#kids don't try this at home

[amcdrawnon]

This is why you don't go past 88 miles per hour

[unfocused-always]

Chapter VIII: A Quick Guide to Ruining Your Life and Other Bad Decisions

Summary: Misaki makes a deal with the devil??

A/N: Nope, you're not free from me yet. Also for the *I do love French language.

Golden light poured through pointed windows cascading over heavy wooden shelves like a soft blanket. It was nearing eight p.m., and the sun was slowly hiding behind the horizon. That and the barely visible letters on the page finally convinced Misaki to give up the fight and turn on the light. 

The library at Sakamaki's house was, unsurprisingly, enormous. Bookshelves lined the walls and occupied most of the remaining space, leaving only a reading nook unoccupied. At least, it was like that before she barged in a few hours earlier with a bucket of coffee, painkillers, and a goal at hand. 

If last week was a person, he'd no doubt fail students for fun and kick innocent puppies off the stairs. She winced at the mental image. Although the comparison was pretty close.  I don't know who you are.  Those words have repeatedly played in her head since she woke up from near-comatose sleep.  Stop.  Each sentence felt like a punch in the gut.  Don't contact us again.  

Her dad, the  dad  she knew, would never turn his back on an innocent person begging for help. But then again, in their eyes, she was a stupid teen playing a cruel prank. She pressed her forehead against a cool glass, hoping it would bring her answers.  What happened when I was away? How could they forget me so quickly?

"Bitch-chan!"

She thumbed the pages. This situation, albeit bizarre, had to have an explanation. And everything in her was telling her it was indeed supernatural.

"Bitch-chan~" Hot breath washed over her neck. "You'll hurt my feelings if you ignore me like that."

"Why do you keep doing that?!" She demanded, almost falling off the chair in the process.

Laito smiled a little too smugly for her liking. "Hm, but I've been calling out to you this whole time! It's rude to ignore someone like that, you know."

Anxiety clawed up her back. She could feel every spot on her body crying in agony, and that was after a heavy dose of painkillers. Pissing him off now-  Nope, we are not going there. 

"Sorry," she managed, suppressing a shiver in her voice. "I was just thinking."

"Thinking, huh?" She could tell from his tone alone he didn't buy it for a second. "And what thoughts absorbed you so completely? I wanna hear every ~ single ~ detail."

"I've been trying to make sense of this," she pointed at the library catalog, "but how you found anything here is beyond me. Why are half of the books here in Latin?" 

He leaned in, resting his head on his palm. "It's fitting, don't you think? Dead language for dead creatures."

The incredulous look on her face must have told him everything, as his laugh almost muted her following words. "You guys speak Latin? Just like that?" 

"On ne sait jamais~"

She leaned back in her chair, almost asking him to repeat that. "Oh no, no, no," she shook her head. "That, my dear dead creature, is French. I'd recognize that cheese-choking accent anywhere."*

"Aah, you've got me this time, Bitch-chan." His eyes narrowed on her, and her stomach sunk, hoping to shrink into itself. "Say, how will you punish me?"

She was legally obliged to do a double-take at that. He couldn't be serious, right? "Punish you?" She stammered. 

"Of course. After all, I did try to deceive you, didn't I?" 

She knew he was plotting something with the way his mouth quirked up. Even though he was babbling about  his  punishment, there was no doubt in her heart that it would be her spot if she didn't play her cards right. If only it was so simple.

"I suppose the 'I'll let it slide this time' is not an option?" She asked, crossing one leg over the other. 

"Hm~ You know, if you don't teach me a lesson, I might just keep up the deception. Do you really want that?" 

Hell would freeze over before he stopped lying.  Chipped in the logical part of her brain. But it didn't mean she couldn't use the situation to at least try to play something for herself. 

"Right," she started, adjusting her pose to mirror a proper negotiator's. "As your punishment, I want you to tell me everything you know on memory enhancements, or however you call it."

"Aah, Bitch-chan," his pained moan made her hair raise up. "That's not how you do it at all!"

"No," she cleared her throat, shifting in place. "You told me to pick a punishment, and I did."

"But your punishment is boring~" like a puppet on a string, he leaned closer, almost invading her space. "Wouldn't you prefer something more... exciting?"

His voice dropped dangerously low, and panic shot through her. She hadn't allowed herself to unpack all that went down between them, fearful of the things this would force her to admit. She was prepared to chalk it up to exhaustion and basic survival instinct, even if denial killed her. But as his eyes dropped heavy and long fingers slowly trailed up her arms, she had to force herself not to flinch. 

"The punishment," she started, praying for her voice not to betray her. "It was supposed to be your punishment, not mine."

He hummed, his fingertip ghosting along her vein. "You're awfully determined to interrogate me, Bitch-chan. Could it be that you still haven't said goodbye to your family?" The innocent look on his face was almost enough to convince her it was a genuine slip-up. Almost. She'd long since learned hardly anything was accidental with him. "Whoopsie, I wasn't supposed to say that."

It was apparent he knew something. Now the question remained how  she  could   get her hands on that information. Hardly paying it any mind, she caught his wandering hand and placed it palm up on the table, temporarily keeping the fingers confined. "Look," she started, somehow maintaining eye contact. "it's evident that a. you know that something happened to my parents," she began, straightening his index finger. "b. you're aware it has something in common with memory manipulation," she accused, dabbing his middle finger into the table. "and c. you're clearly dodging the question," his ring finger went down with all the conviction she could muster. He, however, remained unbothered. 

"Hm~ Funny, because the way I see it-," he all but purred, his outstretched fingers slowly gliding up her forearm. A slight tremor went through her, and she could have sworn he counted it as a victory. "You're clearly so desperate for any explanation of what happened to your beloved family. Aah, aah," she opened her mouth to protest, and he raised his finger to silence her. "my turn now. I could share it with you, but..."

She knew what he would say far before he grabbed under the chair and dragged her closer, forcing her legs to spread over the edges. His rich scent washed over her, bringing back memories of the first time they were in a similar position. Back then, she didn't know she should run for the hills. Back then, things were easier. Back then, it was all lies. Blood wooshed in her ears as he leaned closer, slowly bringing her fingers to his mouth.

"Everything has a price, Bitch-chan. I wonder how much are you willing to pay?"

He was testing her. It was a bait, a trap so well-marked only an absolute fool would fall for it. Yet, she didn't have many options left. For all she hated it, he was the one with answers. He knew  why  her family had forgotten her and maybe even how to bring them back. But information like that didn't come cheap. Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip so hard she almost tasted blood. The next words tasted like ash. "What do you want me to do?"

His grin was equally charming as it was absolutely horrifying. "Excellent answer," he murmured into her palm, and she felt his tongue sneak between her fingers. 

Suddenly she understood what selling her soul must feel like.

***

This,  protested her brain,  is absolute madness. 

Misaki stifled a scream. She knew. She knew why she was doing  this , yet it hardly made it any easier. Pacing back and forth before her door, she attempted to regain any semblance of control over her mind. 

The clock struck twelve.  That's it,  she thought.  This is how it ends. 

Dressed in the most covering cream turtleneck and thick black jeans that didn't have a single smallest hole in them, she still felt it wasn't enough layers. She threw on her loose jacket, and even though she was sweating like hell already, she vowed to keep it on at all times. With that, her armor was complete, and she yanked her door open, heading with purposeful steps toward his room. 

It was one thing pacing in her room. But standing in front of the dark wood, her situation suddenly seemed ten times more real. It was cruel of him. Telling her to come to his room almost four hours later, he gave it just enough time for paranoia and crippling anxiety to take root. Still, she swallowed her fear and knocked. 

The door opened almost immediately, revealing Laito leaning on the frame with the most shit-eating grin she'd ever seen. His lack of clothes made her winter outfit almost laughable. Clad in a barely-buttoned white shirt and comfortable pants, he seemed utterly at ease, like this mess was his typical midnight entertainment.  It probably was,  she thought bitterly. 

"Bitch-chan," he peeled himself from the wall and offered her a hand. "With a look like that, I could think you're trying to seduce me." 

"In your dreams," she grabbed his hand and dragged him inside, kicking the door shut behind them.

[Chapter VII] [Masterlist] [Chapter IX]

[automatonwithautonomy]

actually. repression is only bad if you fail at it. sorry for you guys but i'm never letting that shit out. if i keep it all shut up and buried i'll be fine!

[t00thpasteface]

poor clark kent. whether you ship him with lois or bruce, he's stuck committing the cardinal sin of dating a coworker

[faeriekit]

The Foster Mother

Now on ao3 and VHS release

There was, supposedly, someone waiting for him in the green sitting room.

“…Why?” Tim asked. Most of the usual suspects had already come by to give their “condolences”—former Drakes Industries investors, curious about the newly orphaned heir; fellow socialites, once again flocking in to give and receive sympathies for their “close friends, the Drakes”; gawkers come to see what they could scavenge off of a dead family’s home, never mind that their child was alive.

“She claims to know you, Master Tim,” Alfred offered, kettle in his hand. He spent a moment deciding between different two canisters of tea; a sign of possibly difficult future conversation. “Her interest in your father's estate seemed quite…minimal.”

…Alright.

Tim was still in his formalwear. Dissolving Drake Industries would take at least another year, and plenty of future hours cementing the future home of certain resources in their dissolution, but the outfit probably was more appropriate for whatever oncoming conversation that was about to ensue than his planned change into Dick’s old hoodie and board shorts.

Okay. Tim steeled himself. The self-determination…mostly worked. Whatever. He trudged up into the green sitting room from the kitchen with his usual introduction ready on his tongue.

And then Tim walked into the room.

And then Jazzy was there.

*

Tim had been three, and Miss Jasmine had been his had been his third nanny. He’d outgrown the wetnurse early on, and his second nanny had been dismissed, so although Miss Jasmine was the third nanny, she was first nanny Tim could consciously remember.

She’d had red hair. She’d been very gentle with him.

She got him up in the morning and put him to bed at night; for the first time, there had been someone who sat with him until he was asleep, reading all sorts of books his parents had left to engage him with as an early genius. Then, when those were over and done as promised to his parents, they got unauthorized books from the library: silly books with made-up words, dinosaur books, books about teddy bears and adventures around the world.

Tim hadn’t been allowed to travel the world. Tim hadn’t been allowed a teddy bear. His parents had thought it would encourage undue attachment.

(It had been the same reason he’d never been given a pacifier.)

Miss Jazz had given him a knitted bunny. She’d said her dad had made it especially for him.

The toy’s name was Bunny and Tim remembered him being very soft.

She didn’t smile all the time, but smiles were rewards that were easy to earn. He finished his meal and she smiled. He finished an educational puzzle and she smiled. He was quiet all through her phone call and she smiled, and answered all his questions once she was done.

Jazzy had been the first person in his life who was there all the time. She’d kissed his forehead after the bath and kissed his scraped knees; she’d carried him in his arms when he was tired and sometimes even when he wasn’t. His parents had wanted him to be independent, proactive, and not clingy, but Jazzy had been someone who he could run to from his bed when he’d had nightmares and someone he could cuddle on her lap with when he’d cried.

She was gone when he was seven. He didn’t remember why. His parents had probably never told him, but still; he'd assumed he'd have found out why eventually.

Jazzy looked the same right now as she looked in Tim’s memories, although she was likely no longer a college student at a nannying gig. Her red hair was pulled into a high bun, her dress modest and conservative from her neck to her ankles. There was a backpack beside her foot. She was sitting, one leg crossed over the other, on the high-backed loveseat in the green sitting room.

She looked up when he came in.

Tim. Stopped in his tracks.

It didn’t matter. Jazzy—Miss Jasmine stood up as soon as she saw him, eyes alight with worry. Foggy memories were swimming to the forefront of Tim’s brain. He couldn’t move.

“Tim?” Ja—Miss Jasmine asked, teal eyes raking over his frame. Tim froze where he was. He didn’t move, wide-eyed and terrified for no reason at all when Miss Jasmine got closer to him, at a distance that was more appropriate for a conversation.

She stood there. Watching him. It felt like his mother had just come home from her trips with Dad, and a ghost of old terror wafted through him as he waited for her to decide he’d done something wrong. Her voice got softer. Her eyes got softer. Why was Tim feeling so wrong-footed?? It was only a former staff person!

“Tim?” her voice was so gentle. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m—“

“M’s Jazz,” Tim croaked. Which. Wasn’t the level of formality he’d been going for, but better than Jazzy. He wasn’t a toddler anymore.

Miss Jasmine was so tall—honestly, was she taller than Bruce? She’d seemed insurmountable as a child; he hadn’t expected her height to truly be so statuesque as an adult.

(Or. Well. Almost an adult.)

She didn’t quite kneel down, but she did stoop lower, as if Tim was small and he needed to be on equal footing in order to have a serious conversation.

He could see all her freckles. Tim swallowed. It was too familiar. Everything about her was too familiar.

“You’re so big now,” Jazzy whispered, looking at his hair, his suit, his polished shoes. He didn’t feel it. “Oh, you’ve grown up so well.”

Thanks, Tim almost said. Something stopped him—something thick in his throat, to impassable to break through.

“I—“ he tried. He coughed. “Why…you… You’re here?”

Jazzy threw him an incredulous look, and then an incredibly wry one. “Well,” she drawled a little too primly, in the way that Alfred occasionally made obvious statements, “I’d think it obvious that when one’s parents have passed away, that those who care about you might come to check and see if you’re alright.”

Which. That didn’t make sense. Jazzy hadn’t come back for any other reason; she hadn’t come back for his mother’s funeral, nor when his father was injured publicly by a villain. Why start now?

“And,” Jazz added, seeing his visual confusion and distrust, “Your parents can’t exactly threaten me with a kidnapping charge for visiting you when they’re dead.” Pause. “Which I am sorry about. My condolences.”

Which. Whiplash. What a statement.

“Uh,” said Tim, who was rapidly losing control over the situation.

Jazzy stood again, and went back to her seat; she didn’t set herself down, though, as she only stooped to grab her backpack. “I am sorry for being unable to visit, although I really wanted to; you were at a very vulnerable age and had already moved into a class a year above you, and your parents should have been less hasty about replacing your main caretaker. The assassination attempts were unwarranted, but they did drive the point home that attempting contact was perhaps discouraged.”

“What,” said Tim. “Assassin what.”

“They were ninjas,” Jazzy offered, as if that was an answer. “Except the last one, which was a former marine. The point is that I do care about you, and wanted to ask if you had any idea where you’re going now that your parents are no longer…available guardians.”

Tim’s mouth opened. It closed.

Jazzy waited patiently.

“…How have you been?” Tim tried, resorting to a part of the script they hadn’t gone through yet.

Jazzy’s laugh was tired, but no less real. It was nothing like listening to his parents titter politely; he didn’t think Jazzy would even know how to fake a laugh. “Well, my brother told me that my former bosses had died, which was somewhat stressful. Otherwise, I’m pretty happy: I live with my brother and worked with him for the last few years. I was going to pursue medicine, but…well. The assassination attempts made it hard to interview for scholarships. I suppose that I could return to that now,” Jazzy mused, attention now elsewhere. She pulled the backpack off the floor and up into her grip. She opened it, and flipped through its contents. “How are you doing? I know that Wayne Manor fosters, but your parents were always rather…hands off. I thought the difference in levels of attention might be overwhelming.”

It was. Tim should be surprised how clearly she sees through him—

—But Jazzy used to watch him stim for almost a full hour after school, twisting Bunny’s arms back and forth until he could calm down. Seeing other people all day had been too much for him. Coming home from his parents’ parties had been similarly stressful.

She’d never been mad at him for it. She held him while he talked and stimmed and talked and talked and talked, and brushed his hair sometimes, or if it was very late and he was very young, helped him brush his teeth through all the medieval execution facts he could name.

“It is a lot to get used to,” Tim agreed quietly. He didn’t want to be ungrateful. He didn’t want to let on anyone about his plan to leave.

He had an out. The papers had already been filed; there was an actor waiting to play his uncle for a custody battle, ready for the fight.

Tim was ready to up and go. It was no hardship to leave all the good things here; anything beat making Bruce stick his fingers into Tim any deeper than they already were, compromising the dynamic they’d already established.

It was for the best.

“I can imagine,” Jazzy sympathized easily. “And I wanted to offer—well. I know there’s probably a lot of choices available to you, but my brother and I recently moved back to Gotham proper for the time being. He’s teaching astronomy courses at the university and I’m filing paperwork for Arkham patients. It’s not so privileged a home, but it’s quieter, and more central in town.”

…Tim’s heart skipped.

He. He couldn’t stop staring. Jazzy stared back at him, quiet and sure. Sure of what, Tim had no idea, but…

Why? Why would she want Tim? There was no way she would be able to get to his trust fund without his help, and he for sure knew better than to enable her ability to leech from him. The last time she’d known him, Tim had been a snot-nosed kid who cried all the time and couldn’t be normal for twenty consecutive minutes. His parents couldn’t even stand to be on the same hemisphere as him as a child. What appeal did this have for her?? What could having a teenager with severe baggage living in her house do for her?

And it’s not like there was any chance she knew he was Robin!

“Oh,” Jazzy suddenly interrupted. “I brought these for you, by the way. Your parents had tossed them out at various points; I’ve washed them since, of course.”

She handed him the backpack by the handle.

…Tim peeked inside.

On top was Bunny, still a washed-out faded sort of pink. He looked as fresh as he had the day when Tim’s parents had ”cleaned out” Tim’s nursery—in other words, a faded, a little gray, and slightly discolored from an old spaghetti stain. His button eyes were big and blue.

And beneath him were books that hadn’t passed his father’s muster as appropriately masculine reading material: The Velveteen Rabbit, with the cover a little scarred from a fierce attack of wet wipes. There’s A Monster at the End of This Book, with a goofy-looking Muppet on the cover, gold spine beat up beyond belief. Art Tim’s teacher at the time must have laminated and sent home; Tim’s dorky, crayon cat proved he would never make it as an artist, but attached to it was a photograph of a grinning boy with a bowl cut and a missing tooth.

Tim stared. There’d been purple marker on his hands and face. His grin looked…really bad, actually, like as if he was baring his teeth because he didn’t know how to smile. There was no formal grace there. Nothing to show the neighbors, nothing worth framing to put into the line of sight of the investors in the office.

Jazzy had kept it and brought it home with her. Jazzy had fished it out of the trash, and brought it with her to give back to him in Gotham.

It was crinkled like it’d been folded, over and over again. Further down in the bag was a crumpled certificate dedicated to “Timmy Drake, for: knowing a lot about octopi”, and a baby blanket Tim didn’t even remember. It had rocket ships on it. It looked as if someone had cut into it with scissors, although it had been obviously and brightly mended with red embroidery floss later on.

Jazzy had only been his nanny until Tim was seven. She had simply been gone one night, and Mom and Dad had been home for ten nights after without help before giving in and hiring Mrs. McIlvane and Mrs. Edith. Ms. Edith had never been so…permissive…with Tim as Jazzy had been.

Tim swallowed. He carefully put everything back into the backpack, unsure if he even wanted to keep it or not. It wasn’t like he could leave it here; he’d be gone, ideally, before the week was out. There was no point in taking it with him if he only planned to live with a stranger until he was eighteen.

“J…” Tim tried. He cut himself off before he could get too informal without prompting. “Miss Jasmine—“

“Just Jazz,” Jazzy corrected politely.

“—Why are you here?” Tim asked, ignoring how she’d technically already answered. He didn’t believe her. “What made my parents fire you?”

Jazzy’s expression turned…soft. Tim couldn’t look at her. Something horrible was welling with it, and he didn’t know how to cope.

“I’m here because I care about you,” Jazz repeated, and knelt beside him. She looked up into his face, and took his hand. Tim didn’t know why. He was practically an adult—he didn’t need this!

“And I was fired because your Mother overheard you calling me ‘Mommy’ on accident when you were tired. I suppose she was insulted, although I’d never know why; it’s not like she was ever home to bond with you in the first place.”

Tim’s throat closed. He missed his mom. He missed waiting up for his parents’ flight home, seeing their headlights outside the window, and knowing they’d bring home gifts from overseas. He missed using Mom’s perfume, and knowing he’d used more of the bottle sitting on her dressed than she ever had, but that it still smelled like her. He missed hearing his Dad telling all sorts of adventure stories and promises through the phone to be home for the holidays, even if Tim knew there was every chance he’d find some other way to spend the time back in Gotham.

And there was some small child in him who missed Jazzy, who hugged him and walked him to the library and made him soup from a can instead of fancy dinners and, who’d never needed to be waited for in the first place.

Tim looked at Jazzy’s round, freckled face.

He swallowed.

Tim moved out before the end of the week, as expected.

[twstjam]

Fuck the timeline, everyone please consider an au where the Knight of Dawn narrowly escapes from a fight that almost kills him and as he's limping through a forest to find somewhere to hide and recover, the woodland creatures find him and lead him somewhere. He follows, assuming they're leading him somewhere safe, but before he can reach it he collapses from his injuries. As his consciousness begins to fade, he sees Princess Meleanor looking down at him and he isn't surprised that she'd been waiting for his end, waiting for him to join her in the Underworld where he'd sent her.

Later in the evening, Lilia Vanrouge is startled by the door to his quiet little cottage bursting open. His prince and pupils have returned... and they have dragged the injured Knight of Dawn back with them. Silver runs up to Lilia and begs "Papa" to help the poor injured man they'd found in the woods, completely oblivious to how Lilia's blood chills and his mouth goes dry because his son this human child had so cluelessly brought an old enemy into their home who also happens to be his father.

[book-lover85]

Stay at home dad and artist on commission Keefe

[enviousbug2]

Meet the OC: Lyrisa of the Unnamed

Lyrisa, a known Oracle since birth, abandoned their temple in hopes of finding the true nature of their 'enlightening touch' and its cure. The Senobium, a place widely known for its prosperous knowledge, seems to be the only place fit to answer their questions.

I've had Lyrisa in the works for so long, and I'm glad I was finally able to complete their design. It still needs tweaking here and there, but for the most part they came out really nicely.

I tried mimicking Touchstarved's art style here too, and while it was lots of fun I doubt I'll ever really try it again since doing thick lineart and cel shading isn't something I'm used to doing.

[milolovesbmc]

Gruesome Playground Injuries except House is Doug's doctor. That's it. That's the post

[putting-lucifer-in-places]

hi I’m sorry but I love my little eepy boy can you please put him in a pit of lava I’d like to see how he does thank you very much for your time 🫶🏻

Spa Day ✨️

[everysongineverykey]

the owl house was really like oh yeah by the way a significant number of children avoided being collected solely because they were hiding out inside this one high school and all the adults in the building and a few of their classmates and friends were turned to puppets right before their eyes and taken away and they've just been alone here ever since. yeah it's been months since they've seen their families. it's unclear whether or not they're aware that the collector's been using their loved ones as toys in reenactments of the adventures of a lost friend of theirs. there are kindergarteners trapped in there. they spent a significant amount of time and effort on a meticulous, perfectly constructed stone statue honoring their collected principal who was one of the only people protecting them when the collector's spies came and it's dorky and unprofessional but they're so genuinely grateful for what he did and they never got to thank him themselves. their "leader" is the former captain of the grudgby team who's deeply traumatized and terrified 100% of the time and only took the job cause she wanted some sense of control over a nightmare situation. an adult in disguise has been manipulating her to do what she's told this entire time. their food is rotten and moldy and they were so scared of being found they put a sign up outside that said "no non-puppets inside". yeah. it's funny though. it's just a silly joke. look at luz's new palisman!

[tj-crochets]

Hey y'all you know sometimes when you have the urge to eat something specific but you don't know what the specific thing is? I'm having that but for crafting. Like, I feel like I want to make something in a different medium than my usuals but idk what it is??? I'm going to try drawing first to see if it's that, I think. Send me requests/suggestions to draw and I might draw them! I also might end up plushifying them if I draw them?

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

Lucien Lachance: When someone points at your black clothes and asks whose funeral it is, having a look around the room and saying, "Haven’t decided yet," is typically a good response.

[dizzyrobinsims]

Just watched Nimona

The fact this movie never got a theater release because of Blue Sky's closure and Disney deciding to nix it once acquired will forever break my heart holy shit.

Like up front it is BEAUTIFULLY animated, the writing is tight as hell, the story is genuinely moving and amazing. By that alone it deserved to be in theaters.

*deep breath*

But BOY HOWDY am I SALTY AS FUCK that a animated movie that is accessible to kids, especially queer kids, got knocked out of the process to reach theaters when

IT JUST CASUALLY HAS A INTERRACIAL GAY COUPLE WITH A (metaphorically) ADOPTED (literally) TRANS CHILD AS THE 3 MAIN CHARACTERS IN THE MOVIE THE FUCKING HELL WE COULD'VE HAD ALL THIS PERFECTLY DONE QUEER MEDIA ON THE BIG SCREEN AS A COHERENT AMAZING STORY FUC-

[sealrock]

paris and their baby cousins. (telestas on the left & hyperion on the right in top picture, cleodice on bottom)