#actually a drabble-and-a-half

[wolfwind3]

Litmus Test

Severus carefully poured three drops from the tiny vial into his cauldron, holding his breath so as not to inadvertently jostle the still surface of the liquid in any way. The glowing blue droplets sat atop the thick liquid for a long moment. Severus didn't move. Finally, they started to slowly sink deeper into the potion. Severus barely breathed until they completed their descent.

With most potions, at this stage Severus would cover it and go on with his other work. This, however, was not a normal portion. He stayed staring at the cauldron, watching for any hint of the color change which would mean that this batch failed. There wasn't one, but he still sniffed, identifying each element of the scent in case one gave a hint that it had gone bad. 

Wolfsbane had to be perfect. No other child would be terrorized like he had been.

[nyc-pizza-rat]

okay thinking about her

the tree bark at his back scratches him as he shifts. there are bruises on his skin that sting. he feels the slide of blood at his temple, unsettling and unfamiliar, even after all these years. castiel looks down at his hands, a little calloused, now, and wrinkling, and tries to center himself. there is dirt on his palms, under his fingernails. a small cut on his index finger that is loud and sharp. he curls his fists and tries to reach within himself. the well of his grace has been running low for a while, now, and castiel hasn't been sure of...well, anything.

it's harder to find his dimming grace within, here in purgatory. harder still to coax it to the surface. sweat beads at his brow but castiel keeps his fingers clenched, mumbles to himself in enochian — words to songs of praise and comfort and strength that mean so little now, and yet come to him easy.

there is a thin stream of silver light, and castiel heaves a breath, sinks further into the hollow of the tree. he unclenches his fist, and there are red half-moons carved into his palm. the cut is gone, but there is a scar, still, and castiel cannot stop looking at it. it looks like a thin tear in fabric, like the cracks in between the worlds that let them through. it looks like the beginning of the end.

he rubs his thumb over the scar, feels the slight raise of his skin. his thoughts begin to spin, and all he can focus on is the heat building at the back of his neck, the rushing of blood in his ears. suddenly, then, a ripple within. a breeze by his ear that pull at his core. that compels him to quiet, to listen.

someone, somewhere, is invoking him in prayer.

his grace surges now, easy as it hasn't been in a while, and while it doesn't heal him still, castiel feels more angel than he has in a long time.

Cas, I hope you can hear me... that wherever you are, it's not too late.

castiel sighs, something inside him relaxing. he hadn't even noticed the way his muscles had been pulled taut. hadn't noticed the tendrils of fear creeping into his heart. dean's alive. dean's alive.

I should've stopped you.

castiel swallows. digs his fingers into his thighs. his grace spins out, trying to find the source of the prayer. It's harder than it is on earth, and harder than it should be for an angel of his caliber, but castiel keeps trying.

You're my best friend, but I just let you go. 'Cause it was easier than admitting I was wrong.

castiel wishes dean would stop saying these things. he bites his cheek, listening, following dean's voice. he's always following dean's voice, even when he doesn't want to.

I – Ohh. I don't know why I get so angry. I just know – I know that it's – i-it's just always been there. And when things go bad, it just – it comes out. And I can't -- I can't stop it. No matter how –

dean breaks, and castiel pauses, stares at the blinking doorway that will lead them back onto earth. back into a battle that they are bound to lose. he thinks about jack, lost forever. about chuck, who cannot be beaten. about the pointlessness of what they are doing, the desperation with which he has been clinging to hope.

— how bad I want to, I just can't stop it.

he wishes he could see dean. there is something solid pressing against the back of his throat, like he has swallowed a rock, like it is blocking the air. his eyes sting. he wishes dean would just — just talk to him.

And — And I — I forgive you. Of course I forgive you.

castiel shakes his head. his wings are more bone than anything else, skeletons he lugs around because he cannot bear to sever them from his trueform. now they twitch, twined with his grace as they are. castiel lets them curl inwards, pretends he can feel them whole, their warmth, the comfort of it.

I'm sorry it took me so long – I'm sorry it took me till now to say it. Cas, I'm – I'm so sorry.

castiel forgives him, despite everything. thinks he'd forgiven him long before this, before dean ever thought to ask. he wonders if dean knows that castiel doesn't know how to loathe him, even if he wanted to.

longing surges out to him, the pull of the prayer strengthened by cords of need, of want.

dean thinks he's dead, and he's desperate for him to not be. castiel knows what dean can be like, when he loses those he considers kin, when he's even faced with the prospect of losing them.

Man, I hope you can hear me. I hope you can hear me.

longing can feel a lot like love.

angels were never meant to decipher the nuances of human emotion, and despite all the time he's spent on earth, even castiel is not all that good at it. so when prayer is made with longing, it can feel a lot like love.

and maybe it is. castiel doesn't know.

it's almost unsettling, the way warmth bleeds into his trueform, as dean finishes praying, as he makes his way closer. castiel tries to reign in his weak grace, pulsing away under his skin. tries to not let himself get carried away.

he looks up at the grey sky, the sunless world he is trapped in. he thinks about the empty. he thinks about his son.

maybe it isn't. human love is so complicated, after all.

somewhere to his right, footsteps. castiel breathes, wills his lungs to loosen, his heart to slow. he pulls the leviathan blossom out of his coat pocket. all that fighting and the fidgeting has smushed it a little. he rubs a thumb over one of its strange petals, and puts it back in his coat.

dean is getting closer. castiel can hear him breathing now. can hear the way his heart races.

he gathers himself and pushes out of the hollow of the tree. straightens a little.

"dean," he calls. he sounds tired, even to his own ears. human. god. "you made it."

[karinasbaby]

hey yall… how yall doing 😁

[urproblematicfav-ao3]

I made a joke about pairing Alastor's unwashed dick cheese with wine in the tags of a post at one point, and then turned it into an actual little joke drabble. So uh. Sorry to anyone who came here from my serious writing. This is actually at least 60% of what my brain is built to make. Bad cum jokes.

Also to be super clear lmao, Alastor loves this shit, he thinks this is hysterical and is screaming and crying in a fun way.

[starry-sophrosyne]

me realizing i havent ever posted my initial designs for tox and leo/ive stopped talked about ttos as a whole:

[reineyday]

shanks, four years younger than mihawk, is usually granted the "starry-eyed crush on the cool older boy" trope (with good reason!), so i was thinking it'd be cute to grant that dubious pleasure to mihawk in an age swap au instead.

mihawk, scrappy nine year old, gets picked up by roger for a trip on the oro jackson to the next island (roger just wants to feed the kid lol), and gets sweet talked into it by dangling a duel with rayleigh, the current world's greatest swordsman, as bait. when mihawk gets there, rayleigh says mihawk has to be able to beat his apprentices first, and gets his ass summarily handed to him by a thirteen year old shanks, who both impresses and embarrasses mihawk, as shanks beats him without even trying but he's so cool when he does it.

and so mihawk declares himself shanks's rival, and when he wins, shanks will have to listen to a request. and years and years later, when mihawk finally does win, that request--which he's never changed his mind about--is permission to start formally courting shanks. charmed, and absolutely having seen this coming after years of observing an obvious crush and slowly warming up to it as mihawk grew and changed between their meetings, laughs and just kisses mihawk straight-up.

[ephemeralove]

"Katarina, please?" She asks with sweet glistening eyes. "Please?"

"...I will be forthright with you. You should know I adore clothing. I believe it an expression of disposition while outwardly projecting what one would love to be perceived as... And it is only right that someone as incredible as you should find something so lovely to match your aptitude. Your beauty is understated, both inside and out, so I'd love to help you..."

She tapped her chin. "A dress could even feel like home, if you allow it to."

Hooking her by the elbow, she guided them both in. "...I could even help tailor the dress closer to your specifications. ...It will be fun!" Laughing on her way in, she waved at the dress store owner who now had her name on her lips and the wisp of familiarity painted over her gaze.

"Is there anything that catches your eyes?"

She has never doubted that Nanna has a way with words (that way, she thinks, is sincerity; captivating, and undeniable). Still it surprises her that she should be lured from her shell so easily, much as she has made it both her armor and her cage -- but when she promises that a dress can feel like home, Katarina feels something stay with her.

"Home..." The word turns over on her tongue. Gray attention drifts from where it had rested on her companion's face to the flurry of fabrics as the two of them breeze into the store, arm in arm. An inscrutable thought comes and goes, little more than a shimmer in dim eyes.

"That..." They abandon the dresses to return to Nanna -- to the sweet anticipation on her face, to the way the shopkeeper answers her with a familiar affection. How she has come to be worthy of such a beautiful person's esteem, Katarina does not know; rather, she suspects that she still is not. Nevertheless something tangles in her lips, wry at first, and uncertain, knotted up with words yet to be spoken. Then in a rush, they untangle -- and to even Katarina's surprise, it unravels as gentle laughter.

"...That would be nice," she admits, and there is warmth in her eyes like summer rain. Simply, suddenly, and certainly, Katarina knows that the greater sin would be to deny her friend this small happiness. Of all the things she has stolen from others, she would not have one be Nanna's joy. After all, she has all the rest of her life to carry her sins; she should not allow them to impose their sorrows on the good that exists around her.

"I believe it," Katarina continues softly, affection in the scant wisp of mirth that haunts her voice. "Your clothes are always... ah." Is it that the words evade her, or that Nanna defies simple description? "...lovely. Bright -- dazzling."

But what of Katarina? What does one ask to be perceived as when she so often asks the world to forget? One hand closes over the side of the scarred other, drawn close to herself in a beat of uncertainty.

Is there anything that catches your eyes?

Not at first. It takes a second glance to notice the dark dress squirreled away in a corner of the store. Katarina approaches hesitantly, reaching toward the garment but never touching. In the dark of it, flowers bloom -- those things that only blossom when touched by light.

What does she want them to know? She has only ever wanted to be known by those who matter to her; perhaps that is why, even if softly, she murmurs her answer aloud.

"I'm..." The hand withdraws, fingers curling into her palm. "...becoming myself."

Suddenly her head turns at a bashful angle, the side of her jaw brushing against her shoulder. Specklings of pink warm her cheeks, but she meets Nanna's eyes all the same.

"...Thank you. This means so much to me. Not the dress-- ah, not just the dress-- but you. Your friendship..." Being seen. Being known. Her gaze dips to the floor before rising again.

"Could we... stop by another store on our way back?"

After a heartbeat, Katarina dares to smile.

"I'd like... I want to get you a present, too."

[dreamswideawake]

☎️ - ooc; Stomach/back pain has me messed up today.

[jasontoddsdarling]

18+ | college jason todd au, where he's a hockey player which has been on training camp for days, and tonight he comes back to you. you wear nothing but a pair of white lace panties and one of his old, unused jersey. the hem falls above your knees. you wait for your boyfriend by watching some series you want to catch up, but sleep takes you into the dreamland before he arrives.

when he comes back to his apartment, you are already asleep on his bed. he is surprised seeing you don his jersey—you didn't mention that to him when you texted him earlier. with ‘todd’ and his number at your back, you look so damn sexy. don't even let him ponder about how the hem rides above your thighs, on your hip, and he can see the glimpse of your cute lace panties and your bare skin.

he drops his luggage bag and immediately goes to the bathroom to clean himself up and get ready for bed so he can spoon you. or maybe if he's lucky you'll wake up and you and him can have a midnight bedroom sport.

[queer-omens-in-the-archives]

Rumination (3/7)

Third instalment in our series of 7 Matt/Mello/Near drabbles written for @dnrarepairweek! :3 Prompts: successors, pining.

Near was left behind.

Rarepair: Matt/Mello/Near Other tags: The Kira Case, Wammy’s House

[read on AO3 or below] [series on AO3]

There have been no new enrollments since L and Watari’s deaths. With Matt gone, the room is nobody’s now.

Near often goes there to think.

Sometimes it’s about the Kira case: the clues he is gathering, what he will do to catch Kira.

Sometimes he hugs Mello’s pillow and inhales deeply, imagines he can still smell dark chocolate. Once or twice, he does the same with Matt’s, which has kept the scent of cold tobacco.

Sometimes he pictures different things. L not dead, Mello still here, Matt still glued to him, Near creeping in-between the two of them and staying.

[agapestricken]

wholesumvalues.

i stole this from @byanyan! (i hope you don't mind, my friend AHHH <33)

tagging: @furiaei, @divingdownthehole, @threadpull, @question-marked, @whampow, @iobartach, @fartemis-crock, @violetgleams, and anyone else who might want to participate in this!!

[good-beans]

A little creative summary for the year ✨ (Template)

Even though I'd done art inspired by/for others before, it was my first time doing proper trades and projects together -- thank you for including me :D

As for writing, I was worried about my thesis next year since I'll be rewriting most of my novel which is a lot to do in a single year..... until I realized I posted 83,794 words for fun in 2024.... 😅 (11,259 words of longfic projects, 54,642 words in drabbles, 17,893 words in creative but explanatory posts, and who knows how many in wips/unposted things :0)

Though writing on here may slow down bit with my thesis, there's no way you can stop me from working on fic completely 😂 I also have some translyric projects I want to complete within the year, as well as the usual art ideas I'm plagued with haha!

[msnihilist]

Screenshots somebody’s DNI and has one herself saying no antis or busybodies. Cool. It’s the internet. Anything goes. That means I can rb your fanfics and save them for editing the way you save art that isn’t incestuous.

I mean, if you want to download my fics and comb through all of that incest and underage smut, that's your prerogative, man. Hope you get a boner out of it, then maybe you'll calm down 💕

[randomestfandoms-ocs]

Prompt: Evie in the hospital after Alex's OD, when he wakes up.

Feeling some kind of insane about this

Triggers: overdose, hospitals. Discussions of suicide attempts, drug & alcohol abuse, overdoses, eating disorders, sexual abuse, childbirth (lmk if there are any I should add)

Evie would never forget the day that Alex was born.  August 1st, a month before his due date, Finn had moved in with she and Theo and exactly two weeks later, Evie’s water broke.  Cordelia had been a shockingly easy birth: her water broke with an excruciating contraction and four uncomfortable hours later, she was holding her baby girl.  The nurses said that little Cordelia was ready to be born, and had made her demands known and really, nothing had changed in the twenty-three years since.  But where Cordelia had been as easy as labour could be, Alex had been her polar opposite.  The first contractions hit just after midnight on August 14th, and after an embarrassingly long time worrying about whether or not she should tell Finn – it could be a false alarm, she had told Theo, who’d only reminded her that Finn would still want to know and dote on her until the pain passed – she was brought to the hospital just after one in the morning.

Twenty five hours unbearable hours later, she had a son.  A perfect, precious baby boy.  She’d stared down at him, asleep on her chest after his very first meal, and all she could see was Finn.  Bright blue eyes, even though she knew that not all babies kept their blue eyes, the tiniest hints of blond hair; she knew that he was too fresh to really be able to tell who he took after, but she still saw it.

She’d never been able to explain how she felt, at that point.  More exhausted than Finn or Theo could ever understand – though Blair did, and Tinsley would soon – in a body that didn’t feel like hers, staring down at this perfect little boy and feeling… she didn’t know.  Even now, she didn’t know.  But it wasn’t dissimilar to what she felt now, twenty two years later, looking down at her baby boy in a hospital bed.  More love than she could ever hold in her body and at the same time, complete emptiness, a grief that didn't belong but wouldn't leave her.

Finding Alex had been the worst moment of her life.  Which was saying something, she had a lot of particularly awful moments to choose from, but none would ever come close to that horrific Sunday morning.  She’d known that Alex had been pulling away from his siblings – both her kids and Finn’s, as much as that thought still stung – but he’d promised her that he would be at brunch.  It was supposed to be a celebration, though she hadn’t told anyone what they were celebrating yet: she’d just booked her dream role on Broadway, the one she'd been working towards since, well, since she got pregnant with Connor, and for the first time in months, everyone was in available.  The twins and Grace still lived at home, Connor was still in the city, Cordelia was back from her latest trip, and both Finn and Theo had confirmed that they would be in town that weekend and at brunch on Sunday.  It had taken a bit more work to get Alex to agree but at the end of the day, he’d never been able to say no to his mom.

Which was why she’d gone to his apartment in the first place.  Alex hadn’t shown up.  Maybe he was late. Punctuality was only a talent when it suited him, and he was probably sleeping off a wild night.  Which was fine, she wasn’t worried.  But then fifteen minutes turned to thirty, and thirty turned to sixty, and something was wrong.  Connor had only rolled his eyes, saying that Alex had made it clear he didn’t care to be a part of their family anymore.  Cordelia said he was probably still fucking whoever he’d picked up the night before – crass, but not unreasonable.  Finn said he probably changed his mind, was too hungover, found something better to do, or maybe just hated Finn more than he loved Evie.

But Evie knew her Rockwell boys.  She remembered her own time in and out of Ostroff, remembered almost losing Theo that terrible Thanksgiving, remembered every time Tinsley brushed her off for another party or a night with Rex.  She remembered Finn.  Every time he’d tried to push her away, all four trips to rehab, when he’d disappeared after her wedding only to come back with an ex-wife and a step son.  Rockwell boys might blow off everyone else, but not her. Usually not her. Something was wrong.

So she’d gotten in her car, sat in the backseat calling Alex over and over and over again while her driver broke every law – suggestion; it was New York after all – to get her to his apartment in record time.

And somehow, just barely in time.  The details were a blur, calling Finn and 911, racing to the ER, rattling off medical information as fast as she could breathe, calling Theo and Cordelia and begging them to please not tell the others until they knew more.  She didn’t want to remember that.

But the gut-punching horror when she found her son, her precious baby boy, more than half dead in his own vomit? She would never forget that feeling for as long as she lived.

She wondered if that was how Finn had felt, almost thirty years ago, when she’d called him from her own bathroom floor, half dead and fading quickly, begging him to apologize to Lily for her, for drinking all of her best liquor and raiding her medicine cabinet. To tell Tinsley and Theo that she loved them, telling Finn that he was her best friend and that he'd done his best, that they needed to take care of each other without her.  She owed him an apology – she would have to remember that when he got back. 

The doctors had worked fast and soon described Alex’s condition as stable.  Comatose, with no idea as to if or when he’d wake up, but stable. All they could do was wait.

And Evie hadn’t wanted to leave.  She sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair, pulled up right beside his bed, holding his hand and feeling desperately for his pulse, and she wasn’t going to move until he woke up.

She’d gotten away with it for almost three days.  Three days of sitting in silence, the beeping of his heart monitor echoing throughout the room.  Finn was with her for most of it, occasionally disappearing to – she didn’t know what he was doing, really.  That had become Dali’s business, not Evie’s.  Finn might have spoken to her when he was there, but she wasn’t sure.  She couldn’t remember.  Couldn’t focus on anything but Alex, on how small he looked in the hospital bed – small in a way that he hadn’t been since he’d turned thirteen and found himself almost a foot taller than her.  But on day three, she hadn’t been able to ignore Finn any longer.  He’d sent her home, his driver waiting to escort her back.  Told her to enjoy the bath that Theo was going to draw for her, put on some clean clothes, brush your damn teeth, Eves, seriously, and to have dinner with her family, and she could come back in the morning.

That had been four days ago.  And it had become a routine: every other day she would go home to shower, let someone force some food down her throat, change clothes, and come back.  She hadn’t let overnight again, waking up every half hour from yet another panic attack and throwing up the little food she’d been able to eat had quickly ended that, but it was better.  Everyone told her it was better.

How could anything be better when her son hadn’t woken up?

He was her baby.  Her second child, her first son.  She’d carried him for almost nine months, she’d breastfed him for the first year-and-a-bit of his life, she’d soothed him when he couldn’t sleep, slept in his nursery when she couldn’t sleep, had fought with every fibre of her being to bring him into the world.  He had been hers, and he had been perfect.

And… he was Finn’s.  Evie would never play favourites with her children.  She’d spent too long around Lily van der Woodsen for that.  She loved all six of them – seven. Finn might be with Dali now and Sebastian might officially be in his thirties, but Evie would always count him as one of hers – with all of her heart.  But Alex was Finn’s.  Alex’s was the last piece of Finn that was hers, he was proof of how much Finn had loved her.  They had made their perfect, precious son on their very first try, and that would always mean something to Evie.  Something that she would shove into the back corners of her mind, alongside the flash of disappointment she’d felt when she realized that having a son meant she and Finn would only ever have one child.  Gathering cobwebs with memories of unwanted hands all over her body, of months spent in a hospital bed just like Alex’s, of every fucking time that someone she loved was in a stupid fucking hospital because of their stupid fucking parents and Evie was supposed to be better.  

Evie was supposed to be better.  She loved her children.  She was supposed to be better.  They were supposed to be okay.  They were supposed to grow up.  She was supposed to be better.  She was supposed to be fucking better.  She wasn’t any better.  She was just like her own mother, watching her son barely clinging to a life he didn’t want to live, watching her child’s stomach pumped after ingesting more substances than they could ever list from memory.  She was supposed to be better.

“Mom?”

Evie looked up from where she was still clinging to Alex’s hand.  Blue eyes met hazel.  Blue eyes met hazel.  She would know those eyes anywhere, would know that voice anywhere.  Would know her son, anywhere.

“Hi, baby.”

[gunmetal-ring]

Goddamn I am having such major writers block and ik it's like a rule that if you're bored writing it the readers will be bored reading it but the parts I'm stuck on are important for character development and I just want to skip to the end but I CANT

[good-beanswrites]

hello beans!! hope you're doing well 💜 ^w^ I know you've probably gotten a lot of requests - but I'm gonna add to that pile anyway because it's fun and also your writing is wonderful and always cheers me up to read!! I'm so inspired by your drabbles and you really bring these characters and this little world to life ;w;

From drabble list #1:

14. "Please tell me, this is not why you woke me up."

Character(s): honestly anyone, but my gut was saying Es as soon as I saw that sentence so... up to you!

Woo thank you pal, same to you!! Thanks for your kind words ah ;--; This is the perfect line for Es omg, I've been cracking up over it for so long 😂 I was tempted to write them waking up for T2, taking one look around and going "uh-uh," but decided on some T1 comedy...

Es rarely dreamed. Usually it was vague images and thoughts. Sometimes it was just them thinking about breakfast the following morning. Occasionally they were plagued by a nightmare of being forced to sing karaoke with the prisoners. Most of the time, though, it was just silence that welcomed them at the end of the day. Wonderful, peaceful, silence.

BANG-BANG-BANG!

Someone slammed their fist on the door. Es just about fell out of bed.

Mikoto’s voice came from outside. “Oi, get up! There’s been… uh… an incident!”

That was the last thing a prison guard wanted to hear at -- Es checked the clock -- 2am. Damn. 

They muttered to themself as they threw on their uniform. Why the prison’s cells didn’t lock was beyond them. Some of the prisoners were more troublesome than others, but the first trial had been going smoothly thus far. Why now? 

Their mind flashed with various possibilities, each one worse than the last, all urging them forward. By the time they were running down the hallway, their shirt buttons were a row off, and they had to switch their shoes to the opposite foot. They adjusted the cap clumsily on their head.

Fear gripped their chest as they heard Jackalope’s voice crying out for help from the panopticon. Jackalope never called for help. 

Es burst into the room. The prisoners froze, looking up guiltily. 

They sat in a huddle on the floor. Yuno and Muu held the little furry warden over a tub of sudsy water. Bottles of soap and shampoo sat nearby. An assortment of brushes and combs sat to the side. Splashes of water spread across the prisoners and ground, speaking to several failed attempts at getting Jackalope into the bath.

Nearby, Mahiru was holding up the tiny guard’s uniform, her sewing kit spread out on her lap. Es spotted bandages on Yuno’s and Kazui’s fingers. Shidou was currently dabbing blood off Fuuta’s nose as he fumed. Jackalope leaned over to nip at the hands holding him, but Yuno and Muu held him fast.

“Es!” came his frantic voice as he thrashed around. “You gotta help me! Make them stop, dammit!” 

From the group of prisoners who had been watching from a distance, Haruka turned to them. “Oh! Es! Th-they thought that he needed a -- uh, a bath! His uniform had a h-hole, and Mahiru can s-sew! And they thought, they thought we could do it all t-together… Muu called it a -- a spa night…” 

“At two in the morning?” Was all that came to mind.

“We tried to get him to do it earlier today,” Muu said, “but we didn’t get a chance until now.”

“They didn’t get a chance to kidnap me, she means!” He squirmed around some more, swinging his antlers wildly. “They hid around the corner and nabbed me like the filthy criminals they are!!”

Yuno said, “hold still,” as she brought him closer to the water. He kicked his feet wildly, screaming at Es to show a little authority and do something. 

“Hold on a second,” they stopped her.

They closed their eyes, pinching the bridge of their nose. They took a measured breath. They were here to contemplate sin and crime, guilt and forgiveness. Their job should have consisted of questions about morality and life and death; they never anticipated looking around their prison and asking, “is human shampoo even safe for his fur?”

Kotoko spoke up from the other side of the room. “That’s what I thought, but is he really a rabbit? He eats human food and everything, we didn’t think a bit of soap was that different.”

Jackalope disagreed (“that stuff is as bad as poison -- poison I tell you!”) but the others chimed in with their agreement. From around the room came promises that they were being gentle with him, and that they’d keep quiet, and that they’d dry and brush his fur really well when they’d finished, and that they’d feed him treats, and that his uniform was already good as new, and so on. A few complaints at getting bit mingled with Jackalope’s own insults. 

“-- Alright.” Es held up a hand to silence them all. They knew a warden shouldn’t be making compromises with their prisoners. At the same time, they didn’t have the energy to argue about bunny baths at this time of night. “You can continue, but wash him outside of the tub. And go easy on the shampoo. Any mess you make must be cleaned by morning.” 

They were met with excitement and thanks. Jackalope grumbled that they were too soft, but he sounded relieved as he was whisked away from the dreaded bathwater. 

Es sighed. There may have been a few bites and bumps, but that was all. No emergency, no fight, no danger plagued Milgram tonight. Their relief quickly turned to annoyance. They leveled their gaze at Mikoto as he entered from the hallway behind.

“Please tell me this isn’t why you woke me up.”

“Huh? Oh, this? No, no -- we have everything under control. Aw, Mappi, that looks great!”

He pointed at her sewing job, revealing bandages on his hands as well. It looked like no one was safe from the rabbit’s little teeth… Then Mikoto jabbed a thumb casually over his shoulder. “Nah, the faucet in the men’s room broke when we tried filling the basin. The whole room’s flooded now. I think it’s gonna start spilling into the hallway soon.”

“WHAT?”