#at one point too may as well add ‘er on

[ohbeeones]

what 14 year old me needed and finally got, several times throughout november 2020: canon destiel and canon bi dean winchester

what 23 year old me needed and finally got june 21st, 2023: canon macdennis and canon bi dennis reynolds (yes! i’m calling it! shush)

#something something the earth is healing #i am so used to giving and now i get to receive #og.post #iasip #spn #macdennis #destiel #i feel like i used #deancas #at one point too may as well add ‘er on

[celestialholz]

Today in Gay People: Hassel.

There's something I've noticed about our resident art teacher, and that's... well, Flapple. I mean, we all know how gay the whole Applin deal is, but... well, it's where it is that's particularly interesting.

This is Steven Stone's team.

This is Cynthia's team...

This is Wallace's team...

I could go on. (And yes, I'm using champions because, like Hassel, they're important, powerful NPCs with a proper team, and let's be real here, Hassel is five minutes, that Tournament Dragonite and a fuck to give away from kicking Geeta out of his office.)

But the point here is... well, that penultimate slot. The fifth slot in a champion's team - or fourth, in Hassel's case - is reserved for the vice-captain role. It's the Pokemon hardest to take down before the ace, meant to weaken you up - the secondary signature mon. We see here with Milotic - defence for days, Marvel Scale, offensive too. And we see it with Armaldo - excellent attack, difficult type. And then we see it with Gyrados - Dragon Dance, Earthquake, power. Utility. That second-to-last slot is designed to weaken you up for the finale, the real powerhouse of the squad. Leon does it too - his fifth slot is the starter strong against yours, the one you may not have a counter to if your team-building isn't on point.

... And then we have Hassel.

... Now, there's a few things to note here.

Flapple shares the same quad weakness as Noivern, which leads. That's, er... different.

Flapple, statistically, is the weakest Pokemon here. Not by a lot - Dragalge is only ten points or so better, but it's a defensive Pokemon. It's meant to fill that role, as well as being a counter to Fairies.

Flapple isn't the utility mon most penultimate-slot mons are.

... And yet, here it is. Now, I could draw upon Hassel's six-mon Tournament team here, which adds Dragonite into this slot instead, but the Tournament is Hassel fucking about. He's been chilling in the staffroom and someone's gone "oh, that champion-rank kid's up, get out here." The Elite Test line-up is him at work. He's specifically chosen to leave a pseudo-legendary at home... for Flapple.

And why would he do that? @edgeanescence pointed out on the EphemeralArt Discord that the penultimate slot is meant to represent the trainer; the personality and the heart of them, as well as acting as vice-captain. And, well...

Cynthia's is a Milotic. Grace, beauty, the defence of Sinnoh against Cyrus.

Steven's is an Armaldo. A fossil, a Rock-type, the strongest of all fossils at the time - perfect sentiments for him.

Wallace's is a Gyrados. Power, controlled by a former eighth gym slot; ferocity in water.

... And Hassel's is a Flapple. Like him, she has power, but what she represents as a Grass/Dragon is much more important to him than raw offence or defence. She is his softness; she is his tears, and pride in his students; she is part-Brassius. Whether Brassius gave him the Flapple or not is irrelevant, though it's pretty compelling that he did - this man takes a representation of his heart and of his love into battle over the Dragonite, who has 120 more points of stats. By rights, even if he's leaving the Dragonite at home, Haxorus should be here if this is about power, not Flapple.

And you can tell me that it's about game balance as much as you like, but oh look:

Brassius's rematch team, everyone, and look at that penultimate slot.

Look at that Arboliva sculpture, with Brass's own spikiness and Dragon-type purple-tinged blue.

Brassius is not like Appletun, the obvious counterpoint here. Brassius is drama; Brassius is a man formerly weak, much like Smoliv; Brassius is not home comforts, apple pies, yet he's surprisingly kind and encouraging. Reminding you of anything?

... Ah, yes. Arboliva, depending on mood. And, if you're not already convinced...

That's Flapple, in the Violet dex. Strong, and covered in clay. Like a fucking artist, or a man who loves a sculptor.

When the chips are down, when they show up to work, when they have important, key battles, Hassel and Brassius don't just take their Pokemon to the arena.

They take themselves, and they take each other.

#ephemeralartshipping #brassius x hassel #brassius #hassel #pokemon scarlet and violet #... you know I'd say I was done with these old gays at this point #but who the fuck am I kidding #I haven't even done the artazon art yet lmao #honestly game freak what the fuck #I am so desperately normal about these old men #*soft scream*

[zepskies]

Bad Boy (Chico Malo)

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Plus-sized Latina!Reader

Summary: You catch Dean red-handed—with one of his favorite episodes of Casa Erotica.

AN: I just rewatched 9.08 and I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time. 😂 But Dean and Suzy’s Casa Erotica-inspired tryst gave me an idea for this little one-shot in the Espresso-verse. I'll release this fun one ahead of "Show Me," since that one's more angsty hurt/comfort. 

Word Count: 900

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Smuttish, implied "self-care."  

This story can be read as stand-alone, but you can also check out the full masterlist of one-shots below. ⤵️

☕ Midnight Espresso Masterlist

“¿Eres un chico malo?”

You wrap the towel tighter around yourself as you get ready to leave the bathroom after a nice hot shower. But your brow quirks as a woman's lusty voice and Mariachi music reach your ears. It’s a familiar tune…

Oh my God, you think. You open the door with a quiet turn of the knob, so you can try to confirm your suspicions.

Sure enough, your boyfriend is laid out across his side of the bed. The blanket covers him up to the waist, and his laptop rests by his bent knees. The screen illuminates his face, alight with both amusement and pleasure. There’s no mistaking the languid strokes bobbing under the covers.

It’s not the first time you’ve caught Dean red-handed, as it were, but it’s the first time that actually makes you laugh.

“Babe, what’cha watching?” you ask.

Dean’s face falls quickly into mortification. He shuts his laptop, halting the sounds of feminine passion and maracas. His other hand slides out from under the covers and he sets the computer on his nightstand.

You bite your lip to stifle your grin. You pad over to his side of the bed, where he offers you a sheepish smile.

He clears his throat. “Uh, hey.”

“Hey,” you reply with a chuckle. You caress his stubbled cheek. “Don’t worry, Señor Smooth. I was just curious. Maybe I could’ve joined you.”

His brows raise at that. Pleasant surprise takes over his features, making his lips twitch. His hand finds your hip and squeezes lightly through your towel.

“Oh, yeah?” he asks. "Up for a little movie night?"

You smirk and look over at the old DVD case on the nightstand. As you suspected, it’s Casa Erotica: Special Features Edition. You only frown when you realize Suzy Lee is the “special feature,” all blonde and blue-eyed and pouty lips.

Your more narrowed gaze turns on Dean, who notices your shift in demeanor and tenses a little himself. You take his chin between your fingers.

“My only problem is that you’re jerking off to a girl you’ve actually had sex with!” you say incredulously, brows raised. Yes, you know their tryst was long before he even met you, let alone before you two started dating, but your point stands.

“And you’re doing it in our bed,” you add.

That realization finally hits Dean as well. He grimaces, giving you an apologetic look.

“Uh, yeah…sorry,” he says. At your silent expression of irritation, he becomes even more earnest. He wraps his hand around yours. “Really, I’m sorry.”

You're still mad, but he does look sincere and contrite. Eventually, your temper begins to cool. You let out a sigh and shake your head.

You know he’s new to this whole boyfriend thing. Still, you think this is just common sense.

You pick up the DVD case with a more critical eye.

“And you know what, Suzy’s hot and all, but don’t you think they could’ve found a Latina to play Carmelita?” you gripe.

At that, Dean's lips twitch at a grin. His hand ventures under your little towel, smoothing up one leg and squeezing your thick thigh.

“You anglin’ for the job, sweetheart?” he teases.

You snort in response. Your eyes meet his, and you have a hard time tapering your smile. His salacious grin is too much.

And yet, he may be on to something. Setting down the DVD, you tilt your head at him and move in closer. You hum in contemplation, letting your fingertips graze over Dean’s lips. They travel further, down his neck, circling over his anti-possession tattoo, and down his chest.

His green eyes lock on your hand, then on the rest of you as your knee meets the edge of the bed, by his hip.

You startle him a little when you tear the blanket away from his waist, exposing the rest of him to your gaze. But you don’t give him too long to be surprised before you climb aboard to straddle his bare thighs. You hold his face in your hands, and he grips your waist to stabilize you.

His eyes roam over the hint of cleavage greeting him between ample breasts and smooth, tan skin.

“You’re not like the other guys in town, are you?” you ask, in your best attempt at smooth and sultry.

Dean eats it up. His eyes widen and his mouth parts with soft surprise as he catches onto what you're doing, but it soon melts into excitement. He plays along with the script he knows by heart.

“No I’m not, pretty girl,” he answers. You let your hands drift down his body again, less grazing this time, and more purposeful, making tingles run over his skin. You lean in close, ghosting your lips over his, across his jawline.

“¿Eres un chico malo?” you ask. Your voice sounds like black velvet in his ears, making his cock twitch against the inside of your thigh. His hold on your hips tightens.

He swallows, and manages to reply. “Sí.”

You nip at his earlobe and tease the shell of his ear with your tongue.

“Mmm. Malo, pero hermoso,” you croon.

A shiver runs down Dean’s spine, and his eyes close. He utters a low groan when you begin to grind down on his lap, feeling the hard length of him between your legs. He murmurs your name.

You pull back just enough to see his face and sink your hand into his hair, gentle but firm. You give him a smile.

“Tonight, you can call me Carmelita.”

AN: 😂 I had fun with this lmao. Hope you enjoy!! ❤️‍🔥

Spanish Translations:

“¿Eres un chico malo?”

"Are you a bad boy?" - Taken right from the episode lol.

"Malo, pero hermoso.”

"Bad, but beautiful."

Keep Reading:

Next up in this series is another two-parter, "Show Me":

Summary: Dean meets your infamous ex-boyfriend at a fallen hunter’s funeral. You just forgot to mention that he’s a hunter as well. Maybe because he still has the power to get under your skin…in the worst of ways.

▶️ Next Story: Show Me (Part 1)

Series Masterlist

Dean Winchester One-Shots

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Ko-Fi Me ☕

Dean W. Tag List:

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesbrainworms @foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @iamsapphine @simpforbuckyb @vanillawhiskeyflavoredkisses @roseblue373 @this-is-me19 @emily-winchester @spnexploration @deans-spinster-witch @deans-baby-momma @iprobablyshipit91

@melancholictearz @nic-kolas @sanscas @sleepyqueerenergy @wayward-lost-and-never-found @thewritersaddictions @just-levyy @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @deanwanddamons @antisocialcorrupt @lacilou @adoringanakin @theonlymaninthesky @teehxk @midnightmadwoman @brianochka @branj19

@agalliasi @venicesem @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @solariklees @xsophianicolex @deansbbyx @candy-coated-misery0731 @curlycarley @sarahgracej @bagpussjocken @ultrahviolentart @chernayawidow @beskarfilms @mimaria420

#Bad Boy #Chico Malo #Midnight Espresso verse #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x female reader #dean winchester x latina!reader #dean winchester x plus sized!reader #dean winchester x plus size!reader #dean winchester x you #spn #supernatural #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester x poc!reader #poc!reader #latina!reader #supernatural fanfiction #zepskies writes

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I don’t know if you’ve already covered this, but I had a question to ask about the VDC in Book 5. To clarify, I understand that RSA needed to win for thematic and character arc purposes, and that in-lore it was an audience vote not a professional one. The story beats line up. But the choice of cutesy and childlike RSA performance over the more refined and professional NRC performance still doesn’t quite click with me. Is there some kind of cultural difference that didn’t translate to explain why one performance was supposed to be understood as preferred over the other? Even if it was an audience vote, the standards should be higher just by virtue of this being a big name competition for teenagers held at a prestigious school.

Very quickly, I want to add a couple other points that help to explain why RSA won over NRC! Book 6 opens early on with Vil noting that NRC was not able to perform as well as they wanted to since they had just come out of a difficult battle against his OB form. (Because of this, he accepts responsibility for their loss.) Thus, the NRC performance may not have actually been as "refined", "professional", or as polished as we imagine it to be.

Additionally, it’s stated in book 5 that RSA’s song choice had universal appeal whereas NRC’s did not. We see this effect on the production crew when Neige and the Seven Dwarves do their practice run; their performance has a refreshing and soothing effect on what appears to be an older audience (as it plays to their nostalgia); we must consider this when evaluating RSA and NRC. For example, I know that I really disliked NRC's performance (sue me/j) because it sounded very oppressive and therefore unrelatable to me. The lyrics are literally about how NRC will dominate their opponents and win 😭 Sure, the music and lyrics for Neige's song aren't complex, but they're at the very least accessible and easy to follow along with. (That's not to say that I prefer RSA's performance though; I'm just explaining why someone might not find NRC's performance appealing.)

Lastly! We as players are looking at the two song + dance numbers from an omniscient perspective. We need to consider our own biases when judging, and accept that it may differ from the characters in-universe view things. Maybe you prefer NRC’s performance. That’s fair! But how much of that is informed by your personal music preferences? And how much of that comes from your attachment to the NRC characters, since you’ve followed their stories up until this point? As Rook points out in book 5, he’s aware of how hard NRC has worked to get here… but he’s also aware of Neige’s hardships too (er, in terms of his lifestyle; ie living with the dwarves and doing chores, etc.). Consider then, would you honestly not have a bias for RSA had Twisted Wonderland’s story centered on them instead of NRC?

It’s also worth noting that how things are seen in Twisted Wonderland may reflect its own unique culture rather than how we in the real world may perceive it. Maybe the people of Twisted Wonderland just prefer a cute, nostalgic performance. This may not necessarily correlate with west or east at all and that has always been a possibility! (While TWST does take inspirations from the real world, it’s not a 1:1 with the real world.)

dkhlbaiyfadvfoad Okay, NOW onto the actual question being pitched!

When you look at media from different countries, there are some stark differences in how the same information is presented. One example is like... any Gordon Ramsay show yes, I am using him as an example. Compare the American cut and the British cuts; there are much more loud sound effects, dramatic music, yelling, and cussing in the American cuts. The British cuts, by comparison, are notably quieter and contemplative, with hardly any cursing. Another example! Looking at variety shows from the east vs the west, they're quite different as well. Eastern variety shows tend to be "cute", usually using various cute sound effects or edits which make the guests appear more bashful (like drawing blush over their cheeks or something). We don't see this in western TV shows, which are louder and more boisterous. I've noticed a similar trend in the music industries of the east vs the west as well, where eastern stars tend to emphasize their youthfulness and playfulness and western stars try to be more "mature" and grown-up. These are just my personal observations and may not reflect reality, especially seeing as I am not involved in music-oriented spaces.

I asked friends and personal contacts in both eastern and western pop music fandom spaces for their own insights (which is also in no way representative of both fandoms, but at least this gives us other perspectives for consideration). To summarize, most of them replied that they did not think cultural differences account for this situation, since equating a preference for a "cute" aesthetic is not the same as RSA performing what is basically a nursery rhyme. There's no real-world equivalent for that (at least none that they can think of), and I agree with all of this. There’s really no point in trying to compare the two.

I remember lots of Japanese fans being upset at NRC’s loss too (when book 5’s ending was first put out), so the impression I got was they didn’t prefer the performance of RSA over NRC either. It was not just the international fandom that was disappointed. I don’t believe TWST ever intentionally set out to present “Everyone Yahoo!” as the “superior” song and dance number, or as the performance we’re supposed to like more than the other. It was very much framed as something pathetic and unlikely to win in most of the eyes of the NRC characters. They make fun of RSA’s clumsiness and claim it’ll be easy to win over them. The player most likely is supposed to think this way too—until Vil, the one with an eye for showbiz, realizes his loss. Why? Because it doesn’t matter what we think. What matters is how this clumsy performance will resonate with the common person.

What I think it ultimately comes down to is emotional appeal to the audience, which is more of a personal/individual level thing than a cultural thing. The competition is decided by audience vote. The average person honestly does not care about quality or standards. No one is giving them rules to evaluate by, no one is going to tell them off for not having strict standards. They will pick based on what they like best or whatever makes them feel good. And what will make anyone feel food, regardless of age, sex, race, education, socioeconomic status, etc.? Something cozy and familiar, thoughts of simpler times… Nostalgia.

Something else to think about is what a powerful motivator emotions can be. There are irl idol competition shows that are high stakes and decided by audience vote just like VDC/SDC… and people will still vote for their favorites even if they gave a technically bad performance. This is because fans are so emotionally invested in and attached to the performer. It doesn’t matter how “bad” they are, the performer/performance makes the audience member feel impassioned, and they will then act according to those intense feelings. Think about what you’re like when you’re in a terrible mood vs a good one. You act completely differently, right?

I hope that perspective helps! 🙏 I tried to be as thorough as I could be in this response, but please let me know if I misspoke or maybe missed a point.

P.S. I happen to be responding to this ask after TWST showed us the NRC Tribe’s dance performance in a MMD video. I wonder if this only made the “NRC should have own” crowd double down on that opinion since now we’re seeing just what their performance looks like 🤔 (though we don’t have a complete MMD video of Neige’s group to directly compare, just this which shows part of the dance and not in the same clumsy way that Neige and co. perform it).

#twisted wonderland #twst #Neige LeBlanche #Vil Schoenheit #Rook Hunt #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #book 6 spoilers #book 5 spoilers #notes from the writing raven #question #Seven Dwarves #Gordon Ramsay

[zairene]

in sync, hobie brown x rock angel! roxxi-coded! black fem reader hcs

warnings: fluffy kinda, but none

author’s note: congrats on 3k juice !!! ilysm and u so so so deserve it <3 original event post here / creator: @mypimpademia

you and hobie are the ultimate rockstar couple.

it seemed to be a match made in heaven when you both clicked instantly, with the same passion for creating music and touring the world. it wasn’t hard talking music with him since both of your music taste was drastically similar. with both of you loving rock, you both always had new recommendations for each other.

and because of your broad taste of music, you’re always recommending him new songs that weren’t particularly rock. it could be 90s gangsta rap, r&b, neo-soul, just really anything. you weren’t afraid to try new things so maybe hobie could too!

he still has a keen ear for music. so due to how close you both are and how close he is with the group because of you, he’s often at rehearsals with you guys, helping with things you guys could make better but if you ask him, he just there to see his girl in action.

hobie never misses your concerts. like ever. the only way he’d miss it is if he had some big emergency that he couldn’t possibly pass up but not much is more important than you. you always find yourself sneaking him backstage passes as well, not because he asked but why not for your biggest supporter ever?

regarding being your biggest supporter, he always reposts things on his instagram story about your band—always congratulating you on new collaborations or award nominations. he’s always ready to talk about people needing to buy new tickets for your upcoming shows.

hobie is always in your dressing room and just won’t get out when he’s supposed to. at first, you just let him in for some quality time because that’s honestly rare when it’s the touring season for the band. however, once it’s time for him to get out, he’s making excuses for him to stay. “y’know what. ‘m not even ‘ere.” “hobie, get out!”

and when it’s time for you to go onstage, he’s checking you for any type of thing that looks out of place. fluffing whatever hairstyle you have in, making sure you look ready for the lights that’ll be shining on you for the next 10-15 minutes. and before you go, he never fails to give you a kiss and a smack on the ass for “extra good luck,” in his words, i may add. but you loved him either way so maybe you allowed it even though you would yell at him for it. he always laugh because he knew that you weren’t serious and that was just a way of you being flustered.

arguments and conversations with him were never a common thing. if it was anything about the band and your music, you always put that before your relationship because it was your passion. but that didn’t mean your relationship problems didn’t interfere sometimes and it led you to take breaks to talk things out with him because you were never one to yell or get angry with him. you thought that problems could be conquered with a heart-to-heart conversation, and that applied especially to you and him.

putting the band over him was never a personal thing with him because he knew how much you valued your friendships and music. he just was aware that if he did anything wrong to the point where it would lead to your breakup—you would never stop making music with the girls. and that’s what he loved about you, you never let things hinder your success. fortunately, things have never gotten to that level and you’ll always know that hobie will be there with you every step of the way.

#[♩] irene’s works. #mparockangelz #spiderman atsv fanfiction #spiderman atsv #spiderman atsv x reader #spiderman atsv x black reader #spiderman atsv x black fem reader #hobie brown fanfiction #hobie brown x reader #hobie brown x black reader #hobie brown x black fem reader

[aindyghosh]

Fix Me Up (IronDad fic)

Peter hated formalities.

No, that was too mild a word to describe his feelings on the topic. Peter despised formalities.

Detested them. Abhorred. Loathed. And any other synonym that Oxford had come up with to date that he’d be able to remember as soon as Peter’s mind returned to the right track.

As it was, Peter’s brain felt all jumbled and disoriented, as if he were in a daze, because the morning sniffles he’d dismissed as a reaction to the accumulated dust in his room were, in reality, a case of severe cold due to the weather fluctuations that New Yorkers were experiencing and thus, very much not insignificant.

The last time Peter had fallen ill was three years ago before a visit to OsCorp had juiced him up on a — what would probably be perceived as ‘freakish’ — spider-serum (well, it was more of a spider-bite than a full-fledged serum, but that was what he called it, anyway) that turned his vision into a ten out of ten, dialled his senses to an eleven, and for the initial few months, made him stick to pretty much every surface available. No, that wasn’t a double entendre of any kind. It had been a real issue, thank you very much, until he had hauled control of it into his own hands.

Now one might ask, how did his sickness tie into his hatred for formalities?

Well, it was like this: Peter was sick, all he wanted to do at the moment was go home, politely refuse Aunt May’s chicken broth that was more likely to send him to the ER than to make him feel any better, allow sleep to treat him like he was dead until he was ready to return to the land of the living, and the fever, with any luck, would subside by the time he woke up again.

He didn’t think these were, in any manner, unreasonable demands.

Yet, his school acted as though he’d broken into Nexus and stolen the nuclear codes that he could access on Mr Stark’s servers.

Not that he’d ever say that to anyone because it would be incriminating Mr Stark, even though he was around eighty-three per cent sure it was one of those open secrets that everybody knew but pretended they didn’t. Adults were so complicated.

Regardless, coming back to the point, Aunt May was unreachable over the phone, which Peter had already suspected would be the case because she had a very important meeting with some angel investors who had expressed interest in the latest venture that her NGO was trying to set up for victims of domestic abuse.

Peter had said that to both Mr Harrington and Principal Morita, and had practically begged to be permitted to leave because anybody with a functional pair of eyes could see that he wasn’t faking an illness for the fun of it (Principal Morita had blanched at the hundred-and-three-degree temperature the thermometer had displayed; apparently, the spider-serum had increased his body’s tolerance to the extent where he didn’t keel over while burning up, but still, it would’ve been nice to not fall sick at all).

They had denied his request, of course. Formalities. See why he despised them?

With Peter being miserable in the infirmary and Aunt May not answering her calls, the natural next step in the administrative process was to either call the second emergency contact tagged to his name or the hospital.

Peter had put his foot down when Mr Harrison had tried to make noise in favour of the latter choice. Whether it was his uncharacteristic blunt protest or the pitiful murmur he had exhaled for being too exhausted to attempt anything else, Principal Morita had, though begrudgingly, relented.

That had stripped them down to one option. The second emergency contact. And that was where the root of all his problems laid.

Even when he had been one of the sickliest children, Peter’s file had been empty of a secondary contact since Uncle Ben’s demise because, besides Aunt May, he hadn’t had any such person in his life. But two years ago, his Aunt May had applied to add one.

Tony S.

It had been Mr Stark’s idea after their initial application had been rejected because “there is no way Tony Stark is your emergency contact, Peter; such kind of pranks will not be tolerated!”

As insistent as Ms. Banks was on not being taken for a fool, she hadn’t batted an eyelid when Peter had submitted the revised application with the name tweaked from “Tony Stark” to “Tony S”. At the time, like in one of those really old movies, Mr Stark’s “People are gullible, Peter! They think they know and understand everything when they barely see a quarter of the full picture,” had echoed through his head like a voiceover.

But he was digressing. The point he was trying to make was that despite the fact his school hadn’t, and still didn’t, believe that he had an internship — which wasn’t even a lie — with Stark Industries, much less that Mr Stark would ever agree to be his secondary contact (if Peter was being honest, he too found it ridiculous and surreal sometimes that Mr Stark had been listed as one of his emergency contacts), he hadn’t imagined that Principal Morita and Mr Harrington would stammer say an outright “no” to the man’s very face.

Peter watched, perched on the uncomfortable bed that threatened to make a germaphobe out of him, as Mr Stark’s face underwent a long series of varied emotions until it began oscillating between intrigued amusement and concerned frustration.

“I am his secondary emergency contact,” Mr Stark stressed for the third time. “You saw the papers! They have May’s signature! Why, on God’s holy green earth—” ( Ooh, the fancy curses were coming out now. When Mr Stark started saying things like “God” and “holy”, the best course of action was to run.) “—would I want to compromise your records? Do I look like a kidnapper?” Principal Morita failed to reply within a satisfactory period because Mr Stark pinched the bridge of his nose for the fifth time in the past ten minutes. Someone was developing a new anxious tic. “Why would I want to kidnap a student, Principal Morita?”

“We don’t think you’re trying to kidnap him, per se,” Mr Harrison swiftly cut in, seeing as Principal Morita seemed more interested in mimicking a fish and flailing his hands like an octopus. “But surely, you must see why we’d be, um, sceptical about allowing Peter to go with you?”

“No, actually, I don’t.”

Mr Harrington waved his hands in vague gestures, not unlike Principal Morita but he resembled more of an orangutan. “You are Tony Stark.”

“I’m aware, but thanks for the reminder.” Mr Stark deadpanned, his flat features compensating for the raw vulnerability in his eyes as he kept shooting Peter worried glances. “Look, this argument is entirely pointless.” You tell ‘em, Mr Stark! “I have a sick child to take care of—” He wasn’t a child! He was an almost-adult! That was a thing! “—and he can do with some treatment that is not in this horrible room. Is this what you call an infirmary? You know what, it doesn’t matter! I will need Peter to come with me pronto.”

Principal Morita stood up taller as if something in Mr Stark’s speech had vindicated him. “That is what a kidnapper would say.”

“No, a mugger would say that while robbing somebody. Go on, accuse me of petty theft as well while you’re at it.”

Principal Morita stuttered something out, but whether that was in response to Mr Stark’s utterly unimpressed face or Mr Harrison elbowing him in the rib, Peter wasn’t sure.

The ongoing conversation gradually morphed into unintelligible white noise, overwhelming while being muffled at the same time, like being pulled out of the water after a long time under, the sound of waves rushing ringing in one’s ears and deafening them to their surroundings but unable to mitigate the imposing presence of the people around.

“M’st’r St’k?” After a short second, his brain-addled self wondered if he’d managed to get the words out in the world or if they had died a premature death on his tongue.

“Peter?”

Maybe he had. “I d’n’t f’el sss...g’d, M-St’k—”

💖

Peter blinked. And frowned when his view refused to stop swaying between pitch black and black with spots of red and green in it.

It was another moment before he realised his eyes were still closed.

Oops.

When his eyes fluttered open, it wasn’t to Midtown High’s infirmary that left much to be desired, but to a clean white ceiling with a familiar huge and fancy circle of light decorating the middle which his brain placed right away.

The Avengers Compound’s MedBay.

He had a love-hate relationship with this corner of the compound, in that his body loved to end up here, at least, once a week while he had to actively hold himself back from cursing like a pirate anytime someone so much as mentioned the wing.

“FRIDAY?” He asked in a tone that even his brain thought suited an eighty-year-old, weary of the world, than a teenage kid with superpowers. No, not superpowers. That made him sound narcissistic and ostentatious. Spidey-powers. There, much better. “How long was I out this time?”

“You missed both lunch and dinner, if that answers your question,” came the reply from the person who was very much not FRIDAY.

“Mr Stark!” He attempted to sit up to no avail, Mr Stark’s firm grip on his shoulders gently pushing him back on the bed. Peter might have been stronger but Mr Stark was much more stubborn and a lot less prone to listening.

“How’re you feeling, kid?”

“Fine, actually, y’know, given everything.” He was no longer burning up, his skin didn’t crawl, the pounding in his head had subsided, and nothing felt jammed up his nose. All in all, he felt much more in control of himself. At least, the spider-serum worked fast.

“Good, because I need to yell at you and I’d prefer to do that while you’re not being miserable in your own body.”

“Oh, come on, Mr Stark! I didn’t even do anything this time!”

“Yeah?” The man’s eyes narrowed at him in that manner where, historically, it meant he had yet to decide whether to be angry with him or let himself show his amusement at his antics. Usually, the latter won out after a few minutes of forced yelling which was more to help keep up his façade of a responsible adult than anything else. Here’s to hoping! “Then was it your clone who assured your Aunt May in the morning that you were okay and, in fact, healthy enough to attend school?”

Had Peter been sitting, he would have bowed his head or looked away. Since he was currently laid out helpless on the bed as Mr Stark hovered over him like a concerned parent mentor, bowing his head wasn't on the table and looking away could be considered impolite. Mr Stark didn’t take kindly to rudeness and Peter was in no mood to be tickled.

“Sorry, Mr Stark.” Apologising? Now that came much more naturally to him. Mr Stark said it was a problem. Peter wasn’t so sure.

“What are you sorry for?”

That sounded like a trick question. Peter eyed the other man with carefully concealed suspicion. “For falling sick?”

Mr Stark sighed in that exasperated way that was typically followed up with something either deeply profound or extremely heartfelt, and in both cases, Peter would be left speechless and a tiny smidge teary-eyed.

“Don’t be sorry for falling sick, Peter! How would you feel if I apologised for getting hurt on a mission?”

Peter shrugged. “Good, actually, because then it would mean you’ll try not to throw yourself in the active line of gunfire when the next fight comes along.” After a moment, he added, “And maybe a tiny bit worried if you said the word ‘sorry’.”

“Pot, kettle, Underoos.” Mr Stark rolled his eyes. “And stop distracting me from the real issue here.”

“There’s no real issue, Mr Stark—”

“You should have told May that you had a fever, Pete.” He didn’t have a fever in the morning! “She was so scared when she saw the missed calls. She almost hitched a ride with Karen.”

“She hates Karen.” Peter’s mumble was barely audible, but somehow Mr Stark heard it.

“I know. I talked her down from blowing her dinner invitation with the investors. She’ll be here in another—” He spared a glance at his expensive wristwatch. “—fifteen minutes or so.”

“Thanks, Mr Stark! I didn’t mean to cause any problems—”

“You didn’t,” Mr Stark said, his voice soft. “We just worry, Pete. You’d know when you reach our age and have to look after a hyperenergetic kid who can’t seem to keep out of trouble.”

“That’s right, Peter!” FRIDAY chimed in. “Boss nearly went into a panic attack at the thought of you being hurt.”

Mr Stark immediately hushed his AI, but FRIDAY made even her silence seem...smug.

“I didn’t.” Mr Stark was convincing nobody. He was such a mother-hen.

Peter shook his head with a small smile. “This won’t happen again, Mr Stark, I promise.”

“Yes. Please remember, we’re all here for you, okay?” The man squeezed his hand. His touch was warm and assuring, and it grounded Peter.

“I didn’t expect a few sneezes to turn into a fever. I’d thought the serum had taken care of that.”

“Me too. I have talked with Bruce. If you are fine with him taking a couple of samples, he’s agreed to look into it.”

“Sure.” A year ago, he’d have been uncomfortable at the prospect of Doctor Bruce Banner wasting his precious time on something as insignificant as Peter’s blood tests. But Mr Stark had beaten the so-called “self-deprecation” out with his snarky retorts and sassy eye-rolls, and Doctor Banner had, after returning from “the garbage planet” (not his words), become something of a second mentor to him.

Also, this was for science. Doctor Banner was always interested in analysing the dos and don’ts and powers and the side effects of the spider-serum.

“Boss, Forehead of Security is pulling up into the driveway with Mrs Parker as we speak.”

“Oh, goody! She can take over the yelling now. FRI, order some pizza!”

“On it!”

“Mr Stark!” Peter called for the man with a tone of voice that, to unsuspecting people, might have sounded whiny, but really, it wasn’t. “Save me!”

“Nope! You deserve it!”

“I promise I won’t do it again!”

“FRI, remind the young lad of the last time he’d said the same thing, please.”

“Three weeks ago, on the twenty-ninth of March, at 8:14 in the evening, Peter Parker had promised not to hide anything from Tony Stark and May Parker ever again post a two-hour surgery for failing to alert anybody after getting shot while stopping a bank robbery.”

Peter resisted the urge to pout. “FRIDAY! You didn’t have to recount in such detail.”

“I am not programmed to recite half-information, Peter.” She was trolling him. He could feel it in his bones.

“Hah!” Mr Stark crowed. “I am so proud of you, baby girl.”

“Boss, I have done some research and I have arrived at a conclusion.”

Peter’s heart hammered at the declaration. What now?

“Oh? Let’s hear it, then!”

“I have looked into various published papers on human behaviour and the possible environmental factors that may have an impact on it, and I have deduced that Peter Parker’s tendency to hide his injuries and downplay his struggles are identical to your documented traits.”

It took a visible minute for Mr Stark to realise what transpired, and when he did, he let out an outraged screech that would have put a whole colony of bats to shame. 

Peter sucked in his cheeks.

“Are you implying I’m a bad influence on the kid, FRIDAY?”

“No, I’m saying that you and Peter are in the same boat, and both of you panic when the other gets hurt yet none of you do anything to set an example for the other, and since you, Boss, can be argued to be the adult in this relationship—” She bravely ignored Mr Stark’s squeak of protest, and pressed on, “the responsibility of not being a hypocrite, unfortunately, falls on you.” FRIDAY finished with a flourish. Peter could hear the flourish.

A beat of silence.

“That’s it! I’m donating you to City College. How dare you insinuate that I’m a responsible adult. I hate being responsible!”

And that was the point where Peter absolutely and hilariously lost it.

He was soon joined by Mr Stark, who was more giggling than guffawing like Peter. When the titters and the chortles were on the verge of subsiding, FRIDAY played an audio recording of a woman cackling as a representation of her own emotions, and the riot powered up again.

That was, of course, until the door to his room — yes, he had been in the MedBay a sufficient number of times for Mr Stark to designate a room specially for him — was pushed open and a harried May rushed in only to be greeted by the sight of Peter and Tony all but rolling over the floor laughing.

Peter’s ears rang with her screaming for days after that.

#peter parker #tony stark #protective tony stark #sick peter parker #irondad and spiderson #attempted humour #cross-posted on ao3 #sassy FRIDAY #tony stark acting as peter parker's parental figure #tony stark is good with kids

[drconstellation]

More Half-and-Half-A-Miracle Thoughts

Part 1: Miracle Power Ranking

Part 2: The Dark side of Aziraphale is here. Part 3: The Third Archangel

I was originally going to add some comments as a reblog to @nofomogirl's post on why the 25 Lazurii miracle was so powerful, but the initial thought I had on the matter slipped away from me during that day, and I was left looking at a glimpse at the viridian green back panel of Aziraphale's waistcoat and wondering what had sparked my original thought, and any attempt to try and grasp it again was a futile as Muriel trying to open Gabriel's file in Heaven.

So I wandered off on other tangents, explored other topics I was curious about, and enjoyed reading the new posts that went up, but the ghost of that viridian green panel kept lurking about with a sharp stick to remind me it was there. So I'm here to post some more thoughts in addition to the op's post that I feel might add to the discussion about the little miracle that worked too well.

I also want to say before I get stuck in (and warning - this is going to be a long one!) that I think no matter how much we discuss this or dig at it, ultimately we just don't have enough information to have a definitive answer as to the why at the moment, and, we may never know. But I'm going to speak because I think I there is at least one thing I haven't seen discussed yet in context with this scene, and should be (at least, I haven't seen it yet - if you have, please let me know.)

So if you're in a TL:DR mode and don't want to open links, here is the list of current theories of why two little "half miracles" made one mighty one:

Theory#1: It's love

Theory #2: It's them

Theory#3: It's a fusion

Theory #4: It's Gabriel

Theory #5: It's the portal (that they did it on top of)

To preface my answering ramble the TL:DR again is - its a fusion of "them" i.e. both #2 and #3 together. As in Aziraphale x Gabriel x Crowley. 3x3x3

Hang on, that's 27! Not 25! yeah, yeah, I'm not that bad at math. And I'll admit it doesn't fit - it doesn't "snap" into place. But its either that or 5x5 and I wanted to consider all three elements in this miracle working together for the discussion at the start. And there seems to an emphasis on 3's as well as 7's (Maybe you can cut the middle out at the end, once you can see the bigger picture I'm trying to present, but lets leave it this way for now. Maybe it will give you another idea...)

Firstly, consider the three elements, working in synergy. The whole is greater than the sum of its parts. As Crowley describes it in S2E6: " Apparently, if we do a miracle together, it all works a bit too well." (I was originally thinking of the word "gestalt" but on reflection its probably not the right one.)

"...if we..."

Let's ask who is "we" at this point, and how much miracle power they are contributing to the miracle. Are they contributing equally? Yes? Or no? I want to take a closer look at miracle power: the knowns, the unknowns and the possibilities to explore that.

We've already been told that most day-to-day miracles are down in the mili-Lazurii level, a mere few thousandth of the power of the hiding miracle. And this makes sense - we don't see our protagonists bringing the dead back to life willy-nilly. Aziraphale mentions getting into trouble for doing "too many frivolous miracles." But if its one thing Good Omens stands out for its the conspicuous lack of displays of stupendous power. And this actually doesn't help our understanding of the problem.

Indulge me in a "ranking of power" exercise, if you will.

At the top we have the big three - no, four - er, lets make that five actually! Five ineffably, unarguably, omnipotent entities that every one respects and no one will mess with. They can essentially do what ever they will.

God, and Her (ex-) bestie, Satan.

Azrael, the angel of Death.

Adam Young, the Antichrist, who has retained his powers and is still protecting Tadfield.

And lastly the yet-to be revealed second coming of Jesus Christ.

Lets put them all aside and out of the equation.

Next, we have the Metatron, whom we haven't seen lift a finger, only his voice, yet the mere sight of his face evokes fear. How much miracle power can he wield? That's a big unknown, unfortunately. But being the current right-hand being of the Almighty must give him some serious grunt.

The top brass of the respective bureaucracies starts to raise questions. We have our senior Archangels (the seraphim) and the Dukes of Hell. I have no doubt that Gabriel, as Supreme Archangel of all Heaven, should be capable of performing at least a 1 Lazurii miracle on his own if required, and he could even have the potential to stretch to 25 Lazurii...if he could be bothered.

We know that they can be promoted in an out of those positions, and that raises questions about what happens to their powers when they get promoted or demoted. To gain power when promoted? Or lose it when demoted? Or is it a simply a matter of belief? In which case it might rely on the individual's personality.

When looking for examples of expressed power, in both the book and tv series, it is easier to come up with examples of demonic miracles than angelic miracles, and it makes things look a bit biased, imo. I mean, Crowley aside for the moment (I'll get back to him shortly) you have to be impressed with Hastur's escape from the ansaphone into the call center and manifesting into the mass of maggots, for all he was a bit old fashioned and smelled like poo. Shax playing games with Crowley just outside the shop in S2, manifesting as different characters in rapid succession has to be up there with another good demo of demon power (which it certainly worked to needle Crowley into losing his temper with them.)

What do we see the Archangels do in comparison? Hmm. Bitch and snitch. Gossip with Hell on the back stairs. Pretend to be buying pornography from Aziraphale. Then physically punch our angel in guts for fraternizing with a demon before disappearing back to Heaven . Not much.

OK, so Gabriel arrives on a lightning bolt at Tadfield airbase

and there is that intriguing discussion with Sandalphon regarding Sodom and Gomorrah (just read above the cut, that's the important bit for this meta later on) where he was doing quite a bit of smiting, but its all off screen and in the distant past, we don't actually see them in action.

Which brings us back to Crowley and Aziraphale. And then more Aziraphale manipulating Crowley into performing miracles for him so he doesn't have to (the little minx.) The list of miracles I can think of that we have seen Crowley do is far longer and seems more impressive than what Aziraphale has done. Oh, but there is the Eldritch Ball, you say? Controlling multiple people at once? (Hold that thought.) He also sent the soldier at the entry gate of the Tadfield airbase all the way back to his home in the USA in an instant (according to the book) and he flew the moped with both Madame Tracey and Shadwell over the top of the Odegra ring of demon fire to get to Tadfield (again, as mentioned in the book.) And as the op back here says, why didn't they just manifest themselves out? Idiots...

On to Part 2: The Dark Side of Aziraphale.

#good omens #good omens 2 #aziraphale #crowley #good omens meta #gabriel #25 lazurii #miracle power #shax #the metatron #Azrael #tadfield #hastur #sandalphon #sodom and gomorrah

[disabledunitypunk]

For disability pride month, I want to normalize the "gross" parts of disability. I'm going to talk about my personal experiences, but I want to be clear this applies to everyone with experiences considered "gross" by society and I strongly encourage people to add onto this post with their experiences.

I've had to wear adult diapers for the days where I'm in too much pain AND for when my executive dysfunction is too high to get up and use the bathroom, and have wet and messed on furniture for both reasons when I haven't been able to afford diapers. (And if you act like either pain or executive dysfunction can't get that bad or it's just laziness, you're an ableist and get off my post)

I have had recurrent skin abscesses that have increased in frequency that are itchy and painful (likely MRSA) that I have lanced at home with a sterilized safety pin and had to squeeze blood and pus out of them until they're able to heal, just to avoid yet another ER trip.

I cut my hair short after I was struggling to take care of it so much that the back had just formed one giant matt, to the point where the guy couldn't make the undercut completely even because of how my hair had been lying on my head.

When I'm at home, I often smell like BO, because I have not yet found a deodorant I don't have an allergic skin reaction to. I suffer through it when I go out but even then any deodorant other than Arm and Hammer does very little for my BO (it's the baking soda that works) but I am so highly allergic to that brand because of the corn starch that I can't even tickle my partner's armpits when she's been wearing it.

I stopped brushing my teeth because of severe suicidal depression years ago, and even despite recovering from the depression, the memory issues from ADHD/DID/PTSD are so bad I haven't been able to get back into the habit since. I have plaque buildup and gum inflammation and often random tooth/gum/mouth pains that can last for hours or even days before mysteriously disappearing.

This is such a small one but: when I'm in private, I pick my nose because having boogers is a huge sensory issue for me and the rolled tissues always just push things further in for me. I also bite my nails for similar sensory reasons. I struggle with moderate skin picking as well.

So for everyone that struggles with: maintaining health or hygiene due to disability, behaviors that others consider gross due to disability, skin issues due to disability/chronic illness, stomach issues due to disability, incontinence or inability to use a toilet due to disability, scars or wounds that people call gross due to disability, and anything else I may not have included in this category?

You're not gross or disgusting. You're a person with a disability who has a body made of flesh and blood, and sometimes bodies cause you to have to deal with fluids and/or solids in inconvenient ways that not everybody has to deal with.

I'd also like to add that even if you do consider your personal bodily functions of these types gross, my point is that they don't make YOU gross as a person, and that there is no moral weight to struggling with this stuff because of your disability. You're not a bad person or some awful burden on your loved ones. You're just a person with a disabled body.

I don't think gross=bad, but I've also found it helpful to stop calling my issues gross, so I want to say both.

#disability #disabled pride month #mod stars

[anacharafan]

Okay, guys, you want me to go on about the most pointless things?

Let's go on about Byeol (and a bit about Fane, I suppose), because I am going insane

Alright everyone, for those unaware, this is Byeol:

This is a tyrant in Nexomon: Extinction, his name is Byeol. The problem about this, however.

He isn't a story tyrant, and this... Makes me very interested in him.

Amelie calls Tyrants super powerful Nexomon, but here's the thing. According to Coco, Jin blocked off the entrance to Fenrir's tomb so that no more Tyrants may be hatched

Lydia also says to go bother Nadine because of the egg, and keep in mind, the grass Tyrant is Tikala. A warden. Probably because Deena didn't necessarily want to add fuel to the fire

So then we are already established that Tyrants are probably always hatched.

... So then what of Fane and especially Byeol?

(And there's no Psychic Tyrants because... Solus would be too lil to bonk an egg, and nobody would ask a random kid to do so.)

Well, let's go with the easier one, in which I ask yet again, what's up with the Ghost type? I've wanted to throw hands about it for a long time.

(Ulzar says that the reason Nexomon are, well, a thing is because of the Children of Omnicron. So it makes sense, right? 7 children, 7 elements)

Psychic is a bit trickier because of the fact Mystogen exists. And if we're going of the fact Solus made the psychic type...

Putting a pin in that, rant for another day.

So... What of Ghost?

Well. That's not the point of the post and that's my motivation for writing Doubts.

But! Moving on, Fane. Well, with the assumption they come from eggs, well frick. There's no ghost primordial.

... Which is why I can't speak much of it. We can surely just blame Hilda

... Do you know who we have more of?

Byeol.

Well. Let's see then.

Byeol is a normal type in Palmaya, first and foremost.... We are back to James everyone, anyone who's talked to me isn't surprised

Hi new people, James is how we call the Nexolord on this side of the fandom, moving on.

Assuming that James isn't dead and we take into account this from Nadine:

Well, who am I to argue with Nadine? (Granted, she could mean Grunda or Deena , but.)

.. So, in today's rant. Byeol and Metta, woooo.

First of all, he is in Palmaya(and later around the Orphanage as of the Abyssals but we can put a pin in that because, Abyssals) , which, is definitely not the frozen tundra

But, Merida is in the frozen Tundra, and Atlanta's Tyrant is frosty enough to argue Merida bonked the egg there.

.. So then, Palmaya's free, ey?

Well. That's interesting, further on, I am going to need to grab Metta for a moment

Hello bowling ball, I still think you should be an Armodillo.

Moving on, see this man? Until his siblings he is, unfortunately, not an animal

My only logic conclusion, looking at this man(if we don't take my other James theory into account), is that he's supposed to be a kind of biblically accurate angel, just, ribbons not wings (Thanks for the association Azzie, your hands are red too)

... HMMMM who ELSE has wings and is a normal type...

... WELL THEN.

Additionally, I must point out, Metta has 7 ribbons. If we count the bottom pointy Byeol has he has 8.

... Well, it just happens an additional type is added this time, to bump it from 7 to 8(we already went over why I think Ghost might not count)

.. So then.

And. Well, let's look at it this way. Nivalis and Arqua, they don't look the same. Fona and Mulcimer, er. The closest we have is Ventra and Eurus.

... And, well, Solus and Nara, but surely not

... Byeol could've been a kangaroo or something, but instead-

They're both inanimate object things I can't make sense of. I know Ross said that he was just inspired to make a star thing, but-

... Hm.

What am I trying to say? Nothing really. At the end of the day these are coincidences, likely

Like, n3 protag and James both have a blue hair strand, but that doesn't mean they're like, immediately necessary related kind of thing

... Just makes you think.

(Also, this stated when I made a joking like toddler Byeol human version, and I saw the white hair and went like "...wait")

#nexomon #nexomon extinction #nexomon spoilers #nexomon extinction spoilers #byeol #theory #VERY LONG POST #This is of course just shenanigans but #makes you think

[heimdallsram]

━━━━ masterlist. soundtrack. archive of our own. taglist.

title: perennial

pairing: heimdall x female! goddess! reader

"You were a goddess of oaths and vows. It was only fitting that Odin would bind you to his service in only the most ironic way that he knew how: marriage."

this fanfiction contains the following: domestic violence, blood, gore, choking, violent sexual content, bad BDSM etiquette, non-consensual somnophilia, blood drinking, unhealthy relationships, and much more content that may be sensitive to some readers. reader discretion is advised.

*for inquiries about the taglist, please dm me and i will add you to it.

 The cold of Midgard faded to a near comfortable warmth as Sindri and Atreus led you through the circular pathways of Yggdrasil. It was almost as if you had sat at a distance to a hearth that encompassed all sides of a room and you had the thought to unclasp your coat, but the vivid reminder of Heimdall’s earlier visit made you reconsider that decision promptly. It was not insufferable and you could actually tolerate the heat in the dress you wore, but you would be much more comfortable in just the dress, you knew.

 “So this is how you were so quick in your travels,” you marveled quietly. Lyndworms scuttled to and fro amongst the limbs, gnawing at the pale wood or at each other. Occasionally you would hear a loud screech and they would scatter, only later to reemerge and resume their play. “This is quite convenient. Moreso than a flock of ravens, to be sure. It’s nauseating.”

 Atreus was ahead of you by a few strides, quite happy to take the lead while you and Sindri lagged behind. “Isn’t it? We’ve traveled this way for so long that I couldn’t imagine any other way! Father—er—well, we do have to find the gateways first, and make sure they’re out of Odin’s range first.”

 “An inconvenience,” Sindri lamented,”but not impossible. Odin believes himself too smart to consider other alternatives.”

 You clenched your fingers tightly to your stomach. “Indeed. Where do we go from here?”

 “My home, of course! I built it in the tree to keep out of Odin’s way, but also because I can be here and there to help out Atreus or go to different shops. The one in Vanaheim, however, has been compromised, I am sad to say, my lady.”

 “Oh.” Your frown could not be hidden in time. It was a pity, yes; your childhood home was overrun by Einherjar these days. Odin had seen to that and told you as much. You didn’t think you could stomach returning there, however, not any time soon. It would bring back happier memories and you would only return depressed and even more dreadful of your future to come. “I see. I cannot say I am not sad to hear that.”

 “Hey, Lady Var?” Atreus piped up. You zeroed in on his form, closer than it had been before so he could speak to you properly. His eyes were curious and you found yourself happy to see it. It was rare children found anything other than worry or concern to line their minds with these days. “Can I ask you a question?”

 “You already have, but yes, Atreus. Ask anything you like.” Perhaps not anything, you would have to lie to  him at some point in time. “What do you wish to know?”

 Sindri was quick on the uptake. “Maybe nothing about Asgard, huh? Don’t want to bring up any bad feelings… You were crying when you arrived here, my lady.”

 You watched his grimace with a smile. “I was. But it is fine now. I do agree, however, that we should avoid talk of Asgard. I find myself tired of it.”

 “Right…” The boy nodded. “So you can see the oaths of anyone, right?”

 “Yes. I can see any agreement, deal, oath, or promise they have made at any point in their lives as long as they still keep them.” You paused, then inclined your head just so. “I also, at times, may be called to judge them if those vows are broken.”

 At your side, Sindri halted. You turned to look at him questioningly, but you gut swooped at the look on his face. He was looking at you with so much pity, so much sympathy, it made your stomach hurt. “You’re still doing that?”

 “Doing what?”

 You smiled tightly. “To judge those who break their vows, I must first determine whether they are fit to die or live.”

 “She kills them. Anyone who makes a promise that she observes, and later breaks, she is duty bound to decide their fate.” Sindri trudged ahead of both you and Atreus. He wasn’t looking at you, not really, as he passed, and you knew he was feeling guilty on your behalf. Much like Sif had, except hers was that she had not intervened in time; Sindri’s was pure shame that you had to take lives like you were. “It isn’t like you do it out of hatred, my lady. But it doesn’t make it any less wrong.”

 “I know.” You did not jog to keep up with the two, but you did have to quicken your pace. The leaves of Yggdrasil rustled around you gently on a non-present breeze. “It’s nothing I do not tell myself every night.”

 You waited for Atreus to ask more of his questions. They never came. He was silent, eyes darting between yourself and Sindri curiously, and his mouth would open and close as if he was trying to work up something to say and came painfully short. As you were looking at him, trying to discern how he felt about your abilities and job, you noticed a sprig of mistletoe around his neck, shaped into an arrow and looped around a leather cord.

 The words came out of your mouth unbidden. “You killed Baldur.”

 You had been one of the few who had been first to know of his death, but you had not been aware of who had killed him. They kept things like that from you and most others, with only select family members of Odin owning up to the knowledge. While it was obvious that Baldur would not return after some time had passed, none of the small folk within Asgard knew just how he had met his death, or the terms and conditions of the invulnerability he possessed. You did.

 “I didn’t… But yeah. It happened.” His eyes were wide now, looking at you in slight apprehension. “We didn’t want to, but Freya—“

 Raising a hand high, you indicated for him to stop speaking. Then, gently, you patted his shoulder, but it was  stiff movement. You weren’t used to comforting others at all. “I understand, Atreus. The depths of Baldur’s longing to feel are what earned him his death. It is not your fault that he could not see it until he was on his death bed. Queen Freya was mistaken to use such a spell on him, but she was a mother under Odin’s rule. She felt she had no other choice but to protect him.”

 The walk to Sindri’s home was filled with silence, this time more suffocating than the previous. Speaking of such heavy topics had not been the best idea, in hindsight, but the boy had looked so nervous, so pitiful, that you had to reassure him that all was well. He walked with such a burden on his shoulders that you wondered if he would be able to take all that was to come for him in the future; he held a greatness within him, if only he knew how to use it.

 “Here we are!” Sindri’s mood had lifted by the time you stepped through the white, shining door of light. “Welcome to my home, my lady.”

 It was of a craft you had never seen before. Odin’s hall was certainly grand, but it was austere and minimalist in build. This was ornate, beautifully and lovingly designed, with gold and glass windows that allowed a glimpse within. This felt like a home, not a palace, and you smiled at the thought.

  “It is beautiful, Sindri.” You were unsurprised when Atreus sped ahead of you, shoving open the doors excitedly. You could just barely make out the agitated grumble inside, belonging to that of the more grumpy half of the Huldra brothers. “I daresay I could not imagine anything better.”

 “You’ll like it more once you’re inside. Come, my lady, but… please leave your boots at the door.” His eyes were leery as he stared at the mud soaked material covering your feet. “I just cleaned.”

 You had half a mind to remind him that Atreus had waltzed in without concern, but perhaps that was something that had to be trained out of him. You stepped out of your boots as ordered and left them by the door, waiting patiently for Sindri to beckon you inside. It would be rude for you to enter and act as if you were familiar with the abode. You were not Thor, entering where you were not bidden.

  “—and she was crying, but she seemed happy to see Sindri—!”

 Atreus was busily catching Brok up to speed, it seemed, as the other blacksmith deemed you clean enough to enter his home. You stepped through the door cautiously, Sindri at your side, and watched as the boy waved his hands towards you in reference to something he was saying, but Brok had evidently stopped listening the moment his gaze drifted towards you.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” he chortled, slapping the wooden table in front of him so hard that it rattled. He was quick to scoot out from behind it and to you, bypassing Atreus entirely. “If it ain’t the fuckin’ goddess of vows ‘erself! If I wasn’t so glad to see ye I’d give ye an earful for bouncin’ off to Asgard like that!”

 Your laugh was lighter than it had been in years. “I missed you, too, Brok. It has been… a very long time, indeed. Though, the last I heard, you and Sindri had parted ways. Am I to assume the past is the past?”

 “Indeed!” Sindri agreed heartily. “It was all thanks to Atreus, really.”

 Over Brok’s head, you met Atreus’ gaze with a thankful smile. “It seems I have a lot to thank you for, Atreus.”

 “Oh, no!” He waved his hands in a gesture of ‘no’. It was amusing the way he edged away towards a room, keen on giving you space. “It was nothing! Uh, I’ll give you all some space, okay?”

 You waited until the door was firmly shut to laugh at him. “He’s a funny kid, no?”

 “Don’t worry ‘bout Atreus, my lady.” Brok shook his head and headed back to the work table. He propped open a chest and withdrew a box carved from pale wood, something similar to the wood of Yggdrasil but not quite the same. “Had this waitin’ for a few centuries for ye. It ain’t my best but it’ll do its job, eh?”

 Approaching the table, you took the box carefully into your hands. It was smooth and polished and you chuckled at the chicken scratch handwriting on the top that had your name depicted in runes. But you could feel the runic power emnating from inside, and when you opened it, you were surprised to see not a weapon or anything of the like, but a bracelet. You laid the box down and took the bracelet out of its velvet confines, peering at it with raised eyebrows.

  “That there is elven steel,” Sindri provided helpfully. He pointed out the runes etched more delicately into the side, explaining,”We imbued it with protection runes from the realms. It was hard to get the different essences, especially since Brok is banned from Alfheim, but we managed to get them all and put them into this bracelet. If you trigger the failsafe inside it, it will produce enough power to create an explosion and teleport you here. Brok figured if you were going to Asgard, you would need a way out, but… you left before he could give it to you,” he finished sourly.

 You could feel the blood rushing to your cheeks and clasped the bracelet around your wrist as a distraction. “I apologize for that. Odin was not… well. Patient, I suppose. I was lucky he did not snatch me up when he was in disguise. But I will put it to good use, I promise. Thank you both.”

 “Speakin’ of, what the hel’re you doin’ in Midgard anyways? I thought the bastard kept you penned up in Asgard like a prized pig these days.”

 At the reminder of why you were there, the smile slowly faded from your lips. Sindri, surprisingly, touched the top of your fur covered shoulder and patted it lightly. Your fingers tightened over the bracelet and popped threateningly.    “That bad, huh?” Brok stared at you with a frown on his face. “Ain’t seen you go ashen like that since you were a kid.”

  You stared at the fire in the forge contemplatively. Twisting the bracelet around your arm, you tried to think of a way to break it to them gently—but you were coming up blank. Taking a deep breath and praying this was the right decision, you unpinned the clasp of your coat and let it flop open unceremoniously. Sindri, from his position at your side, couldn’t see the ring of bruises around your throat, but Brok’s strangled choke indicated enough for him to turn you around himself.

 “Who did this?” was his quiet whisper as you rapidly pulled the clasp back together.

 “Heimdall.” You tightened your arms and curled them around your chest defensively. “I am to be married to him this evening. He… did not take it well when Odin escalated his plans to have us marry. I didn’t think—well, I didn’t think, did I? This wasn’t a possibility, I had reassured myself, but my disrespect was too much for him.”

 “Fuck.” Brok rubbed his face tiredly. “You really put yer foot in it, didn’t ye?”

 You closed your eyes. “More than you know.”

 After a moment, you explained the situation—your lying to Odin about your abilities, the judgements, the incident with Heimdall, Sif’s sympathy, all of it—to the two while you had the nerve and the chance. You couldn’t talk to anyone in Asgard about any of this, but Brok and Sindri listened to you as you spoke. They moved you to the table, offered you food and drink as you struggled through the process of speaking of your trauma, and when you had finally finished talking and eating, they were silent, considering.

  “I’m a fool,” you sighed. “I thought I was smarter than him and look where it got me.”

 Sindri opened his mouth and, brows furrowing, said,”If you’re married, that will be a vow you can’t break. Right?”

 “Yes.” The bottle of wine sitting at the end of the table was suddenly looking all to enticing. “Only death can break it, and even then, the magic lingers. Knowing Odin, he’ll make the vows something permanent. Debilitating. I have no use to him unless I have no choice but to obey.”

 “And Heimdall… Urgh. You won’t be able to escape, either.” Sindri shuddered at the thought. “But with the bracelet—“

 “I cannot leave Asgard unless Odin loosens the restrictions himself.” Another lie, but it was for their best interest. If they knew you could bypass Odin’s wards, you would be in more trouble—they would want your help, your aid, and you could not give it. You were not strong enough to be of any help to their cause, but… you knew others who could be. “I am here on borrowed time. But, I will use the bracelet if I am in danger, this I swear.” The bond shone into existence, bright and gold. “And if I die… then you have to promise to keep the next incarnation safe. She cannot fall into Odin’s hands once more.”

 “Of course,” Brok answered. “Anythin’ for ya, my lady.”

 “Are you in that much danger?” Sindri wordlessly slid the bottle of wine you had been eyeing to you. You poured yourself a generous amount into the mug they had given you. “That you could potentially… die?”

 “It is the way of things, yes.” You took a deep swallow. “As you both know, Var goddesses do not usually marry. Even more rarely do they have children. Odin expects both. I do not know the consequences of having such a vow linked to my soul; I can’t be partial to it. But he will demand it, I know this much. And… my predecessors have all died painfully young.”

 None had lived past their fifth century, and you were rapidly reaching that milestone.

  “You won’t,” Atreus piped in firmly. He had slid into the chair beside you without you noticing, and you jumped in your seat. Perhaps you should put the wine down. “We won’t let you. There has to be some way to break those vows.”

 A niggling thought made its way into your mind. You had snipped parts of a vow before; would a marriage vow be so much of a stretch? Your buzzed mind was questioning it, and you weren’t sure, but you could attempt it. “There may be a way. I’m not… sober enough to think out the logistics at the moment, though. And, unfortunately, I need to retrieve that scroll and return to Asgard soon.”

 “We won’t see you again after it’s done.” It was not a question.

  “Likely not.” Your smile was thin and contrite. “I can send messages, but they will be few and between. It is all I can do, but I will try my best to stay in contact without Odin knowing.”

 Seeing your visit, and conversation, was at an end, Sindri stood from his chair. “I will escort you out, my lady.”

 Nodding, you got to your feet and bid Brok farewell with a crouched, awkwardly positioned hug, and a pat on Atreus’ shoulder. You stumbled out the door, the booze not faring so well on your system, and you had to get Sindri to support you to the door and into Yggdrasil. However, something was pressing at your immediate thoughts, and disappointment flooded your body.

  “You brought Brok back from the dead.”

 “Yes.”

 “He has no soul?”

 “I… could not go where it needed to be found.”

 “I see.”

 “You’re disappointed in me.”

 “I understand why you did it,” you replied tiredly. “But Sindri… he should know.”

 “I know. One day. But not today.”

 He parted ways with you at the door to Midgard. He was solemn as you gave him a hug and gave him your well wishes, but your smile was squashed by the idea of going back to Asgard just to see Heimdall’s arrogant face when you returned. The wedding would just be the icing on that metaphorical cake.

 But you could not avoid it, could you?

 “Huginn,” you called, and it was not Huginn who answered your call, but Munin. And with him, standing loosely by the door to the Bifrost, was Odin, looking not at all as if he should not be present. He was dressed warmly, and wore another face, but you could tell it was him. His expressions seemed to always follow him even in disguise. “Odin.”

 When he gripped your arm tightly, you did not make a sound.

  “I will consider this a final kindness to you,” he said softly, oh so dangerously. The hairs on the back of your neck rose in warning. “But no more. Do I make myself clear?”

 Your throat ached, suddenly, as you answered. “Yes, All-Father.”

 “Good.”

| next.

taglist: @versiesleeps

#gow heimdall x reader #heimdall x reader #god of war #god of war ragnarok #god of war heimdall x reader #freya x kratos #.perennial

[runwayrunway]

No. 12 - Airbus A350F Default Livery

Another Paris Air Show bonus! Airbus has unveiled the default livery for their new freighter variant of their already-popular A350 wide-body airliner.

image: airbus

For those unaware, manufacturers like Boeing and Airbus tend to have "factory default" liveries used for demonstrations and the like. Generally they have different variants for different models, which can be as simple as a change of hue or as complex as a complete redesign.

This time around, Airbus held a design competition for their new freighter's default colors. So, hypothetically, this should be far more inspired than the average livery. Do I agree with their judgment?

Unless specified otherwise all this information is taken from Airbus's own webpage on the contest.

Okay, so who won the contest? The answer may surprise you! There are two (technically three) winners who submitted similar ideas. Those winners are a 57-year-old professional graphic designer...and a pair of brothers, aged 16 and 12.

That's right. There is a very real possibility that I come out of this with the opinion that a 12-year-old can design better planes than many adult professionals!

These were the winning designs. On the right is the Iversen brothers', and on the left is the one by Feehan, the professional graphic designer. As you can see, they both play on the same theme - delivery boxes.

I honestly think this is really brilliant. This is such an obvious idea that I can't believe it's not all over the place. The brown cardboard shipping box is such a universal association that it might be the first thing that pops into most people's head when cargo is mentioned despite the fact that cargo planes use pallets.

The two designs take different riffs on the theme. The Iversens' is covered in various labels and stickers and stamps, while Feehan's is covered in typical box signage like the classic 'THIS WAY UP' and taped together. It almost looks like someone has attempted to package the airframe itself for delivery, complete with an adorable postage stamp on the plane's cheek.

If I were Airbus, I also think I would have trouble choosing between the two. While the task of combining them without making the final design overwhelming is pretty daunting, these are both very well-done attempts on the theme. And combining them is the challenge. On their own both feel balanced, neither too sparse nor too busy, but combining them could quickly become a nightmare.

My one critique of both of them is with the writing itself. I think they both missed two very obvious options - either have the A350F written on a shipping label, or write it in sharpie as one does on a cardboard box. But that's beside the point. What did Airbus do with the designs?

Hmm. Okay.

They absolutely kept the spirit of both original concepts. I really love "open here for business", that's adorable. (It's more visible from the back, which is an angle I'll post in a minute.) I like the shade of cardboard beige they chose. I do wish they'd picked a shade for the tape that looked more like tape on a box and less like barricade tape, and I wish they'd kept the messy, hand-applied look from Feehan's design rather than making it a couple of very neat, evenly-placed strips.

I do think they erred a bit too far on the side of decluttering. While I understand the reasons they did this, I wish there were a couple more loose postage tchotchkes scattered on the airframe, even if they're too small to be seen at a distance, because even if you need to get close to figure out exactly what that sticker says it still adds to the overall box vibe. That said, it is not bad enough that it completely ruins the look. I do, in particular, miss the little postage stamp on the cheek. It was very cute.

Yep, this picture again! Look, they only gave me three to work with, and I had to use something for the hook.

I wish they hadn't included the blue on the underside of the plane and on the engines. It feels a bit out of place and clashes with the brown, and I think they could have just as easily used white.

My one main criticism, I think, is that they made it very very Airbus. They couldn't stomach the crooked tape; they had to make it neat. They had to make it professional. And yes, I get it, it's a branding thing - the carbon fiber tail.

Airbus has a bunch of default liveries for various models of plane, and I might review those someday, but the only one relevant at the moment is among my least favorite - the 'carbon fiber' A350. The herringbone weave pattern itself would be fine (I like how it shows gaps of white underneath it) if it were done in some some sort of fabric design, or if it weren't just half of the plane, maybe, but in its current state it looks quite miserably...gamer desktop setup. And it does have a meaning, it's a reference to Airbus's heavy use of composite materials including carbon fiber (if anyone finds this worrying in light of recent events, just know that carbon fiber has been used in airplanes for a very long time with no issues because it's fantastically tensile despite being lightweight and is a wonderful choice for sealing pressure inside of a vessel but decidedly less so for resisting it from outside). I get the intent, I just think it doesn't look good.

image: Viktor & Rolf

Also, they dressed her like this.

I get why they kept the carbon fiber tail, and it doesn't look nearly as bad when it's mostly covered up and just poking out of the end of a cardboard tube like a leek coming out of a grocery bag in a stock photo, but I just...I wish they didn't.

Ultimately, I understand why they had to tone down the whimsy, make it neater, more professional, less relatable. More futuristic, but there's nothing futuristic about a cardboard box and there shouldn't be. Still, the idea they were given was so strong from the beginning, and they did resist the urge to scrub it of any character. They certainly did not improve the design of two literal children, but they also didn't fail to translate it.

All in all, they were given something to work with that could have been an easy A if they didn't have to be so...damn....Airbus. Still, it could be so much worse, and it is, undeniably, such a strong idea to begin with.

Final Grade: B-

For anyone paying attention: yes, this does mean that most airlines cannot meet the standard of concept and design set by literal children. But fair play to those children. I like their design.

#tarmac fashion week #grade: b- #era: 2020s #manufacturer liveries #airbus industrie #non-airline liveries

[lovova]

I see artists doing little showcasings of what they've accomplished creatively in the last year, decided that looks fun, and decided I'd do for myself an little inventory of what I've written in the last year as well, based on archive posts and what I can recall (I specify 'what I can recall', because I was not keeping track of when I did or did not update my main fanfic "Video Game Cruelty Potential" so...guestimates for that fic! I have 36 chapters, I can probably guess it was updated at least every other month) ~ So! For 2023: January: Did a fan-fanfic for my friend Lex called "The Other Rooms" where I explored off-scene implications of his cool-ass fic Room No.5 February: Created an alternate version of VGCP called "VGCP: Characters at their best" where I tried to explore some of the chars in the same setting being more well adjusted. I haven't gotten very far in it, but I am determined to get back to it this year! Also probably updated VGCP March: Did two short Kaito stories, an Oumota called "Playing with Phobias" where Kokichi messes with Kaito and a Saimota called "Luminary Hero of the Track Field" where Shuichi worries over Kaito's enthusiasm to sports while sick. April: Started what was MEANT to be a multi-chaptered Homestuck!V3 Kaito fic called "The Devotion of the Luminary of Skaia", but I haven't gone back yet to figure out what happens next yet. Thinking about it now, I think I was to make it a three chapter fic, but I just need to save some space to go back and outline it someday. VGCP? Maybe? May: A short Oumota piece called "Carnation: Please Handle Gently" that I got some awesome art commissioned for by the incredibly talented Ere. This short story inspired me so much that I'm actually basing a new original novel on the same concept~

June: I (believe) this was the month I finished Kaiden! An omegaverse original story I was writing and posting to Kindlevella. I am super proud of finishing that piece, and while I want to go back and create a more refined second draft before selling it as an Amazon book, I still LOVE this version as well. Very proud~ And VGCP!

July: Two Oumota short stories, "Touring Mortality" and "Execution Failed". Touring Mortality was especially fun to write, though I was amazed at the positive feedback Execution Failed got. It was very uplifting XD This was also the month I (re)started my original story "Pearls and Shackles". Also probably VGCP August: More Pearls and Shackles, more VGCP. September: Pearls and Shackles! Probably more VGCP! Can't remember! October: Can you guess? PEARLS AND SHACKLES! VIDEO GAME CRUELTY POTENTIAL!! November: This was a purely Pearls and Shackles month, and that was because I dedicated NANO (National Novel Writing Month) to finishing it. AND I DID! It super needs a second draft, its not ready to show off, but it EXISTS! So hell yeah!

December: A funny short V3 story called "Soulmate Goose of Enforcement!" I had a lot of fun collaborating with this one with Lex, and am hoping to do a chapter 2 with another great writer added to the mix too, Andromebaa. I also started the first two chapters of a new novel manuscript, a Hanahaki story about a pair of lesbians struggling with love in their own ways, but both trying their best! And, also, I updated "Video Game Cruelty Potential"

Did I overestimate how often I updated VGCP this year? Underestimate? I have no idea, that fic is almost 300,000 words long by this point, let's call an update every other month a generous average of how often I add to it. Other then VGCP, I did 8 Short Fanfics, finished a book, started and finished another book, and started a third book. And I'm not counting stories I had to write for my school year. Just ones I did out of the passion in my damn heart.

So, yeah! I'm pretty proud of this year, it was a good one. I hope anyone reading this had just as good a year! Writers, steal this idea, go looking back the year and brag about what you accomplished! You deserve it!

Have a good 2024 everyone!

[sabraeal]

Brewed With Intent, Part 2

[Read on AO3]

Obiyukiweek 2023, Day 1: Attraction

“Well, I personally don’t see what the problem is.” There’s more shirt than Suzu when he shrugs; two layers at least that Shirayuki can count, and both of them wrinkle when he folds his arms across his chest. Defensive, like he expects her to grab him by one. Nervous, like she might be able to drag him over the counter that way. Or at least, like someone has tried. “You knew your order was ready, didn’t you?”

“It’s not that it wasn’t effective.” Hard to argue that when she’s already here, standing in Shidan’s shop, eager to avoid whatever he might cook up as a follow-up. “It’s just that the execution is lacking a little, um…”

The rotating display squeaks under Obi’s singular attention. “Soul?”

“Soul?” Suzu scoffs. “What am I supposed to do? I can’t just send a…a cat! They’re way too high a consciousness to take to anything but the most advanced charms. Though” —one long-fingered hand raises, wrapping oh-too thoughtfully around his chin— “if I tweaked a few sigils, maybe a rat…?”

With a piercing squeal, the display’s tortured keens abruptly cease. It may be next to impossible to look at Obi, but by the tilt of his head, she knows his eyebrows must be scraping his hairline. “Bro. Vermin isn’t going to be an improvement on bird.”

“I thought pigeons were already considered—?”

“She’s not complaining about the genus, Suzu,” Yuzuri deadpans, one ear flicking at the precise rhythm Garrack's left eye used to, before— er, well, recent events. “It’s the method.”

“Really?” Suzu frowns, and to her dismay, turns it right on her. “Yuzuri did mention that she found its movements a little uncanny—”

“Gross,” she corrects with relish. “I called them gross.”

“—But I thought that if I tweaked a clause or two, I might be able to make it more bird-like.” He blinks down at her, more curious than concerned. “Do you think that might help?”

“Erm…” Her gaze doesn’t quite skitter over to Obi, but near enough that she can catch the encouraging arch of his eyebrows, the goading wave of his hands. “Maybe?”

Obi clucks his tongue. At her, she knows. It’s just— Suzu might be comfortable doling out cutting critique like her grandma did butter on bread, but ‘it’s an abomination’ is hardly constructive enough to be considered an objective review.  “I don’t think Miss cares about how it moves. It’s that it’s moving at all.”

Suzu scratches absently at where his goggles dig a divot in his curls. “But how else would it get to you?”

Yuzuri sighs, long suffering. “How many times do I have to explain this? It’s dead, Suzu. No one wants it to ‘get to them.’ They want it to go away!”

“What are you talking about? My messengers are a stunning example of highly skilled charm work! Besides,” he adds, confidence leaking from him like helium from a balloon. “It’s the only way to get people to pick up their orders.”

Obi cocks his head, curious, like a cat. “Doordash has an app.”

“Weren’t you just complaining about a lack of soul—?”

“What about the coin?” Shirayuki blurts out, before she can think better of it. “That’s what the shop used to use, right? A coin that was spelled to glow?”

“Well, yeah, at one point. But metal is really more Shidan’s element, you know.” Suzu has all the height he needs to look down his nose at them naturally, but his chin takes a prideful tilt anyway, giving him an extra inch or two. “If I’m taking over order management, I've got to rely on my own talents. That’s what Shidan told me. Work with my own medium.”

Yuzuri cocks her head, ears splayed in annoyance. “And that medium just so happens to be dead stuff?”

“We can’t pick our natural proclivities,” he sniffs. “Besides, everyone always complained about the coin thing anyhow.”

Like most of the words Garrack said this morning, the answer to this is seared in her mind. “Easily lost?”

“See?” Suzu jabs out a hand. “Shirayuki gets it. No one’s going to lose a bird.”

Yuzuri throws up her hands. “A dead bird!”

“Listen, I’ll give you: no one’s gonna lose it.” Obi braces a hip against the counter. “But they are gonna run away.”

“What, why?” Suzu huffs. “It’s a bird, everyone loves birds!”

A strong stance to take in a city where Shirayuki has routinely watched commuters throw their purses at the pigeons perched at the bus stop. “Well, maybe that’s true, but ah…these ones talk.”

“Oh yeah.” Shirayuki doesn’t so much see Obi shiver as the air around him trembles, tracing goosebumps up her own arms. “Talk about nightmare fuel.”

“What’s wrong with the way it talks?” Suzu leans over the counter, all business now, face furrowed with stern curiosity. “Is there some sort of pitch change? Or maybe a slow down effect, or static—?”

“Oh, buddy.” A breath whistles through Obi’s teeth, pitying. “You wish it was something that simple.”

Suzu’s eyebrows disappear beneath the curtain of his curls. “What do you—?”

There’s a rustle and a clatter before the back door swings open, guided by Shidan’s hip before the rest of him bustles through, letting it swing back on its hinges. “All right then. Took a little bit of doing, and a couple of, er, spectacular failures—”

“He set his beard on fire,” Yuzuri mutters, “twice.”

“—But I think I managed to get something that’ll work.” He glances over at Obi, only for his eyes to skitter back over to the much safer harbors. “For your…special circumstances, I mean.”

Obi’s lips tug at a corner. “No explosions?”

“No.” Shidan attempts to meet his eyes, but only makes it to his shoulder before he shudders, retreating straight back to the counter. “None of that.”

Shirayuki can’t tell if Obi’s raising his eyebrows or furrowing them, but his whole body curves into a question over the counter, so— he’s curious. Maybe even impatient. “Well, hope it goes with my fit.”

A wooden box settles on the counter, a different grain than the polished oak it sits on. Shidan’s the one to slide the lid open, revealing a plush green cushion beneath, and on it—

“Oh,” she hums, surprised. “A necklace?”

It’s not anything fancy; no precious gems or rare metals. Just a thin slate of clear quartz a little smaller than her thumb hanging from a cord. Not Obi’s usual style— he’s more into leather wristbands and collars that look like they could come straight from the pet section of Fred Meyer, but  there’s a quiver in his shoulders when he looks down, an expectant stillness in his casual lean. He likes it.

“I don’t often work with jewelry.” Shidan shuffles, almost nervous as she lifts it off its cushion, letting the crystal dangle from her fist. “Clockwork is really my wheelhouse, really. But after Suzu explained the lengths you all went through so Obi could use a smartphone…”

Shidan’s hardly closed his teeth around that last syllable before Obi’s whipped it out, a smooth screen wrapped in a thick rubber case. Lines bite deep into the silicone, straight rays and curving spirals, a sigil so complex it’d taken Suzu nearly five days to complete it. According to Yuzuri, he’d slept for nearly two straight days after, only rousing to shuffle to the bathroom before throwing himself back into mattress.

“I can drop this baby down the stairs and there’s not a scratch on it,” he informs Shidan proudly. “Just last week a genius loci tried to swallow it and I didn’t even lose service.”

By the way Shidan’s gaze cuts to her, he doesn’t miss the implication that Obi was inside it at the time. “It was in a sewer,” she adds, although she doubts context will take the concern out of his eyes. “Obi wasn’t to its, er, taste.”

“Ah, well,” he murmurs, faint. “Good thing I thought cogs and gears might not be very compatible with his…biological peculiarities. I see that might not have been a good fit lifestyle-wise either.”

“No,” she agrees, thinking of the last kelp forest he’d had to extract her from. That couldn’t have been more than a month ago, maybe two. And certainly not the first. Nor the last. “Our work doesn’t tend to be, ah…”

“Dry?” he offers, a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Definitely not.” Shirayuki tilts her hand, crystal tumbling against her knuckles, and ah— the light splits over it, a thousand tiny etchings shining gold. Air hisses through her teeth. “This is amazing, Shidan. We can’t have possibly paid you enough for this amount of—”

Care. Attention. A hundred thousands words that evaporate the moment he rubs at his neck, and she remembers Garrack doing the same. Garrack who had mouth marks all the way down past her collar and—

Ah, she’s just not going to think about what Shidan might be keeping beneath his. “Um, never mind.” Her cheeks heat as she drops it back in the box. “Just…thank you.”

“No need to stand around thanking me.” He lifts his chin, encouraging, “Try it out.”

Shirayuki blinks. “Oh! Are you, um…sure?”

Both his eyebrows lift. “No point being so grateful if you get all the way home and find out it doesn’t even work.”

“Or worse.” Yuzuri’s ears give a playful flick. “It turns him into a frog of something.”

Shidan glares at his apprentice. “It’s not going to turn him into a frog.”

“Yeah, yeah, and I’m sure the Emerald Lady didn’t think that nice scarf of hers would turn into a fireball either.” The chair she’s in isn’t built for lounging, but Yuzuri lifts her legs up over the arm of it anyway, somehow casual even though she can’t possibly fit. “Who knows what Obi’s body chemistry is gonna do to this thing.”

“No one is going to get turned into a frog. Or a fireball,” Shidan assures her. “It’s just…best to try it out in the shop, where I can work out the kinks, if there are any.”

“And where we have a fire extinguisher.” At Shidan’s glare, Suzu offers, “Just in case.”

“Thanks,” Obi says dryly. “Real vote of confidence, there.”

Suzu shrugs, nearly lost under the labyrinth of shirts. “Forewarned is forearmed. And also keeps our insurance premiums down.”

There’s a pause where Shirayuki waits for him to pick it up, to make some crack about fashion or disaster or both as he hooks it over his own head, but—

But instead Obi just stands there, shoulders half-hunched and…awkward. It might be hard for her to look directly at him, to overcome the overwhelming instinct to not see, but the problem has never been mutual— oh, no, he insists on keeping at least one eye on her at all times; just in case you get any ideas about windows, he’d say, too-sharp teeth flashing at the corner of her vision. But now he’s got his head turned, looking anywhere but at her, and she— she doesn’t like it. Not one bit. “Obi—?”

“Shirayuki,” Yuzuri hisses, ears pulling back. “Don’t be rude. You know that Obi can’t take what he’s not given.”

That’s not…strictly true. There’s been more than a few times she’s had to traipse back to the service counter at the store to return the contents of his pockets. Can’t help it, he’d sigh, still looking too proud of himself, I’m trickster-blooded. Can’t help causing a little chaos. Ryuu had once tried to tease out the logic of it, to try to understand how a little petty thievery wasn’t against even infernal rules, only to find himself in a quagmire of loopholes within loopholes, buried in fine print. Certainly a looser definition of ownership than she’d thought the Lower Courts would take.

But still, he wouldn’t steal anything from her. And not just because of who holds his contract.

“It’s yours,” she reminds him, staring at where the edge of his pockets cut across his wrists. “I had it made for you.”

Still, he doesn’t move. Nothing more than one of his too-many-eyelid blinks.

“Ah, that…” Shidan clears his throat. “I believe that by the ruling of the Lower Courts, a gift is the property of the giver until it is physically given. There might even be, er, formalities involved.”

It’s habit to glance at him, to meet his eyes and find the answer there, but—

They skitter away, like they always do, dread churning in her stomach and bile licking at the back of her throat. But not before she sees the tension in his hunched shoulders, in the contorted way he’s twisted his neck, baring it like a dog expecting a kick. “O-oh.”

Her fingers are numb, clumsy when she fumbles the cord from the box. Still, she manages to hook it around the first set of her knuckles, thrusting it out in the space between them. A smaller gap than she’d perceived, she realizes, when her hands have to haul up short to keep from crashing into his chest.

“Obi,” she breathes, watching the pendant tremble with the same rhythm as her fingertips. That’s how some divination works, she remembers. Sympathetic nerve twitches. “You…I mean, I think…you’ll have to bend down…?”

She can’t look at him, not directly, but even she can see the way his eyes blink wide. “Haah…right.”

He stoops, head jutting out awkwardly from his shoulders, baring the long, tanned column of his neck. Without his eyes on her, the soft animal that is her fear only quivers in her belly, letting her lean close enough to count vertebrae. It’s strange to see this much of his skin, for him to let himself be so…vulnerable. A strange heat gathers beneath her belly, scintillating like magic before a charm, and she swallows to keep her hands steady, to keep them from brushing through the bristle of his hair just to see what it feels like.

“I…” There’s no reason for her mouth to be so dry, or her cheeks to be this warm. “I…ah…bequeath this to you.”

The cord settles against the knob on his spine, shifting as he straightens, all six-foot-even of him. The crystal spins helplessly on its cord, settling against his chest. His skin, she realizes, his collar open just enough to let it lay flat against that smooth sliver of copper. His eyes settle on her again, and she feels that flutter of the soft animal in her, the one that feels his attention and longs to flee—

And then, suddenly, it doesn’t. Her fear curls right in on itself, and like a mouse in winter, settles in for a long nap.

Which leaves Obi right there in front of her. Visible, for once.

She hesitates. Why, she can’t say. It’s only—

“Miss?” Obi’s never sounded any less confident than cocky, and yet now his voice trembles, and she…she looks.

Even without being able to see him, there were things about Obi she knew. He was tall for one— taller than her, at least, even if he never thought that much of an achievement. Lean, but in the way gymnasts were, or the kids who played at doing parkour in the park. Skin that wouldn’t fit in even the broadest definition of white. Dark haired enough that she couldn’t tell if it was him using her brush or Ryuu. But now—

“Is the Asian thing because like, BTS is hot right now?” Suzu asks, never one to be constrained by social niceties. “Or is that…?”

“My dad.” His hand snakes up to his shoulder, squeezing. “At least, I think. The Lower Courts keep records, but…”

He shrugs. One shoulder, matching the slant of his mouth, casual and wry. Devil-may-care, some would say. It fits him the way his leather jacket does, clinging in all the right places, molding to his shape. Well-worn. Familiar.

Yuzuri gives him one good glance, boots to bristle, and hooks her hands around her hips. “Oh my god,” she groans, utterly dismayed. “You’re hot.”

There’s a shift when she says that, Obi’s stiff spine melting away so that he can slink up to the counter. Each vertebrae articulates like a cat prowling in the grass, pulling his proportions impossibly long, incredibly lean. “What’s the problem? I thought you liked eye candy.”

“Yeah, but I know you. Hot guys are like Monets” — Yuzuri holds up her hand, keeping him at a distance— “they only look good if you don’t know about all the mess.”

“I always thought that was sort of neat,” Suzu says. “The technique is part of the appreciation, you know.”

“Suzu, we already know you’re a good person or whatever,” she informs him, bored. “You don’t have to tell us.”

“What about you, Miss?” Obi arches back against the counter, languid as his grin. “What do you think?”

Her mouth works, trying to explain that she— that he—

His eyes crease, right at the corner, watching her with a fondness she’s always felt but never saw, and—

“I…” They’re gold. His eyes. So striking it’s an effort to look away. “I think we might need to get you a pair of sunglasses.”

#obiyukiweek23 #day 1 #obiyuki #snow white #akagami no shirayukihime #urban fantasy au #my fic #ans #did i plan for this to all be one scene? no #i had like two more scenes after this i thought i would get to #but having the gang all together was TOO FUN #and let me play in the shallow end of the worldbuilding pool #plus i just HAD to make that part where Shirayuki can see him SHINE #because oh that's gonna all be important later >:3c

[the-priestess-of-dawn]

[ bathe ] sender helps receiver wash themselves in a bath This BUT its original timeline Chrima where Chrom got hurt in the assassination attempt and its mentioned he "never fully recovered" (implying he has issues with his injuries that would hinder movement or daily life)

Not sure if this is what you had in mind, but... I wanted to avoid making poor Chrom a Risen again (or otherwise dooming him to a bad end), so this is set in FEH.

"Another early night," Grima sneers in greeting when Chrom returns to their shared tent. "Yeah." Frankly, Chrom isn't in the mood to chat. He nearly fell off his horse during his morning patrol, and his day had not gotten any better after that. He's more than ready to lie down and let it be over. Grima glances up from the books splayed across his desk and frowns. "Shouldn't you stay up a little longer? Perhaps enjoy a bath?" Grima shakes his head. "When was the last time you washed?" Chrom mutters something indistinct. The truth is, he hasn't properly bathed since he and his team departed from Askr Castle. "Seriously?" Grima groans. "Go clean the filth off of you already!" "I haven't had time!" Chrom snaps. "You have it right now!" Grima insists. "I..." Chrom grits his teeth. "I'll do it... tomorrow." Grima glares at him. But then, slowly, the annoyance in his eyes shifts to something more calculating. "Just what is it you're hiding from me?" he murmurs. "Some secret plot the fell dragon isn't to know...?" "Nothing like that," Chrom says. "There's no conspiracy. The others probably haven't even noticed anything." At least, he hopes not. "But you are hiding something," Grima confirms. "Come now, Chrom, you can be honest with me. If your wish is to deceive the Order of Heroes, perhaps I may even be of assistance." "No, I—" Chrom sighs. "It's nothing, alright? Just... old injuries acting up." He grimaces. He was injured the night Emmeryn was murdered, and he never fully recovered. At this point, it's pretty obvious that he never will. But it's not so bad. He's a little slower, but it's not that big of a problem when he's on horseback. And sure, he gets tired more easily than he used to, but he's always liked to nap in his free time anyway. How can he possibly complain, when he's lucky just to be alive? "Standing too long in the bathing tent, what with all the steam... It's inconvenient for me, that's all," he explains. "Add the possibility of others coming in, and... I'd just be inconveniencing everyone else, too." "Hm..." Grima purses his lips. "Hmph." He turns away without a word, walking out of the tent into the night. "Er..." Chrom contemplates going after him, but... He really is exhausted. Just the effort of taking off his armor leaves his muscles aching more than they ought to. Just when he's finally ready to fall onto his bed, Grima returns, a basin of water in hand. "W-What are you... Are you trying to help me?" Chrom asks. "Grima, I... I don't think I can do this right now. I'm sorry—" "Hush," Grima says. "Sit and rest. I can scrub your body as well as you could." "Huh? You don't have to go that far..." Chrom's skin grows warm. "I mean, you're not my nurse. Here, maybe I can get up in a minute and—" "Chrom." Grima scowls. "Don't you have a whole band of merry little servants who would do anything to aid you?" "You're referring to the Shepherds, I presume," Chrom says. "It's true, they've been nothing but helpful to me. But I can't expect them to do everything in my stead." For the love of the gods, he's their commander! If they can't trust him to lead, what is he good for? He wouldn't even ask Robin for this. His Robin, the one who knows him and doesn't have a giant dragon body to worry about managing. Grima... Grima remembers nothing of his human life... Chrom is as good as a stranger to him... So then what is Chrom but another mere worm selfishly imposing upon him? And yet... Grima drags a rag gently down Chrom's leg. The water is still pleasantly warm despite the evening chill, which means Grima must have used some of his magic to keep it so. "Any decent ally would do this," Grima says. But Chrom can't help but think that only someone special would go out of his way to offer.

#chrom x grima #my writing

[ehlers-danloscircus]

Ok, since I started on a new medication and I'm feeling a little bit better…I thought I should finally update on what happened with the Wellbutrin.

Let me start off by again mentioning that I have recently had pharmacogenetic testing done which shows I have multiple issues metabolizing medications. I don't yet have the full official doctor explanation but it would seem that my body may have been metabolizing the Wellbutrin slow than intended so, it may have been kind of storing up in my body.

So as you can see from my original post about my initial dosage of Wellbutrin things were going pretty well (I will add a link to this post to that entry though) and I was seeing some good changes to my life after a month on that lower dose. At my next appointment my doctor and I decided to up the dosage.

So at this time in my life I was basically living in a long term stay hotel because of my health and a paint can that had been left open for almost a month in my home back in December. I had been at this hotel for at least a month, month & a half so, I was pretty familiar with all the sounds and comings and goings etc. About three to four days after upping the dosage I became sort of hyperaware of some noises in my room from a neighboring room. At some point that night it briefly occurred to me I might be hallucinating these sounds because as I said, I was very familiar with how sounds in the hotel typically carried and this suddenly didn't make sense to me. I ended up not sleeping that well.

The next day I realized that I may also be experiencing some sort of physical hallucination which basically felt like an on going small earthquake or like everywhere I went there were large engines/motor causing the building to shake. I was leaving the hotel that day to move into a rental place near by my home as things at home were slowly improving and seemed like I would be able to return soon. This seemed like a good opportunity to see if I was really experiencing these things or if I was hallucinating. Initially at the rental things seemed better and I was relieved!

Later that evening, however, it all came back and worse than ever. I became really paranoid that I had been followed. So I again didn't really sleep. I left early in the morning to go home to my mom. The sounds followed me home to varying degrees so it was even more confusing. I did call my doctor who set up some calls to varying departments to try and figure out next steps besides me going cold turkey off the Wellbutrin. At one point I for some reason was convinced again that I wasn't hallucinating and so some of those calls got cancelled. This was really bad because that night things got way worse.

I started to have visual hallucinations as soon as it got dark out and my paranoia skyrocketed. That continued into the next day and night even though I had been off the Wellbutrin since the morning I came home. It was a very strange and obviously terrifying and traumatic experience. It reminded me of when I was younger and had a really bad night terror, you at some points know your dreaming but then your brain falls partially back asleep. With this there would be moments where I knew I was hallucinating and none of this was really but then all of a sudden there'd be something that seemed so real my brain fell back into the hallucination and no one could convince me otherwise.

On the second night of the visual hallucinations I ended up voluntarily going to the psychiatric ER since I was too afraid to sleep at all. From there I had to do a one week stay at an inpatient hospital and was placed on some heavy duty anti-psychotic medication. On the third or so day of anti-psychotic meds the auditory and physical hallucinations stopped (I did not have the visual hallucinations anywhere except in my home.) This medication was no joke and I experienced a lot of extremely unpleasant side effects from it but I was willing to go through it rather than risk what everyone was warning me about which was that if we did nothing there was a chance that the hallucinations could become "permanent." Basically, it was suggested by the doctors that (kind of like trauma I suppose) your brain can sometimes hard wire those paths that it's making.

After the week there I came home, began recovery and started to slowly wean off the anti-psychotic (which was a whole other terrifying journey mostly just not being sure if everything would come back or not) which took about a month. The anti-psychotic it turned out was really ramping up my anxiety so once I was about to get down to a safe dose to go completely off it, that went away instantly!

So here I am about 6 months from the start of that increased dosage and about 4 months from weaning off the anti-psychotic. I've started a new medication at the lowest dosage, given guidance by the genetic testing, and that has definitely stirred up a of PTSD from the whole experience with the Wellbutrin but I'm working through it and trying to remain positive now that we know more about what might have happened. My psychiatrists feel very confident that there is no lasting/lingering issues to worry about and that it's very unlikely I have any underlying mental health issue (I'm a closed adoption adoptee so no family history to go on) that I need to worry about that would have caused this, given things stopped very quickly with the anti-psychotic and there has been no sign of return since stopping.

Apparently this is just an issue that sometimes happens with Wellbutrin and maybe more so as dosage increases. It may have been I would have been fine at that lower dose. This is also often an issue with stimulant adhd meds so for that reason I cannot take those (aside from also having heart issues which initially took those off the table.) I have since heard a lot of stories from other people taking these medications that have had similar experiences.

I'm sharing all this to say…it may not happen to you, it doesn't happen to everyone but it does happen…it's probably not a sign that you have schizophrenia or anything like that but you DO NEED TO TELL YOUR DOCTOR IMMEDIATELY! The sooner the better, even if you aren't having scary hallucinations like I did. Let them help you sort it out. Yes, anti-psychotics are scary and not pleasant I get that but it's really not worth risking the hallucinations getting worse or permanent. I know it can be hard to find doctors and psychiatrists to trust, BELIEVE ME I KNOW!! I knew that before but yeah, this was a whole new eye opening experience of how vulnerable one is in mental health settings…it can really be nightmarishly terrifying to feel so vulnerable. There are so many people out here (sadly) though that are willing to share there experiences and how to get through it, how to advocate for yourself, and resources of people and places to get help. It's something to be aware of, it's something to take quick action on before it spirals…

My last take away from this, which is something my therapist brought up and I'm very appreciative of, is when going on medication give a lot of thought to what you are looking for from it and keep in mind that "perfect" doesn't need to exist. Sometimes good enough is good enough. That low dosage for me was good enough after a month and who knows maybe it would have still continued to improve my life after several months on it with no issues. I think going slowly with it would have been fine (adhd wise). I admit I think I was desperately chasing some perfect idea I had in my head about how things were going to be in my life so I agreed to rush ahead. This time I feel like I have a better idea of what I want out of medication and what I'm measuring my experience/improvement/life by. I'm more ok with saying "Ok, this is pretty good or okish…it's not "perfect", it could maybe be a little better but I'm ok with staying here and seeing how it continues at this dose. If things seem worse then maybe talk about what to do from there." I think there's a medical mantra of "slow and low" (start low dose and increase slow), it's a good one.

#adhd #adhd meds #wellbutrin #bupropion #mental health awareness

[your-local-grubdog]

Together in the Storm Chapter 11: Lil' BEAST of a Child!

Story Summary: Olimar is back home once again, ready to rest and recuperate from everything that had happened. Yet the universe keeps throwing unwanted surprises his way, making rest difficult. He just wants to make his (now rather large) family believe that he’ll be okay. Because he is, for he has to be.

Story ratings: No archive warnings apply, Teen and Up Audiences, and General/Non-Ship Focused

Chapter Summary: Olimar recalls the time when Captain Destiny met his son.

Read on Ao3 here!

Still no chapter art as I have a huge art project due in four days as of posting this. Art should hopefully be back for chapter 12!

===

Olimar sat in his office, looking through an old book of some sort. It was a thick, hearty thing, with cartoonish renditions of baby bottles on the front. It also has some frog stickers placed half-hazardly all over the front and back of it. He stared at each page for much longer than needed before slowly turning to the next, so absorbed in his task that he almost didn't notice Nova and Louie play-wrestling a bit too roughly right outside of his glass office door.

Almost.

"Cetacea, may you let the boys know that I can see them and that if they don't want me to intervene then they need to tone it down a bit?"

"Of course, Sir."

The boys soon stopped, seeming slightly spooked, before turning to Olimar's door. He merely paid them a sly smile, trying not to chuckle at how guilty they both looked. He only looked up and gave them his full attention when Louie opened the door.

"S-Sorry, dad..." Louie began, soon trailing off. "Uh, what do you got there?"

Olimar closed the book, setting it down. "You're alright, I was just stopping a problem before it could really get started." He then tapped on the book's cover. "This is Nova's baby photo book. Goes a bit beyond 'baby', actually, but still. I don't think I've shown you his or Lunas' yet. I could-" he paused for a moment before looking at Nova. "If he's okay with it, of course."

Louie rose a brow before looking down at Nova. The boy tensed a bit, seeming uncertain, before nodding. They both slowly approached Olimar, looking over his shoulders to take a peek at the book as he opened it back up. As expected, it was filled with pictures of him when much younger, around toddler age in this section. Nova then pointed at a photo, his ears wiggling. "You've never shown me that one. Uh, who is that?"

The photo was of an older woman with dark brown fur and coiled black hair swept to one side. She wore a puffy green flight jacket, jeans, and brown combat boots in the photo. And in her arms was little Nova, wearing a bright yellow shirt, soft blue shorts, and a yellow ribbon attached to a matching headband. He was staring at the camera in a... mildly creepy way, actually.

"I just added it in this morning." Olimar explained. "It... it hurt to much, to add it before. But I can't - and shouldn't - hide it away forever. Her name is Destiny - Captain Destiny. She was my captain when I was around Louie's age."

Nova's eyes went wide then, looking up at his father. "You never talked about your old crew before."

"Ehh..." he chuckled nervously. "Not gonna lie, most of them were jerks. I hardly had a spine at the time, plus I was... different. They picked on my quite a bit. Never bothered to keep in touch after the crew disbanded." He then pointed at the photo. "Our Captain, however, was great. Took me under her wing quite quickly. Mentored me, helped me out."

"Kinda like you did for me?" Louie asked.

Olimar was silent for several moments. "Yeah..." he finally managed out. "A lot like it, actually... she'd visit sometimes. She and Rose got along very well, and she got to meet you as well - er, as you were then, anyways. Would baby sit for us when she could, which wasn't often." he then poked his son's nose affectionately. "Would indulge in your insistent need to play in the mud, though."

At that Nova snorted before shrugging. "At least she was more fun, then, from the sound of things."

"Uh-huh." Olimar narrowed his eyes playfully before looking back to the page. "This was taken the day she met you. I can... tell you both the story, if you'd like." When both boys nodded eagerly, he leaned back into his chair. "We had just gotten back from a delivery run, and she wanted to check in on me..."

===

"T-thanks for offering to come over, Destiny."

"Don't sweat it, kid." The older woman chuckled as she followed Olimar through the house. "Where's that pretty lil' lass of yours now, hmm?" When Olimar's immediate response was to grumble a little, she began to laugh. "Oh, don't start on that now, boy. You know I'm teasin'."

"Yeah, yeah..." he rolled his eyes. "She's taking the chance to see her friends, hasn't gotten to go out much sense Stella was born."

"I see... speakin' of which..." They turned the corner and saw a young toddler wearing a bright yellow shirt, soft blue shorts, and a yellow ribbon attached to a matching headband. She was sitting in a playpen, messing about with toys. "It'll be nice to finally meet her, givin' how often ya brag about her."

"How could I not brag about my baby?" Olimar teased in response, lifting her up. He sat on the couch with his pup, beckoning Destiny over to sit next to him. "Stella, meet Destiny!" He moved her hand as if she was waving, smiling wide. Stella, on the other hand, just stared blankly at Destiny.

"Ah... Not much of a talker, is she?" Destiny asked wearily.

Olimar just shrugged before patting his pup's head gently. "She can babble, make sounds that almost resemble "mama" and "papa". Uh, she does go quiet around strangers though..."

"I can see that. Still, she's quite cute."

"Isn't she?" Olimar smiled wider then. "Rosie and I just adore her. It hasn't been easy taking care of a baby, don't get me wrong, but it's been absolutely worth it."

"Oh, I'm sure. Kids will never get easier. But I know you both were waiting a long time for the gods ta' finally bless you with this lil' one."

Olimar was quiet for a few moments before nodding slowly. He then set Stella back in the play pen, who promptly returned to playing with the various toys laid out for her. "It's been... Very hard. I don't - don't think I've ever told you everything."

Destiny's ears leaned back then, though she stayed quiet as she watched her young crew member lean into the couch, seeming almost... Limp.

"It's - It's taken us so so long... I've come home from work numerous times to find Rosie sobbing. It would take all night to console her, if I was able to at all. She... She was a wreck, captain." He stayed quiet for a long while then, watching as Stella bat a toy around, practically pouncing on it like a cat. Fairly typical behavior for a Hocotation pup, actually. "But... Now that Stella has been born, I think... I think her being alive has made Rose feel a lot better. She doesn't really cry much at all anymore."

Destiny nodded slowly as she tried to absorb everything. Eventually, she laid a hand on his shoulder. "She's a... A lil' rainbow baby then, I take it?"

Olimar was quiet for a long period before slowly nodding. At that point, Destiny began to rub his shoulder in an effort to calm him.

"I'm so sorry, kiddo. I'm sorry... I know it's not much, but..." She trailed off for a bit, leaving Olimar to twitch his ears as he sat up a bit. "May I see her?" She then asked.

Olimar silently nodded as he handed Stella over. The pup stared Destiny down, as if... She were prey. Well, also typical for a Hocotation pup. Probably. They were a predator species after all, and soon she'd be trying to hunt down small creatures. Eventually, she could spend that energy on sports or something. Destiny smiled at the child, holding her up a bit. "I may not be around much, but I can still be the lil' one's Nona!"

At that, Olimar blinked in surprise. "Oh - y-you don't got to-"

"I know." She hummed, lowering the kid and holding her close. "I also didn't need to do everything else. But I do, because you three matter a lot to me."

"I..." Olimar began, at a loss for words. Eventually his ears leaned back as he smiled sadly. "T-Thank you..."

"Of course."

Olimar stayed quiet for a few moments longer before eagerly standing up. "W-Well, if you wanna be the kid's Nona then we should get a picture of the two of you together!"

Destiny chuckled as she watched the man hurry away, hunting down a camera. "Yeah, that sounds nice..." She looked at little Stella, soon poking the kid's nose. "That sounds very nice..."

===

"She sounds kind." Nova hummed. "Why did she stop visiting?"

Olimar was quiet for several moments before being able to speak again. "She - she passes away when you were young." His ears slowly began to droop down then. "I was - it never - I..." He started and stopped his sentence a few times before giving up and sighing. He then turned his had to Nova slightly when the boy wrapped his arms around him. "Thanks, kiddo." He gently pat his back, soon feeling Louie lay a hand on his other shoulder. "And you too." 

"...I'm sorry, Olimar." Cetacea began. "Loosing  parent couldn't of been easy."

"She wasn't my-" Olimar retorted quickly, fur fluffing up from embarrassment. But then he paused and, after a few moments, his fur laid back down. He then let out a sigh, pulling both of his boys in closer. 

"Thank you."

#pikmin #fan fiction #pikmin fan fiction #star touched au #pikmin star touched #captain olimar #louie pikmin #olimar's son #borb writes #borb draws