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[decaffeinateddlldo]

A Minotaur couple adopts a human child named Emma

Sorry for any weird wording or formatting. I’m still learning this app

## Chapter 1: The Waiting Game

Thorne adjusted his tie for the fifth time, his massive fingers surprisingly nimble despite their size. In the full-length reinforced mirror, he cut an imposing figure—seven feet tall with the powerful upper body of a weightlifter and the head of a bull, complete with impressive curved horns that he'd polished to a gleam for the occasion.

"You look fine, love," said Mira, entering their bedroom. Unlike her husband's dark brown coloring, Mira's fur was a warm golden shade that complemented her amber eyes. Her horns were smaller but elegantly curved, adorned with simple gold bands. "The social worker won't care if your tie is perfectly straight."

"I know," Thorne huffed, a small cloud of steam rising from his nostrils. "I just want everything to be perfect."

Mira wrapped her strong arms around him from behind, her chin barely reaching his shoulder. "It will be. We've passed every check, completed every form, reinforced every piece of furniture. Our apartment is officially toddler-proof."

"Human toddler-proof," Thorne corrected. "That's different from minotaur calf-proof."

Mira chuckled, the sound deep and melodious. "True. Human children are much more fragile."

The buzzer rang, and both minotaurs startled slightly.

"They're early," Thorne said, his voice suddenly tight with nervousness.

Mira squeezed his hand. "We've got this."

Their apartment in Mythic Meadows was spacious by city standards—a three-bedroom corner unit with high ceilings and reinforced floors to accommodate their weight. They'd specifically chosen this building for its mixed-species policy and proximity to good schools. The neighborhood was a mosaic of mythical beings and humans living side-by-side, more integrated than most parts of the city.

Ms. Chen, the social worker, was a petite human woman who didn't even flinch when Thorne opened the door. Beside her stood a remarkably tiny figure—a human child barely reaching Ms. Chen's knee.

"Mr. and Mrs. Ironhoof," Ms. Chen greeted them professionally. "This is Emma."

The toddler, no more than two and a half years old, peered up at the minotaurs with enormous blue eyes. Her chestnut hair was pulled into uneven pigtails, and she clutched a well-loved stuffed rabbit. For a long moment, she just stared, mouth slightly open.

Then, to everyone's surprise, she pointed directly at Thorne and declared, "Big cow!"

Thorne blinked in surprise while Mira stifled a laugh.

"Emma," Ms. Chen said with the weary tone of someone who had already corrected this several times, "Mr. Ironhoof is a minotaur, not a cow."

Emma seemed unimpressed by this distinction. "Big," she insisted, spreading her little arms as wide as they would go.

"That I am," Thorne agreed, kneeling down to be less intimidating, though he still towered over the child. "And you are small."

Emma nodded solemnly at this assessment, apparently pleased that they understood each other.

"Why don't we go inside?" Ms. Chen suggested.

The apartment tour went smoothly until they reached the kitchen. Emma had been quietly observing everything, staying close to Ms. Chen, when she suddenly darted away with surprising speed. Before any of the adults could react, she had pulled open a lower cabinet door and climbed entirely inside.

"Emma!" Ms. Chen called in alarm.

Mira moved quickly for someone of her size, reaching the cabinet in two strides. Instead of pulling the child out, however, she knelt down and peered inside. "Hello there," she said gently. "That's where we keep our pots and pans."

Emma stared back defiantly. "My house now."

"I see," Mira said seriously. "It's a very nice house. Would you like a pillow for your house?"

This unexpected response seemed to confuse Emma, who had clearly been prepared for a battle of wills. After a moment's consideration, she nodded.

"Thorne, could you bring one of the small cushions from the living room?" Mira asked.

While Thorne fetched the cushion, Ms. Chen whispered to Mira, "I should warn you, Emma has been through three foster placements already. She's quite strong-willed."

"So are we," Mira replied with a smile, accepting the cushion from Thorne and offering it to Emma. "Strong wills aren't frightening to minotaurs. We respect them."

Emma accepted the cushion, arranging it carefully in her "house" before pulling the door mostly closed, leaving just enough space to peek out suspiciously at the adults.

"Perhaps we could discuss the details while Emma gets comfortable?" Thorne suggested, leading Ms. Chen to the dining table while Mira stayed near the cabinet, humming softly as she began preparing tea.

By the time the paperwork was completed, Emma had emerged from the cabinet and was sitting on the kitchen floor, solemnly showing her rabbit to Mira, who was listening with complete attention to an incomprehensible story involving the rabbit, a dragon (which might have been a dog), and something about strawberry ice cream.

"—and then BOOM!" Emma concluded dramatically, throwing her arms up.

"Boom indeed," Mira agreed seriously. "Your rabbit is very brave."

Emma nodded, pleased with this assessment. Then her gaze shifted to Thorne, who was showing Ms. Chen out. Her expression turned calculating.

"Well," said Ms. Chen, returning to the kitchen, "everything seems in order. I'll check in again next week." She knelt down to Emma's level. "Be good, Emma. The Ironhoofs will take good care of you."

Emma's face scrunched up suddenly, her mood shifting like a storm cloud passing over the sun. "NO! Don't want to!" she declared, clutching her rabbit tightly.

Ms. Chen sighed. "We talked about this, Emma. Remember? You're going to stay with Mr. and Mrs. Ironhoof for a while."

Emma's lower lip trembled ominously. Both minotaurs recognized the warning signs of an imminent meltdown.

"Would you like to see your room before Ms. Chen goes?" Thorne asked quickly. "We painted it yellow, and there's a special surprise."

Curiosity momentarily overcame tantrum preparation. "Surprise?"

"You'll have to come see," Mira said, offering her hand.

Emma ignored the hand but followed them down the hall to what would be her room. The walls were indeed a cheerful yellow, with child-sized furniture that looked almost comically small compared to the minotaurs. But what caught Emma's attention was the ceiling—Thorne had painted a night sky with glow-in-the-dark stars and a smiling crescent moon.

"Stars!" Emma gasped, delight momentarily replacing defiance.

"They light up when it's dark," Thorne explained, absurdly pleased by her reaction.

Ms. Chen took this opportunity to make her exit, mouthing "Good luck" to the minotaurs over Emma's head.

As soon as the front door closed, Emma's mood shifted again. She sat down in the middle of the floor and announced, "Want ice cream."

"It's almost dinner time," Mira replied. "We're having spaghetti."

Emma's face darkened. "No! Ice cream!"

Thorne and Mira exchanged glances. Their first standoff had arrived sooner than expected.

"How about this," Thorne offered. "Spaghetti for dinner, and if you eat a good portion, we can have a small ice cream for dessert."

Emma considered this proposal with all the gravity of a supreme court justice. "Chocolate ice cream?"

"We have chocolate," Mira confirmed.

"Okay," Emma agreed regally, as if she were granting them a tremendous favor.

Thorne caught Mira's eye above Emma's head and gave a small smile. Round one: a compromise.

They had no illusions that all disagreements would be resolved so easily, but it was a start.

## Chapter 2: The Adjustment Period

Emma stared at the strange-looking child seat attached to the toilet with deep suspicion. "No."

"You need to use the potty before bedtime," Mira explained patiently. It was their third evening together, and they were establishing a routine—or trying to.

"No potty."

"Yes potty," Thorne countered, standing in the bathroom doorway. He'd learned quickly that his size made the small bathroom feel cramped, so he stayed back while Mira handled most bathroom duties.

Emma crossed her arms. "NO POTTY!"

"Then no story before bed," Mira said calmly.

Emma's eyes widened in outrage. Stories had quickly become her favorite part of bedtime, especially when Thorne did the voices. He had a remarkable talent for character voices, his deep minotaur rumble transforming into everything from squeaky mice to grumbling giants.

"Want story," Emma pouted.

"Potty first, then story," Mira held firm.

Emma glared at her with impressive intensity for someone so small, then stomped her foot. "FINE."

Once bathroom business was concluded, the bedtime routine went smoothly. Emma, freshly bathed and dressed in rocket ship pajamas, snuggled between the minotaurs on her small bed as Thorne read "Where the Wild Things Are," doing each monster voice with theatrical flair. Emma giggled at all the right parts, her earlier defiance forgotten.

When the story ended, Mira tucked her in, making sure her rabbit was properly positioned. "Sleep well, little one."

"Night-night, big cows," Emma replied, already yawning.

Neither minotaur corrected her this time. They were coming to realize that to Emma, "big cows" was a term of endearment.

Later that night, Thorne and Mira lay in their reinforced king-sized bed, talking quietly about the day.

"She ate more at dinner tonight," Mira noted. "And she only had one meltdown."

"Progress," Thorne agreed. "Though I'm worried about tomorrow. It's your first day back at work since she arrived."

Mira sighed. As an architect specializing in mythical-accessible buildings, she couldn't take extended leave during a major project. "Ms. Chen said the daycare is excellent. Many mixed-species families use it."

"I know. I just—" Thorne was interrupted by a soft noise at their bedroom door.

The door pushed open slowly to reveal Emma in her rocket pajamas, clutching her rabbit and looking uncharacteristically uncertain.

"Emma? What's wrong?" Mira asked, sitting up.

"Bad dreams," Emma whispered. "Monsters."

Thorne and Mira exchanged glances. They'd been briefed on Emma's background—her mother had died in an accident when she was an infant, and her father had lost custody due to substance abuse issues. She'd been in the system ever since, bounced between placements.

"There are no monsters here," Thorne assured her. "And if any tried to come, I would scare them away."

Emma considered this, then padded across the room to their bed. It was an enormous piece of furniture, custom-made to support the minotaurs' weight. The top of the mattress stood as high as Emma's chest.

Without a word, she raised her arms expectantly.

Mira gently lifted her onto the bed. "Do you want to sleep here tonight?"

Emma nodded, already crawling between them with the confidence of someone claiming their rightful place. She settled in the vast expanse between the minotaurs, looking tiny in comparison.

"Just for tonight," Thorne said, knowing even as he spoke that he was probably lying.

Emma was already closing her eyes, one small hand reaching out to pat Mira's arm reassuringly before she drifted off to sleep.

The minotaurs lay awake longer, marveling at the perfect trust of the small human between them. They were creatures from ancient myths, descendants of beings that had once been feared as monsters, yet this child sought them out for protection from imaginary terrors.

"She fits," Mira whispered, watching Emma's peaceful sleeping face.

Thorne nodded. "She does."

## Chapter 3: Public Perceptions

The first real challenge came three weeks later at the neighborhood playground. Emma had adjusted remarkably well to daycare, and the weekend trips to the park had become a highlight for all three of them. Thorne particularly enjoyed pushing Emma on the swings, carefully regulating his strength to send her just high enough to elicit delighted squeals.

On this particular Saturday, the playground was bustling with families of various species. A group of harpy children swooped around the climbing frame, while a young centaur practiced his cantering on the open grass. Several human families occupied the picnic tables, and a trio of young satyrs played an energetic game of tag.

Emma had befriended a human boy approximately her age, and they were engaged in the serious business of filling and emptying buckets in the sandbox when the boy's mother noticed who Emma had arrived with.

"Jason," she called sharply. "Come here, please."

The little boy looked up, confused. "Playing, Mommy."

"Now, Jason." Her tone left no room for argument.

As Jason reluctantly left the sandbox, Emma frowned, watching him go. The woman bent down, whispered something to her son while darting nervous glances toward the minotaurs, then quickly led him to the opposite side of the playground.

Emma returned to her bucket, but her enthusiasm had dimmed.

"What just happened?" Thorne asked quietly, though he had a sinking feeling he knew.

Mira's jaw tightened. "The usual. Fear based on appearance rather than character."

Before they could discuss further, Emma abandoned her sand toys and marched toward them, face set in a thunderous expression they'd come to recognize well.

"Why Jason go?" she demanded.

The minotaurs exchanged looks. They'd known this conversation would come eventually, but hadn't expected it so soon.

"Some people are scared of those who look different," Mira explained gently.

"Like big cows?" Emma asked, using her term for them.

"Yes," Thorne confirmed. "Some humans are afraid of minotaurs because we're large and look different from them."

Emma considered this with a frown. "That's stupid."

Despite the seriousness of the moment, both minotaurs had to suppress smiles at her blunt assessment.

"It is unfortunate," Mira agreed diplomatically.

"I'm not scared," Emma declared, puffing out her small chest.

"No, you're very brave," Thorne said.

Emma wasn't finished. With the righteous indignation only a toddler could muster, she stomped her foot and announced, "MY big cows!" loud enough for most of the playground to hear.

The woman who had pulled her son away looked over, startled by the outburst.

Emma, noticing she had an audience, doubled down. "BEST big cows! Not scary!" Then, to drive her point home, she wrapped herself around Thorne's leg in a fierce hug.

Several parents were watching now, some with amusement, others with uncertainty. Thorne gently patted Emma's back, acutely aware of the contrast between his massive hand and her tiny shoulders.

An elderly satyr on a nearby bench chuckled. "Out of the mouths of babes," he commented to no one in particular.

Emma, satisfied that she had made her point, released Thorne's leg. "Swings now," she declared, crisis apparently forgotten as she skipped toward the swing set.

As Thorne followed to push her, Mira found herself approached by a hesitant young woman with iridescent scales along her cheekbones—a human with some naiad ancestry.

"Your daughter is adorable," the woman said. "We're here most Saturdays if she wants to play with my twins." She gestured toward two boys who appeared to be about four, currently hanging upside down from the monkey bars.

"Thank you," Mira replied, not correcting the assumption that Emma was their daughter. Legally, she wasn't—not yet—but in their hearts, the distinction was already blurring. "I'm sure she would love that."

By the time they left the park, Emma had made two new friends, fallen and scraped her knee (resulting in brief but spectacular tears), consumed a juice box and half of Thorne's granola bar, and fallen asleep in Mira's arms, exhausted from the morning's activities and emotional declarations.

"Our fierce little defender," Thorne said fondly as they walked home, Emma's soft snores vibrating against Mira's chest.

"She shouldn't have to defend us," Mira pointed out. "She's too young for that burden."

"True," Thorne admitted. "But I think she was defending her family, not just us specifically. That's... different."

Family. The word settled between them, weighty with meaning and growing more real every day.

That night, predictably, Emma appeared at their bedroom door shortly after being put to bed. This time, she didn't bother with the pretense of nightmares.

"Sleep here," she announced, rabbit tucked under one arm.

Thorne sighed in mock exasperation as he lifted her onto the bed. "Just for tonight?"

"Every night," Emma corrected, burrowing under the covers.

"You have your own bed with the pretty stars," Mira reminded her.

Emma was unmoved by this logic. "Stars can wait. Need big cows."

And really, what could they say to that?

## Chapter 4: Growing Pains

"NO NO NO NO!" Emma's screams echoed through the apartment as she thrashed on the kitchen floor. "MY CEREAL!"

Thorne stood helplessly by the counter, holding the empty cereal box. "I'm sorry, Emma. We're out of Frosted Flakes. We have Cheerios, or I can make you eggs and toast."

"WANT TIGER CEREAL!" Emma wailed, her face turning an alarming shade of red.

"Emma," Mira said firmly, kneeling near (but not too near) the tantruming child. "We understand you're disappointed, but screaming won't make the cereal appear."

Emma responded by kicking her legs harder against the tile floor.

It had been four months since Emma had come to live with them, and while many things had improved, the tantrums remained spectacular. Their social worker assured them this was normal for a child who had experienced so much instability—Emma was testing them, making sure they wouldn't abandon her even at her worst.

The knowledge didn't make the screaming any easier to bear, especially for the minotaurs' sensitive ears.

Thorne checked the clock. "We need to leave for your doctor's appointment in twenty minutes," he reminded Mira.

The appointment was an important one—Emma had been complaining of ear pain, and they'd finally secured an appointment with a pediatrician who specialized in treating the children of mythical parents. Some doctors were still hesitant to take on such cases, concerned about cultural differences or legal complications.

Emma's screams showed no sign of abating.

Mira took a deep breath and employed their agreed-upon strategy. "Emma, I'm going to count to three. If you're still screaming, you'll have a time-out in the calm-down corner. One... two..."

Before she reached "three," Emma's screams downshifted to angry sobs.

"I'm upset about the cereal," she hiccuped, using the emotional labeling they'd been teaching her.

"I can see that," Mira acknowledged. "It's disappointing when we want something we can't have."

"Tomorrow we'll get more tiger cereal," Thorne promised. "Today, can you please choose something else for breakfast so we can get to your doctor's appointment?"

Emma sat up, face tear-streaked but calmer. "Toast," she decided. "With strawberry jam. And NO CRUST."

"No crust," Thorne agreed, relieved the crisis was subsiding.

Twenty-five minutes later, they were only slightly behind schedule as they made their way to the medical offices. The waiting room fell momentarily silent when they entered—a common reaction to minotaurs in spaces designed for humans—before the receptionist greeted them professionally.

"Emma Ironhoof?" she called when it was their turn.

Both minotaurs startled at the use of their surname for Emma. Legally, she was still Emma Chen, a temporary ward of the state placed in their care. The adoption process was underway but far from complete.

Before either could correct the receptionist, Emma hopped up from where she'd been playing with waiting room toys. "That's me!" she declared proudly.

In the exam room, Dr. Patterson—a kindly older woman with slightly pointed ears suggesting elven heritage somewhere in her family tree—examined Emma thoroughly.

"Definitely an ear infection," she confirmed. "I'll prescribe some antibiotics. She'll feel better in a day or two."

As she made notes in Emma's chart, she commented casually, "You have wonderful parents, Emma."

"They're not my real parents," Emma replied matter-of-factly.

Both minotaurs felt the sting of her words, though they knew it was true. Emma had photos of her biological parents that Ms. Chen had provided. She understood, in the limited way a three-year-old could, that she had a "first mommy" who had died and a "first daddy" who couldn't take care of her.

Dr. Patterson glanced up, noting the minotaurs' expressions. "Oh?"

"My real mom is in heaven," Emma explained seriously. "And my real dad is sick. So I live with my big cows now."

"I see," Dr. Patterson said, hiding a smile at the term. "And do you like living with your... big cows?"

Emma nodded vigorously. "They're MY family now. Forever and ever."

The simple declaration, delivered with absolute certainty, brought unexpected tears to Mira's eyes.

"Forever is a very long time," Dr. Patterson observed.

Emma was undeterred. "I know. That's why we're doing a 'doption."

This was news to the minotaurs. While they had indeed started the adoption process, they hadn't explicitly discussed it with Emma, wanting to avoid giving her false hope if complications arose.

"An adoption?" Dr. Patterson asked, looking to the adults for confirmation.

"We've begun the process," Thorne explained. "Though we haven't talked about it much with Emma yet."

"Yes we did," Emma corrected him. "I heard you and Ms. Chen talking about it. You said you want to be my forever family for real."

Mira knelt down to Emma's level. "We do want that, very much. But these things take time, and sometimes there are complications."

Emma frowned. "Why?"

The minotaurs exchanged looks. How to explain bureaucracy, prejudice, and legal complexities to a toddler?

"Because not everyone understands that families can look different and still be perfect," Thorne finally said.

Emma considered this. "Like Jason's mommy at the park?"

"Something like that," Mira agreed.

Emma's expression turned to one of determination that the minotaurs had come to recognize—and sometimes fear. "Then we need to teach them. I can help."

Dr. Patterson, who had been listening to this exchange with interest, spoke up. "For what it's worth, I'd be happy to write a letter of support for your family. I've been a pediatrician for thirty years, and it's clear to me that Emma is thriving in your care."

"Thank you," Thorne said sincerely. "That would be very helpful."

As they were leaving, prescription in hand, Emma tugged on Thorne's pant leg. "Daddy? Can we get tiger cereal on the way home?"

It was the first time she had called either of them anything other than "big cow," their names, or occasionally "hey you." Both minotaurs froze momentarily in shock.

"Of course we can... sweetheart," Thorne replied, his voice rough with emotion.

In the parking lot, Mira couldn't hold back any longer. "Emma, you called Thorne 'Daddy' in there."

Emma looked confused by their reaction. "That's what he is, right? My new daddy?" She turned to Mira. "And you're my new mommy."

"We would be honored to be your mommy and daddy," Mira said carefully. "Is that what you want?"

"Duh," Emma replied with the magnificent scorn only a toddler could muster for such an obvious question. "That's why we're doing the 'doption."

Later that night, after antibiotics had been administered and Emma was asleep between them in the big bed (no pretense of starting in her own bed anymore), Thorne whispered to Mira, "Do you think it will really happen? The adoption?"

Mira watched Emma's peaceful sleeping face, one small hand clutching her rabbit and the other resting on Thorne's forearm. "It has to," she said simply. "We're already a family. The paperwork just needs to catch up."

## Chapter 5: Forever Family

The courtroom was intimidating, all polished wood and formal atmosphere. Emma, dressed in her "fancy clothes" (a purple dress with unicorns on it that she had selected herself), sat between Thorne and Mira on an oversized bench designed to accommodate larger mythical beings.

"Why is it taking so long?" she whispered loudly, swinging her legs.

"The judge has many families to help today," Mira explained, smoothing Emma's carefully braided hair. "We need to be patient."

Emma sighed dramatically. "Being patient is BORING."

A few seats away, a nervous-looking faun hiding a smile caught Thorne's eye and gave a commiserating nod. The courtroom was filled with an assortment of families—some entirely human, others a mix of species—all waiting for their turn before the judge.

The doors opened, and Ms. Chen hurried in, taking a seat beside them. "Sorry I'm late. Traffic was terrible."

"Is everything ready?" Mira asked anxiously. After nine long months of fostering, home visits, paperwork, interviews, and navigating the complexities of cross-species adoption, today was finally the day.

"Everything's in order," Ms. Chen assured them. "Judge Warrington is very fair-minded. She's approved several mixed-species adoptions already this year."

Before Mira could respond, a court officer called out, "Case number 47223, in the matter of the adoption of Emma Chen."

As they approached the bench, Emma suddenly turned shy, pressing against Thorne's leg. Judge Warrington, a stern-looking woman with silver hair, peered down at them.

"Well," she said, "this is certainly one of our more visually striking families."

Thorne tensed, preparing for yet another hurdle.

But then the judge smiled. "Which is exactly what makes my job interesting." She reviewed the papers before her. "I see all the requirements have been met. Home studies completed, character references provided—quite impressive ones, I might add—and all paperwork in order."

She addressed Emma directly. "Young lady, do you understand what's happening today?"

Emma nodded solemnly. "Today you make it official that these are my forever parents and nobody can take me away ever."

"That's exactly right," Judge Warrington said. "And is that what you want?"

"YES!" Emma exclaimed, her earlier shyness evaporating. "They're my family. My daddy reads the best stories and does all the voices, and my mommy makes the best pancakes and knows how to fix everything when it breaks. And they both give the BEST hugs, even though they're big cows, but that just means more to hug!"

A ripple of laughter went through the courtroom. Judge Warrington's eyes twinkled as she turned to the minotaurs. "Mr. and Mrs. Ironhoof, raising a human child will present unique challenges. She will be smaller and physically more fragile than a minotaur child would be. There will be cultural differences to navigate, and unfortunately, there may be those who don't understand your family. Are you prepared for these challenges?"

"We've already faced many of them, Your Honor," Thorne replied. "And we've learned that the rewards far outweigh any difficulties."

"Emma has made us better," Mira added simply. "More patient, more understanding. She's taught us as much as we've taught her."

Judge Warrington nodded, then signed the document before her with a flourish. "Then by the authority vested in me by the state, I hereby declare Emma Chen to be legally adopted as Emma Ironhoof, with all the rights and privileges thereof. Congratulations to your family."

She banged her gavel, making Emma jump and then giggle.

"We did it!" Emma crowed, bouncing up and down. "We're official!"

Outside the courthouse, friends had gathered to celebrate—neighbors from their building, Thorne's colleagues from the university where he taught classical literature, Mira's coworkers from her architecture firm, and several families they'd met through Emma's daycare.

The elderly satyr from the playground was there too, having become a regular babysitter and honorary grandfather figure. He presented Emma with a small wooden flute. "For music," he explained. "Every child needs music."

As the impromptu celebration continued on the courthouse steps, a reporter from the local news approached. "Excuse me, would you mind if I asked a few questions? Cross-species adoptions are becoming more common, and your family is such a wonderful example."

The minotaurs hesitated, protective of their privacy but also aware of the importance of visibility for mixed families like theirs.

Before they could decide, Emma stepped forward importantly. "I can answer questions. I'm an expert on families."

The reporter smiled and knelt to her level. "Are you? And what makes you an expert?"

"Because," Emma explained with the absolute confidence of a three-year-old, "I had THREE families. My first mom and dad, then some other people, and now my forever family. So I know ALL about different kinds of families."

"And what have you learned from all that experience?" the reporter asked.

Emma thought for a moment, her face scrunched in concentration. "The best families are the ones where everybody fits together even if they don't match. Like puzzle pieces."

From the mouths of babes, indeed.

That night, after a day of celebration, Emma crawled into the big bed without even the pretense of starting in her own room. She was clutching not only her rabbit but also a new stuffed minotaur toy that one of Thorne's colleagues had given her.

"Mommy?" she asked as Mira tucked the covers around her. "Now that we're forever, can I have a baby brother or sister? Maybe a baby cow like me?"

The minotaurs exchanged startled glances over her head.

"That's... something we would need to think about very carefully," Thorne hedged.

"I think what your daddy means," Mira translated, "is not right away, but maybe someday."

Emma yawned, already half asleep. "That's okay. I can wait. We have forever now."

As she drifted off to sleep, one small hand holding her rabbit and the other resting on Mira's arm, the minotaurs shared a look of pure contentment. Their family might not match, as Emma had put it, but they fit together perfectly.

Outside their window, the city continued its rhythm—a modern metropolis where humans and mythical beings had learned to coexist, still with tension and prejudice at times, but also with growing understanding. And in this particular corner of that complex world, a human child slept peacefully between her minotaur parents, dreaming whatever sweet dreams come to those who are exactly where they belong.

[decaffeinateddlldo]

Zara Nightveil did not wait—not for elevators, not for green lights, and certainly not for meetings to start. As CEO of Enchanted Couture, the most prestigious fashion house in New Avalon, she had cultivated a reputation that matched her designs: bold, unapologetic, and utterly captivating.

"You're all late," she announced to the room full of executives who had, in fact, arrived fifteen minutes early. Her voice carried the subtle melodic quality unique to elves, but with an edge that made it clear she hadn't spent her five centuries playing nice.

Zara's deep ebony skin seemed to absorb and then reflect the light, giving her an otherworldly glow. Her ears, elegantly pointed and adorned with a constellation of diamond cuffs, twitched slightly in annoyance. She wore her own creation—a suit crafted from fabric that shifted colors with her emotions, currently a deep crimson that matched her irritation.

"The spring collection is uninspired," she continued, tossing design boards across the mahogany table. "We're Enchanted Couture, not Mediocre Mundane. Start over."

"But Ms. Nightveil," began her creative director, a nervous faun who'd been with the company for decades, "Fashion Week is in three weeks. We can't possibly—"

"Three weeks is an eternity," Zara cut him off, her almond-shaped eyes flashing with golden sparks—a sign that her ancient elven magic was stirring. "I built this empire from nothing in a world that told me elves belonged in forests, not boardrooms. Black elves weren't even supposed to exist according to human mythology." She leaned forward, her perfectly manicured nails clicking against the table. "Tell me again what's impossible."

No one dared.

"I want fresh inspiration. Something that will make even the dragons sit up and take notice." She rose, smoothing her color-shifting suit, now transitioning to a regal purple. "Find it, or find new jobs."

As her executives scrambled, Zara glided to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked New Avalon—a city where humans and mythical creatures had coexisted for centuries, though rarely as equals. The tallest building in the skyline bore her name in golden letters that could be seen from miles away.

"Iris," she called to her assistant, a quick-witted sylph who materialized at her side in a whisper of wind.

"Yes, Ms. Nightveil?"

"Cancel my dinner with the Vampire Council. Tell them something came up."

"Something did come up," Iris replied, her translucent wings fluttering anxiously. "The seamstress we commissioned for the custom embroidery just quit. Said the deadline was impossible."

Zara's suit flashed a dangerous red before settling into a contemplative blue. "Who quits the opportunity of a lifetime?" she mused, more curious than angry. "Find me another. The best."

---

In a cramped apartment twenty blocks and several social strata away from Enchanted Couture's gleaming tower, Mei Chen was hunched over her sewing machine, carefully guiding a piece of silk through its hungry teeth. Around her, the walls were covered in sketches and swatches, photographs of designs that had never seen runways.

The sound of her ancient phone ringing startled her, causing the needle to narrowly miss her finger.

"Hello?" she answered, cradling the phone between ear and shoulder as she continued working.

"Mei! Girl, have you seen the news?" Her friend Layla's voice was pitched with excitement. "Enchanted Couture is looking for a new embroidery artist, like, right now. Their last one walked out."

Mei's hands stilled. "Enchanted Couture? As in, Zara Nightveil's company?"

"The one and only. You should apply!"

Mei laughed, the sound soft and uncertain. "Why would Zara Nightveil want me? I'm just a human with a bachelor's degree and an Etsy shop."

"A human with magic hands," Layla corrected. "Your embroidery tells stories, Mei. Even my grandmother says she's never seen a human stitch magic into fabric the way you do."

Layla's grandmother was a djinn who had seen civilizations rise and fall, so the compliment wasn't insignificant. Still, Mei shook her head, even though her friend couldn't see it.

"The fashion world isn't exactly welcoming to people like me," she said quietly. In an industry dominated by elves, fae, and other long-lived mythical creatures who had centuries to perfect their craft, humans were often relegated to the background—especially humans who didn't fit the industry's narrow beauty standards.

"Just send in your portfolio," Layla insisted. "What's the worst that could happen?"

*Rejection*, Mei thought, but didn't say. She'd had enough of that growing up as one of the few humans in a predominantly magical neighborhood. She'd learned to make herself small, to speak softly, to expect less.

"I'll think about it," she promised, knowing she wouldn't.

After hanging up, Mei returned to her current project—a commission for a local werewolf's wedding dress. She was embroidering moon phases along the hem, each one containing tiny scenes from the couple's relationship. It was intricate work that required both technical skill and an intuitive understanding of how to capture memories in thread.

Her phone pinged with a message from Layla: a link to Enchanted Couture's application page, followed by a string of exclamation points.

With a sigh, Mei clicked it, telling herself she was just curious.

---

Three days later, Mei was sitting in the sterile, intimidating lobby of Enchanted Couture's headquarters, clutching her portfolio so tightly her knuckles had gone white. She hadn't actually planned to apply, but Layla had filled out the online form for her, attaching photos of Mei's work without telling her.

When the call came, Mei had almost declined it. But curiosity—and Layla's relentless encouragement—had won out.

Now she was here, surrounded by impossibly beautiful mythical beings in cutting-edge fashion, feeling painfully out of place in her simple black dress and worn boots.

"Ms. Chen?" A sylph with translucent wings appeared before her. "I'm Iris, Ms. Nightveil's assistant. She'll see you now."

Mei followed Iris into an elevator made entirely of crystal, which shot upward so quickly her ears popped. They emerged into a space that looked more like an art installation than an office—all clean lines and dramatic lighting, with splashes of vibrant color that seemed to move when you weren't looking directly at them.

"Wait here," Iris instructed, leaving Mei in what appeared to be a waiting area, though there were no chairs, just a floating platform covered in plush velvet.

After ten minutes that felt like ten hours, double doors at the end of the room swung open. Zara Nightveil strode in, her presence immediately commanding every cubic inch of air.

In person, she was even more striking than in the magazines. Tall and lithe, with the characteristic grace of elven kind, but with a confidence that seemed to bend reality around her. Her skin was the deepest black Mei had ever seen, almost blue in its richness, contrasting dramatically with her silver hair, which was styled in elaborate braids that defied gravity.

Mei stood quickly, nearly dropping her portfolio.

"So," Zara said, without introduction, "you're the human who stitches magic."

It wasn't a question, but Mei felt compelled to answer anyway. "I wouldn't call it magic, exactly—"

"I would." Zara interrupted, extending a hand. "Your portfolio."

Mei handed it over, trying to control the trembling in her fingers. Zara flipped through the pages with frightening efficiency, her expression unreadable.

"Interesting," she murmured, pausing at a piece Mei had done of a forest scene, where the embroidered leaves seemed to rustle in an invisible breeze. "You've never had formal training?"

"No, Ms. Nightveil. My grandmother taught me the basics, and I... experimented from there."

Zara looked up sharply, her golden eyes intense. "You created this technique yourself?"

Mei nodded, her throat suddenly dry.

"Why haven't you sought recognition? These are revolutionary."

The question caught Mei off guard. "I... didn't think anyone would care about embroidery techniques developed by a human."

Something flashed across Zara's perfect features—surprise, perhaps, or recognition. "Do you know who I am, Ms. Chen?"

"Everyone knows who you are."

"Then you know I didn't build this empire by caring what others thought was possible." She closed the portfolio with a snap. "You're hired. You'll work directly with me on the spring collection. Iris will sort out the details."

With that, she turned to leave.

"Wait," Mei called, surprising herself with her boldness. "Don't you want to know my terms? Or if I even want the job?"

Zara turned back slowly, one elegant eyebrow arched. "Do you not want it?"

"I do, but—"

"Then what's the problem?"

Mei took a deep breath. "The problem is that I won't be treated as disposable. I've heard stories about how Enchanted Couture goes through human employees. I need assurances."

For a moment, Zara looked genuinely shocked, as if no one had ever made demands of her before. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed—a rich, melodious sound that seemed to warm the very air.

"Oh, I think I'm going to like you, Mei Chen." She tilted her head, studying Mei with new interest. "Very well. Your terms?"

---

The following weeks were a blur of fabric, thread, and increasingly impossible deadlines. Mei moved her workspace into Enchanted Couture's design studio, a vast room with enchanted mannequins that adjusted to any body shape and mirrors that showed how garments would look in different lights and settings.

True to her word, Zara had Mei working directly with her, which meant long hours under the intense scrutiny of the most demanding boss in New Avalon. But to Mei's surprise, Zara valued her input, often asking her opinion on designs and materials.

"These sleeves are wrong," Zara declared one evening, when they were alone in the studio. It was past midnight, and they'd been working for sixteen hours straight on the centerpiece of the collection.

Mei, exhausted but committed, nodded in agreement. "The proportions are off. They need to be more..." She gestured vaguely.

"Fluid," Zara finished for her. "Yes, exactly." She ripped the sleeves from the prototype without hesitation, though the fabric cost more than Mei's monthly rent.

As they

[decaffeinateddlldo]

Hoofbeats of the Heart

Dr. Eli Winters was used to difficult patients, but the new arrival at Wayward Hooves Centaur Sanctuary was testing even his considerable patience.

"I told you, I don't need your human medicine," Orion snarled, dark eyes flashing as he backed away from Eli's outstretched stethoscope. "I've survived worse than a few scrapes and a twisted fetlock."

Eli took a deep breath. Three weeks since Orion had been brought in—found wandering the national forest with injuries suggesting he'd escaped some kind of illegal fighting ring—and they'd made almost no progress. The magnificent bay centaur tolerated only the bare minimum of medical care, refusing pain medication and reacting to every attempt at kindness as though it were a threat.

"The infection in your flank wound is getting worse," Eli said evenly, refusing to rise to the bait. At thirty-four, with seven years as the sanctuary's resident veterinarian, he'd learned that showing frustration only escalated situations with traumatized rescues. "I'm not trying to control you, Orion. I'm trying to help you heal."

Orion's powerful equine body shifted restlessly in the large stall, his human torso turning away defensively. At around six and a half feet tall from hoof to head, he towered over Eli's more modest five-ten frame. The rippling muscles of both his human and equine portions spoke to years of hard physical activity, and the scatter of scars across his skin told stories Eli could only partially decipher.

"I've seen what happens when your kind 'helps,'" Orion muttered, almost too quietly for Eli to hear. His arms crossed over his bare chest, fingers digging into biceps hard enough to leave temporary marks.

Eli pretended he hadn't heard, knowing better than to push. Instead, he placed the stethoscope and other supplies on a nearby shelf.

"I'll leave the antibiotic ointment here," he said. "If you won't let me apply it, please do it yourself. Twice daily, especially after you clean the wound." He paused, then added softly, "Not all humans are like the ones who hurt you, Orion."

The centaur's only response was a derisive snort as he turned his back completely.

Eli sighed and left the stall, latching the half-door behind him but leaving it unlocked—Wayward Hooves operated on a principle of freedom and dignity. The residents weren't prisoners; they were refugees being given space to heal at their own pace.

"Still no progress?" asked Sierra, the sanctuary's founder, as Eli entered the main office and slumped into a chair.

"He's talking to me now, at least," Eli replied, running a hand through his perpetually messy brown hair. "Even if it's mainly to tell me to go to hell."

Sierra smiled sympathetically. At sixty-two, she'd been rescuing magical beings for longer than Eli had been alive, starting with unicorns in the 80s before expanding to centaurs, satyrs, and other part-human species as their habitats shrank and exploitation grew.

"He watches you, you know," she said, sliding a mug of coffee across the desk. "When you're working with the others."

Eli raised an eyebrow. "Probably looking for ways to argue with my methods."

"Maybe. Or maybe he's curious about the human who treats Dara's arthritis so gently, who spent three days straight helping Marigold deliver her foal, who reads to Phineas when his night terrors are bad."

"Just doing my job," Eli murmured into his coffee.

Sierra gave him a knowing look. "You care more than most. And centaurs recognize authenticity better than any lie detector. Give him time."

---

Three days later, Eli was working late, updating medical records in the small cabin that served as both his office and living quarters. The sanctuary sprawled across fifty acres of donated land in the Pacific Northwest, with various habitats and structures designed for different magical beings' needs. His cabin was strategically placed—close enough to the main barn to respond quickly to emergencies, but with enough separation to give residents privacy.

A knock on his door startled him out of his concentration. He opened it to find Marigold, her palomino coat gleaming in the porch light, her week-old foal half-hidden behind her legs.

"It's Orion," she said without preamble, her normally gentle voice tight with concern. "His fever's spiked. He collapsed in the north paddock about twenty minutes ago."

Eli grabbed his emergency kit. "Did you move him?"

"Callum and Dara managed to get him to the isolation stall. He was conscious but disoriented."

Eli followed Marigold's quick trot to the barn, her foal keeping pace with surprising steadiness. Inside, they found Orion sprawled on his side in the deeply bedded isolation stall, his breathing labored and his human skin flushed with fever. His eyes were closed, but he stirred restlessly, occasionally mumbling words Eli couldn't make out.

Kneeling beside him, Eli placed a hand on Orion's forehead, wincing at the heat radiating from his skin. "The infection's gone systemic," he said, opening his kit. "I need to start IV antibiotics immediately."

For once, Orion didn't fight him, too weakened by fever to offer resistance. As Eli worked—inserting the IV line, administering medication, cleaning and properly treating the now severely infected wound—he spoke softly, continuously, not caring if Orion could hear him.

"You're going to be okay," he promised, his hands gentle but sure. "I know you don't trust me, and that's fine. You don't have to. But I'm not going to let this infection take you, do you understand? You've survived too much to be taken down by some microscopic bacteria."

The other centaurs helped as needed, bringing fresh water, extra blankets, and finally leaving Eli to his vigil as night deepened. Centaurs were naturally resilient, their immune systems robust, but they weren't invincible. The combination of Orion's previous injuries, stress, and untreated infection had created a dangerous situation.

Eli dragged a cot into the stall, determined to monitor his patient through the night. He checked Orion's vitals hourly, adjusted his IV, sponged his fever-hot skin with cool water, all while maintaining that same gentle monologue.

"When I was twelve," he told the unconscious centaur while pressing a cool cloth to his forehead, "my mom took me to a wildlife sanctuary. There was a wolf there who'd been rescued from an illegal exotic pet situation. Everyone said he was dangerous, unpredictable. He'd pace his enclosure, snarling at anyone who came close." Eli smiled at the memory. "I sat outside his fence for hours, just being quiet, existing in his space without demanding anything. By the end of the day, he'd come to the fence, just for a moment, and we looked at each other. Really looked at each other."

He refreshed the cloth, carefully wiping sweat from Orion's face and chest. "That's when I knew I wanted to work with beings who needed someone patient enough to wait out their defenses. Someone who understood that trust isn't owed, it's earned."

Around three in the morning, Orion's fever finally broke. His breathing eased, and he fell into a more natural sleep. Eli, exhausted from nearly twenty hours on his feet, checked the IV one final time before collapsing onto the cot. He meant to rest just for a moment, but within minutes, he was deeply asleep.

He didn't feel himself being carefully lifted from the cot. Didn't register the gentle rocking motion as Orion, now awake and significantly recovered, rose to his hooves with Eli cradled against his chest like something precious. Didn't notice as the centaur began to pace the large stall, moving with surprising grace despite his recent illness.

And he remained asleep as Orion lowered his head and, with heartbreaking tenderness, pressed his lips to Eli's hair, his forehead, the curve of his temple.

"Stupid, stubborn human," Orion whispered, his voice entirely different from the hostile growl Eli was accustomed to—soft now, almost reverent. "Why couldn't you just give up on me like everyone else?"

---

Eli woke with a start, disoriented to find himself back on the cot, sunlight streaming through the high windows of the barn. For a moment, he thought he'd dreamed getting up to check on Orion, but then he noticed the centaur standing in the corner of the stall, watching him with an unreadable expression.

"How are you feeling?" Eli asked, his voice rough with sleep as he sat up.

"Better," Orion replied, the single word lacking its usual edge of hostility.

Eli stood, approaching slowly to check the IV site and wound dressing. To his surprise, Orion didn't back away or tense up.

"The antibiotics are working," Eli noted, relieved. "Your wound looks cleaner, and your fever's gone. We caught it just in time."

"You stayed all night," Orion said. It wasn't a question.

"Of course I did. You were seriously ill."

Something flickered in Orion's dark eyes. "Why do you care what happens to me? I've been nothing but difficult since I arrived."

Eli shrugged. "It's my job to care."

"No," Orion countered, surprising Eli with his perceptiveness. "Your job is to provide medical treatment. Caring is something else entirely."

Before Eli could respond, Sierra arrived with breakfast for both of them, and the moment passed. But something had shifted. Over the next few days, as Orion recovered, his attitude toward Eli underwent a subtle transformation. The outright hostility disappeared, replaced by a watchful, almost shy demeanor that puzzled Eli nearly as much as the previous antagonism.

Orion still didn't talk much, but he stopped refusing treatment. He allowed Eli to check his wounds, took his medication without argument, and even began joining the other centaurs for communal meals rather than eating alone in his stall.

"Whatever breakthrough you had with him, it's working," Sierra commented one afternoon, watching from the fence as Eli examined Orion's healing fetlock while the centaur stood calmly in the paddock.

"I'm as surprised as you are," Eli admitted later, after finishing his rounds. "Maybe almost dying gave him some perspective."

Sierra hummed noncommittally. "Maybe. Or maybe something else happened that you don't know about."

---

A week later, Eli was working late again, this time sorting through medical supplies in the treatment room adjacent to his cabin. The sanctuary operated largely on donations, and a local veterinary hospital had just delivered a truckload of surplus equipment that needed inventorying.

Engrossed in his task, he didn't notice the time until his eyes began to close involuntarily. Glancing at his watch, he was startled to see it was past midnight. He decided to finish in the morning and stumbled toward his cabin, too tired to do more than kick off his shoes before collapsing onto his bed.

This time, he wasn't quite deeply asleep when his door eased open. Through slitted eyes, he watched as a large silhouette entered his cabin—immediately recognizable as Orion from the distinctive centaur shape outlined against the moonlight coming through the window.

Eli kept his breathing slow and regular, feigning sleep as Orion approached the bed with surprising stealth for a being his size. His heart raced as the centaur bent down, powerful arms sliding under Eli's body with extraordinary gentleness before lifting him against a warm, bare chest.

Orion held him for a long moment, just standing by the bed, his face buried in Eli's hair. Eli felt rather than heard him inhale deeply, as though memorizing his scent. Then, with careful movements, Orion began to walk around the small cabin, cradling Eli as one might hold a sleeping child.

"You smell like antiseptic and coffee," Orion murmured, his voice a low rumble against Eli's cheek. "And something else. Something that's just you." He paused by the window, moonlight illuminating them both. "I watched you with the new filly yesterday. How you spoke to her mother, explained everything you were doing. How your hands never grabbed or forced."

Eli remained motionless, heart hammering against his ribs as Orion's lips brushed his forehead in a kiss so light it might have been imagined.

"Before this place, humans only touched me to hurt or control," Orion continued, his voice barely audible. "The first time you reached for me, I was certain it would be the same. I kept waiting for the mask to slip, for the cruelty to show."

Another kiss, this one at Eli's temple, lingering longer.

"But it never did. Even when I was at my worst, you just kept being... kind." The word sounded like it caused him physical pain. "How am I supposed to protect myself against that?"

Orion completed another circuit of the cabin, his hooves making only the softest sounds on the wooden floor. Then, with the same care he'd shown in lifting Eli, he returned him to the bed, drawing the blanket up over him.

For a moment, Orion simply stood there, looking down at him. Then he turned to leave.

Without fully planning to, Eli spoke. "You could try not protecting yourself against it."

Orion froze, his back to the bed. "How long have you been awake?"

"Long enough," Eli said softly, sitting up. "This isn't the first time you've done this, is it?"

The centaur's shoulders hunched defensively. "I should go."

"Orion." Eli's voice stopped him at the door. "Why?"

For a long moment, Eli thought he wouldn't answer. Then, without turning: "Because I can't do it when you're awake. I can't... let you see."

"See what?"

"How much power you have." The words were wrenched from him. "How much I... want."

Eli slid out of bed, approaching slowly until he stood before Orion, looking up at the centaur's averted face. "And what is it you want?"

Orion's eyes finally met his, filled with a vulnerability that took Eli's breath away. "Things I'm not supposed to want. Things I'm not sure I know how to have."

Hesitantly, Eli reached up, his hand hovering near Orion's face, giving him time to pull away. When he didn't, Eli gently cupped his cheek. "Like someone who sees all of you? The parts that are angry and hurt, and the parts that are gentle enough to carry a sleeping human around just to be close to him?"

"I didn't think you were ready to see that part of me," Orion admitted, leaning almost imperceptibly into Eli's touch. "I'm not sure I was ready to show it."

"Is that why you've been so hostile? To keep me at a distance?"

A short, humorless laugh escaped Orion. "I've never wanted anything I couldn't afford to lose before."

The simple honesty of that statement hit Eli like a physical blow. "You're not going to lose me," he said, the promise emerging before he could second-guess it. "Not unless that's what you want."

"What I want," Orion said slowly, one large hand coming up to cover Eli's where it still rested against his face, "is to stop pretending I don't feel what I feel when I'm around you. To stop fighting against the only person who's ever made me feel..." He struggled for the word. "Safe."

With careful deliberation, Eli moved his hand to the back of Orion's neck and drew him down until their foreheads touched. They stayed that way for several heartbeats, sharing breath, the first intentional intimacy between them.

"Stay," Eli whispered. "Not to carry me around or watch over me. Just... be here, with me. Talk to me. Let me know you."

Orion closed his eyes, his expression torn between longing and deep-seated fear. "I don't know how to do this."

"Neither do I," Eli admitted with a small smile. "I've never fallen for a centaur before."

That startled a genuine laugh from Orion, brief but transformative, smoothing the hard lines of his face into something younger, lighter. "I've never fallen for a human before. Especially not an irritatingly persistent veterinarian."

"Then I guess we'll figure it out together."

Orion nodded slowly, then with growing certainty. "Together."

---

The staff and residents of Wayward Hooves were treated to an unusual sight the next morning: Eli and Orion walking side by side in the early mist, their conversation too quiet for others to hear, but their body language speaking volumes. Orion's typical defensive posture was softened, his attention wholly fixed on the human beside him. And Eli, usually so careful to maintain professional boundaries with the residents, reached occasionally to touch Orion's arm or hand, each contact brief but significant.

"Well," Sierra remarked to Marigold as they watched from the main barn doorway, "it appears our most difficult resident has finally found his reason to heal."

Marigold smiled, her foal prancing around her legs. "He carried him every night, you know. For weeks. We all saw it, but none of us said anything."

"Sometimes love needs time to find its footing," Sierra said, her eyes crinkling with amusement at her own pun. "Even when it has four of them to work with."

In the distance, Orion lowered his head to hear something Eli was saying, their profiles outlined against the rising sun. Then, with a tenderness visible even from afar, he bent to press a kiss to the top of Eli's head—no longer a secret act, but an open declaration.

And Eli, reaching up to draw him down for a proper kiss, silently promised that this was only the beginning of showing Orion how it felt to be loved not despite his differences, but with wholehearted acceptance of every complex, contradictory, beautiful part of him.

[decaffeinateddlldo]

Silent Songs: A Story of Sirens and a Deaf Human

The waves crashed against the hull of my small fishing boat, sending vibrations through the wooden planks beneath my feet. I didn't need to hear the ocean's roar to know its power—I felt it in my bones, through my skin, in the way the boat pitched and rolled beneath me.

I've been deaf since birth. The sea has always been my sanctuary. Out here, everyone is equally silenced by the vastness of the water. The difference between me and hearing sailors becomes meaningless against the endless blue.

That morning, the fog was thick as wool. I could barely see ten feet ahead, but I wasn't concerned. My hands knew the feel of these waters, and my eyes were sharper than most. I navigated by the subtle changes in current, the way shadows moved beneath the surface, the dance of seabirds visible through breaks in the mist.

It was when the fog parted momentarily that I saw her.

At first, I thought she was a drowning woman. Her torso emerged from the water, pale skin gleaming like mother-of-pearl in the filtered sunlight. Without hesitation, I maneuvered my boat toward her, ready to attempt a rescue.

But as I drew closer, I realized my mistake. Where legs should have been, a powerful, iridescent tail broke the water's surface, flashing with colors I had no names for. Her face was inhumanly beautiful—sharp-featured with eyes that seemed to shift between green and gold like sunlight through shallow water.

A siren. I'd heard tales of them, of course. Even in the deaf community, we share stories of the sea-women whose songs lure sailors to their doom. I felt a momentary panic, then remembered—their power couldn't touch me. Their deadly melodies were nothing but silence to my ears.

She noticed me watching and tilted her head curiously. Her mouth moved, forming words or perhaps singing. I tapped my ear and shook my head, then pointed to my mouth and made a slashing motion across my throat—the universal signal for "I can't hear or speak normally."

Surprise registered on her face. She disappeared beneath the water, and I thought she had gone. But moments later, she surfaced directly beside my boat, close enough that I could see droplets of water clinging to her eyelashes. She reached out one webbed hand toward me, palm up—not threatening, but inviting.

I hesitated, then extended my own hand, stopping just short of touching hers. We stayed that way for what felt like an eternity, fingers almost connecting, two beings from different worlds regarding each other with equal curiosity.

Finally, she smiled—a dazzling, dangerous smile with teeth too sharp to be human—and gently took my hand. Her skin was cool and smooth, like polished stone that had been submerged for centuries. She tugged, not forcefully, but questioningly.

Trust is a strange thing. Perhaps it was foolish, but something in her eyes made me believe she meant no harm. I nodded once and slipped over the side of my boat into the water.

The cold shocked my system, but her grip remained firm. Only when she was sure I was okay did she pull me downward. I'm a strong swimmer—I may not hear the ocean, but I've spent my life learning its rhythms. Still, I wasn't prepared for how quickly she moved, how effortlessly she cut through the water with me in tow.

Just when my lungs began to burn, we surfaced in a hidden cove I'd never discovered in all my years fishing these waters. The rocky walls formed a perfect circle around a pool of unnaturally still water. Sunlight streamed down from an opening far above, creating a spotlight effect on the center of the pool.

And we were not alone.

They emerged one by one, their heads breaking the surface like beautiful, deadly flowers blooming. Seven sirens, each more breathtaking than the last. Their hair ranged from deepest black to pale silver, their tails glimmering with unique patterns and colors. They formed a loose circle around me and my siren, keeping a cautious distance.

Their mouths moved in unison, and though I couldn't hear them, I could feel subtle vibrations in the water—their song manifesting as physical sensation rather than sound. My siren still held my hand, and I realized she was trembling slightly. Was she afraid? Excited? I couldn't tell.

The largest siren, her hair the color of spilled blood against moon-white skin, approached us. She examined me with cold eyes, reaching out to touch my face with clinical detachment. I remained still, fighting the instinct to pull away. Her fingers traced the shape of my ears, and understanding seemed to dawn on her face.

She turned to my siren and spoke. Though I couldn't hear the words, years of reading lips gave me some insight. Not enough to understand their language, but enough to recognize the question in her expression, the way her hands gestured first to me, then to my siren.

My siren's response was passionate. Her free hand moved expressively as she spoke, occasionally squeezing my fingers with her other hand for emphasis. The other sirens watched, their expressions shifting from suspicion to curiosity to something like wonder.

The red-haired siren circled me slowly, her tail occasionally brushing against my legs underwater. She seemed to be evaluating me, like a collector might appraise a rare artifact. Finally, she nodded once and barked what seemed like an order to the others.

Two sirens disappeared beneath the water, returning moments later with something clutched between them—my fishing boat, somehow transported through underwater passages to this secret place. They pushed it toward me, a clear invitation to leave.

But my siren's grip on my hand tightened. She turned to me, her eyes pleading. She placed her free hand over her heart, then pointed to me, then gestured around the cove and back to me again. Though she couldn't speak my language and I couldn't hear hers, her meaning was clear: *Stay. Please. I want to show you our world.*

The red-haired siren made a sharp gesture that even I could interpret as disapproval. My siren responded with a defiant lift of her chin. For a tense moment, I thought conflict might erupt between them.

Instead, the red-haired siren let out what must have been a sigh, visible in the movement of her shoulders. She made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the entire cove, then pointed to the sun above, then dragged her finger in an arc across the sky—a time limit. One day.

My siren's face lit up with joy. She turned to me, pointing to herself, then me, then around the cove with enthusiastic gestures. The invitation was clear. I nodded, unable to suppress my own smile.

What followed was the most extraordinary day of my life. The sirens, initially wary, seemed to forget their reservations as hours passed. They showed me underwater caves adorned with luminescent coral that responded to touch, collections of human treasures salvaged from sunken ships arranged in strange, beautiful patterns, and schools of fish that moved like living artwork, responding to subtle hand signals from the sirens.

My siren never left my side. When I needed air, she seemed to sense it before I did, guiding me to the surface with gentle tugs. She taught me their hand signals for basic concepts: *food, air, rest, danger, beautiful*. That last one she used often, pointing to me each time with a smile that made my heart race.

Communication was difficult but not impossible. We developed our own language of gestures, expressions, and touches. I showed her how I felt vibrations, placing her hand against my throat as I laughed or hummed. She seemed fascinated by this, placing her own throat against my palm as she sang songs I couldn't hear but could feel resonating through her skin.

The other sirens watched our interactions with growing interest. By midday, they had begun to approach, offering me strange fruits from the ocean floor, decorating my hair with tiny shells and pearl fragments. The red-haired leader remained aloof, but I caught her watching us with an expression that had softened from suspicion to thoughtful curiosity.

As the sun began its descent, casting long shadows through the opening above, my siren's mood changed. She became subdued, her gestures more urgent as she tried to convey concepts beyond our simple shared language. She pressed her forehead against mine, her eyes closing as if in concentration. I felt something then—not sound, but a kind of pressure in my mind, images forming like bubbles rising to the surface:

*Her, swimming alone, watching my boat for many days.*

*Her, fascinated by the human who sailed without companions, who seemed to exist in a silence similar to the deep ocean she sometimes retreated to.*

*Her, defying her queen—the red-haired siren—to make contact with me.*

*Her, bringing me here not as prey, but as something precious to be shared, to be understood.*

When she pulled away, tears made tracks down her face, mingling with seawater. I understood then that our day was ending. The sun had nearly disappeared from the opening above, and the red-haired siren was gesturing impatiently toward my boat.

My siren led me back to it, her movements slow and reluctant. The other sirens gathered around us, their expressions solemn. One by one, they reached out to touch my face, my hands, my shoulders—gentle, curious contacts that felt like goodbye.

The red-haired queen approached last. She studied me for a long moment, then did something unexpected. She took my hand and placed it against her throat as she sang. The vibration was different from my siren's—deeper, more complex, somehow ancient feeling. When she finished, she nodded once, a gesture of respect between equals, then backed away.

My siren helped me into my boat. As I settled into it, she pulled herself up until her face was level with mine. She pressed her palm against my chest, feeling my heartbeat, then took my hand and pressed it against hers. Her lips formed words I couldn't hear but somehow understood: *Same. We are the same.*

Then she slipped back into the water. The sirens surrounded my boat, and with powerful strokes of their tails, guided it through a hidden passage back to the open sea.

By the time the stars appeared, I was alone again, floating on familiar waters. If not for the tiny pearls still woven into my hair and the strange fruit seeds in my pocket, I might have believed I had dreamed the entire encounter.

I return to that spot often, though the hidden entrance to their cove remains elusive. Sometimes, when I trail my fingers through the water, I feel vibrations that might be distant songs. On rare, precious occasions, a flash of her tail appears momentarily beside my boat—gone so quickly I can never be certain it was real.

People often pity me for my deafness, believing I live in a world of silence. They don't understand that silence has its own language, its own music. My siren taught me that some songs aren't meant to be heard—they're meant to be felt, resonating in spaces words can't reach.

And sometimes, in my dreams, I feel those songs calling me home to the depths, where a pair of golden-green eyes waits, watching.

[decaffeinateddlldo]

# The Crossing of Hearts

Gorum's massive shoulders scraped the doorframe as he entered his home, still sweating from the blacksmith forge. The day had been long, filled with sharpening weapons and mending armor for the clan's hunting party. All he wanted was to collapse onto his chair, drink some fermented berry juice, and listen to his husband Krell's stories from the scouting mission.

Instead, he was greeted by silence. Unusual for their home.

"Krell? Lily?" he called out, his gravelly voice echoing through the stone dwelling.

No answer came from Krell, who must still be out with the scouts. But Lily, their human daughter of sixteen years, should have been home from her herb-gathering lessons hours ago.

Gorum sniffed the air. Her scent was present, along with something else—another orc, young, male. His protective instincts immediately flared.

Following the scents, he moved quietly toward the back garden, where Lily often tended her collection of human medicinal plants—a connection to her heritage that both he and Krell had encouraged.

As he rounded the corner of their stone home, he saw them. Lily, her back against the garden wall, arms wrapped around the neck of Druk, the chieftain's nephew. And they were kissing.

Gorum felt as if he'd been struck by a war hammer. His little human girl—the child he and Krell had rescued from the abandoned human village nine years ago—was locked in an embrace with an orc nearly twice her size. Druk's green hands rested on her waist, engulfing it completely.

"WHAT IS THIS?" Gorum's roar made both teenagers jump apart as if they'd been burned.

Lily's face, already flushed from the kiss, turned an even deeper shade of red. Druk looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

"Father!" Lily gasped. "You're home early."

"Early enough," Gorum growled, stomping forward. He jabbed a thick finger at Druk. "You. Leave. Now."

To his credit, Druk straightened his shoulders and made an attempt at dignity. "Sir, I meant no disrespect to your family or—"

"NOW!" Gorum's bellow sent nearby birds fluttering from the trees.

Druk cast an apologetic glance at Lily before hurrying away, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to escape.

As soon as he was gone, Gorum turned to his daughter, who had crossed her arms and jutted out her chin in that stubborn way that reminded him so much of Krell.

"Inside," he ordered.

"No." Lily's voice was quiet but firm.

"What did you say to me?"

"I said no." Her voice trembled slightly, but she stood her ground. "I'm not a child anymore, Father. You can't just send away my friends because you don't approve."

"Friends?" Gorum scoffed. "That was not friendship I witnessed."

"So what if it wasn't?" She pushed away from the wall, her small human form barely reaching his chest. "Is it so terrible that someone might actually like me for who I am?"

"He is an orc," Gorum said, as if that explained everything.

"And I was raised by orcs!" Lily threw her hands up in exasperation. "What did you expect would happen? That I'd never care for anyone? Or did you think you'd eventually find another human tribe to send me off to when I came of age?"

The accusation stung. "We would never send you away," Gorum said, his voice dropping lower. "You are our daughter."

"Then why can't you see me as a person with my own feelings? Druk is kind to me. He doesn't see me as some fragile human thing that needs protecting all the time."

"You don't understand," Gorum insisted. "There are... complications. Differences between humans and orcs that make such relationships difficult."

"You mean like the fact that he could accidentally crush me?" Lily's tone was scathing. "Or that humans and orcs have a history of killing each other? I'm well aware, Father. I've lived with those differences my entire life."

Gorum ran a hand over his face, his tusks catching briefly on his calloused palm. "Lily, you are young. There are things you don't yet understand about the world."

"Then explain them to me!" she demanded. "Don't just order me around like I'm some orc recruit in your old war band!"

"I am trying to protect you!"

"From what? From being happy? From finding someone who doesn't look at me like I'm some strange creature who doesn't belong anywhere?"

Her words cut deep, exposing fears that Gorum and Krell had harbored since they'd first decided to raise her—that she would never truly feel at home in either world.

"Lily," he began, trying to soften his tone.

"No," she interrupted, tears welling in her eyes. "I know what you're going to say. That I'm too young. That I don't know what I want. But I do know that I'm tired of being treated like I'm made of glass. Druk doesn't do that. He sees me as strong."

"And I don't?" Gorum felt a hollowness in his chest at the accusation.

"You see me as your little human girl who needs saving," she said bitterly. "Always have. Always will."

With that, she pushed past him and stormed into the house, leaving Gorum standing alone in the garden.

By the time Krell returned home that evening, Lily had barricaded herself in her room, refusing to come out for dinner. Gorum sat at their stone table, staring into his untouched stew as he recounted the day's events to his husband.

Krell listened without interruption, his weathered face thoughtful beneath his gray-streaked black hair. When Gorum finished, Krell sighed deeply.

"Do you remember," he asked, "how your father reacted when you told him you were going to bond with a scholar instead of another warrior?"

Gorum grunted. "He said I was dishonoring our bloodline and threatened to break both your arms."

"And did that make you reconsider your choice?"

"No," Gorum admitted. "It made me more determined."

Krell reached across the table and placed his hand over Gorum's. "Our daughter has your stubbornness, my love. And she's right—she's not a child anymore."

"But she's human," Gorum protested weakly. "She's smaller, more fragile. If he hurt her—"

"From what I've observed of Druk, he's gentler than most young orcs his age," Krell pointed out. "And our daughter is stronger than you give her credit for. She's survived growing up in an orc clan that didn't always welcome her. She's learned to fight, to heal, to stand her ground."

"That's different," Gorum insisted.

"Is it?" Krell raised an eyebrow. "Or are you afraid of losing her? Of her finding her own path that might lead away from us?"

Gorum stared into his stew, unable to meet his husband's knowing gaze. "When we found her," he said quietly, "she was so small. So helpless. I promised myself I would always keep her safe."

"And you have," Krell assured him. "But part of keeping her safe is teaching her to make her own choices—and mistakes. To trust her judgment."

"And if her judgment leads her to heartbreak?"

"Then we'll be here to help her through it," Krell said simply. "Just as we've always been."

They sat in silence for a long moment, the crackling hearth fire the only sound in their home.

Finally, Gorum stood. "I should talk to her."

Krell nodded. "You should. But perhaps give her a little more time to cool down. And when you do speak to her, remember to listen as well."

Gorum climbed the stairs to Lily's room, each heavy step feeling like a march toward an unknown battlefield. At her door, he hesitated, then knocked softly.

"Lily?" he called. "May I come in?"

"It's not locked," came her muffled reply.

He pushed the door open to find her sitting cross-legged on her bed, weaving dried herbs into bundles—a calming activity she'd learned from the clan's healer.

Gorum took a tentative seat on the edge of her bed, which creaked under his weight. "I'm sorry," he began awkwardly. "For... roaring. And sending Druk away like that."

Lily's hands stilled, but she didn't look up. "You embarrassed me."

"I know." He sighed heavily. "I reacted without thinking."

"You treated me like a child."

"You will always be my child," he said. "But... perhaps I need to remember that you're growing up." He paused, searching for the right words. "When Krell and I found you, you were so small. I could hold you in one hand. I've spent so many years protecting you that I don't know how to stop."

Lily finally looked up at him, her eyes red-rimmed but dry now. "I'm not asking you to stop caring, Father. Just to trust me a little. To see me as I am now, not as I was then."

Gorum nodded slowly. "I can try." Then, with obvious difficulty: "This boy... Druk. He treats you well?"

A small smile tugged at Lily's lips. "He does. He's kind. And he makes me laugh."

"And he knows that if he ever hurts you, I'll tear his arms off and beat him with them?"

"Father!" Lily exclaimed, but there was a hint of amusement in her voice.

"What? It's a traditional orc courtship warning," Gorum protested, allowing himself a small grin.

Lily shook her head, but she was smiling now too. "You're impossible."

"I'm an orc," he countered. "We're known for being stubborn." He hesitated, then added more seriously, "I want you to be happy, Lily. That's all I've ever wanted."

"I know," she said softly.

After a moment's hesitation, Gorum opened his arms. Lily set aside her herbs and moved into his embrace, her small form nearly disappearing against his massive chest.

"Perhaps," Gorum said carefully, "Druk could join us for dinner tomorrow night. So Krell and I can... get to know him better."

Lily pulled back, eyeing him suspiciously. "You won't threaten him?"

"Only a little," Gorum promised. "Just enough to maintain my reputation."

She rolled her eyes but nodded. "Thank you."

As Gorum left her room, he felt as if he'd navigated a particularly treacherous battlefield and somehow emerged victorious, if a little battered. His daughter was growing up, finding her own path between the human and orc worlds. And though it terrified him, he knew he had to let her.

Downstairs, Krell waited with two mugs of strong fermented berry juice. "How did it go?" he asked, passing one to Gorum.

"We've invited her young orc to dinner tomorrow," Gorum grumbled, taking a long drink.

Krell's eyes widened in surprise. "That well, huh?"

"Don't look so smug," Gorum warned. "You get to explain to him what happens if he breaks her heart."

Krell laughed and raised his mug in a toast. "To raising a daughter braver than both of us."

Gorum clinked his mug against his husband's. "To growing up," he conceded, "even when it terrifies her fathers."

Outside, the evening stars began to appear, shining down on the orc village and the unusual family within it—a family that, like all families, was learning to change and grow together, one difficult conversation at a time.

[decaffeinateddlldo]

This is such an adorable concept and I love it 🥰

the pumpkin incident in its entirety

[decaffeinateddlldo]

Albian (Unicorn Centaur)

Rating: Teen Relationship: Female Reader/Male Unicorn Centaur Additional Tags: Exophilia, Monster Boyfriend, Centaur, Unicorn Centaur Series: Shelter Forest Words: 4681

A multi-part commission for @sammiesamr​​! A young woman from a nearby town runs across a centaur stuck in a bush on her way to Declan’s farm. Please reblog and leave feedback!

The Traveler’s Masterlist

Your parents did a lot of business with the family in the forest, an odd collection of humans and non-humans alike, led by a gigantic bat patriarch named Declan. Your parents owned a general store in Tandale and your mother had been trading with Declan’s family since before you were born, and you’d grown up with their kids in the same way as the kids from Tandale, your hometown. There was a strange separation between the two that was lost on you sometimes. It was almost as if most people didn’t have a secret stash of friends living in the woods.

Declan’s large clan was an open secret in most of the surrounding villages; everyone knew about it but they didn’t talk about it in the open. There was an unspoken understanding to protect the little haven in the woods, especially considering how much help they had given without any expectation of return. Declan and his family had done a lot of things for a lot of folks over the decades, and though they’d likely never cash in, they were owed a lot of favors.

Keep reading

[decaffeinateddlldo]

PLEASE do a part 2! I want to see her transformed and learning the lives of others of his kind as he tries to court her @ozzgin

It is the 19th century and you are returning home by ship. Before you embark, you happen to find a glowing shell abandoned by the docks. It seems that the sea creatures are searching for it. Or maybe it's something else they're interested in. content: gender neutral reader, violence, dubious consent, based on Return of the Obra Dinn

January 1802 What's the matter with me, I wonder? As if my luggage wasn't heavy enough already, I had to drag around a big shell of sorts. Found it by the docks while I waited for my ship to arrive. It has a strange glow to it, this shell. Can't quite place it.

January 1802 Cheeky bastards! The seamen are such a flirt. From the moment I stepped onto the main deck, a handful of them haven't dropped the whistles and stares. One of the topmen - I recall he's Scottish? - he's been pestering me about the ship. "I'll show ye around, can't find a better guide," he says. His mates laugh and clap to his petty attempts.

February 1802 Some of the sailors are dying from lung illness. I was on the orlop deck, playing cards with the three Russians, when the surgeon rushed to one of the cabins ahead. "If it was contagious, we'd all have it by now. Damned if I know what it is, or where it comes from," I could hear him groan. I wondered out loud if I might catch it myself, but then I noticed one of 'em rascals trying to cheat the cards. February 1802 I saw it again tonight. Ever since we launched from Falmouth, as soon as the sun sets, there's an eerie glimmer in the distance. It reminds me of this damned shell. Are my eyes playing tricks on me? Oh, the sea is so terrifying in the dark. There's nothing but black stretching all around. My window is low; whenever the waves break against it, the wooden walls let out a groan that awakens me from the deepest slumber. Surgeon gave me pills to sleep. The creaks of the ship sound like a weeping maiden. February 1802 I think the cursed glow is getting closer. I couldn't sleep anymore, so I snuck onto the main deck. Scotsman found me wandering towards the bow, so he quietly hoisted me up by the waist. I thought he'd tell the Captain, but he sat me on the lower rigging, next to him, and we listened to the waves. I was afraid I'd fall off, but he kept a steady hand on me. I wish I could tell him about the light stalking our ship. Would he think I'm mad?

February 1802 Second Mate returned today on a small boat. We heard shouts coming from upstairs, so we rushed to see what was happening. Bosun had his pistol readied next to the Captain, and the sailors lifted the cargo from below. I thought I was dreaming at first. Some creatures, unholy beings, were caught in the net. They had the body of a human, but thick, fish tails covered in spikes. One of the Formosan passengers muttered something in Chinese, and some of the tail spikes suddenly pierced him dead. The old Miss next to me fainted on the spot, and the stewards urged us to leave. Right before I turned, I noticed one of the beasts pointing at me. It had a monstrous grin on its face. Oh, what a sight! The Scotsman guided me away, but I can't forget those eyes. Was it malice? Such an intense stare, burning straight into my soul. Now that I'm writing all this, a memory has come to mind: the creature had the same shell as mine, dangling from its neck.

February 1802 The pills no longer work. I can't rest anymore. Every time I close my eyes, I hear its wretched voice, calling me from the lazarette. That's where they locked those sea monsters. It sings nonsense, blasphemous lies. We're not fated soulmates. I've nothing to do with those devils. I should've never picked up the shell. I can only pray we reach land soon.

March 1802 God, oh God, what disaster has befallen us? I don't have much time. The gun deck is in shambles, more than half the crew dead. Underwater beasts have crawled their way up our ship; strange humans with spears, saddled on top of crabs larger than I've ever seen. The poor midshipman, oh, a young boy! He set himself on fire to stop the nightmarish fiend. Threw the lamp across the floor, and the flames swallowed both of them up. I scrambled up on the main deck, but there was no peace to be found; colossal tentacles sprawled around the ship, pulling the rigging apart, tearing humans like insects. The Captain's wife was struck by a falling pillar, I saw her crumble right before me. Scotsman is still alive, but his arm is missing a good chunk of it. I don't know where to find the surgeon.

March 1803 They left. They took the last boat, I only found out this morning. I tried to join them, but one of the sailors stopped me. "Witch," he shouted at me, "the beast down by the cargo hold screams your name. You must've called it here, brought this curse upon us." I don't know what he's talking about. Tonight I'm going to the lazarette, I can no longer bear the calling. This blasted fiend, oh, he's ruined me. I'll rot on this wreck. Mother, I don't think I'll ever reach the shore.

Your steps are hesitant as you tiptoe your way around the dried blood and debris, until you reach the locked chambers. The door is bent and folded away, as if hit by a great force. You do indeed notice the round prints against the rusty surface: giant suckers from a blasphemous being.

There he is, the wicked varmint who plagues your sleep! A pale creature is propped up, halfway out of the water, welcoming you with a toothy grin. The shell around his neck glows mockingly.

You throw your own shell at him. The small, ivory object rolls with a hollow thud.

"Is this what you wanted, damned monster?"

"Why, what am I to do with two?"

His voice is harsh and deep, rapping against your eardrums, scratching the inside of your head.

"I've been waiting for you. Can't leave this place without my beloved, can I?"

"There you go again with this nonsense. Villain! Drown me if you must, but spare me your deceit."

His smile falters, eyes narrowing in a frown.

"Is that how you find my love? Some petty lie told by a charlatan? Ungrateful brat, who do you think freed you from their shackles? Who do you suspect has summoned the leviathan, from the deepest trenches of the sea, to save your mortal soul?"

"The kraken left with the storm," you counter as the blood drains from your face. Could it be that you were to blame, after all?

"No, it left after the bargain."

He pulls himself up and sits on the edge of his former cage. You observe his features in mild awe: the texture of his skin, the dark locks of hair reaching all the way to the tail, the spikes breaking out of the thick, hard scales.

"What bargain," you ask fearfully.

"The last ones are free to escape, if they leave you to me."

Why, your horrified expression is not quite something he expected. Surely one must feel relief once their freedom has been guaranteed. And not just any kind of freedom - you've been returned to your soulmate.

He's spent weeks chasing the currents, trailing the faint glow in the distance. He hasn't stopped once, tail pushing forward to the promise of a reunion.

Yet, you seem unsure. Perhaps his approach has been too hurried, too nonchalant. You need a little bit of convincing, and he happens to be a master of courting.

His thorax suddenly expands, and you can almost hear the twisting sound of his ribs cracking and breaking under the pressure. A sweet voice rolls out of his mouth, a song you've never heard before. Your heart pounds tremendously, threatening to burst out of your chest, and a foreign panic floods your senses.

Despite your desire to flee, your lids are heavy, eyes slowly closing. Through your lashes, you can discern the beast crawling towards you, the same defiant grin plastered on his face.

It's time for you to come home.