Everyone should have the right to have their own home and decorate it the way they dream. Having a home, food on your plate, a warm walk, all of these is a human right!
Thanks to @thestarlightsymphony for the prompt list! Honestly, this is basically the fanfic equivalent of what @yardsards describes here....
First it had been Spike, who’d collapsed on the Bebop’s couch and conked out almost immediately. This hadn’t surprised Jet. Spike slept a lot—more so than was healthy, Jet privately thought—and he’d seemed exhausted after his last hit, even more than usual. He’d stumbled into the Bebop’s living room in the early evening; Jet, from where he’d been parked in the chair across from the couch reading, could see the way his long, lanky frame slumped over in defeat. Now, his limbs lay indiscriminately splayed out across the couch; a cigarette, long snuffed out, trailed the floor from where it dangled from the fingers of his right hand. Despite the bags that still lingered under his closed eyes, his face was relaxed.
Then it had been Ed, who’d let out a big yawn and curled up on the couch in the empty space by Spike’s feet, contorting herself into a ball like a cat without Spike seeming to take any notice. Ein had hopped up next to her shortly thereafter, serenely dozing off with his head on his paws. This hadn’t surprised Jet either. He knew that Ed could sleep any time, anywhere—on the floor, curled up in cabinets, wedged between furniture; he’d even once seen the kid hanging upside down from a ceiling rafter, fast asleep. And something about seeing her napping right here—her manic energy temporarily subdued, a contented smile on her face; Ein filling the space made by the arc of her body, with her arms around him like a teddy bear—just felt right.
Then it had been Faye. She’d walked in and clocked the three other crew members sleeping on the couch together. She’d grinned and made a move towards her mobile phone, probably to take a photo to use as blackmail material forever, when she herself had cracked a huge yawn—not a delicate or dainty one, but long and loud, like she didn’t care who was watching—and sat down on the floor almost before she could help herself. Jet didn’t think she’d noticed him in the room at all. Now she sat asleep with her head falling forward towards her knees.
This had surprised Jet a little. He hadn’t expected her to let herself look so vulnerable in their presence, with her makeup smudged and her headband half coming off. Even turning in this early in the evening was unusual for her. But today she looked fatigued, as if she’d stayed up far too late the night before, her smudged-off foundation revealing the bags under her eyes. She seemed preoccupied. Jet knew the look from his colleagues in the ISSP working late on cases—it was the look of someone who was wearing out the same old grooves on something over and over again, trying to wrench meaning from its endless repetition. It was strangely incongruous to see it on Faye; he wondered what was bothering her. But now her face was soft and uncharacteristically peaceful, not twisted with snark or anger; her long, curled lashes rested on her cheeks, and her breathing was steady and even and soft.
They were all peaceful, relaxed in one another’s presence, not arguing or closed-off or demanding to know what the hell the others were doing there and pushing them away, as Jet knew may happen when they woke up. For now, they were calm, resting from the slings and arrows of the day together, even if they didn’t know it. He half-wondered what was going through their heads, whether they were having sweet dreams. But—not that he’d ever let on to the others—this, right here, was sweeter than anything he could think of.
If he had slightly fewer scruples, he’d be the one taking a picture for blackmail material. Or just to remember this time—this one fleeting moment—when they were happy.
But he wouldn’t. Not now.
Besides, he didn’t have the energy for it anyway. The heavy languor of the room had begun to settle over him, too—he could feel the pace of his breath slowing, his eyelids getting heavy….
( hurt ) sender is hurt and is being comforted by the receiver for comfort — Kijidata, gimme the soft and squishy
MEME ( accepting! ) ⇢ @diademreigned
"Data... Data."
The look in his eyes set Data apart from the man he usually was. It was a faraway look—distant, fogged—that marked him as the same man he'd been for what felt like an age. X'kijin had cared for him for that duration and had taken their shared duty as Warriors of Light as his own, sole responsibility. He'd fed him—or attempted to, given how often he barely ate a bite or two before giving up—and tried to pry him back out of his shell.
But no matter what he did, he stayed firmly in it.
Data Mochi, he realized, had become more distant in his grief than X'kijin Lyzej had ever been. And, as a result, X'kijin realized that he had never been one to comfort other people.
After all, what need did he have to comfort others when he'd grown up with no family, no friends to speak of?
So perhaps it was a last ditch effort when Data's eyes met his, but only barely. Perhaps sliding into bed next to Data was an act of desperation to get back the man his heart had yearned for for months now. But X'kijin's arm coiled around him, Data's hand wrapped in his.
How long had he wanted do this before grief had buried Data in the covers of his own bed?
He missed him.
"Data..." he whispered, touch gentle. "I'm here; I'm not going anywhere again..."
Perhaps he should have begun with this. Perhaps he should have braved it from the very beginning to hold him. Perhaps... Perhaps this was alright...
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I like imagining what my favourite characters' bad dreams would be. like what would make them wake up at 4:32 am in a cold sweat completely disoriented and feeling very thirsty
like some are really obvious, like ingo from pokemon would dream about people he doesn't recognise but he knows he should know them, and they're like struggling or upset and he can't comfort them or something like that.
but then there are other people that aren't so obvious and that's what makes them fun to think about. I think red from pokespe would deffo have some kind of ptsd from fighting people like lieutenant surge, and he'd dream that they went back to their old ways and tried to attack him.
my own dreams are super lucid and I have a pretty good idea of how and why dreams look the way they are, so it's just fun to make my blorbos have nightmares lmao
y'all will never convince me to buy any Fenty foundation or haus of lab 😭 I can't drop $50+ on foundation just to start playing mix and match until I get my shade