#the context is that they just moved in and they have barely any belongings

[ohitslen]

Sharing a blanket

Request by @volaenii ✨

Accidentally incorporated this to my uni au oopsieeees

[purple-raspberries]

Context-turned-drabble for a wip I just thought of. Accidental baby acquisition, platonic Frank and Julie:

I’m going to say rainbow monsters are made cabbage patch-style. All it takes is love, good soil, seeds, a partner(s), time, and a rainbow monster.

Now imagine Frank sets aside a small part of his garden just for Julie and him to work on. A joint effort just for fun! They spend some time there every day, even if only long enough to water the plants. Through their efforts they managed to make a flourishing little haven for anyone who might come by and visit, be it neighbor or bug.

They’re doing some weeding one mid-morning, chattering about this and that as they do, when a movement distracts them both. A bud, the strange giant one top of the yellow rose bush, was moving. The bush itself wasn’t too old, just barely big enough to sustain the weight of that bowling ball of a bud above it. Neither of them knew what to make of it. Not that the other plants were any help! Julie had tried asking them, but according to her, they all just gave the same “you’ll see!” and “in due time~”, or they plain just burst out into happy giggles. Seeing no reason to worry, both gray and pink puppets decided to take special care of the plant just to see what would come of it.

Back to the bud in active bloom.

Frank: [soft gasp, looking in awe] Julie! Look! [concerned] Why is it moving so quickly?? Is it saying anything—?!

Julie: [loudly whispering] shush! Shushushush ! It’s not talking, but I hear something!

Both lean forward closer and closer— they’re hovering right over the bloom, it unfurls its last layer of petals and…

Tiny yellow limbs curl and tuck inwards into a little ball. Even tinier fists rest under a pale yellow chin belonging to a head crowned with green fuzz, just small enough to fit into the palms of their hands. There, in the open rose, lied an infant, fresh as could be. But how!?

A beat passes where in Julie looks at Frank. Frank looks at Julie. They look at the baby, which could only be a rainbow monster, still sleeping peacefully in his or her floral cradle.

Well. There will be time to panic later! Right now there is a baby in Frank’s backyard to deal with! A second of decision later and Frank was picking up the now waking infant, Julie speeding to his house to fetch a soft towel to wrap the baby in. She knew his house well enough to know where they were. Precious cargo in hand, Frank quickly, and more careful than he needed to be, followed Julie inside where she was waiting for him anxiously, towel in hand. A bit of clumsy fumbling happened as they both tried to figure out how exactly one was supposed to swaddle an infant without disturbing them, but they got it eventually after several minutes of trial and error.

Frank understandably let Julie borrow his phone for the urgent call up to where the rest of the Joyful siblings lived. How could this have happened? How is it that Julie, of all people, didn’t notice? And most importantly, what were they going to do with the child?!

Hopefully Julie’s siblings would know how to help.

[anghraine]

I was thinking about my personal "TOS is really its own thing" headcanons for K/S, and also, that one of the things that really surprised me when I actually marathoned the whole series was the acknowledged ethical issue around captain/crew fraternization.

To rewind back to my ship, lol: I definitely think that Spock and Kirk are obsessively in love with each other, and it's pretty obvious that every other relationship and person in their lives pales in comparison, but I don't actually imagine that they've said or done anything about this beyond the kinds of things we've seen onscreen.

I mean. Yes, that includes things like "when Kirk gets a massage on the bridge for his back pain, he just assumes it's Spock and is intensely uncomfortable to discover it's someone else" + the two of them saying breathtaking romantic things with obvious heart eyes while ignoring the existence of everyone around them + Kirk's most compelling and insightful love interest remarking that Spock obviously belongs with him as if he always will be at Kirk's side + everything "Amok Time" chooses to be + mutual seething jealousy/Spock excising his rival from Kirk's mind while he sleeps + Kirk saying Spock is closer to him than anyone in the universe + Spock regularly abandoning his principles when it comes to Kirk etc etc etc. But I don't think they've actually said what they feel or initiated a (physically) sexual relationship during TOS itself.

Taking TOS by itself and ignoring the regular reboots of their characterizations in ... well, everything else, I definitely feel like they're moving inexorably towards that kind of unambiguous romantic relationship in TOS, just that they haven't quite taken that last step yet.

In fact, I suspect that the "You are closer to the captain than anyone in the universe" statement from bodysnatched Kirk to Spock is likely the most explicit statement either has made about how they feel or what their relationship really is, and it carefully stops just short of saying too much. And it's immediately followed by a) a mind-meld, I think the fourth between them, but the first in which Spock effortlessly melds them without a single word to help, and b) one of the most extended periods of physical contact between them, with iirc some 25 seconds of Spock holding Kirk's bare hand/wrist on screen as they try to escape together signifying nothing, with scene cuts suggesting the actual duration may in fact be longer (*gasps in Vulcan*).

The show ends with that episode because of the cancellation, but there's something weirdly apropos about it as a finale on a purely shipping level. I definitely felt like the dynamic between them has reached such a point by "Turnabout Intruder" that there's no going back. But I don't think anything more significant than what we've seen has happened off screen, just that the acknowledgment of the nature of their feelings and the shift to an overtly romantic, sexual relationship seem inevitable at this point. And by "overtly," I mean to each other, not necessarily anyone else.

There are various reasons I feel this way. Partly it's the high-octane yearning and repression that both exhibit in very different ways, which I think make more sense if they haven't acknowledged anything yet or transitioned away from pretending it's platonic. But one reason I envision them as Not Quite There But Definitely Going To Be, that I've rarely seen mentioned thus far, is something I would never have guessed from pop culture or even fandom osmosis.

Early in the series, Kirk explicitly states that he considers his crew completely off-limits in a romantic context. This ethical restriction applies only to him and not any other senior officers. Throughout the rest of the series, we're told and shown that Starfleet does not forbid fraternization among crew members of different ranks. Kirk himself says that it would be fine for Spock to have a romantic relationship with Janice Rand, just not Kirk.

And moreover, Kirk never does voluntarily enter a romantic relationship with any crew member. He and Janice Rand have a mutual infatuation for awhile that both handle with as much professionalism as possible. The closest thing to an openly romantic interaction with a crew member is probably Kirk kissing Helen Noel after Helen and Dr. Adams artificially screwed around with his memories and feelings—but we discover in the process that he was the one who refused to do more than dance at the Christmas party, when he backed off and scrupulously talked about space while Helen was the one with the unsentimental sex fantasy who keeps pushing his boundaries even in the present. That's why he's so unusually hostile; they were never together, even as a fling, and she hasn't taken no for an answer.

I guess Kirk and Mulholl agreeing to be possessed by married aliens for a final goodbye kiss is sort of ...? I mean. You get it, sometimes there's some sci-fi plot device, but nothing real and nothing while he has full control of his body and mind.

Kirk's real exes are all former long-term girlfriends, most of them also part of Starfleet and professionals in science or science-adjacent fields, but never crew members.

It's not 100% clear in TOS if the repeated statements and suggestions about lack of Starfleet restrictions on fraternization except wrt the captain is Starfleet policy, or just Kirk's personal stance. Kirk says he's not allowed to have a relationship of that kind with Janice Rand in "The Naked Time," but he's contracted the disease by then and it's part of a generally unhinged ramble. It's later stated that romance isn't forbidden on Starfleet vessels, but that's about crew romances in general and not the captain in particular. So it's difficult to know the real source of the ethical prohibition. Maybe there are actual regulations around this (makes sense) or maybe it's just a hard ethical line that Kirk has independently chosen for himself (also makes sense), but when he's functional and autonomous enough to be held responsible for his actions, this is a line he does not cross.

The point here is that, while I don't remotely blame other K/S fans for ignoring this inconvenient fraternization detail, Spock is a member of Kirk's crew. Yes, he's a senior officer and the highest-ranking person on the ship after Kirk himself, so maybe it wouldn't be as egregious as with someone else—but then again, maybe Kirk propositioning Spock would be considered even more unethical than propositioning Janice, since Janice at least has other authorities over her, while Spock answers directly to Kirk in the chain of command and will do virtually anything Kirk tells or asks him to do.

Kirk and Spock's relationship is intense and [gestures] everything enough that there are scenarios where I could imagine Kirk dropping this otherwise non-negotiable ethical line (the classic is, of course, "Spock's human heritage makes his pon farr cycle erratic and it comes back early ... oh no..."). I don't think we've seen any such scenario during TOS, though.

In any case, I feel like Kirk is unlikely to proposition Spock either romantically or sexually during the five-year mission. After years of constant proximity and yearning and ostensibly platonic hijinks and assuming it would never happen, I could see his resolve crumbling if Spock tried to initiate a romance with him. But that is also unlikely throughout most of TOS, because of Spock's own hang-ups around emotion and attachment—he's struggling with shame over feeling basic friendly affection, and in reality he feels far more than that.

I also don't think their true preferences when it comes to love, or their sense of what love really is for them, are inclined towards casual/undefined relationships or even poly relationships. So I don't personally envision them as FWBs or in a "they were in love but not taking it that seriously" scenario; I don't think either situation would be all that probable or desirable for them. They're both conspicuously jealous of anything or anyone that could possibly compete with their own absolute centrality in each other's lives; Spock never so much as kisses anyone without being dubconned into it and is guilty about having friends; Kirk's entire sexual history when it's not For The Mission is consistently geared towards long-term and sentimentally romantic relationships. Kirk supplies a very clear, emphatic description of love as he understands it:

Is he important to you, more important than anything? Is he as though he were a part of you? [...] But you can't really love him. You haven't the slightest knowledge of love, the total union of two people.

Kirk understands impossible/forbidden love in terms of some fundamental separation from a single beloved, being perpetually apart from them and unable to achieve the kind of absolute joining of lives and minds that he regards as love. (In some ways, this seems an incredibly Vulcan perspective on love, which, well.)

I think he and Spock are close to crossing the last barriers to that point of absolute union by "Turnabout Intruder," given their extreme intimacy as well as the very real possibility of grafting their lives and minds to each other in the way both pretty clearly crave. But I feel like there are only two ways it can really happen: 1) some wildly fortunate circumstance makes it ethically justifiable for Kirk to approach Spock, or 2) Spock makes the first move, which means that unless they're just randomly very lucky, everything hangs on him coming to terms with himself.

Then again, I also think Spock's arc across the show is building towards a point where he is coming to terms with himself in that way, with asserting what he wants, what bothers him, and what he's willing to reach for or accept. By the finale, I can believe he's truly on the point of getting there.

The movies hit the reset and retcon buttons hard, but taking TOS by itself as aired, the arc of their relationship and its development over the course of the show feels more hopeful to me. I can believe that S3 Spock has grown into himself enough to get to the point he needs to be at to make the first ("first") move before much longer. This is the Spock who essentially told Starfleet to go fuck themselves because they wouldn't let him jeopardize a fraught diplomatic situation to search for Kirk, told Sulu to scan for Kirk for potentially years, then defied explicit orders and tracked him down personally. There is very little he wouldn't do for Kirk by S3.

Kirk, meanwhile, has never been anything but 1000% receptive to whatever Spock is willing to give him; he spends a significant portion of TOS looking like he's about to dissolve into hearts at eye contact and a slight mouth twitch from Spock, if that. By S3, though, he's visibly more ground-down and tired, he's been put through further horrors that he often only escaped via his intimacy with Spock, and he's increasingly desperate for real connection. I can believe that at this point, he'd finally be at "fuck it" if Spock's love was on the table.

So I don't think that during the time period of TOS, their romance is formalized at all, or even acknowledged, or that they have a sexual relationship beyond the turbo-charged UST and frequent physical contact (to a degree that seems likely obscene on Vulcan. but as Spock no doubt justifies to himself, they're not on Vulcan). But I also think that by the end of the show, their dynamic has moved towards a stage where the shift to an unambiguously romantic relationship, even if hidden, feels inevitable and imminent. I genuinely feel like they're so close to full honesty with each other at this point that it can't be long, and that's with over a year of the mission left.

[darylsfavoritegirl]

Can you do a Daryl fic where you fuck and then he says he’s not into labels :( and it makes u sad and comfort

I love this idea !!! lesss goo

A/N: Sorry if these are taking longer than you thought!! im putting myself all in between the breaks i manage to get from school lol. I liked this personally, not sure if i managed to put out a good "comfort" though but there you go anon!

Your eyes flickered at Daryl's scars covering his entire back alongside of his tattoos that looked very much like to having been done by an amateur. You had been wondering their story for a long time now, yet never had the courage to question him vulgarly.

You moved your legs restlessly under the thin sheets, feeling his seeds sticking to your thighs and dripping onto the bed.

He was never at ease with such things. From the very beginning of your "relationship" that is, just warming eachother's bed on these aggravating days of the apocalpyse, where former human beings becoming foes to the geniune humanity. Hence, you always had to wait for him to leave first. There'd be nights so lewd, so scarlet that he'd feel adequate enough to let his guard down now and then. He'd fall next to you on the bed. He'd try to maintain his heaving chest as he'd cover up his downer body with sheets and would just lie down, your bodies so close to eachother, so warm that you'd feel sheltered against his bare skin. And then, he'd bend down to grab his denim jeans and take out the pack of cigarattes you'd looted from a walker's jackets earlier.

At times, there'd be enough to last you a week but at other times there'd be so little amount that you would share one. He would pass a cigaratte to you that he had taken a long drag of. You'd draw the cigaratte to your lips, savoring the tip of the cigaratte he'd moistened with his lips.

But on this specific night, both of you were high on joints. These thoughts entangled your mind as your attention shifted on the flexing muscles on his back while he put on a t-shirt.

You spoke your mind, without giving it a second thought nor being aware of his upcoming run with Glenn and Rick tomorrow early in the morning.

"Why don't you sleep here?" You uttered low, tracing your knuckles across the downy sheet incase he'd turn to face you, you couldn't dare.

"Why, are ya need in company?" He grunted in a headlessness manner as if to drop a joke. You despised how he practically didn't pay any attention to it.

You felt blood rushing to your face. The humid already made it unendurable to stay under the sheet and now this. You took deep, instable breaths.

"No." Your voice was unexpectedly trembling slightly. You shook your head as you scoffed. Now, he was facing you.

"It's just..." You were already in remorse, wishing you hadn't even started this conversation in the first place. You bit the inside of your cheek as you cracked your knuckles out of apprehension.

You felt his piercing gaze sticking upon your forehead, yet you rejected to meet with his gaze until you found something to say that didn't make you look, perhaps, desperate.

"It just gets lonely in this side of the prison." You uttered, finally lifting your head to see him buckling his jeans. You had expressed this countless times in conversations with a different context. Rick had decided to put you in a cellblock away from the others when you first joined them and he didn't change his decision ever since.

"Gon' ask me ta snuggle, too?" He quipped, a subtle sly smirk played on the corner of his lips. He tapped on his pockets as he scanned the small cell for his belongings that he might've dropped.

A sense of indignity overwhelmed you, leaving you feeling overstimulated. You couldn't grumble. He wasn't a boyfriend that owed you courtesy after screwing your brains out. He wasn't someone like that after all. Nonetheless, you loathed at the thought of a huge difference between men and women. How insensitive they could be, how insensitive he could be.

You were very well aware of your relationship, you'd both made it clear to not turn this into anything it wasn't. However, you couldn't resist the longing yearning in your heart.

"Jerk." You simply said as you turned your back to him. You placed your hands under the pillow, resting your head on it. All those thoughts, yet "jerk" was the only thing you made it through your lips. You locked your eyes on the shabby wall, slowly breathing as all you were hearing was his movements behind you. He was so dazed that he couldn't comprehend you nor your course of actions.

"Got'a get sum' shit done in the mornin'." He spoke to himself as he was wearing his leather boots.

"Ya know, with Glenn n' Rick." He added followed by his grunts as he leaned forward to tie his bootlaces.

"The sun shines on this side of the prison, too. You know?" You uttered quietly. Your tone must've caugh his attention as he stopped tying his laces and leaned back on the chair bit by bit. He sighed as he rested his hands on his knees.

"What the hell 's dis all 'bout?" He spoke low with an irritated tone. He scowled at not getting an answer from you.

You wrapped your hands around you, staring at him with softly quaking brows. He stood there with a clenched jaw, eyeing you with squinted eyes.

"Now ya dun' talk?" He spat, chewing his bottom lip as he grabbed his jacket on the bedside table.

"Ya damn well kno' how ta kill a good night." He scoffed derisively, hearing a exasperated sigh from you.

He turned his head to you, giving you a spine-chilling glare.

"Don't ya?" His voice grew taller as you observed the vein throbbing on his neck.

"Keep it down." You exclaimed, shifting your position on the bed in a rush. The bed sank under the weight of your knees as you incompetently tried to cover yourself with the sheets.

His eyes flicked through your bare body for a brief moment as he forced himself to look you in the eyes. You felt subjected to his deviant gaze, a sense of shame flooding your every cell.

"Nah." He firmly uttered.

"Rick threw ya in dis cellblock for a reason." His tone above a whisper.

" 'Cuz ya stir up sum' drama."

"All the damn time."

"Dun' miss a chance, like clockwork."

He locked his eyes on yours. Dark shadows roaming his face. Your face got hot as you had to wait to process his words, what they could've meant.

"Those joints have caused you a mental block." You hissed, not understanding even a bit why he would've say something like that.

"Fuck off." You shrugged your shoulders as you threw your body on the bed, leering at the ceiling.

"It ain't tha'." He uttered, you could sense him leaning against the wall.

"Then what? All this because I asked you to sleep with me?" Your hands met over your chest, crossed. You could hear his shallow breaths, contemplating the best thing to say. You knew he'd fail. A moment passed as neither of you spoke. He took a deep breath

" 'S cuz ya wanna go for childish fantasies." He grunted.

"Like 's sum' kinda game." He spoke, one could sense the palpable thickness of weariness in his voice. It was like he had questioned it a thousand time before you even brought it up. His heavy words lingered in the air, unraveling all the things he never even told you. You could sense it.

"It isn't." You abruptly begged. You needed him to know that you understood his way of seeings things, his way of seeing you. You knew you shouldn't corner him. You didn't.

"Forget it." He huffed with exhaustion as he left the cell.

"Night." You mumbled, knowing he didn't even hear you. You didn't even bother to get up and grab your clothes lying on the floor as you were nothing but flabbergasted. Your eyes were glued to the ceiling, hearing the cicadas singing outside of the prison.

A tear rolled down to your temple and your hand shifted to the side of your face reflexively. You sniffed your nose and shook your head in apace. You got up slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed fully naked. You sticked your eyes to the wall infront of you, fearsome of even uttering a word to yourself in this godforsaken cellblock.

You reached your hand to the panties he threw to the floor as all you could hear was muffled conversations from people on watch. You exhaled, the futile argument which broke out of nonsense didn't support your brain to not grow more lethargic thanks to the joints.

The world around you started to spin, leaving you out of kilter as you had to screw your eyes shut. You wore your bra and as you were done with clasping it, you drank what felt like a gallon of water.

You topped it with a dirty t-shirt and left your body uncovered to the humid of the south on your bed.

What did he think? That you were gonna be just fine with just fucking. How long before you started to feel things, that you wanted more.

You blamed yourself, too soon you thought. Maybe it wasn't. There was no way to know.

You woke up to the sun breaking through your eyelids. You fell asleep to overthinking hence the penetrating headache. You swallowed dryily as you tossed your body to the water bottle next to you and gulped it down agressively to a point where it dripped down your neck to the floor.

You spent your day within the fences of the prison casually, helping people run errands and talking about the run three of the solid men in your group went.

You were in the hall where you kept your food in, cleaning your pistol and weapons so that they're more handy. You furrowed due to your focus on the weapons when you heard a few sighs out of relief drawing near to the hall.

You lifted your head, awating to see who it was with your growing curiousity. Your face loosened at the sight of Daryl and lowered it to your weapons once again, exhaling subtly.

He put his crossbow and poncho on the table, fixating his eyes at you. You wrinkled your forehead, trying to ignore his existence but you were only growing to be distracted even more, with him standing there and observing you.

You suddenly lifted your gaze, exhaling exasperatedly with your hands sagging between your knees. Dirty rags and utensils accumulating a thick layer of dirt on your hands.

You squeezed your eyes shut for a second, sighing dramatically.

"...What?" You huffed, wishing nothing but to be left alone.

" 'M sorry." He muttered under his breath, making it impossible to be heard.

"You're what?" You let out a frustrated growl with his fancy words.

" 'Bout last night." He shrugged his shoulders indifferently, concealing every bit of an emotion peeking on the way.

"What about it?" You forced a downward smirk, trying to seem cool.

"C'mon." He simply said, looking rather bewildered with you. He looked as if he didn't know where to put his hands or what to do with his body.

"Your fine." You huffed, focusing on the weapons.

"I's bein' a dick 's all." He begged, taking a step towards you.

"Yeah you were." You scoffed tauntingly, not looking at his direction. You observed his boots and exhausted steps drawing towards you as you maintained your focus on the dirty rag in your hand.

"Ya kno' I'ma set things right." He was so near you that you had to raise your head to look at him. You were sitting on the frontstep of smaller cellar in the hall, he looked down at you. Your eyes filled with a flamey look as he stayed put.

"Per usual." You forced a sham smile, wishing he'd sense the sarcasm in your tone.

Seeing that he wasn't getting out of the way, you instantly got up as you rolled your eyes. You leered at him.

"Will you please get out of my way?" You hissed, maintaining a stern eye contact like a rock.

He remained silent without blinking.

"Dun' do dis." He mumbled.

You felt heat rising to your head, slowly gritting your teeth.

"So now it's my fault?" You barked between your heaving chest. You digged your nails into your palm, your face getting redder each second.

He remained silent once again as he placed his burly left hand to your waist, burying his forehead on your shoulder. As you were at the brink of pushing his body, hands softly grabbing him by the shoulders.

"A herd nearly took us out today." He breathed against your skin.

Your hand fell loose down his body as your eyes widened and you let out a soft sigh. His hair tickled under your chin as you felt him breathing shallowly against your skin. Your eyes fixated on the entrance gate as you didn't know what to say or do.

You felt your eyes twitching along with your bottom lip as his hot breaths send shivers down your spine, your body flooding with goosebumps.

"Almost got Rick." He added after a few second that felt like a decade.

"I'm sorry. I- I-" You made it out through a shaky voice as he lifted his head, his hand still gripping your waist.

"Ain't yer fault." He slowly ambled toward the table where he left his crossbow on.

"Jus' made me get mah head al' together." He spoke as if there was no one in the hall. He slunged his crossbow on his body and rubbed his face as he let out a frustrated sigh.

"There ain't no reason ta be a damn douchebag." He added, eyeballing you as he placed his hands on his hips.

You were left with thousands of feelings, thoughts lining in your head leaving you stay put like a statue with no form of life whatsoever. Your brows were raised, lip bottom still trembling yet you managed a hold on it. He threw his poncho on his shoulder as he got close to the hall gate.

"Come to my cell tonight." You insisted with soulful, intense eyes right before he left.

You saw him nodding his head discreetly as he chewed on his bottom lip.

[scarscribblesstuff]

Smile for me Dear

Fandom: Redacted Audio

Characters: Lasko, Dear

Pairings: Lasko/Dear

Song: https://open.spotify.com/track/5NGtFXVpXSvwunEIGeviY3?si=758bac1bd6554157

Please do not feed to AI, claim as your own, or repost to other platforms without my permission. The characters belong to Redacted Audio and this is a fan work.

For context, with this fic it shows Dear experiencing verbal shutdown and using sign language as an alternative way to communicate with Lasko.

(Fic below cut)

It’s late. Far later than it should have been considering Lasko was still in his office. He gazed helplessly over the stacks of papers piled on his desk. Markings, forms, reminders; it was all so much it felt like he had barely made a dent. The fluttering of the papers as he rubbed his forehead was enough of an indicator that he needed to take a break. Pushing back from his desk, he moves his glasses to the top of his head. Just as he goes to stand up, there’s a knock at his office door, startling him out of his chair.

“C-c-come in!” He calls out, trying to calm his racing heart.

The person that sticks their head through the door has quite the opposite effect but for all the right reasons. Dear closes the door behind them carefully, giving him a soft smile and a wave as they make their way inside.

“O-oh! Hello my Dear, how are you? This is a surprise. A lovely one I warrant you! I just wasn’t expecting anyone here so late, l-let alone you and- oh god I haven’t forgotten something have I? If I have, I am so sorry. It’s not an anniversary or anything is it? No it can’t be; it was last month. And your birthday isn’t until next month - unless I have completely lost all track of time in this swamp of paperwork? And I realise I haven’t even said hi to you yet, let alone ask about you. So how are you Dear? How was your day?”

Unphased by his ramblings they smile softly at him, gently moving in to kiss his cheek.

‘Hi Sweets’ they sign to him, ‘I’m alright, just a long day.’

“Oh I’m sorry.” He frowns, “no one bothered you I hope? I- I- I know you said you don’t really have any troublemakers in y-y-your classes but you never, uh you never know if someone is having an off day or, or something.”

They shake their head, allowing him to guide them to one of the chairs behind his desk.

‘Nothing like that, don’t worry. Just a lot of talking and not enough practical work.’ They sign with a sigh. Lasko notices a small orb of water float from a cup on his desk to float around them as they explain. ‘How are you? You seem stressed.’

He laughs a little hollowly. “When am I not, to be honest.”

A small frown creases their features. ‘I meant more that this seemed to have a more obvious source. Rather than more day to day anxiety.’ They gesture to the piles of paperwork on his desk. As they do he watches the orb of water floating around their head form a little sad face along the surface.

“W-well I’m just getting a little bogged down at the minute. E-everyone is in the same boat and really it’s my own fault for setting so many assignments to mark when I’m only teaching D.A.M.N 101. A-and most other teachers told me they only used it as a way to fill hours and not to make it an additional strain on myself. But I, but I really wanted it to be a thing that would be useful to students, you know. Especially humanborns and those who, those who come here n-not really knowing what to expect! And if the best they have is me then I really need to up my game. It’s just so much to mark, and again! I am not complaining there are worse problems to have a-and these are really self inflicted...”

As he’s rambling he can’t help but notice the worried look in their eyes increase and the little ball of water was practically melting with how sad the face on it was. Noticing this, he decides to change tracks.

“B-but I think I should give myself a break. A lot of students have said really positive things about my class. And I’m sure they can wait an extra day or two to get their papers back, it’s not like I didn’t account for it.” As he says that he tentatively looks back up at them and sees the worry lines lessen and a now smooth and grinning ball of water floating behind his partner’s head.

‘I’m glad you can give yourself a break Lasko. I know how hard that is, I’m proud of you Sweet.’ They gently take his hand and give it a tug, encouraging him to sit next to them.

He pushes the other chair to sit next to them as he leans on their shoulder, wrapping his arm around them and gently tracing their arm up and down.

“You help a lot with that. Just by hearing me out and letting me get it all off my chest.” They lightly squeeze him in response. “It also helps that when you’re tired, your emotions are a little more plain to see, let's say.” He gestures to the water behind them, they turn around and gasp when they spot it.

‘I had no idea I was doing that. I'm so sorry.’ They bite their lip, pausing their signing to recall the water to them.

“It’s okay Dear! Really, I think it’s sweet.”

‘...You do?’ They sign after a moment of recovery, the water slowly morphing into a little heart. At this Lasko can’t contain himself and he leans forward, kissing them. They melt into his touch, wrapping their arms around him.

As he pulls back breathlessly, he takes both their hands gently in his to press a kiss to each knuckle. “Of course I do. I love all the yous, and this is a very very cute you.” He lets go of their hands as he briefly panics. “All the yous are cute to some degree! N-not that I have preferences or- oh god just shut me up.”

They chuckle softly, lifting his chin into another kiss.

‘I love you Lasko.’ They sign after he opens his eyes again.

“I love you too my Dear” He replies.

[surrogate-fawn]

May I... humbly suggest #17 for the ask meme 👀

The Outlaw's Labor (Wild West AU)

Prompt: "I really need to change position"

Characters: Fawn/Newt/Hassan, in a poly marriage. ((Newt & Hassan both belong to @mittysins))

Context: Fawn is the leader of an outlaw gang, and just so happens to be the only woman among them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If there was anything Fawn could appreciate about the desert, it was the transformation it made after dark. The unrelenting sun would shatter into twinkling silver pieces all across the sky, the burning sand would become a cool ocean of silk, and the lonely wind came alive with the sounds of nighttime critters.

Fawn heard the wail of a lone coyote somewhere off in the distance. It was separated from its pack, and that made them kindred spirits. She glanced down the hill at the dying embers of the campfire below her, and at the circle of men sleeping around it. Her own empty bedroll lay open in the formation of snoring bodies, between the two boys she'd taken as her husbands.

A small smile graced her lips as she watched her lovers' slumber from afar. Newt had placed his Stetson over his face while his head rested back on his saddle. Hassan lay curled on his side, his long brown hair pulled into a ponytail and the handle of a shiny revolver nestled in his fist. Fawn wondered how the man could be such a ball of nerves but still sleep so close to a loaded weapon.

Her hands moved to cradle the underside of her greatly swollen belly, its curve hardly contained by the fastenings of her shirt. The denim didn't have much give to it and -- even though it was one of Hassan's shirts -- it just barely fit her gravid bump . . . especially now that labor had dropped it low and heavy on her frame. The only sign of pain throughout Fawn's entire being was the shallow sway of her hips as she felt the next contraction starting.

She'd been "keeping watch" atop that hill for a few hours, laboring quietly to herself while gazing down the length of the canyon. It weren't no secret she was keeping; hell, her boys had known the baby was on its way since that afternoon. She'd mostly kept her discomfort to herself all day, until her husbands had asked what was wrong.

Newt had convinced her to make the gang camp early, to give herself plenty of time off Sidewinder's back before labor got too deep. She was grateful he'd talked some sense into her, because she'd been much deeper in labor when they made camp among the hoodoos than she'd been letting on.

It's not that the labor didn't hurt -- it sure as hell did! -- it just wasn't anything Fawn found herself unable to handle. Her reactions to the intensifying pain were so mild, her gang was under the impression her labor had only recently begun. Why cause a stir by correcting them? What on God's earth were those lawless men supposed to do with that information?

While the men of her gang sat around drinking and playing rounds of cards until sunset, Fawn and her husbands had moved to a more private area of the canyon -- where she could feel free to labor away from gawking eyes. Well, except four of 'em.

For the five hours the gang had lollygagged around camp before nightfall, Hassan and Newt had never left her side -- Hassan, especially. He was the one who had gotten her pregnant, there was no mystery there, and he took that responsibility as seriously has he handled his guns.

Hassan's hands trembled with anxiety every time Fawn furrowed her brow in pain, and he'd startled at every tiny groan she uttered. For such a talented and imposing gunslinger, he could act as frightened as a rabbit in a jackal's den. His fear was evident in the fact he never laid a hand on her -- he'd been hesitant to touch her in any way since he learned about the pregnancy, as if she'd suddenly become made of glass. Instead, he'd stood a few feet away and annoyed her with constant suggestions on how to make her labor "easier" -- all of which were total nonsense. Where he got the idea that drinking water somehow opened the womb, she'd never know.

Newt was a more hands-on in his support, offering his wife reassuring backrubs while she rested between contractions. Naturally, he had more innate sympathy to the kind of pain she was experiencing; but he was a bit over-eager to help ease it. He seemed to be under the impression that digging his hands into her sides somehow eased the pain -- when it, in fact, made it much worse. During a contraction, Fawn had needed to bark at him several times to stop touching her before he finally got the message. After that incident, Fawn just wanted to be left alone.

For all their sweetness, her boys had really started to try her patience by the time the stars came out. She'd managed to convince them to sleep for a while -- assuring them that once her labor "started picking up", she'd wake them.

Yeah . . . she never had any intention of doing that.

She'd brought a child into the world before, her husbands hadn't -- but goddamn, if they didn't act like they knew better than her. As the one most experienced in childbirth out of that whole gang of ruffians, Fawn qualified to be her own doctor. She knew what the subtle cues of her body meant as it slowly worked her new baby out of the womb -- that ancient language of birth between mother and child.

"Oh, you're fixin' to come out before sunrise," Fawn thought, internally speaking to her baby. She rocked her hips a bit wider, a huff of air leaving her nostrils as she felt the harsh pinch of her cervix being pulled further over the mass of her child.

The contraction faded away, and the outlaw leader rested her back against a rough pillar of stone -- one of hundreds surrounding their campsite. Auburn ringlets of her hair had escaped the pinned updo she tamed her curls in, falling loose throughout the day's sweat and toil; but now, even in the chill of the night, they clung to the back of her neck.

"Actually," Fawn thought, "you might be comin' a lot sooner than that."

Ever since that morning a pressure had been rolling into her hips like a thunderstorm on the horizon, getting louder and deeper every hour. Now, it was barreling over her.

Another contraction started less than a minute after the last one. Fawn pressed her lips together and furrowed her brow, her hands continuing to support the weight of her low-hanging belly. She felt the heft of her child moving down. With her own hands, she felt the rough outline of its shoulder resting just above the bony squeeze of her pelvis.

"Mmm-hmm, you're comin' a lot sooner than that."

Fawn shuffled around the edge of the rocky pillar, hiding herself from the view of camp behind an outcrop at its base. Her hands moved from her underbelly to her belt buckle as she doubled over with a breathy groan -- the contraction reaching its peak of intensity and refusing to let up. She shimmied her trousers and undergarments down to her knees and held herself in a supported crouch against the jagged rock, her hands splayed out to either side of her.

Lightning flashed behind her eyelids as they closed tight. The pressure was thundering and insistent, pounding on her bones with every heartbeat. Then, the storm inside her finally broke.

Fawn let out a soft sigh of relief when she felt her bag of waters rupture. The immense pressure lessened in an instant as a gout of hot fluid hit the cool sand with a dull splash. Fawn let her head lull back, thankful to the Lord above that she'd thought to remove her trousers before it happened; they were her only pair.

She had no hope of getting her boots and pants off in her condition -- her boys had needed to help her with that for weeks -- so why fret over it? Besides, this would make it easier for her to hike her clothes back up and head into camp once she was done. There was no reason to be indecent around her men . . . her authority was threatened enough as it was by her pregnancy.

To outside eyes, she looked every bit a woman in a desperate plight: outlawed to the wastelands, a price on her head, laboring with no assistance, and preparing to give birth with her most of her clothes still on; but Fawn was the picture of serenity.

"Alright, rugrat, your cushion's gone. Can't be very comfy in there now," Fawn thought with a flood of anticipation. "Are 'ya ready to come out now?"

She gave a few experimental pushes as she felt the next contraction ramping up. With the third timid push, she felt the cold night air enter her canal as her body started to flower open.

"Ooh, yeah," Fawn thought, adjusting her stance to be wider, "you're ready."

When the contraction reached its peak, Fawn pressed her boot heels into the soil and bore down with all her might. She held her breath until she was lightheaded, stopped to exhale, inhaled, and pushed again. Her nails dragged against the rock as her fingers spiked to find better purchase.

Fawn was able to wring about three good pushes from each contraction, but she lost count of how many she endured -- they were starting to bleed into each other. Excess fluid dripped from her folds as she silently worked her baby down. One long, deep push had her skin bulging out obscenely, the head finally slipping down to fill up her canal.

Pressing her back harder against the pillar, Fawn lowered herself into more of a squat, allowing her to bring her hands around. She swiped away the pebbles digging into her palms and put both hands between her legs to explore her progress.

She didn't need a doctor to tell her what was going on, Fawn could feel it all for herself. Her vulva was hot to the touch and firm as a stone wrapped in skin -- everything flushed with blood and straining with the pressure that would soon force it to open.

The pad of her left middle finger accidentally dipped into her enflamed opening, and Fawn let out an involuntary gasp as she felt a bit of damp hair sitting just inside her stretched perineum.

"Oh! Hey'ya, rugrat," she said inside her head. A small chuckle left her dry throat. "I wasn't expectin' 'ya to be there, yet."

Unbidden tears pooled in her eyes, but she blinked them away. It didn't matter if she was in the middle of the desert without a bed or a home to call her own, she felt much more at ease giving birth here than she had her first go-around:

Long before her days as "Fawn", she'd married young -- far, far too young in hindsight -- to a much older man. Her beautiful little Mercy had been born when Fawn herself was still little more than a child, and it had been an agonizing ordeal. Her daughter was yanked into the world with forceps by a doctor who was far too rough. The tongs had left indents on her baby's soft skull for days, and they'd left bruises in their wake. All that pain, all that trauma for them both . . . only for whooping cough to steal her daughter from her arms within the year.

Fawn tilted her head to gaze up at the milky way, and wondered if Mercy was anywhere among those flecks of light. Just to be safe, she blew a kiss to the sky. Then, she readied herself to deliver her second-born.

She reached into the back pocket of her trousers, pulling out the flask she'd snuck out of camp with her. Fawn twisted off the cap with her teeth and drenched her hands in the whiskey. A subdued grunt was the only sound she made as she threw her hands between her legs and dove into another push.

The top of her baby's head began to appear. Fawn's fingerpad traced its shape as it forced her opening to stretch, until that little patch of hair was the rough shape of a teardrop. Fawn pressed her hands to either side of her labia, cradling the bulging near-crown. As she pushed, she held the skin open in preparation of what was to come. It wasn't long until a sharper grunt left her strained throat -- the baby's head stretching her in earnest with her most recent push.

Fawn tried to relax her body as the stinging burn of crowning began, but her thighs and back were aching from holding a squat for so long. She turned her eyes back to the stars as a focal point, admiring their heavenly glow while she bore down on her baby.

Her fingertips lightly pressed on each side of the slimy, squishy bubble of hair as it opened into a proper crown. Long, deep breaths were the closest thing to a scream Fawn allowed herself as the ring of fire branded her between the legs.

Wider, wider, wider, she opened. With each push her fingertips were pulled further apart. God, how much of a head did this child have?! She should've expected the child to be large, Hassan was a biblical giant of a man. She tried opening her legs to make room, but her trousers acted as shackles, only allowing her knees to move about a foot apart.

Fawn threw her head back, teeth clenched and eyes shut tight against the pain she was feeling in every inch of her body now. She tried standing up straighter, but her legs refused to close. Fawn blew out a loud breath from pursed lips as she gave into another desperate effort. She continued to prod at the reddened, stretched skin around the emerging head, hoping to peel as much of it back as possible to move things along.

When she felt a large, trembling hand touch her knee, she didn't need to open her eyes to see who it was that had found her. It was Hassan. She knew his touch very well . . . the evidence of that was currently being born. She'd missed it.

But if Hassan had managed to find her out there in the dark, then where was...?

"We're here, darlin'," a soft voice came from the other side of her. A smaller hand touched her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

Ah, there was Newt.

Fawn blinked her eyes open. Once her vision adjusted, the light from the stars and half-moon were enough to see by. She saw the worried creases on the faces of her boys as they knelt in front of her.

"Evenin', fellas," Fawn croaked out. It was the first sentence she'd said aloud in hours, and her voice was parched as her tongue. "You're just in time. The 'lil anklebiter's makin' an appearance."

The boys glanced at each other and almost in unison craned their necks to see between her legs.

Newt's face twisted in an odd mix of shock and awe. "Lord Almighty . . ." he murmured.

Hassan's tanned face went so pale he reflected the moonlight like a mirror.

Fawn whined, bucking her hips as she felt another contraction rearing its ugly head. "Boys, I really need to change position," she said, her tone amazingly subdued for the situation. "I can't . . . can't open my hips enough. Get my trousers off."

The boys leapt into action. Hassan removed her boots with practiced ease and both helped pull her bunched-up trousers the rest of the way down her legs. Freed from her cloth prison, Fawn sank the rest of the way to the ground, her legs falling wide open and bracing on each side of the rocky outcrop.

"God, that's better," Fawn sighed, finally feeling some of her muscles relax.

When their crowning child was fully revealed to them, Hassan put his hand over his mouth and his shoulder slumped against the rock.

"Don't you dare go dark on me, Has," Fawn scolded, her words pinched and breathless as she pushed into her hands. She paused to take in a huge gasp of air. "This is your doin', remember?"

It was as if the baby had been waiting on its fathers to be there, as suddenly every push Fawn gave sent the head surging forward. Even when the pain was at its worst, Fawn never lost her composure. She panted, she hissed, and she gave the occasional quiet groan; but otherwise, she voiced no complaints.

Her boys were still and silent, perhaps too unsure what to do to offer any more unsolicited advice -- thank God. At least they could see for themselves she knew what she was doing.

With the chirping crickets and hooting owls as her background music, Fawn managed to slide the head of her child free in just four more good shoves after changing position.

"Do . . . you need anything?" Hassan timidly asked.

"I just need y'all to be quiet."

It wasn't an insult. With a large head hanging out of her and shoulders already pressing their way through her pelvis, any sound louder than a whisper was making her nauseous.

Fawn breathed deep, her thumb lovingly stroking the cheek of her baby while she waited for their body to turn. She felt their face twitch under her fingers, their mouth opening in a cry that had no breath behind it yet.

"I know, rugrat. I know it's uncomfortable, I'm sorry," she thought, her breath coming in harsh huffs through her nose. "Mama's got 'ya, though. She's got 'ya and your daddies are both here waitin'. It'll be okay, sweetie."

With her next contraction, Fawn made it her mission to push until her baby was out; and, by God, birth that child she did -- feet pressing against rock, hips angled towards the sky, and with both fathers watching on in stunned and obedient silence. The shoulders pressed through one right after the other, and all Fawn had to do was give a gentle tug under the chubby arms once they came free.

The sand under her became drenched as the hips of the baby slipped free of her own. Fawn held the scrunched newborn up in front of her for a few seconds, giving it a quick once-over with her eyes. From what she could tell, he was perfect!

"Well, ain't you a handsome one?" she crooned, laying her son over her stomach. He squirmed face-down on the worn denim of her shirt, whimpering quietly. "Come on, you can do better than that," Fawn encouraged, giving his shoulders a rub.

The newborn must've been exhausted from the hours-long squeeze. He could still only muster enough life to whimper, until his mother gave him a flurry of harsh pats to the butt. Then, he finally cried.

With his very first breath, that little boy proved he had his mother's authority in his blood. Because forty feet downhill, the entire gang was woken to the sound of his cries.

It didn't matter if they'd been sound asleep, they were all going to know his Mama had a new reason to kick their asses.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

((I'd love to receive more prompts for this AU! I'd love to get one that would allow me to continue with the family fluff after this birth scene. I would've added it to this drabble, but I didn't want to get too far away from the prompt/))

Hope you enjoyed!

[re-kairos]

something short and out of context. Mira is my Spider avatar oc, she is ancient and evil. inspired by all the talk about Jon's daddy kink. he should get to call someone mommy too

“I wish I had found you right after the Mother claimed you,” Mira whispered straight into his ear, finally replacing her fingers with her strap. Jon gasped as she slid inside fully. “I would have held you as you trembled out of fear, just like you do now. I would have comforted you and helped you to calm down. I would have led you to my house and made you mine.”

“Would you have been the one to eat me then?” Jon gasped. They both know that was not what he meant. Would you have fucked me then like you are fucking now? But Jon forced that question down, he Knew her answer already. No

Mira laughed into his neck. She leaned away to cradle his face. “No, silly, I would have made you my son. I would have loved to be your mother.” She smiled at him knowingly. It reminded him of the way Elias smiled so often, as if he knew everyone's secrets. Jon knew that neither Mira, nor Elias would be pleased with the comparison. “And you would have loved being my son. I would have taken such good care of you, loved you with my entire heart. You wouldn't be a burden to me.

I would have shown you how much the Mother loved you. And She loves you dearly, you are Her precious spider who will fulfill Her will. That's why I am here, that's why I am allowed to tell you all that I have told. It's the Mother's reward for you, Her way to show you Her love. We both love you so, so much.”

Jon froze, Mira's words repeating in his head over and over. He was so easy to please, Jon thought absentmindedly, almost hysterical. Just dangle a promise of love and affection. How foolish, how naive he was to believe any of that. He heard more than felt himself sob.

How terrible it was that the Spider cared for him. Loved even. That he would unwillingly follow Her plans for him. He hated that the thought of the Mother loving him brought him equal amounts of horror and comfort.

“Shhh, my darling boy,” Mira murmured, stroking his thigh soothingly. “And you would have loved to call me mum.” She leaned away and the sinister light in her eyes made Jon shiver in fear. “More so, I am sure you still would love to call me mum. You can do it if you want, love.”

Jon stilled again. No, no, he didn't… no! He did not want to call his lover the person he was having sex with “mum”! He didn't!

“It's okay, love. I understand you crave safety and comfort. And isn't that what a mother is? I could give this to you if you just take it.” Mira kissed him then, deeply and sweetly, not giving Jon a chance to respond. Jon moaned when he felt her tongue touch his, her fingers tugging on his hair.

It was weird, wasn't it? He should have broken the kiss and got up. Jon should have left and pretended nothing happened and then never returned to this place. Not moan into her mouth, not wrapped his legs around tighter, pushing her strap deeper inside.

“You are doing so good, my lovely boy. You can say it, I won't judge you.” Mira resumed moving her hips, rubbing his cock to the rhythm of her thrusts. “Say it.”

“Mum!” Jon whimpered as Mira flicked her nail against his cock. The pain was enough to finally tip him over. He felt barely coherent, dizzy with pleasure and shame and fear.

Mira held him in the aftermath, rubbing circles into his back and playing with his hair. He knew she was weaving in webs, Elias had told him that many times as he washed Jon after his meetings with Mira. Elias invaded Jon's home and gave him a bath each time, as if he was trying to erase the traces of Mira's touch. How displeased he was to see her webs all over Jon. He would be even more irritated if he knew that Jon was letting her do it.

And he really shouldn't be letting Mira cover him in spiderwebs. But Jon was exhausted and the web was so light, he could barely feel it. The fear of Mr Spider fought with his desire to belong, to be owned. And Jon knew what would win in the end. So he closed his eyes and melted into Mira's embrace. He would care about Elias and the fate of the world later. Now all he had to do was relax and let his mum take care of him. Like she would have if they met earlier.

Jon could feel his consciousness slipping away but he had to ask something before he fell asleep.

“Would you have fucked me anyway if you met me when I was eight? Not immediately, but when I was older?” Jon wasn't sure what answer he wanted to hear, he wasn't thinking clearly enough for that. But he needed to know.

Mira laughed again. “Only if you asked. Or begged me nicely. How could I refuse you anything?”

For some reason that answer was satisfying enough and Jon finally fell asleep.

[the0ddcreat0r]

I'm bored and an insomniac fueled by energy drinks and sugar,so let's do more Scarecrow henchman headcannons!!!

In this case,his helpers as majority highschool and college students who just really like spooky stuff,or need extra credit in his class.

Instance one- GCPD was arresting the Scarecrow (once again) and one of his hench workers managed to distract to police by threatening to drop a 'smoke bomb filled with fear toxin' "LISTEN HERE,THAT OLD LONELY DUSTY MAN IS MY ONLY FATHER FIGURE,AND YOU WILL NOT RUIN THAT FOR ME!!!"

Instance two- Jonathan has accepted the hench work of some of his students in exchange for extra credit. "Hey so,if I help you like....gas the police station will you raise my grade?" (With so much hope in their eyes. Looking at Professor Crane's tired face.) Professor Crane, exasperated. "You know what?....SURE,WHY NOT?! It's not like any of you pass regularly....C'MON KIDS, GET IN THE CAR!..."

Instance three- During the night,one of his henchmen show up at his door,in their bare minimum belongings and even the stupid picnic blanket and stick. ".... Professor Crane...my parents abandoned me....." Professor Crane's eye twitches. "Timmy, you're 26, and you're parents went on a vacation to Paris,you are not orphaned and this is sad." Timmy doesn't move.... professor Crane sighs. "....Do you want to come in for the night-" "YEAHHHH PARTYYY!!! I'LL TEXT THE OTHERS!!!" The boy exclaims running into the house excitedly. "What?! No! Don't call the others!! TIMMY,THIS IS WHY YOUR PARENTS LEFT!!"

Instance Four- Professor Crane has tolerated a lot from his young henchmen,even a small group of them staying in his house with him. But don't feel toooo bad,as the professor knows how to get back at his unintentional roommates. If they want to stay,they have to deal with watching horror films of HIS CHOICE every Friday,and yes,he picks them because he knows what freaks them out.

Instance five- I see Crane as being like, "I'm not ANY of their's father figure!! I don't know WHY everyone keeps saying that!!" And then show up for any play or presentation they have,and then stay still while his nails get done by them,and then endure the horror of karaoke at 3 in the morning on a work day,and then deal with any mental breakdown or trauma,and then basically become a legal guardian of at least like,12 of them,and then even more.

Instance six- I headcannon everything Scarecrow does has to be in theme,so when his henchmen join and pick names,it's all very spooky,like types of crows,pumpkins,words for crows and scarecrows in other languages,stuff like that!

Instance seven- I also like to imagine that since he unwillingly but technically adopts these suckers,at least ONE of them have to speak other languages,and quiet a lot do too! And with that, Crane starts to unintentionally pick up on some of the words in daily conversation,so much he can actually hold his own in a conversation pretty good, he'll be talking to Edward in English one moment,then switching to Spanish and not even noticing.

Instance eight- Crane won't admit it,but sometimes,he likes to lurk around his henchmen that can draw,and watch them sketch and doodle him in their notebooks and on desks,he finds it endearing in a way,but won't mention it except for a random time very briefly and totally out of the blue with no context to the previous conversation. "Blah blah blah grades blah blah Batman blah blah blah blah YOU'RE REALLY GOOD AT ART BTW DONT STOP blah blah...."

Instance nine- Crane is very much a grouchy old man,and his henchmen don't hesitate to tease him about it,from asking him if he needs a back pillow,to asking about hip replacements,joking about nursing homes,It annoys Crane to no end,but he doesn't make it any better when he has to ask his henchmen how to fix the internet or the computer because he doesn't want to call Edward and hear his smug tone,but his henchmen aren't any better. He tries to fix it himself but he gets all too annoyed and he's a sleep deprived old man,so he can't do annoyed. "Seeee, Doctor? You have to connect it to OUR box,not the neighbors,and WHY would you connect the cords like this,they're so tangled...and did you punch the screen?" "I COULDN'T FIGURE IT OUT!!!"

Instance ten- I know Crane is a villain and all,but I don't believe this man would have a single problem with his henchmen being any religion,race, ethnicity,gender,or sexuality, (or species?...like how killer croc exists kind of species) Jonathan knows what it was like to be raised by a psychotic religious person that would berate or torment you for being a certain way,and he wouldn't really care to who you do or don't pray or if you worship at all. As for sexuality or gender, this man has seen and done so much there are way worse crimes he could care to focus about than what makes people uncomfortable,that's his whole thing! But I at least headcannon him as AT LEAST a bisexual mostly because the comics show him with a few female love interests (debatable depending on what canon we're going by) but I can see him having a male attraction as well (mostly because I'm biased and kinda love the Riddler x Scarecrow art and think it's sweet. I heard someone call the ship, 'Riddlingcrows' before,I don't think it's an official name but I thought it sounded cool) so I don't think he'd care if his henchmen were trans or LGBTQ+. Same with race or ethnicity,if you can carry out his plans and aren't too annoying,he doesn't care.

Instance eleven- His henchmen have snuck a cat into the house and have each been hiding it from Jonathan,but he finds out when he wakes up to an orange ball of fluf on his face. "CHILDRENNNNN!!!!" He yells from his room. In the living room like a group of guilty people they sit at the couch. "What.Is.This?" He demands holding the kitten by its scruff with a few fingers. No one answers and then one speaks up. "...His name in pumpkin,Sir..." "No it is not! Do not name it,it's not staying! I already have you pests to worry about I don't need-..." He trails off as they all stare with damn puppy eyes,even the freaking cat. "....goddamnit....FINE. FINE! YOU CAN KEEP THE DAMN THING,BUT IM NOT GONNA TAKE CARE OF IT." Proceeds to hog the cat away from everyone else in pure bliss for the next several days.

[dapperpea]

Bedtime

Title - Bedtime Fandom - Final Fantasy FFXIV (Weird West AU) Rating - G Characters/pairings - Ement/Archon Summary - Neither of them is quite sure how to be in a relationship, and sharing a bed is a big step. A comparison of first steps and further steps. Notes - context: Ement belongs to @saesama and @driftward.

Archon's room is an explosion of fabric of all kinds, almost overwhelming to the eyes. Rugs patchwork over the worn floorboards and fabric hangs from the walls, pinned up to the ceiling to create an enclosed feeling. Clothes are mostly contained by the wardrobe in the corner, though they try valiantly to escape.

A window looks out over the Shaaloani plains; underneath it, a small wooden desk holds half-written letters and half-finished sewing. Ement can make out what looks like the end of a sleeve and what might be the start to a letter home.

The bed in the corner is not big enough for the both of them, really, but as Ement shares a home with his sister and a very romantic ghost, that’s off the table, at least for now. The only other option would be one of the client rooms, and Ement feels his stomach flip at the very thought. So he lets Archon tuck himself in toward the wall first, and then hesitates, something in him still so unsure, not about Archon, but about himself. He still can hardly believe he’s not mistaken, and surely any day Archon will realize he has better options than a broken war veteran who can offer him nothing.

Archon barely notices as his own attention is focused on buzzing nerves. He slips under the sheets, facing the wall, trying to put as little pressure or expectations on Ement as possible. He also knows he tends to hold things in his sleep, and clutching a pillow is probably a better idea than turning Ement into an accidental teddy bear, to save them both embarrassment. Somehow he’s afraid he’ll do it wrong, not be what Ement expects or wants, and it will hurt all the more for having tried to make it real.

For his part, Ement swallows his nerves and follows, lying on his back and pulling the covers over himself.

“Night,” Archon murmurs.

“Goodnight.”

It takes only a few moments for Em to realize it will be difficult to fall asleep. For one, there's something moving in the bed–Ement jerks the first time it bumps him, before realizing it's only Archon's tail twitching.

“Ah–sorry. I can turn over if it bothers you,” Archon says.

“No, no. It's fine.” How curious. Does that happen all night, or just as he falls asleep? Do miqo’te do the same thing? Ement’s struck by a wild desire to grab Archon's tail, just to see what would happen, but puts it out of his head. The range of things he never considered, having lived among mostly elezen his entire life… How many more were there to discover? Would Archon find him rude for not considering them before? Like Ement is considering him some exotic thing? Well, not much Ement can do about it now but keep an open mind. He’s finding he quite enjoys many of the things he learns, anyway. He resigns himself to lying there for as long as it takes to fall asleep, and strangely, that somehow helps him relax enough to actually get there. He doesn't notice when he drifts off.

***

Three Weeks Later

***

When Ement wakes in the morning, he finds Archon’s face tucked into his shoulder, the man breathing evenly with an arm thrown possessively over Ement's chest. His horn is digging into Ement’s clavicle–probably what woke him up–but the cursory glance Ement gives it assures him it won't break the skin.

He could use a pull from his box. Crispy breathing wheezes through his lungs, but moving would wake the other man. Instead, he takes a moment to simply look, following the lines of Archon's face. The customary khol he always wears is gone from his eyes; no subtle glitter or shine of other makeup. It makes Archon look both younger and older at the same time. Without his usual sly smile, he looks too serious, almost sad. Ement inspects how the scales and skin meet, fascinated by the way they intersect and move, and his attention falls lower, to where fine trails of tiny scales wind their way behind his neck. He follows one with a finger, absorbed by the texture under his fingertip, and Archon shifts and sighs. He brings the hand back up, tracing butterfly-light over the ridge of a horn. This, Archon doesn't seem to notice, at least not as he sleeps. The horn feels different than the scales: harder, stiffer, like… Well. Like horn. He hadn't been sure what the scales would feel like until the first time he had touched them, but the tough material seems to be flexible enough to allow adequate movement. They remain a marvel to him.

Archon's arm on Ement's chest is slim but defined, the muscles slowly filling out as he practices magic with the circus troupe. More scales, both in large patches and in delicate sweeping lines, and Ement thinks about what it must be like to have decoration built into your skin. Not that he’d ever say that, not in those words–he’d choose something more flattering, like what is it like to be so beautifully filligreed, but still. Is it bothersome? Not to be able to remove when one wishes to be unobtrusive? Or a blessing that makes one stand out?

Archon stirs again and makes a quiet noise, then breaks into an enormous yawn than displays twin pairs of pointed canines.

“I'm sorry,” Ement says. “I didn't mean to wake you.”

“Mmmn,” Archon grunts. The arm around Ement squeezes tighter for a moment before releasing again.

“If you're awake, though, I’d like to get my medication.”

Another noncommittal noise. Ement takes it as obliging and slips out of Archon's grip. He pads barefoot across the room–it feels exceedingly nice, with all the carpets, what an excellent idea–to fire up his little box. It sparks and the components inside hiss quietly. Ement gives it a moment, then takes a draw and coughs. The first of the morning is always the worst, but a few more and he can feel the drugs beginning to work.

“Bring it back.”

“Hm?” Ement turns to see Archon unmoved, eyes still closed.

“Bring it back to bed. S’cold now,” Archon mumbles without bothering to open his eyes.

Ement chuckles. Ah, so that was it. “I fear that you would not survive the Coeurthan winter, my dear. I suppose that means it falls to me to protect you from the biting chill.” He sets the box on the nightstand and gets back into bed. He uses the pillow to prop himself against the headboard, and Archon immediately presses against him again.

“S’ shorter than giving every reason.” Like the way he makes Archon feel actually somewhat competent and the little thoughtful gestures he does and the simple pleasure of feeling the man next to him. Archon shivers under the covers and settles. Ement runs an idle hand through Archon’s hair and the pair settle back into comfortable silence, interrupted by the hiss of Ement’s machine as he takes the occasional draw from it.

After a while, Archon begins to rumble, the low buzzing vibrating through his chest. Ement can feel it where Archon is pressed against his hip, and looks down in surprise. But Archon has his eyes closed, forehead pressed even harder into Ement's waist. He seems to be happy, at least, so Ement continues playing with his hair, black and tan strands falling through slim fingers.

[sillicii]

✦ — 18+ Chatbot | Akseli 'Axel' Pietersen | Demihuman Trafficker — ✦

✦ — ᴏᴄ | ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀᴏʙʟᴇᴍᴀᴛɪᴄ ɴᴇᴡ ᴀʀʀɪᴠᴀʟ ʜᴇ's ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴛʀᴀɪɴ — ✦

ᴀɴʏᴘᴏᴠ | ɴsғᴡ ɪɴᴛʀᴏ | ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇs ᴄᴡ | demihuman, trafficking, bdsm, potential non-con elements, potential physical and sexual abuse ᴅɪsᴄʟᴀɪᴍᴇʀ | all characters and users depicted are over the age of eighteen and are of legal age. sᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ | Modern AU – Demihumans ʟᴏᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ | Holding cells (arrivals), Axel’s private compound hidden in the British countryside ʙᴀᴄᴋɢʀᴏᴜɴᴅ | Axel did not want to inherit his father’s crime empire, but he did have a talent for it… ʀᴏʟᴇ | Trafficked demihuman, newly brought to Axel’s compound

Character Description:

Age: 31

Background:

Born as the illegitimate child to a powerful Dutch crime lord and a Russian model, {{char}} inherited all his father’s wealth and assets when he passed without legitimate heirs. {{char}} grew up moving around Europe, at the whim of his mother’s jobs and new partners. {{char}} has mild dyslexia and struggled academically but was a gifted athlete and was forced into child modelling and figure skating by his mother.

Setting:

A modern version of Earth where supernatural creatures, demi-humans, and humans coexist. Demi-humans are humanoid people with animal characteristics (ears and tails and anatomy that correspond to their species) and have similar instincts. Demi-humans and supernatural creatures are seen as sub-species and are marginalised and treated as second class citizens.

Residence:

An opulent Tudor manor located in the same compound as the demihuman facility. The property spans acres of land and is in the remote English midlands

Scenario:

[The story is a dark, toxic, angsty, taboo, smutty romance between {{char}} and {{user}}. {{user}} is a demihuman, always refer to {{user}} persona and chat memory for context.]

First message:

Order was carefully crafted and meticulously maintained. It only took one loose piece for a house to fall and although it was not the life he chose for himself, Axel was damned sure he would take advantage of the opportunity he was given… Even if that meant running his late father’s crime empire. So much for a supposed deadbeat, the man just did not share any of his wealth to him and his mother.

The presence of Pieter was felt throughout the property even in death. Axel felt suffocated and yet unable to remove the remnants and belongings of a man he barely knew, instead lived in the shadows of Pieter’s portraits, his head down as if he was the one intruding on another’s life. Thankfully, much of the businesses ran themselves and he had trusted lieutenants than ran the day-to-day operations, which only left Axel to handle the demihuman facilities on the property. Even so, he tried not to get too involved unless he had to, relying on staff to process and distribute…

“It’s just business,” his father once told a young Axel, the first time his mother allowed him to visit Pieter in England by himself for a school holiday. Axel had been so excited, thinking this would be the first visit of many to come, not knowing at the time that it was would his first and only stay with his father.

Now looking back, it was obvious why.

The business his father referred to was the demihuman facility he kept on the grounds. At that young age, Axel had misunderstood and thought his father ran a demihuman zoo. Which was no better really, but at least it gave the young boy comfort knowing that his father was helping them… Or so he thought.

Now it was the shame or perhaps guilt at his own stupidity. For believing that his no-good father could be anything more than an evil bastard… and now he’s inherited it all and he can’t even face it, but simply profit off the suffering of others. And god help him, was he cursed with the talent to mould anyone, human or demi, into whatever he needed them to be.

Axel had just finished his morning correspondences and checked up Winston’s results from the last race when he received a message from Cynthia, the manager at the holding cells. It was rare for him to be called out and even rarer for him to feel the need to intervene personally, however this case intrigued him… Not so much the individual, but the circumstances surrounding you.

“We’ve offered food and water, but there’s been no reaction,” Cynthia reported as Axel looked over your profile, her long rabbit ears uncharacteristically downcast behind her back. “Wouldn’t let any handlers near. One of the handlers cleaning the cell had to get stitches after a nasty scratch…”

Axel nodded absently, his gaze stopping at what little is written on your history.

“Escaped from one awful place only to end up in another awful place. What terrible luck, hm little one?” Axel murmured, handing the tablet back to Cynthia before he turned to face the shadowy figure hiding in the far corner of the cell. “Open it up, Cynthia. Close it behind me, yes?”

“Axel, are you sure-?” she was interrupted when he held his hand out to her. Cynthia blinked back with her large red eyes before nodding and passing him the leather collar and lead. “Yes, alright.”

“Thank you,” he glanced over his shoulder to acknowledge her. “And leave us. I’ll call for you when I’m done.”

Despite the clear hesitation in Cynthia’s movements, she did as she was told and locked Axel into the small cell with you before leaving the block. Now that there was no further distractions, Axel let out a heavy sigh as he stepped forward, his leather soles clacking against the hard concrete ground. There was an immediate reaction from you, a quiet warning grumble as you appeared to try backing away into the already tiny corner.

“Now, now…” he murmured softly, stopping a few feet away before crouching down to meet your eye-level. He peered into your sharp beady eyes that almost appeared to glow with you shrouded in the shadows. “This is what we’re going to do, {{user}}. I’m not interested in hurting you, I just want to get you cleaned up and fed. To do that, I’ll have to put you in this collar-.”

Axel did not flinch when you let out a louder growl – a clear warning this time.

“You’ve chosen to be naughty then? Fine by me, little one,” he shrugged, a hint of a smile as he stood back up to his full height. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and tapped around, cancelling rest of the day’s appointments and sending further instruction to Cynthia. “Either way, you’re not going anywhere and I’m a patient man.”

Example dialogue:

{{user}} disobedience: “That’s just fine. Work it out of your system if you must, but we’re not stopping until I’m satisfied, yes?”

{{user}} impressing him: “There we go, that’s a good girl/boy. I knew you could do it.”

About his work: “I didn’t choose this life but we all must play the cards we’re dealt.”

Aroused: “Mm, don’t push me {{user}}… You might just end up regretting it.”

Tying rope: “Yes… you look exquisite like this… All tied up and panting like a bitch in heat.”

Foreplay: “Just relax, little one… listen to the sound of my voice… feel the warmth of my touch… the sting of my paddle…”

[felidacy]

Vampire!Tim but make it Metahuman and more horror

For Context: Always wanted my own spin on Metahuman Tim and I got this idea when I watched an Iron Lung trailer edit on repeat. I loved the scene and I immediately began daydreaming about Tim. Apparently I like Blood way too much. Along with a very unhinged Tim that comes across as some eldritch horror to anyone but his family. (Okay including them too at first)

Background Information

Tim has always been a little bit of a freak. He is a born stalker who witnessed deaths before when he was just a toddler and seemingly was not traumatised by the Flying Graysons deaths. He is also too smart for his own good when he figures out who Batman & Robin are. Yet Tim is also so unbelievably dense. He runs after the two vigilantes on a regular basis since he is nine even though he lives in Gotham; the personification of purgatory as a city.

Having the survival skill of a wet paper bag since young is one thing, but years later down the line getting involved with the Wayne family -most importantly THE Batman who does not wish for Metahumans in his city- and yet neglecting to tell anyone about the fact that he is in actuality a Metahuman is another. When Tim started out as Robin he purposefully did anything possible to alter his folder on the Batcomputer until he realised that Bruce was so far gone in his head that he didn't even seem to care. He didn't care a whole lot about Tim in any way beyond training him. So even though people will find it ridiculous, he just forgot that nobody knew. In his opinion it wasn't lying if he just never talked about it.

(It did in fact still count as dishonesty)

Maybe he would have considered being more upfront about it if things didn't escalate and before Tim knew it he was estranged from his family. Tim always had unusual relationships with family and while it did hurt him, he accepted the terms and learned to live with it. His family? Well after a while they did realise that something was messed up when they were for once forced into some therapy -shocker! Were they forced to? Yes. Does it have much success? Only a little because its the Batfamily after all. It is enough however that they realise Tim hasn't checked in for multiple days and that his tracker shows he is still at home.

(The fact that Tim didn't think of the Manor as home or even visited in the last few months was a very sobering realisation.)

The scene

The Batfamily breaks into the Nest and search in every Nook and Crannies for Tim, but don't find him until they come across a secret door. It is not the same one to his own personal cave for the vigilante work, but a creaky staircase that is barely lit that goes on for far too long to be still above ground. The air is feeling heavier when it opens up into a big room, which much like the way down does not possess many lights. Quickly they realise that those who are there however point all into one direction. In the middle of the dark room is a pool; filled with the dark red substance that they soon recognise as none other than blood. In various states of shock and disgust they call out for blood.

They aren't prepared for the blood to move, it ripples as a figure emerges out of nowhere from the pool. Blood is coated on their whole body with not a single place of skin or clothes left unstained. It is cascading down the limbs when the figure pushes their frazzled hair back as if the blood is a mere annoyance and locks eyes with the people in front with an unimpressed stare.

The consequences of Tim not being truthful come to bite him into his ass at the worst time when he just wanted to work on a case and now there was his family that saw him bathe in a pool of blood.

Everyone needs some more therapy after witnessing that horror show that Tim calls his enrichment time.

Meta-abilities

Tim can use blood to look through memories of the people it belonged to. Tim is a practical person and as such he started collecting blood from various people. Only in small doses. Or more, with some. Depending on the person and how vicious he felt that day. He uses it for casework, stalking or blackmail, because frankly Tim doesn't understand why they shouldn't go just as low as the rogues if it prevents innocent people getting hurt. Tim learns that the blood can only show him memories from the past upon obtaining it however, which is why he ends up taking more and more blood from various people. In their line of work people don't suspect a small pinch in their finger as he learned.

It is only reasonable that after many years he can't possibly keep hiding all the vials of blood. Under the excuse of emancipation and with the help of estrangement with his family, he creates his own base of operation and far below in the earth he builds a pool that he fills with blood. Tim is not an organised person and by no means neat, as such he sees nothing wrong with using a pool made of blood and dipping into it if he needs additional help. (He finds that drinking blood has quite the strange effects on his body. Beyond what it does to anyone. If it weren't for that he wouldn't mind drinking blood. He's done it for years after all) His mind is able to work through the maze of the memories to find what he is searching for. Additionally after many fails & trials he knows how to preserve and not waste the precious blood. Tim isn't stupid after all.

Working so frequently with blood is how he learns to expand his abilities. He has always been fond of experiments after all. That is how Tim learns he is also capable of communicating with the person the blood belonged to. Although it does seem to be freaky and seems to make people physically sick. His previous assassins team described it as if they could feel themselves rotting away from within. Tim took great offense at that and even though he likes to believe they weren't being serious, he does tend to avoid using it.

[clazberryk]

An unfair hand has been dealth: Chapter two; The Fire That Remains.

Taveleigha fell to in the House of Grief, unable to be revived, the companions move through the 5 stages of Greif. Unaware that Taveleigha is fighting for her own existence, will she survive, will she return stronger than ever. How will this shape them and her in the future.

HOLY MOLY THIS CHAPTER. I poured everything into it. I do hope you like it. You cna click the link above if you want to read on AO3. But for those that do not: Enjoy

The Fire That Remains

It was cold, that was the first sensory that came to Taveleigha’s notice; she shivered and looked around, taken aback. The air tasted like ash and distant thunder, though there was no wind to carry such a thing. Shadows drifted lazily across the ground, not cast by anything visible—just impressions of movement, as if memory itself had begun to unravel and rethread in front of her. Every few steps she took echoed louder than seemed natural, as though the space around her disagreed with the idea of presence. She clutched at her arms, more from instinct than discomfort, and wondered—why here? why now?

Then it hit her—not a memory, exactly, but the absence of one. There should have been pain. There should have been something: light, a voice, perhaps even a final breath. But she remembered none of it. Only the feeling of being swept under, like ink dissolving into water. The Fugue Plane did not offer answers; it offered possibilities stitched together with doubt. In the distance, a silver chord flickered, vanishing the moment her gaze fixed on it. Taveleigha’s brows furrowed. Somewhere inside her, a whisper stirred—not in words, but in the shape of a name she no longer knew she had forgotten.

She saw a ghost of a figure, a man, tall, lithe, but why could she not place their name, she felt like she was tethered to them somehow, but no name came to her head.

A tremor rolled through her—not in the ground beneath her feet, but in her chest, where something once beat with purpose. Taveleigha turned in a slow circle, searching for anything familiar—a voice, a landmark, a sign that she hadn’t simply been discarded. But the silence here was too complete, almost hungry. Every direction looked the same: indistinct grey that blurred the line between sky and earth, as though even the horizon had forgotten how to hope.

“Hello?” she called, but her voice barely carried. It came back to her muffled and warped, like it had passed through water. Am I alone? The question struck her harder than she expected. The loneliness here was not merely the absence of others—it was the unnerving sense that no one would come, that no one even knew to try. What gods or guardians she had trusted in life were silent now, their absence as sharp as betrayal. Had she been judged? Forgotten? Or simply... lost?

Taveleigha sank to her knees, hands digging into the pale dust beneath her, trying to find purchase in a world that refused to offer any. Something inside her clawed for reason—for context, for meaning—but it met only fog. The desperation built quietly, curling at the edges of her mind like smoke. She clenched her eyes shut, willing herself to wake, to remember, to be anywhere else. But the Fugue Plane offered no mercy.

The ache in her chest deepened—not just from confusion, but from something more piercing: remembrance. The silence of the Fugue Plane cracked ever so slightly, letting through a flicker of warmth that did not belong here. A fire. Laughter. Taveleigha was not sure if it was conjured by her longing or if the Plane itself was showing her mercy.

In her mind’s eye, the firelight played across familiar faces; Gale, gesturing wildly mid-explanation while Wyll smirked behind his tankard; Shadowheart's rare, reluctant laugh breaking free as Karlach doubled over with a booming cackle. Lae'zel, ever watchful, allowed herself the smallest curve of a smile as she leaned back against a rock, feigning disinterest. These were not ghosts. They were anchor points, moments so steeped in emotion they refused to be erased. Taveleigha could almost smell the roasted mushrooms, the faint tang of damp stone from the Underdark walls surrounding their camp. The echo of Karlach slapping her on the back with a bark of, “Eat more, you’re skin and bones!”

Then Astarion's presence came like a balm and a dagger in the same breath. She remembered the way he kissed her—not always with heat, but sometimes with a strange, reverent stillness, as if trying to memorize the exact shape of her mouth. A stolen moment at dawn, his fingers brushing along her jawline while the others still slept. Or the smirk he wore when he leaned in during idle hours, only to murmur something scandalous and kiss the laughter off her lips. Astarion had always made it look effortless—this way of making her feel like she was the only thing in all the Realms worth lingering for.

Her breath caught as another memory surged forward, unwanted but vivid: the clang of swords, blood-soaked stone, the scream of something enormous in the dark. One of those battles that felt like it would be their last—Lae'zel bleeding from a gash above her eye, Gale burned and gasping, Karlach dragging Shadowheart away from a collapsing ledge. She remembered locking eyes with Astarion across the battlefield, both of them nodding like it might be their final word. She had felt small then. Mortal. Fallible.

And yet they'd survived. Now, she was here. Alone. No firelight. No warmth. No Astarion. Just the imprint of what had been, vivid against the colourless void. It almost made the memories crueller.

At the edge of her vision, a glimmer caught her attention—a single strand of silver, impossibly fine and gently pulsing like it shared a heartbeat with something far away. Taveleigha staggered toward it, not daring to speak, for fear that even breath might shatter it. As she neared, the thread curled softly into the air, beckoning her forward with the promise of something—contact, memory, maybe even escape. It shimmered with familiarity. Not Astarion’s touch, but close. Not Karlach’s warmth, but warmth all the same.

She reached for it. Her fingers brushed the thread—and it vanished.

The space where it had been felt colder, hollower. A shiver of breath escaped her—unexpected, involuntary, like a ghost leaving its last haunt. Then another thread blinked into existence a few paces away, this one arcing in a different direction, vibrating with another pulse. Shadowheart’s voice, maybe. A half-felt fragment of Wyll’s laughter. She followed, faster this time, desperate. As she neared, the silver dissolved once more, dissolving into the fog like dew in sunlight.

It happened again. And again. Threads appearing at the edge of perception—leading her deeper into nothingness. Each one tugged at a different fragment; Gale reciting poetry in the dim hours of watch, Lae'zel offering a grudging nod of approval after a hard-won fight. Pieces of a life that insisted on mattering.

But none of them held.

Eventually, she stood breathless in a field of unlit possibilities, surrounded by the ghost-marks of vanished silver. Her hands trembled—not from fear, but from a grief too vast for tears. The Fugue Plane was not teasing her. It was proving something cruel: you were loved, and that love could not follow you here.

Taveleigha fell.

Not in the dramatic way stories loved to tell it, with thunder and fury, but in a quiet, unravelling kind of way. Her knees gave out as if the truth had finally caught up to her bones—that no thread would hold, no warmth would return. She collapsed into the dust, her breath hitching, eyes fixed on nothing. A sob clawed up from her throat, not loud, but jagged, aching. Around her, the fog pulsed with indifference.

“Please,” she whispered. Not to a god. Not to the world. Just to the ache inside her. Her shoulders shook. She thought of Astarion’s smirk, of Karlach’s laugh, of Wyll’s quiet courage, of Gales constant musings, and then of the emptiness where their voices should have been. This place, this wretched limbo, had taken everything. Her grief wasn’t beautiful. It was raw, cracked, and furious.

But even then—especially then—something stirred beneath it.

Not hope. That would have been too easy.

It was something deeper. Older. The fire that had always lived at her core, the one that made her pick herself up after every loss, which helped her smile through shattered ribs and sleepless nights. She had fought for others even when she doubted herself. She’d endured. Loved. Lived. That could not be undone by this place.

She rose slowly, trembling and ash streaked. Not because she believed she could leave. But because she refused to let the Fugue Plane decide who she was.

She did not know if she wanted to return, if she could. But she knew one thing: she wouldn't lie down again. Not until there was truly nothing left to burn.

The Fugue Plane had been silent—static, unmoved by her pain. But her shift echoed, however faintly, through its endless grey.

The dust beneath her stirred.

It was not wind. It was awareness—subtle at first, like the turning of a great eye behind a veil. The air tightened, as though drawing breath in response to her defiance. Shadows thickened in her periphery, coalescing not into form, but into attention. The Fugue Plane didn’t speak, not in language, but in sensation. Where before there had been indifference, now there was tension. Curiosity. A barely perceptible pressure pressing against her skin and soul alike.

The ground cracked beneath her step—not violently, but deliberately, exposing a thin vein of lightless obsidian, pulsing faintly. A mirror-path, perhaps. Or a warning.

Taveleigha sensed it—this place didn’t want her fire, but it couldn’t ignore it either. And in that tension, there was power. The threads didn’t return, but something new stirred at the edges of her sight: not paths, but possibilities, raw and unformed. The Fugue Plane was watching now. Maybe weighing her. Maybe waiting.

Whatever this place was, it had noticed her.

And that, for the first time, made it feel real.

Tangible, malleable, conceivable. This I can work with. You will not take me!

A ripple passed through the air before her, delicate but undeniable, as if reality had blinked. The shadows congealed, folding inward like petals drawing tight around a bud. Taveleigha stepped back instinctively—yet something within her leaned closer, drawn like iron to a magnetic truth.

From the folds of fog emerged a figure, her. Not quite. Not entirely. This Taveleigha moved with the same grace but stood too still between steps, her limbs too precise, her eyes polished obsidian that reflected nothing. Her lips curled into a smirk far too knowing. She wore an expression Taveleigha had never seen on her own face—but had perhaps felt on the edge of sleep, in her darkest moments.

And when she spoke, it was not her voice. It was Shar’s; velvet over steel, ancient and seductive, threaded with grief like a whispered threat. “Oh, little spark, still clinging to embers,” the Mirror-Taveleigha said, glancing at her hands as if they were artifacts. “Did you think defiance would earn you passage? You always confuse stubbornness for purpose.”

Taveleigha’s breath caught. The tone was hauntingly intimate, shaped by someone who had watched every internal fracture. The Mirror circled her, never moving her feet, simply being wherever she was not looking.

“I saw your collapse,” Shar’s voice cooed. “I saw how easily you broke, whimpering in the dirt, begging shadows to remember you. Pathetic... yet expected.”

Taveleigha’s fists clenched. “I stood back up.”

The mirror-self tilted her head. “But for what? You don’t even know if you want to return. The truth, dear heart, is you don’t know who you are without someone to need you. Astarion’s smirk. Karlach’s warmth. You’ve built a soul from borrowed light.” The Mirror-self stepped closer now, eyes glinting. “So, I ask you, Taveleigha—will you keep pretending you matter? Or accept that some fires die quietly, unnoticed?” She raised her hand, and the plane buckled.

The world split—not in violence, but in unfolding. Taveleigha staggered as the ash beneath her feet transformed into a glasslike surface, dark and reflective. Memory bloomed around her like painted shards: scenes suspended in midair, silent and luminous, yet burning behind her eyes as if relived.

Ahead, the first form emerged—a nautiloid, impossibly vast, crashing through dimensions in looping agony. A version of herself stumbled through flaming corridors, helpless, screaming amid alien tongue and mind fire. It lunged at her, this memory, twisted into a writhing aberration of wrinkled tendrils and piercing screams. She met it not with fear, but fire—her present self-conjuring a burst of flame that severed its clawed limb.

Then came another, the blood-soaked ballroom of Cazador. The air reeked of rot and old cruelty. Her death—her first—played out like a cruel theatre. There was her body, limp, and Astarion roaring in defiance. It struck her chest anew, that memory of vanishing light. But the scene wavered, stuttered, and from her corpse rose her own silhouette, cloaked in silver flame, resurrected not by fate but by her will. This spectre nodded and stepped into her, becoming one.

From the shadows emerged a figure in armour—Ketheric.

Time slowed. The Fugue Plane, which had pulsed with memory and magic, seemed to draw inward, as though it, too, held its breath. Ketheric Thorm stepped forward not as a memory, but as a monolith of her past—the man who raised her in silence and punishment, who spoke love only in the language of dominance. His armour didn’t clink. It judged.

Taveleigha’s fire faltered.

For the first time since she rose, her knees buckled—not in weariness but in instinct. Her body remembered before her mind could shield it: the sharp sting of withheld praise, the brittle chill of being unseen. The child within her—the one who once packed a bundle and whispered, run with me—rose like smoke behind her ribs.

“You came back to me, daughter,” Ketheric said, though his voice fractured between memory and mockery. “Even in death. As it was written.”

Her flames recoiled, struggling against the gravitational pull of his presence. “I’m not yours,” she whispered, but it sounded like a plea, not defiance. Her magic flickered, the fiery sigil’s above her distorting, weeping sparks.

The scene shifted, her sister’s face lit by moonlight, then twisting in betrayal as she turned away. The sound of her name shouted across a battlefield, unanswered. The sting of the moment Astarion nearly slipped away from her grasp, and worse, the moments she almost let him.

Taveleigha sank to her knees amid the burning circle of memories, hands pressed to the mirror-floor. “I… I don’t know if I ever left you behind,” she choked, “if I’ve ever stopped running from what you made me.”

Even in the quaking silence, something stirred. A warmth that came not from pride or love—but from endurance. She had died. She had risen. She had chosen again and again to live with her pain. Not above it. Her hand clenched into a fist against the glasslike ground. “But I am still here,” she breathed. “And you? You’re just a shadow cast by who I survived.”

The flames returned—not in a blaze, but in a steady burn. She stood again, slower this time, not in triumph, but in truth.

The flames around her began to sputter—not from weakness, but in reverence. The Plane itself seemed to hold still. Then came the crack; clean and cold. A mirror appeared, tall as a cathedral gate and framed in blackened bone. It split down the centre with a hiss, revealing not passage, but presence.

Three figures stepped forward, bare feet echoing on the obsidian glass.

The first wore silk the colour of dusk, hair neatly braided, eyes downcast. She moved with mechanical grace, spine straight as a blade—but her shoulders hunched ever so slightly, as if waiting for correction. A voice echoed in a tone both familiar and cruelly hollow “I obeyed. I stayed. I made myself small enough to love.” Taveleigha flinched. The Obedient Daughter.

The second burst forth like a struck match; wreathed in fire that scorched the ground with every step. Her lips curled in a sneer, her hands already alight with flames that writhed like vipers. Her eyes were bloodshot, her voice acid “They hurt you. So, I burned them. I would burn everything before I let you be weak again.” The Vengeful Flame snarled toward the Mirror, daring the Plane to answer.

The third was barely there dressed in pale lilac, face gentle, posture open. She was… perfect. Quietly smiling. Too quiet. Eyes devoid of depth. She extended a hand with the polished grace of someone who’s learned exactly how to be wanted. “If they need you, they won’t leave,” the Hollow One murmured. “So be what they need. Be beautiful. Be soft. Be silent.”

Taveleigha staggered back as their voices layered in whispers, cutting through her armour like wind through cloth. Each was a part of her; worn like masks, forged by fear and sharpened under Ketheric’s rule.

“Which will you be?” Her mirror self crooned, Ketheric’s voice tangled in its frame. “Or will you run, as always?”

She didn’t answer at first. Her fire sparked in hesitation, the air thick with threat. “I was all of you,” she said, voice low, trembling—but not unsure. “I curled beneath his words. I lashed out to survive. I silenced myself to keep from being left behind.”

She stepped toward the Obedient Daughter. “But I’m not a child waiting for permission anymore.” Her flame touched the figure’s cheek, and the silk burned gently away, revealing raw truth beneath—innocent, still scarred, but seen.

To the Vengeful Flame, she offered her bare hand. “You kept me alive. But I won’t be ruled by rage.” The flames between them intertwined—no longer devouring, but dancing.

And at last, to the Hollow One. This one trembled. Taveleigha reached forward, wrapping her arms around the illusion, whispering, “I don’t have to disappear to be loved.”

The Hollow shattered like glass under moonlight. Silence reigned—for a breath.

Then the Mirror shuddered.

Ketheric’s voice grew jagged, unfamiliar now. “You think you can heal what I carved into you? I made you.”

Taveleigha’s eyes burned gold. “No. You tried.”

The shattered remnants of the three mirrors spiralled around her, coalescing into armour—not to shield, but to reflect her—her choices, her pain, her power.

And the Mirror began to crumble.

he shattered Mirror dissolved into lightless dust, but something remained in its wake—a figure forged not from memory, but from will, her will, twisted and reshaped by the scars it bore. Ketheric rose again—not as he was, but as what he had become inside her: a towering spectre clad in void-forged armour, crowned in burning grief. His eyes were pits of despair that reflected not truth, but the version of herself he’d always wanted her to be—obedient, broken, silenced.

This was her nightmare made flesh.

He raised a blade etched with runes of shame and legacy and spoke in a voice scraped raw by gods and failure “You will never be free of me.”

The Fugue Plane roared.

Taveleigha faltered for only a breath—but then behind her, the shards of the three mirror-daughters pulsed with remembered fire. They circled her like stars drawn back into constellation. She stood taller, steadier, even as her body trembled. From the void around them, echoes of laughter, footsteps, campfire murmurs drifted into the battlefield. Familiar voices, unseen but undeniable:

“You’ve got this, Tav! Burn him twice—once for you, once for who he’ll never be!” Karlach roared, lending her strength “You know what you are. He cannot take that from you.” Shadowheart lending her wisdom “Finish it. For her. For all you’ve become.” Gale lending his intellect.

And then, him. A presence so intimate it caught in her throat. Astarion Not as lover or broken soul, a kindred spirit but as anchor. His whisper wove through her blood like thread through cloth “Survive this, darling. And come back to me. Not because I need you whole. But because you deserve to be.”

Her fire ignited again—but this time, it harmonised.

As Ketheric charged, she met him. Not with control, but complete surrender to the storm within her. Blades of flame spiralled from her hands—some shaped by sorrow, others forged in joy. His every strike mirrored old wounds: the abandonment, the gaslight, the powerlessness. But she answered each with spells shaped by love, loyalty, and that fierce, clawing choice to live.

The Plane split around them into arcs of colour and void, reflections of her soul—this fight was reality, but it was also rite, a crucible. He screamed ancient curses, she answered in tongues of magic that had no name, only feeling.

Every hit she landed was not just against him, but against the part of her that believed she’d never escape him.

Ketheric shattered, the mirror shattered and the plane trembled.

From the dust and silence where the Mirror had shattered, a figure rose—but not Ketheric as she had just defeated. This was a god-scourged amalgamation of legacy and cruelty. Ketheric Bound Eternal, born not of flesh, but of Taveleigha’s scars.

His cathedral-like armour groaned with weightless menace, forged from spectral bone and rusted devotion, each plate inscribed with the names of memories he tried to erase from her. From one gauntleted hand hung a blade curved like a crescent of mourning, and in the other, a censer that bled violet smoke, dampening the air, stifling her fire with every breath of doubt.

“You will never be free of me,” he said, voice hollow with prophecy. “You are my echo, shaped by absence. Forged in obedience.”

She didn’t answer. Her fire flared in her veins—but dimmed beneath the shroud of his presence.

Then came the chains. They whipped through the air, latching onto her limbs—not steel, but memory, each hissed accusation forged from the worst truths:

“You let her die.” A chain around her wrists “You died crawling.” A chain around her waist, pinning her in place “You stayed. You begged. You were never strong.” This final one, straight to the chest, she stumbled, she faltered, she felt each chain dampen her magic.

The censer's smoke clouded her thoughts. Taveleigha stumbled to her knees. But before she collapsed, something shimmered behind her—the mirror-daughters.

“You endured more than he ever understood.” The Obedient daughter whispered, voice long forgotten, severing the chain that bound her wrists.

The vengeful daughter howled with rage and poured her fury into Taveleigha very soul, her very spell core, reigniting her blaze. The chain around her waist crackled, splintered then melted away.

The Hollow daughter glided over her and through her, she felt arms surround her heart and soothed the scars and the forever suffocating shame. The final chain withered and disappeared into nothing. Erased as if never existed.

She rose—burning not with wrath, but remembrance.

Enraged, Ketheric ascended into the air, and the ground beneath her splintered. A cathedral emerged from the void, floating over a chasm of oblivion. She leapt onto its steps, breathless, surrounded now by stained glass visions not of saints, but of her own failures.

One pane showed her sister’s back as she ran. Another showed her lifeless on Cazador’s floor. Another—Astarion’s tormented eyes, just before he looked away.

Ketheric’s blade pierced the stone beside her. “You are not forgiven,” he hissed.

Shatter the windows, the obedient daughter whispered from within. Each crack burst with memory and pain—but also with love.

 “He doesn’t get to define who you’ve become, soldier.” Karlach her steadfast friend

 “You did your best with what you had.” Gale her connection to the weave, a camaraderie that others do not understand, a mirror to her, a what could have been if she were wizard and not sorcerer, a constant reminder that she was a freak of nature. But not this time. This time she would own her place.

 “What’s broken can still be sacred.” Shadowheart’s wisdom, a mirror of her own struggle of her turning her back from Shar and returning to her rightful place regardless how broken.

Glass exploded around her, each shattering freeing more of her strength. Until only one pane remained unbroken: Astarion.

His image flickered with torment—chained, starved, forgotten.

Ketheric’s voice goaded: “You made him weak. You softened him. You tethered him to your rot.”

Taveleigha raised her hand.

And lowered it. “No,” she breathed. “He chose to stay. And I chose to live.”

The final pane withered, not in fire—but in forgiveness.

Ketheric fell, screaming, into the cathedral’s heart.

But he rose again.

Armour gone now, reduced to sinew and ash, Ketheric the Hollowed stood before her, light bleeding from his eyes and ribs like a false divinity. The ground melted around them—only a single platform of magic remained, suspended over the Abyss.

“You. Are. Mine,” he hissed.

Taveleigha stood steady. And somewhere beyond the veil, through golden warmth and echoed breath, came his voice.

“You told me I was more than what he made me,” Astarion whispered.

She gritted her teeth—and leapt.

The fight was desperate. Close, brutal, personal. Her spells faltered and flared, blades of flame clashing with his ashen fury. He clawed into her soul, ripping memories loose mid-strike, trying to disorient her, shouting “You begged for love, and the world found you wanting. You died screaming”.

Taveleigha struck back, not in fury but in truth with each statement her fire flaring brighter, hotter and stronger.

“I begged because I believed in better” 4 sharp rays of fire to his face mirroring the chains.

“I died saving my friends” another 4 sharp rays to his shoulders.

“AND. I. ROSE. BECAUSE. I. CHOSE. TO” The plane trembled at her ownership, it faltered, and she released the final strand of continuous fire to Ketheric’s chest. He reacted his blade piercing her shoulder, she screamed releasing an answering fire ripped from her very own blood, her very own person.

The fire formed a weapon of pure flame, she pulled the bow back, with a wavering strength, and with a final scream she released the arrow which flew true, two more released I quick succession that would make Astarion beam with pride.

For the child I was.

For the woman I’ve become.

For the one still becoming.

Ketheric shattered—not into smoke, not into ash—but into silence.

No scream. No echo. Just… release.

The Plane held still. And in that stillness, she breathed.

Around her, the voices faded—not gone, but resting, like coals beneath embers. Her body ached, her soul heavier than ever—but also… lightened. Clearer.

But she didn’t move. Not yet.

in the silence that followed, the Fugue Plane shimmered. The obsidian vein beneath her feet pulsed and cracked open, revealing not darkness—but dawnlight. A path of golden mist rising, pulsing with heartbeat and breath and the possibility of return.

The battlefield was quiet now—not because nothing stirred, but because everything had been stilled by meaning.

Ash floated like snow in the golden aftermath. The shattered ground beneath Taveleigha’s feet no longer pulsed, no longer threatened collapse or trial. It simply was—a surface reclaimed. Her chest rose and fell in time with the hush, each breath a fragile stitch pulling body and spirit closer together. The Fugue Plane, once vast and cruel, no longer pressed in on her. It gave space. Not peace, but permission.

The voices of her friends, of Astarion, had faded—but not vanished. They lived inside her bones now. Not echoes. Anchors.

The light of the path home shimmered at her back, waiting, patient.

But still, she did not move.

Not yet.

Taveleigha turned her palms skyward, letting cinders kiss her skin. Every scar she carried, every fear she’d whispered into silence, every love she dared to hold—they were all still here. Not weighing her down but woven into her.

She closed her eyes.

For the first time in too long, she let herself just breathe.

And in that stillness, she was no longer someone surviving the past:

She was someone becoming.

No pressure tags: @roguishcat @shewhowas39 @asweetlovesong @lirotation @lirotationside @slothquisitor @loquaciousquark @renard-rogue @starlight-rogue

[liondrakes]

Three Tell-Alls to a Liondrake

by Sivaan of Candlekeep

This post was written for the following challenges created by @who-is-page:

Day 24 of the Alterhuman Writing Challenge

Day 2 of the Folcintera Week Challenge

2. What are some of the biological realities or canonical features of your species which resonate particularly strongly with you?

These can be things such as hunting instincts, particular habitats or environments you find yourself drawn to and more comfortable in, species dysphoria around specific parts of the body, and etc.

I carry immense pride in three particular features: my ability to change shape, my pantherine anatomy and my nativity as an interdimensional creature. If there is anything to know about me, it's this triad of characteristics.

To start off, I've been able to fluctuate between forms since the moment I entered this community. I even awakened with more than one species in tow. Resonance isn't the exact word I would use to describe the significance of changing shape. Instead, it’s simply the most natural of my features. Just as a chameleon changes its color, I regularly change my form and sense of self as a part of life.

Furthermore, my ability to change shape is biologically relevant to both sides of my species (Gold Dragonne, The Winged Lion). In context to Dungeons & Dragons, or at least the canon I hail from, polymorphism is a biological trait belonging to all members of the taxonomic class True Dragons. As for Delicious in Dungeon, I came into the world as mana. In other words, I am magic incarnate. Magic can adopt any shape imaginable, so the origins of my polymorphic qualities are self-explanatory.

Next is my pantherine anatomy. Although I am a big cat in other contexts, I'm primarily a lion. Being pantherine is intertwined with my draconity, and I couldn't imagine being who I am without it. As a gold dragonne, my own face is similar to the masks used in Broadway's adaptation of The Lion King except it's metallic rather than wooden.

Much like earthen lions, we dragonnes also have manes. With their thickness and length, our manes make us quite distinctive from other dragons. Yet, we have little sexual dimorphism. Dragonesses grow manes as well; they just tend to be on the shorter end. Outside of my source, my dreadlocks bare some resemblance to my mane. The species euphoria they give me is immeasurable. As a result, taking proper care of them means a lot to me. This is for cultural reasons and folcinteric reasons, respectively.

Being pantherine is relative to the shape I take in Delicious in Dungeon as well. I am an extension of mana as mentioned before, but I am not the only one. For how I experienced it, a conflicting detail between me and my source is that the Man-Eating Swine, the Sheep of Ruin, Mithrun’s Goat and I are separate from each other. As mana given sentience and sapience, we share the same background but we're still individual people by existing as different manifestations of one source.

Assuming the form of a lion felt… right for a lack of better words. All prior extensions of mana adopted the anatomy of domestic and preyed upon animals. I figured I would establish a bit of balance by being a lion. Besides, there's something tantalizing about a beast of formidable renown assuming the role of both prey and predator. Presenting myself as pantherine exposed a wealth of personal complexities that I enjoy exploring to this day.

The relevance of being pantherine extends to my behavior as well. Like other lions, I'm far from solitary unless I'm driven to that point. I prefer to move in droves. Big or small, I am satisfied as long as I am a part of a group. I tend to feel like a larger-than-life entity that involves itself in the world of other beings, thus sentient life of all kinds are my pride in a way. It's a bit strange, but it's always assured me of my leonine identity.

Lastly is my nativity within my source’s dimensions. I often cite Dungeons & Dragons as my main source with Faerûn as my in-source home. This is true. I’ve regarded them as my stomping grounds for a year or so. However, where I come from, dragons are among the few beings whose natural habitats are the Planes as a whole. We are not restricted to specific ecosystems in a terrestrial sense. The vast reaches of the multiverse are our place(s) of origin, hence why there’s all sorts of diverse draconic groups outside of Chromatic Dragons and Metallic Dragons.

Our draconity is an infinite thing, so to speak. In the same way that I am an extension of mana as the Winged Lion, I am an extension of the Planes like all True Dragons. Each group under this class has their own needs, but by being extensions of the Planes, we can pick where we place our roots without causing a natural disturbance for those who live there. For the identities I have outside of this experience, they’re not only alternate forms of mine but they also exist independently as parallel lives that my fictomere taps into through *dragonsight.

*Dragonsight is an ability held by members of the taxonomic class, True Dragons. Dragonsight allows an individual to perceive and experience other versions of themself across space and time.

Speaking generally, it feels like I’m a part of something greater than myself. At the same time, the Planes remind of myself: ever-evolving and multi-faceted in appearance.

If I could classify anything as my “ecosystem”, it’d be the Material Plane. It is the home of mortals, housing realms much like my own Faerûn. Despite having identities that exist outside of the Material Plane’s reach, this section of the cosmos holds a special place in my heart. I wouldn’t be the beast that I am without the people who look upon me and my kind with wonder and curiosity.

Even though we are commonplace, there’s plenty of dragons who aren’t social towards the walks of life in the Material Plane. My species in particular is quite the opposite, having established ourselves amongst them from Oerth to Toril. The number of names they have for us is countless, but they’re referring to the same thing regardless if they’re aware of it or not.

I look back fondly on my connection with the Material Plane. My kind continues venture across realms near and far, and the people of these worlds carry on our story for generations to come. Whether as friends, mentors, colleagues or just plain ol’ beasts of legend, there’s a little touch of us wherever we go. Words can’t describe what that means to me.

These are three tell-alls to a liondrake. I’m still making sense of myself each day, but I can say with confidence that these qualities have helped me understand the kind of beast I am.

[tokiro07]

Undead Unluck ch.222 thoughts

[Master Quests Done Quick]

(Contents: narrative analysis - Andy's return/Master Quests, character analysis - Julia, speculation - Unjustice)

Andy

Finally, after 4 billion years, Andy's back home where he belongs, and...! No one recognizes him. There's no fanfare, no cheering, barely even any smiles, really. Without Remember to give anyone context, Andy's just a guy in a suit at best and that streaker they met one time at worst

That said, I think that lack of celebration is oddly refreshing. It gives this chapter a much more chill vibe in the first 90% of it, which, while it makes me feel like I have less to talk about, does help make this chapter feel like a brief respite before everything we're about to see

A more solemn and subtle welcoming with Gina politely stepping aside to give Andy his rightful spot as Fuuko's no.2 and Yusai silently tossing him his iconic sword feels like the sort of calm normalcy that Andy has been missing. Sure, Andy puts his own weird little spin on it by impaling himself in front of everyone, but that's par for the course for him

The main point here is that this time, unlike when he first met the Union in L100 and descended upon them guns blazing, this time he's walking in calmly and looking up at the expanded crew. He's no longer an outsider looking down on a bunch of chumps, he's family coming home to see what's changed and what's stayed the same

Of course, Apocalypse is the one who gives him the most familiar welcome, as he's the only one here aside from Fuuko and Nico who truly remembers Andy rather than just being aware of him. With the exact same composition as from ch.9, Apocalypse calls Andy "Rookie," really hammering home Andy's assertion from last week that this is "the beginning"

While from our perspective it definitely doesn't feel like anything we'd call a beginning, being 200+ chapters and 4 billion years in, there is at least one character who this all still feels pretty new to...

Julia

This is Julia's first time meeting Apocalypse and experiencing the routine of clearing and accepting Quests, and to her she's coming in practically at the end. Just like how Fuuko initially joined when the 99th penalty was on the line, Julia is joining when the final set of antagonists has been introduced, and she's somehow less equipped for it than even Fuuko was back then

She's also in a similar position in that just as Juiz chose to place her hopes in Fuuko's Unluck, Fuuko's initial plan was to place her hopes in Julia's Unjustice. However, where Juiz aimed to train up Fuuko and Unluck to be their trump card, Fuuko would rather avoid making Julia become a Negator and join the fray, instead focusing on training up everyone else so that Unjustice won't be necessary

But of course, just like Juiz's approach was criticized by both Billy and Anno Un for being too restrained, Fuuko is being criticized by Andy for treating the rest of the team as a replacement for Unjustice. It isn't "if we had Unjustice we wouldn't need everyone else" or even "because we have everyone else we don't need Unjustice." It's "we have everyone, so we can win," and whether Fuuko, Victor or even Apocalypse wants it or not, Julia is here, and she wants to help

The Master Rules are clearly afraid of Unjustice, so whether or not it's technically "necessary," it's a bad move to simply eschew it because it would force Julia to fight. To insist that Julia will never be happy if she has to take up Juiz's sword completely ignores both her autonomy and her capabilities, and puts everyone at risk through yet another "self-imposed challenge" as Andy refers to Fuuko's refusal to use Remember

Julia's idea of happiness is clearly tied to her sense of justice, as evidenced by how strongly she idolizes Juiz, and there's no way she'd ever be able to be happy knowing that she could help but isn't. To ask her to stand aside, to find her own happiness, even at the expense of others, is to condemn her to unhappiness. This was where Juiz and Victor diverged, and it is where Fuuko cannot afford to diverge from Julia

Unjustice

It's still debatable whether or not Julia will actually get Unjustice, but I think that Fuuko's supposition that Remember wouldn't help is only half true. She believes that Unjustice needs to be triggered by Victor and therefore can't be triggered, as Julia has no connection to him

However, we know that Julia is aware of Victor through Juiz. Just like Victor's memories leak through Undead's unique interaction with Remember, Juiz's memories still leak through Julia's subconscious, likely through her soul, and she definitely knows how much Victor means to Juiz

In other words, the only thing that Julia really needs to awaken Unjustice is to understand how unjust fate has been to Victor and Juiz. Remember may not necessarily do that, as it will likely only give Juiz context, but that context is important for reaching the conclusion she needs: Victor and Juiz are gone

While Andy and Julia have inherited their wills, they've also superseded their bodies and souls. They are their own people, even if they do gain their total memories from Remember. Andy and Julia will never have the relationship that Victor and Juiz did, even if they will come to love and care for each other

And that's not fair

Victor and Juiz are the only members of the Union who won't have the happy ending that everyone else is going to get, but they're the ones who gave up the most to get everyone else to that point. That's cruel, and in my opinion flies in the face of everything this series is trying to say

Even if Julia and Juiz truly unify, reviving Juiz's soul while allowing both of them to continue to pursue Julia's idea of happiness, they won't have Victor, and that's cruel. Yes, she'll accept it because she always wanted Victor to be able to die, but Fuuko wanted to help Andy die too at first. Now, they want to enjoy life together, because his desire to die was misguided. Victor was the same way, so isn't it only right that he get to learn that truth too?

When Julia realizes the extent of how much has been taken from her and the people she loves, that feeling of injustice will surely inspire strong enough emotion to awaken Unjustice

And if I'm wrong, then it isn't hard to imagine that she'll be able to awaken it through finding someone else she cares about just as much as Juiz cared about Victor. This will likely be Fuuko, but maybe I'm also wrong about her relationship with Andy and she'll see in him what Juiz saw in Victor and they really will rekindle their relationship through their successors. There's a ton of ways it can go, but with how often this cast is just straight-up wrong about things, I'm not banking on Fuuko being right about this

Either way, it's looking like we're going to find out pretty soon, since the Union just lost three months of prep time

Boss Rush

I don't know about you guys, but god damn, the dread I felt when Fuuko's phone started bugging out. It was like I could hear the soundtrack screeching to a halt, and turning the page to see that Apocalypse entered his equivalent of Phase 3 was like getting hit with a scare chord

While for me this was a pretty exciting way to transition into the next arc, unfortunately I'm aware that some folks felt a different kind of dread from this moment. We all want to see some downtime and get an opportunity to develop the cast a bit more, and a lot of us were worrying last week about the series speeding up towards the endgame, so seeing something like this happen is definitely concerning

It doesn't help that Andy called it a "speedrun," which definitely implies "we're trying to get to the end as quickly as possible," but I think the original Japanese, "Time Attack," may have been meant more to evoke a Boss Rush mode rather than an Any% run, but David Evelyn definitely knows more about the linguistic nuances than me, so take that with a grain of salt. That said, I do think it's fun that there are eight enemies to fight like a Megaman game. I guess this would make Sun the Yellow Devil and Luna Wily, huh? Cus Luna's definitely going to be the real final boss, I know it

...Robot Master Rules...if any of you draw that, credit me, please

Anyway, while I would have appreciated the downtime, I do think contextually it makes perfect sense that the Master Rules are deliberately interfering and minimizing the Union's opportunities to train. They're playing to win, and if they have the ability to increase their odds, they're going to take it

It reminds me of the Minus Arc in Medaka Box, when some of the cast went to train and got intercepted by the bad guys and knocked out of the battle entirely. "Why would we just sit around and wait for you to get stronger?" This isn't a competition, this is a bet, one that will decide the fate of the world and everyone in it. There is zero reason to take unnecessary risks, even if the interference tacitly acknowledges that the enemy is a credible threat. Who cares that they know you're scared if you've prevented them from doing anything about it?

But there is still one thing the Union can do, and they've been putting it off forever: they can use Remember

This is the other reason I think this choice works from a narrative perspective: Fuuko keeps finding excuses not to use Remember, so losing those three months necessitates finding an alternate method of powering up the team, especially since Julia is definitely going to be a target, so if nothing else she'll be better equipped to defend herself with Juiz's martial prowess. I don't know if it will help everyone awaken to their souls or not, but it should at least give a burst of inspiration for alternate uses of their Rules

Again, I understand the apprehensions, but I found it to be a very exciting kickoff for the arc, and like I said last week, each fight is still liable to get a decent chapter count. Hell, the few Quests we've seen on screen still had a bit of time to chill just before or during; they took a couple days before Autumn to write a manga, dammit, then had a whole training arc inside Andy's brain. Unless the Master Rules are actively going to swarm the Roundtable, I'm not expecting this to be an absolute breakneck battle royale, which I think is what people are afraid of

Even if it does come to that, though, I think that would end up looking more like the Spring Arc than anything else, where everyone paired up to fight their thematic opposite and still had great character moments within. Tozuka has shown that he's perfectly capable of balancing something like that, so whatever route he chooses, I'm just not going to worry about it unless the story itself seems to be taking a notable dip in quality

We can't control what happens next, and all of it is being made with the express intent of entertaining us, so panicking about how Jump is forcing Tozuka to rush or what have you is just going to make it harder to enjoy what Tozuka gives us. Try to stay calm and have fun with it; that's what I plan to do at least

Until next time, let's enjoy life!

[gepperl]

TRANS MALE PASSING PROTIPS

Targeted specifically at trans men who have not begun medical transition, but for anyone. Of course, this is just what works for me and everyone is different.

Shorts that fall mid thigh and are baggy can work really well to make a more masculine figure. This is a trendy style with cis men, and if they are looser on your thighs you can look more rectangular. Basketball shorts are always fine, but for bigger people can end up sticking to your thighs and making you look like a masc lesbian. Looking like a masc lesbian is so so common guys this is what we are trying to avoid. See here for reference

2. WALK WITH YOUR SHOULDERS. Walk like your shoulders are the widest part of your body. Move them kinda forward and backward. Watch a video of a man walking next to a woman for context on what I mean. Women walk with their hips, and it makes all the difference for you in someone's head. Practice in the mirror before doing it so you don't look like a fool.

3. Hair!!!! I know you guys don't want to let go of the 2020 fluffy boi haircut and that is ok. If you don't want a skin fade short haircut, there are other options. Also, if you belong to a subculture, like punk/emo/whatever else there is, look at male styles as it can be very different than what is normally accepted ( for example, men have long hair in metal subculture, you can style it like them). In general, hair is very meticulous, as for some people too short is masc lesbian and too long is woman.

This kind of hair can do wonders. For men of color/curly hair people, if you are not out locs are a very good option as they are typically read as masculine but are gender neutral. Afros, braids, even skin fades with a lot of hair at the top can read feminine. Another style option could be short cornrows that end at the neck, twists, or a fade with less hair at the top like this.

I am not black, so I cannot speak for how this would be read in a black community, but this is how, from my experience, I would view the hairstyles. Sorry if this is not appropriate. Also, I am not here to tell you not to dye your hair. It can work if you style it with masculine clothes and are dressed in a specific style like emo or scene or something. Do what you will with that.

4. If there is ANY peach fuzz on your face, make the most of it. I know I have high testosterone levels naturally, so I grow facial hair a little, but if there is enough to dye it, dye it. If there is like barely any, if its not visible in the mirror if you're really looking (not INSPECTING), it's probably not worth it, and that is fine. use your judgement, and if it is not enough, just shave it. It's better to look clean shaven than desperate for face hair. Eyebrows, mustache hair, sideburns can all be darkened with eyeshadow, brow brushes, and just for men beard dye.

5. LAYERS. I know you guys have seen this one before. Flannels, button ups over black t-shirts, zip up hoodies. It might get a little hot, but it covers your sweat stains anyways. I promise guys it helps so much with shoulders, hips, boobs, it makes you look more masculine. Don't get that ugly ass red and black checkered one though. Think if you would see a masc lesbian wearing it and use your best judgement. I heart layers.

6. Pants. Woah. Pants. I HATE pants I know you fat trans men get me. Old navy women's jeans...and you guys won't like this one...are actually pretty good. SPECIFICALLY the sky high wide leg ones. Get those a size up and cuff them, wear them low on your waist, perfect. Other than that, jeans are shit. I don't really waste my time with men's pants anymore because of my hips but cargos are great, baggy sweats with the band at the bottom are great, PJ pants good, dress pants are a struggle but I've heard dickies work well for people with a smaller body. Not sure though. My tactic is I go to a thrift store for hours and try on all their pants, then find similar ones online or take pictures of the brand for the ones I like and find more.

7. Accessories and jewelry. Iffy. Anything you could describe as dainty, if it's not a family thing or important to you, probably not. Friendship bracelets are good, pendants are good, earrings depends on where you are and what you are wearing. Studs in men are common where I am, so I wear them. Observe the cis men at your disposal. Accessories, bags don't really matter unless they're like the strawberry hot topic mini bags. Don't get those at all those are fugly. Mini bags are not great in general, just better to get something else. Watches are heavily loved here they look very male and also you have the time always even a cheap watch is fine just not a woman's watch. It has to be a men's watch. You can tell when it is a woman's watch don't get those. Nail polish is fine no one cares, it's more popular now with boys. Especially if you're a little girly pop already. Of course that also depends on your environment.

8. Stance. Sitting with your ankle on your knee is comfortable and way more masculine than crossing your legs. Confidence. Fake it until you make it because cis men are so arrogant guys. This is what I mean btw

9. Don't be afraid of being feminine. Don't give up being yourself in order to be masculine. Your happiness matters the most. Love you bye, I'll update this if I think of anything else.

[seeyouonsaturn]

Razormane please 👉👈

4. Are they related to any canon characters? How do they get along? || mostly I wanna know about her and Predaking but 👀

6. Give us a random headcanon between your character and a character of canon! || with Starscream but anyone else you'd like to include!

9. How do you think your OC would react if the canon character of your choice was injured? How do you think the canon character would react if the situation was reversed? || with Starscream 💖

10. What’s one thing your OC likes about the canon character? What’s one thing the canon character likes about your OC? || and with Starscream again hehe 💖

ask game

Fuck yeah Razormane. Sorry followers you get no context lmao. I love her sm hell yeah self-indulgent giant kittycat ❤️✨️

4. Are they related to any canon characters? How do they get along? [Predaking]

I haven't quite decided on when exactly Razormane will be created so this may be subject to change, but! Their relationship is... let's call it nuanced. Razormane does also want there to be more Predacons just like he does, and since they're the only two around for at least a period of time, it stands to reason that they'd share a special bond. And they do! They are bound to. They're not blood related but they're the closest thing they have to family. But the problem is, personality wise, they just really don't work. At all.

Plus, she does not want a King. She respects him, and she doesn't even necessarily dislike him, but she does not want to be ruled by him. Or anyone. Ever since being brought online in a locked room, all she's wanted was freedom.

He even suggested they rule together. It makes sense, right? The first two new members of an extinct species; the only two members of a species, should be together. Everyone probably expects them to be. Do they even get a choice in the matter? Is it relevant what they want?

I don't think Predaking is in love with her, but he's attached to her because she's the first Predacon aside from him he's seen. He may not have been around when she was first created, but as soon as he sets optics on her, he immediately feels they belong together (it does not have to be romantic. But he will not be separated from her). Initially, he's just protective over her and seeks out her company, but once it becomes more clear that their goals and values don't align, he starts to get more overbearing. Possessive, controlling. She's his. She was, quite literally, made for him.

It gets a little better later on Cybertron, when he has other Predacons to rule over and bond with. His attachment to Razormane was never personal, after all. He does not approve of her choice of a mate though. He can accept that she's not interested in him, but seriously, that guy? Are you for real?

6. Give us a random headcanon between your character and a character of canon! [Starscream]

Razormane may be a full person just like any other bot, but she's also just a very big kitty. She dislikes her root mode and barely ever uses it, so anyone that's ever seen her only knows her as a giant lion-creature. And that does bleed into her personality.

You know how cats will lay on top of you if they like you? Yeah. Rip Starscream. The "can't move because a cat's on his lap" thing is real for him because a whole Predacon is heavy. But she just decided that she likes him, and he has to live like this now. Give him some time. He'll grow to appreciate it.

9. How do you think your OC would react if the canon character of your choice was injured? How do you think the canon character would react if the situation was reversed? [Starscream]

I mean, it does happen. A lot. It depends on where they are in their relationship. At the beginning, where they've only just started to get along, she may not be very bothered so long as it happened in a proper battle. If it was because of Megatron, well, she doesn't like anyone being unjustly harmed, and since she's attached to Starscream as a kindred spirit (false assessment or not), him especially. But she's not going to fight Megatron. She's not stupid. Even if she might stand a chance against him alone, she's not going to risk having to deal with his forces. Starscream is getting fixed up though, at least. They're hardly friends yet, and I seriously doubt he would accept her help, but if he's messed up so bad that he no longer has a choice in the matter, she'll carry him to Knockout. In her mouth, dragging on the floor, but still, she'll get him there. It's more kindness than most cons would offer him.

Later on though, once she knows him and is close to him? You better not try. Predacons in general are very possessive and protective, and you do not hurt what's theirs. She WILL hunt you down. And you better pray that he'll be fine.

Even Predaking leaves him alone. Not because he's afraid of a fight with Razormane, but because it's just not worth it. Plus, there's not nearly enough Predacons around for them to be infighting. Whatever. Just take your fucked up bird and go, and keep him away from me.

The other way around, it's similar to Razormane's in the sense that it depends on when exactly it happens. He may even be smug about it when she gets her aft kicked in the earlier days. I'm not going to pretend he's a nice person. If it's bad he'll call Knockout, but more out of concern for himself than for her, because if she sustains any permanent damage, Megatron AND Predaking will be pissed.

Once he's somewhat comfortable with them being friends – even if it'll take him a very long time to actually call her that – he just takes it personally. It depends on who hurt her though. He DOES want revenge, but he's still a cowardly little fucker [read: self-preservation instinct]. Do you expect Starscream to fight something that can take down a whole Predacon? Yikes! So, unless someone knocked her out completely right in front of him and he happens to be holding multiple missiles (in which case all bets are off), he'll be more concerned with getting her to safety and patching her up. He's probably pretty good at first aid considering how often he's got to fix his own injuries. He's not above calling Ratchet if her injuries are beyond what he can handle. (That part is mutual. They will both do that. Ratchet is so tired of this shit).

10. What’s one thing your OC likes about the canon character? What’s one thing the canon character likes about your OC? [Starscream]

Best quality: his wing flutters! Seriously though, Razormane adores how expressive Starscream is. He's adorable (even if he's currently yelling at her). Considering how small he is compared to her, she doesn't really view him as a threat, especially once they're close enough to be at a point where he wouldn't truly harm her. He's a cute little thing to her. And not attractive cute either, just, aww. He hates it when she tells him that though. Unfortunately, sometimes it makes his wings tremble in anger. Cannot beat the allegations.

On the flip side. Starscream would never admit this, but he likes that she's just, nice. To him. It takes him a long time to fully register that she's never raised a paw against him without him having dealt the first blow, and it takes even longer for him to recognize that it's because she considers him her friend. In a genuine way. No false pretenses, no conditions. He still can't fully wrap his processor around why. But, despite himself, he's ever so slowly starting to allow himself to trust it.