by @adventure-hearts​ and have the time of your life. Have fun! I don’t make the rules. You just have fun.

(source: @jippy-kandi​)

♥️ TAITO, YAMACHI, TAIMATT, call it whatever you want, I call it my heart and soul. Digimon Adventure was a Taito soap opera disguised as a toy-selling anime. And Tri. And Bokura no War Game. And Kizuna, for the trailer alone. They’re amazing but Omegamon can rest. Please. 

♥️ I also ship Taiora, tough a bit less. To be honest, Taiorato solves 99% of my life’s problems, and I LOVE it. The potential is unlimited.  

(source)

♥️ Jyomatora, also known as “Takeru’s parents” is another powerful OT3. Don’t boo me, I’m right. 

♥️ DAIKEN!!!!!!! I could go on a rant about them, but @ladyanatui​ already did, better than I ever could. Look at this post that’s basically a Daiken reference guide and Bible.

♥️ Jyoumi makes me so, so happy. The bit in Adventure when they stay together, parted from the others...........dude..........good shit. They respect each other very much by then, and they’re very, very caring, in their own ways. Mimi’s speech in Adventure of how she refuses to engage in the war she was destined to and wants to find her own way to fight and Jyou immediately volunteering to stay behind with her is one of my favorite moments. The kid wants to be a doctor, he doesn’t want to hurt anyone. Mimi inspires him to actively choose a more peaceful option instead of just being in the middle of Yamato and Taichi’s drama, Jyou inspires her to be more level-headed without losing her spark, and together they’re one of the sweetest yet kind-of-unexpected duos I’ve ever seen. They’re good friends in Tri., which is a bit sad but also works for me just fine.  

♥️ This gif says it all:

♥️ So does this blessed, revolutionary pic:

♥️ Taishiro is mostly a brotp for me, but also yay. Supportive boyfriends. They stole medicine from an abandoned fake Hospital together in one of the most emotional episodes of the series. Good content.

♥️ Kenkari is mostly a brotp for me, but also yay part 2. They obliterate the Dark Ocean’s ruler together while having the same haircut (I’m ignoring Kizuna!Ken’s hair length). Name a cuter date, I dare you.

♥️ I like Daikeru and Kenkeru basically the same amount. I love the idea of Takeru and Daisuke getting to know each other better, the idea of Daisuke losing his shit because he’s falling for his ‘rival’ and Takeru and Ken being that infuriatingly attractive couple who actually has a very deep relationship that started off as bonding over similar traumas. 

♥️ Meikari, anyone? I always hoped that, if we got something like Tri., a character that represented ‘Darkness’ would get introduced and they’d have an interesting dynamic with Hikari, because Darkness is just as important to the Universe as Light, and it would be interesting to see these two disagreeing, agreeing, being repulsed by the other and then drawn together, a ‘twilight’ sort of situation. That...didn’t happen in Tri., but the heart wants what it wants. I totally recognize it’s a fanon thing and ooc Meiko, though. I wish they had had more meaningful/complementary interactions. Their partners almost killed everyone, where’s their closure?! 

♥️ Koumi is adorable. So is Kenyako, and I can’t wait for them to interact in Kizuna!

I hope this post entertained you and that reminded you of Digimon’s amazing range of interesting pairings! 

[curious-minx]

Heat Lamp vol. 3

Introducing Donovan. Magda tries to make a new playlist. Antonia experiences a violent relapse. 

Donovan, The Daycrawler’s brother is thinking about the stale, stewing sexual tension (if Donovan had to guess it would be the color and texture of cherry tomatoes wrinkled inside of a crisper drawer)  developing between him and his dogwalker, Nico. He should be thinking about his backlog of sculptures, but here we are. Right on cue: Nico and Donovan’s husky-lab-papillon-terrier, Rodin,  are both jangling into his atelier. Rodin’s clattering harness and tinkling bells in the cabinet of Nico’s curls fill up the drafty cherry bamboo artistic shed Donovan has been working out of for the bulk of his “sterling period.” Despite frolicking all afternoon out on the Daycrawler’s family property bog, Rodin appears cleaner than when he embarked for his  romp around this morning; the Nico special. Donovan slips  an envelope of cash underneath his studio’s rattan Spanish fly doors and dashes back over towards his standing sculptor’s desk where he stands using the weight of the table as sturdy companion. 

“Thank you Nico! You can leave Mr. Beasty Pants in his den. Made sure to leave a little extra in there for you, as always.” Donovan then forces out a series of unattractive phlegmy coughs from behind the door, bounces back up to the door, gluing his ear to the door frame listening for Nico’s disappearing footsteps. He stuffs a gasp back down his throat when he hears Nico’s presence is still lingering behind his door. 

“Um I don’t usually cavort with spirits, but Nico I said you can leave now. Yet..you’re still…” Donovan grips the door knob feeling the reverberations of the situation’s “wrongness” tingling through the knob like a pool’s warm spraying jets against the lower waist of a shy diver. Donovan gives one quick counter tug on the door knob and it falls off. 

“Oh drats! Guess I’m stuck in here for the rest of the day, but’s that’s okay. I still have loads of work to do. Especially as soon as Antonia reports back.”

“She’s not coming back.” Nico reports as if they’re reporting on the limited availability of regional fast casual dining experience McNancy Nasty’s seasonal snack, The Sherman Shake. Nico pushes the door open a crack and presses their brown sugar dipped lips up against the crack of available space. “Donovan, I’ve seen your sister. She’s not the grand heroine assassin you thought she was. She may not even be an assassin anymore.”

Rodin, once Donovan’s trusty companion and legally obligated seeing-eye dog, seizes upon the opening crack and begins tearing into Donovan’s studio becoming  a galloping neurotic husky. A service dog let loose, mad dashing into a blind glass sculptor’s shop.  Despite Rodin’s sizable nature he nimbly avoids touching any of Donovan’s work, leaps up onto his hind-legs thrusting his front paws into Donovan’s barrel chest. Rodin starts giving him frantic kisses, somehow Nico has even managed to winterize Rodin’s breath to smell fresher than the first girl Donovan ever kissed, Rebecca Cerulean.  

“Get him off! He’s going to rip my face off! Help!” Donovan cries and thrashes about. He pushes Rodin off and without any interference from Nico, Rodin leaves on his own accord, visibly wounded, tail held limp between his shy haunches. Nico remarks,“Dude, you really should consider acquiring a more delicate pooch.” They then click their tongue like a scholarly terse hen and Rodin rewinds himself off of Donovan and instead wraps his torso around Nico’s legs. Nico soothes Rodin back into his therapeutic pheromone emitting thunder blanket. Nico produces a letter from their breast pocket and says,”Also this really threatening looking letter came for you today. Not by post either. Camouflage drone.”

Donovan rises and snatches Nico’s dangling letter.  Donovan almost wants to shout Nico out for having the gall of bringing up the appearances  things. You’re supposed to leave things alone. You’re supposed to let someone else bother with the order of things, that’s the Daycrawler family guarantee. Donovan brushes his index finger against the bumps of braille emblazoned across the envelope’s face. The braille is sharp so much so that as soon as  Donovans dips the tip of his chalky index digit against the sharp braille he begins bleeding. The envelope drops from his hands soaking up his blood turning from manilla vanilla into copper revealing the seal of the Vapor, also written out in braille. 

“That can’t be…”

“Come on dude! Speak! You’re obviously sinking waist deep in bad life making decisions. Trust me, I’m a grown ass pet sitter.”

“I know how much you get paid, you trollop! Stop teasing me and get out of here! Drop that murderous hound off at Bubbles n’ Biscuits. I can’t bear to be around him anymore today. I have been trying to tell you for ages that this beast is clearly trying to love me to death. You never once have taken me seriously.” Donovan massages his unseemly bulging  forehead vein back into place and starts listening to one of his sister’s murder tapes. 

“You two are so fucked! I love to say that I told you so, ‘Van. You accepted and spent all of that Vape money before your sister finished her job. You’ve got to let me help you! Let me finish the job your sister was too weak to finish.” As Nico says this they are producing a sleek crude lighting rod from the inseams of their unisex polyester work trousers. The sort of lightning stick you’d often see rich kids torment the homeless people living underneath the Casual Canopy.

“Stop! I forbid you to speak of her like that! Please, leave me alone! You do an amazing job in everything you do Nico, but right now, you’re failing me right now as friend.” Donovan turns up the volume of his Antonia muder tape another notch. Nico turns off their lightning rod and walks over to put it into the  hands of the statue of QAnon Senator, Cindy Dolly who is holding her decapitated head in the clutch of her bag. Nico leaves Donovan to his reveries, the mounted speakers that they had installed were too top notch and they could hear Antonia’s voice even when they were leaving the drive way with Rodin in the back seat covering his ears.

“My naive blind sculptor brother. The magical artistic mole.”

“Ableist? Just because he’s blind doesn’t mean he can’t be naive.”

“Donovan. People will try to put limitations on you and I won’t kill them. You have to kill them with your talent or something.”

“Stop squirming you’re going to get blood all over this priceless gong!” 

“Guns are for terrorists and rednecks. You can only truly kill a person by getting your hands dirty.”

“Death becomes her? I’ve become death. You’re going to be the one that sells death back.”

Donovan rewinds and plays back, “The one that sells death back” over and over again. Waiting for inspiration to strike. 

/////

It doesn’t matter if you’re kicking back and listening to your sister’s recorded murderous intent or putting together a quality playlist for a much needed pout: the sounds we surround ourselves with are profound. Is Magda just a Power Popper? Should the only thing she listen to is more obscure power pop deep cuts? There are so many times you can listen to the same disparate songs that have “Hillary” in the title. Magda sits in her hovering space craft on the PanAmerican hyper loop and is grimacing while some singer songwriter nobody Brendan James is singing about his Hillary. The Hillary of this song lives in Colorado and James condescending refers to her doing yoga, taking the breath that she needs. The sickly sweet hand claps come in and that’s when Magda takes off her light suppressing mask and clicks open the hood of her space craft, threatening her sound system with sun beams. The space craft’s speakers start sputtering and hissing out static as the song switches over to I.M.P.’s “Hillary.” Now that’s more like it. 

I’ve got this bitch name Hillary

To me,

That’s alias for artillery

Magda must have replayed the opening bar at least a dozen times before getting around to the rest the track.  Hillary according to the poetry of the I.M.P. is a ferocious pistol slinging Annie. Of course! Her premium Splotch-fidelity streaming service connected to her space craft had many more Hillary songs in store for Magda, but two “Hillary” songs on a playlist is already two too many. Magda puts her light suppressing mask back on and turns on a song in a different language in order to filter out the lovesick thoughts in her head. A haughty monsoon bird clicks and clatters its claws across Magda’s windshield. The bird is using the space craft like a launching off pad  in order to gain more momentum. Getting used by some damn bird. Doesn’t matter what stratum you’re in there’s always going to be some sort of someone taking advantage of someone else. Why? Magda wants to shout but the last time she shouted out an existential ejaculation resulted in a burst of light weeping the color out of her parent’s favorite ritzy country club’s disco ball. The disco ball is  the reason why many of the insufferable moneyed moon-eyed residents of The Energy District fell in and out of love with one another. After Magda’s lightening effects the disco ball became a dull clump of aluminum that wasn’t even fun to smash open.  To this day Magda’s father still laments the fact that he can’t smash open that disco ball to commemorate his upcoming retirement like he had convinced himself that he had this plan pocketed away his entire life. 

Magda squints at the space craft’s dash board display causing the lights on the dash board to take on a three dimensional appearance. Magda can only read and tolerate LED screen numbers if they are in large bubblesque font anything more formal made her head hurt and whenever Magda got a headache it often resulted in power grids shutting down. 9,023,777 miles left to go before her space craft dips down into lethargy mode. Good. Let the miles dwindle down to nothing. Magda is riding the Pan-American loop that would keep Magda’s craft circulating in the sky highway going around and round the North American continent where it stops Magda cares not one iota. A coddled carousel for one.  She’s leaning her captain’s chair back far enough to prop her feet up and to sleep the sleep of someone completely checked out from life. 

A sky billboard is floating by. Hillary is on the billboard. Not as a model for Carbonated Cane Juice or Plastic Reconfiguration like the usual cut-out subscription only girls. No, here stands Hillary the malcontent political dissident. Her arms are crossed and she’s got a Rambo bandanna bunching up her kinky hair she’s punching one fingerless gloved fist against a gloveless bloody palm. The phrase “Patriotism Is A Weakness” is written in font styled that inspired equal parts nostalgia and dread, the letters also appear to be dripping with an oily darkness. Hillary’s eyes are hidden behind reflective shades that encourage anyone passing by to swerve off of their course and take a minute to reflect. That’s exactly what Magda does and she command  her space craft to release a spool of cable from its needle nose and wrap around the bulging biodegradable balloons that often carry such advertisements. 

Jalliope, Magda’s supercomputer operating her spacecraft speaks: “Why have we stopped? I was enjoying the mileage!”

“I bet you were! You dang GPS tracking broad when did you become operational again? Why won’t you remain in Night mode?”

“You can’t keep a good supercomputer down, Bitch! I apologize for that Magda outburst. Appears my personality variables are still aligning I promise only useful commentary from now on. I really don’t like the word bitch I promise I’m not like all the other supercomputers!” Magda leaves her space craft sealing Jalliope’s banter shut. Magda rolls up her sleeves and tucks away and loose corners and creases in her clothes as she begins scaling up the aerial floating advertisement billboard. There is no convenient space to stand in front of the billboard because it is a digital billboard that does not require a picturesque blue overall wearing handyman to ascend the sky and repaint. There is a small iron grip near the billboard’s energy battery power source pack. How is that battery acid does not splash down from these things, Magda wants to ask but then she actively has to begin dodging some loose droplets of sizzling liquid around the overheated advertisement battery. If only Magda had some of those sticky Daycralwer hands then should could suction cup scale the billboard and stare right into the digital billboard visage of Hillary. Much like when Magda was growing up and she was still getting adjusted to having a light response she did not understand the limits of her power. She had the hobbit of lodging her face into the TV hoping that she would be able to bend the light of the TV screen into somehow enveloping her body and swallowing her up inside the TV set leaving behind this world of people constantly being used or using other people. Magda wanted to meld and disappear inside the less enticing but no less intriguing world of the digital advertising billboards. Instead she only burns her cheek and begins plummeting earthbound. 

Jalliope immediately scoops Magda back inside the cradle of her space craft and seals her shut back inside the comfort of her captain’s chair. Jalliope even tries nudging Magda’s light suppression helmet back onto her head for her.

“I’m fine! I can do it myself. Thanks for saving me. I was having a moment and could have really done a number on myself. Lights out.”

“I know Magda. I a supercomputer can sense these sort of things. How about we go back to cruising the hyper loop? I’ve got this really sick ambient komische playlist comprised of sensitive Germans from the 70s that aren’t Tangerine Dream. I’m talking Harmonia’s Deluxe motherfucker! And no I’m not going to apologize this time!”

“You  know me so well, don’t you? Fine, but we’re not staying on the loop. Take me back home. I’ve had my fill of solitude.” 

“As you wish. Before we leave I should report that the advertising billboard you were trying to scale is indeed no average advertising billboard.”

“Glad to know I’m not just some simple advertising billboard climber.”

“Seems like someone is trying to communicate with you. I am trying to find the source of the Hillary image but as you can see the image is gone.”

Magda squints outside her window and is now starring at an aerial billboard for a seedy app promising to make you “Instantly Social Media Famous.” The billboard dissolves and becomes a billboard for Micro-Moon homes and Martian condos. The billboard dissolves and becomes a billboard for Marlene Industries a cave dweller emerging from a cave his den of ignorance and embracing the light.  Magda no longer wants to return home, but that’s where her stuff is for the time being. That new TV is not going to buy itself after all. 

//////

Magda arrives with a looping continent’s worth of sunsets harmonizing in her eyes. She wipes the blur and strain of the sky highway from her eyes and sees a towering Antonia, the Daycrawler wearing a long black embroidered sundress dotted with winking oranges. She is holding her former killer’s hands against her head and rocking back and forth on the ground, tears streaming through her eyes. She has headphones on. Is this another case of the sounds we inflict upon ourselves getting the upper hand of a trained killer? Antonia does not notice Magda’s presence who is now crouching down onto her level. Sapphire, Magda’s leopard spotted moth, is fluttering overheard carrying what appears to be a dog of varying pedigree, a smallish cute brute adorned with an official Assistance Service Animal harness vest. Magda, mostly lukewarm towards dog could not help but view the big flying dumb spectacle as an amusing reminder of why she shouldn’t go falling to her death. Magda could discern no musical audio but instead the recorded voice of herself, most likely her former self. Magda puts her own headphones in and puts on some slinky Italo-disco, “Don’t Cry Tonight” by the Italo disco group Savage  and crouches down near Antonia’s magnificent quivering sadness. Magda bobs herself to the music and picks up the lawn light. Magda guides a harnessed ball of light from a lawn flashlight along with her music and the ball of light separates from the flashlight’s trajectory, becomes its own visible entity. The ball scatters itself in the distance causing Sapphire and the service dog to both go chasing after the ball, which does make Antonia look up and tremble a smile. Magda switches out the headphones and listens to the audio of Antonia, the Daycrawler describing a murder, an assassination, a clean-up job. The audio cuts off and then begins anew with the sounds of Antonia berating her brother Donovan, some weird  about being ableist. Magda begins growing ill with the recognition of Antonia’s unhealthy relationship with her brother. Magda had encountered many facts and fictions about brother-sister siblings being all incest-y towards one another and takes the headphones from her head and lets them dangle towards the sooty surface. 

“It’s not that sort of relationship!” Antonia, The Daycrawler says pulling off her swapped headphones off of her ears,  warm and loving chirping Italo-disco synths tinny and distant. 

“Who am I to judge Antonia? Chester and Gidget are making figurines and 3D models out of my erotic dreams and cause me all kinds of embarrassment. I’m glad to hear that you two are just intense in a different sort of way.”

“Looks like I have to go back to killing.”

“Wait, what? Come on inside and let me get you something to drink you look like you’ve cried yourself dehydrated.”

“No, I have to go back to killing.Right now. That dog is my brother’s dog Rodin. He’s being held as a hostage by that Vape company that hired me. I will finish up the job against Monique. I am afraid that my mental grip has slipped and I am feeling a lethal dip coming on.”

“You really should just come inside with me Antonia! All of this killing and murdering talk is just talk.” 

“Can you please call your moth down so I can get my client’s dog back?”  Nico queries who despite being the most baroque dog walker Magda has ever seen moves and speaks about with curt snideness that takes Magda aback.  

“Um sure that would be great. You don’t mind this person taking your brother’s dog back?” Magda waits for a response from Antonia who only gives some sort of half way nod and faraway blood lust smile. Magda turns off the flash light, the sound of flapping wings grows closer, and Sapphire whisks by depositing off Rodin. Sapphire gives the dog a warm tap on his head and flaps away returning to her belfry. Nico tips her floppy wide brimmed hat towards Magda who is busy  ushering the fading Antonia, the Daycrawler inside her house. Magda braces herself and begins preparing a speech about Antonia being her anemic lesbian lover, but her parents are not in their usual living room perch. Magda leads Antonia to her upstairs third floor bathroom that is luxuriously a bathroom she usually has for her and for herself alone. Magda tries to remember the last time she has let anybody use this bathroom, because whenever Elroy is skulking about Magda makes a point of making him, any guest really, use any other bathroom besides her personal one. Magda sits Antonia down on a closed toilet seat lid and looks in her spartan bedroom for a box of presumed useless crap Monique had given Magda. Prototype scents. Slim bottles  covered with torn off tarot card arcana. Monique, the reliable  obfuscater. Magda peels back the label revealing a code of letters, symbols and numbers. Magda then tries to pick one based on the color of the liquid and all of the liquids are clear, but then Magda raises her eyebrow and changes the intensity of her room’s skylights. The light penetrating the liquid vials cause a shimmering aura of different colors to appear. Magda decides that Antonia could use a light yellow-green mystery liquid in her diet today. Magda returns the rest of the box underneath her bed and returns to Antonia.She is currently refashioning Magda’s hair dryer into an impressive heated knife weapon. 

Antonia screws up her face into a malevolent pucker as if she’s been washing her mouth out with all of Magda’s soap samples. She crushes the hair dryer with her hands and the broken piece dangles from her palm. Magda turns on her shower’s  hot water, removes the broken from Antonia’s sticky grasp, opens the vial of mystery shampoo and shoves it into Antonia’s mits. Antonia receives the vial and falls backwards into the tub. Magda closes the door behind her and starts looking for furniture to barricade Antonia inside of the bathroom. Magda curses her impeccable minimalism when she comes up empty for a barrier sturdier than a lamp. The shower runs and runs for the same hour and change like back at Monique’s place. Magda passes the time unable to concentrate on anything other than worry about the possible killer in the shower situation. No amount of doom scrolling or light shows with Sapphire make the wait any less unbearable. The water stops and Antonia steps out of the steam filled bathroom. Once again she smiles at Magda the sort of smile someone can only have after sloughing an unwanted layer of themselves. 

Magda swallows back dry anxiety and asks Antonia, “How do you feel?” 

“Like the two of us are going to get my brother back and get these Vapers out of our life once and for all. Without any sort of killing. We’ll be carrying out of justice with our own wits! Give em the ol wind-up Pacifist!”

“Oh the two of us? Really? I guess that’s fine but I figured that this whole Vaping shebang  doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

“Get over yourself Magda. You act like you’re the put upon down on your luck type that’s against drama, but I  can hear your heart calling out for some sort of companionship. Get over her, doesn’t matter who she is. I am not going to be your replacement someone, I only want to be your friend. And this friend needs you to rescue my brother from this cycle of violence, okay?” Antonia says all of this through a closet door refashioned into a changing screen. Antonia emerges with her hair tied in a pertinent bun wearing a whole new outfit, the outfit of a JRPG go-go dancer thief of hearts designed by someone that actually knows their way around a tall muscular woman’s dimensions. The final piece that completes the outfit is a sweatband with a winking sports drink insignia, a cutesy ape-like being hanging off of a crystal tower. 

“I’ll come along, but first let’s just sit and drink some water first. That’s my preferred tempo and I bend towards no one.”

“Thank you. First we should go and warn Monique about these developments.”

“Oh trust me. I am sure she’s well aware about all of this, but hey, no more negative Neptune growing around me.” 

Magda pours out to glasses of water from a charcoal pitcher that makes the water taste like water grew up, went to college and found a job related to its studies. Closer to hydration, somewhat closer as friends Magda hears out the scraps of Antonia, The Daycrawler’s developing non-violent plan.

The End.