#and weenix. well. just type that name into Google and check out the subject matter. it’ll all make sense.

[hatterstan-shameblog]

…………………that isn’t a “no” so here we go I guess………………

It’s Too Goddamn Early To Be Hit On By A Literal, Actual Bird

Rating: PG-13 for suggestive conversation

Relationship: Peacock!Hatter/Me (that felt……..strange to write)

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

It’s nine o’clock in the morning, and I am having the time of my life.

The pool is deserted. I am sitting—blissfully alone—on a cushioned lounge chair, my upper body reclining at a perfect 70-degree angle. An umbrella shields me from the sun.

On the table next to me rests a mug with a cat on it; in it, a deliciously delicate green tea blend, sweetened with honey and just cool enough that it doesn’t burn my mouth as I take a long, slow sip. I chase it with a bite of the oversized chocolate chip muffin I managed to swipe from the kitchen, luxuriating in the way the softness yields beneath my teeth.

My attention turns back to my sketchbook—opened to a pristine, blank page, charcoal pencil just begging to be dragged across the smooth surface. Perhaps I’ll try to draw that tree again, the one on the far left that so elegantly dapples the light onto the pavement below. Or maybe I’ll draw the pool itself; I could use some practice with perspective, and the softly rippling water could be a fun challenge.

Wait. Wait. Forget all those ideas. They all suck.

There’s a peacock here.

There is no time for me to think about it. My hand snatches up the pencil and immediately begins scribbling. A tight little circle for the head, then a sweeping line that curves down then up and finally back down with a sharp flick of my wrist to capture the elegant tilt of his tail.

The peacock looks at me. He cocks his pretty feathered head. It would be nice if he stood still so I could—

—Oh, wait, scratch that.

He’s displaying his feathers behind him in a stunning fan of color, the light summery breeze making each iridescent shape glisten in the light.

That’s much better, actually.

“Damn bitch, okay,” I say to myself under my breath, flipping to the next page and starting a new sketch. Fuck, I wish I had a blue pastel. He’s so fucking blue, such a rich and velvety hue of saturated—

Oh, oh, wait a minute; he’s approaching me, skinny little bird legs tip-tapping in a rapid pace as he struts across the concrete.

“My man’s bookin’ it,” I mumble, doing my damnedest to complete at least one solid gesture drawing before this fine avian fellow gets too close.

Maybe he wants some of the muffin.

…Are birds allowed to eat muffins?

The scritch-scratch of my pencil and the tip-tap of his feet are the only sounds as we both work towards our goals. I have to admit, it’s kind of fun working so quickly; it’s allowing me to loosen up and take a more intuitive approach, which is a nice change from the usual observational drawings I try to complete. There’s a violence to it—not that the Borderlands needs any more violence, per se, but in the confines of my sketchbook, it feels right.

“Hello there,” I say as the feathered fellow arrives at his destination. He’s not shy at all, shimmying his way between myself and my breakfast-laden end table, neck stretching to peer into my sketchbook.

“That’s you,” I say, tilting my work so he can get a better look, “well, more or less. Kind of hard to get the details because you were moving so fast, but I think I got the general idea…”

My new peacock friend nuzzles his sapphire head against my pencil-holding hand—almost as if he’s trying to show his gratitude. I can’t resist a smile as I gently rub my hand along his soft, feathered cheek.

“Ooh, such a pretty bird,” I coo at him—because if he’s gonna act like a cuddly kitten then I’m going to talk to him like a cuddly kitten, “Here, let me give you a little treat…”

I break off a piece of my precious muffin, making sure there aren’t any chocolate chips in it, just in case birds can’t eat that sort of thing. I hold it in the cup of my palm and offer it to the peacock, who looks me dead in the eye with an expression that reads…infatuated?

No, no. That can’t be it.

He takes a dainty peck, then another one, before opening his beak a scooping the bite of muffin into his mouth. He swallows it in one gulp, then bends to rest his head on my lap, eyes closing and—why, it almost looks like he’s smiling—

“We’ll consider that payment for your modeling job,” I say with a giggle, stroking my index finger over the slope of his beak affectionately. The creature in my lap lets out a little hum of contentment—weird, it has a much deeper voice than I expected, but maybe all peacocks have deep voices.

I’m not, like, a bird expert or anything.

But this bird. Well, I’ve heard that peacocks are strange (and, frankly, not very smart), but this one seems a little extra bizarre. He looks at me like he knows me, which is as disconcerting as it is charming. Come to think of it, it’s also kind of weird how he understood that I was drawing a portrait of him…

“Darling,” he says, “I’m going to need you not to scream…”

“Jesus H. Christ!”

I scramble up the lounger as far as I can go, knee colliding with the talking-demon-peacock’s head as my legs flail me away from whatever the fuck is going on.

“Hey, look at that! You didn’t scream,” the bird praises, “Really appreciate it—I’m trying not to make a scene.”

“Yeah, says the talking bird,” I scoff, “I mean, for fucks sake, dude, what is your deal?”

“You mean you haven’t figured it out yet? Hmm,” the weird feathery creature hums, “I thought for sure you’d recognize the voice…”

Wait a minute, wait a minute—now that he’s mentioned it, I can’t help but feel like I’ve heard him somewhere before.

“Wait a minute,” I feel myself grow pale at the thought, “are you…are you the guy with the robe who keeps making all those speeches?”

The bird rolls his eyes.

“The robe guy who gives the speeches…is that all I am to you? Honestly,” he clucks, feathers ruffling in annoyance, “But you’re more or less correct. Everyone here calls me ‘Hatter,’ but you, darling, can call me Takeru.”

Huh.

“I,” I say with a nervous gulp, “I have…questions.”

“I have questions, too,” he purrs, “for instance, I’d love to know if you’re free for dinner tonight. Do you think you could…pencil me in?”

He looks at the charcoal pencil still gripped in my hand, then back at me…he’s waiting for me to laugh, I think.

I’m just trying not to hit him with my sketchbook.

“We could have a little wine, have a little chat…”

“Can birds drink wine?”

“This bird can,” he insists, “and…we can talk about art! You like art, right?”

“Yeah.”

“As do I,” he says, hopping up onto the edge of the lounger, just inches away from my feet, “You know, Peter Paul Reubens has always been one of my favorites. His Leda and the Swan is…inspiring.”

“Hm,” I say flatly, “Reubens is a master of his craft, but I prefer Jan Weenix.”

He laughs at that—oh, this is so weird, I do not like how a man’s voice is coming out of this peacock’s throat.

“It’s almost as if you’re not impressed by my full, glorious tail,” he pouts, “even though you were just telling me how pretty I was a few minutes ago…”

“That was before you started talking,” I say, reaching for my mug of tea, “and trying to chat me up. At least, I think that’s what you were trying to do.”

I take a sip and he frowns—well, as much of a frown as a creature with a beak can manage, I suppose. It’s sad, and I find myself feeling sorry for him.

“Look, man,” I say, setting my tea back down, “you seem…unique. Like, really, really just a different kind of dude. And I respect that—really I do—it’s, uh, it’s just that…”

His little bird eyes are shining. Is he…is he getting choked up? For fuck’s sake, it’s too goddamn early to be dealing with this shit.

“Next time, don’t show up as a bird,” I say, doing my best to let him down gently, “I mean, birds are cool, but…you know, it’s super weird getting hit on by one. I’d, uh, much rather just talk to the real you, if I have a choice.”

“So what you’re saying,” the peacock cautiously attempts, “is that…you’d be interested if I was in my regular human body?”

“I’d be less put-off, yeah,” I confirm, “although it was kind of nice sketching the bird body out. Better than drawing the same tree over and over, anyways.”

“Oh, I’m much better than a tree,” he says, “and if you think this version of me is nice to draw, you should see the human one…”

“If you’re offering to model—like, seriously offering—I’d be willing to consider it,” I start, “however, if you’re going to use it as an excuse to be weird, then forget about it. I’m a professional and expect to be treated as such.”

“I’ll admit,” bird-Takeru says, “I wasn’t exactly planning on asking, but…well, now you’ve got me thinking about it.”

“I’m not a portrait artist per se, but I’d be willing to give it a go,” I tell him, “I snatched some watercolors on the last supply run, could break ‘em out if you’re feeling colorful.”

“Darling, I’m always feeling colorful,” he says with a wink, “I’ll have one of my people come fetch you sometime tonight for our first session. We can even still do dinner, if you want…”

“As long as it’s just dinner,” I warn, “then…fine. I’ll count that as payment for my time and talents.”

“Excellent,” the bird says—yep, nope, still not used to the talking bird, it’s still really horrifying—and he hops off the lounger, “Ah, what a fortuitous turn of events! Who would have thought the peacock plan would actually work…”

“But it didn’t work,” I remind him, huffing as he slowly waddles off to do whatever kind of bird shenanigans he’s been itching to dive into.

He looks at me over his little blue shoulders.

“Didn’t it?”

And he continues walking off, head bobbing a little as he no doubt feels very accomplished.

I take an angry bite of my muffin and try not to think about it.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

bitch be like flannery o’connor the way peacocks love me ✌️

Hatter turning into a peacock strutting through the beach Hall ways as he shows his fabulous feathers.

He would look at everyone in the Hall ways with his lovely tail and is like "look at you! In love with my feathers, did you know if male peacocks do this they are trying to find a mate?" And they would nod and that person will be you my friend UwU

HOLD UP

“and that person will be you my friend”

Are you implying. That you want. Fucking Extremely-Cursed-Peacock-Hatter. To hit on me???

(…….I mean. I’ll do it. I just wanna make sure that I’m reading this correctly.)