#at least long enough to write this

[filet-o-feelings]

Oooh p&d kiss #49. Out of necessity please

Sorry this took me so long!

Patrick has been gone for three minutes and seventeen seconds. Eighteen. Nineteen.

David should really stop looking at the clock, it’s just that it’s the only thing he can focus on to keep his mind off of the fact that he’s still not entirely sure where things stand between them. He had walked in the store with the intention of making up with Patrick and the whole Rachel thing, unable to stand being apart any longer despite all of the lovely gifts.

He really should have done this sooner, because he’s afraid he’s fucked things up this time. Patrick didn’t seem too mad, but he wants an olive branch and all David wants is to kiss his boyfriend.

Correction, he needs to kiss his boyfriend. He needs to know he still has a boyfriend. He needs them to be okay. And maybe Patrick deserves an olive branch or two.

Patrick definitely deserves an olive branch. Maybe an entire olive tree.

Because, the thing is. Patrick is different. Patrick treats him the way he always wished someone would, the way he never expected anyone to.

Patrick treats him like he actually likes David, like he thinks David is interesting and deserving of someone like Patrick, and David had started to believe him.

And then Rachel happened, and David retreated. He had almost stopped waiting for the ball to drop, so when it swung into town like a wrecking ball it had knocked the wind out of him and left him questioning everything.

Then the gifts came rolling in, and the texts from Patrick that David couldn’t bring himself to respond to. They proved how well Patrick knew him, that he really does care. They were few, but sincere, and they were exactly what David needed to hear; an I’m sorry, David, I never meant to hurt you the first night and a good morning, I’ll cover the store. We can talk whenever you’re ready the following morning. Patrick knew to give David his space and not overwhelm him with apologies via text. Apologies to David were better received in gift boxes.

Then David went and got greedy, and might have messed up the first decent relationship he’d ever had.

So yeah, David couldn’t help but watch the clock and wait for Patrick to come back from lunch, but it had been years (seven minutes and twenty five seconds, but David is convinced the clock is broken–did someone go and reprogram the minute hand to years while he was moping and collecting olive branches?) and David still stood alone in his–their store.

Surely it’s usually busier than this?

The bell above the door shakes him from his spiraling and he looks up and offers a forced smile at the customer. Once they’ve made their purchase, he forces himself to avoid looking at the clock again and begins considering his options.

Patrick wants an olive branch.

He can do that. He can come up with a gift for Patrick. He considers things Patrick likes, eventually deciding that the best way to Patrick’s heart isn’t through material gifts, but something that David can do for him to show he means it; to show Patrick he’s all in.

After a few more minutes of brainstorming, looking back on their relationship, he has the perfect idea. His lips curl slightly as the idea fully forms and the bell rings again, revealing Patrick with a large bag and a drink tray from the cafe.

“You still got me lunch?”

Patrick rolls his eyes fondly as he sets the bag and drinks down on the counter, “Of course I did. I’m still expecting an olive branch, though.”

David steps out from behind the counter and wraps his arm around Patrick’s waist. “Oh, you’re getting an olive branch, honey.” He winces almost imperceptibly at his casual use of the pet name, still not sure if that’s okay, but Patrick smiles and David can’t hold back any longer. He presses his lips to Patrick’s, sinking into the familiar feeling as Patrick kisses him back like maybe he needs this as much as David, who thinks he may have just made a slight whimpering noise, which is confirmed when Patrick laughs a little before diving back in.

If he gets that reaction from a small, involuntary sound, David can’t wait to watch Patrick’s reaction when he puts his plan into action, Tina Turner over the speakers as he lip syncs his heart out to the words Patrick sang to him not so long ago. 

Tear us apart

Baby I would rather be dead

David’s not quite sure how Tina got it all so right, but he can’t disagree.

Patrick is simply the best.

[spirkbitch]

What’s your least favorite TOS episode?

(i made a post once asking people to tag their favorite and least favorite, i got these from there)

[ssomepersonn]

many thoughts about these guys

[damnation-if]

hey!! can i ask for a color palatte description for the ro's? like what their hair/eye colors are?

hope you're having a good week 💙💙💙

Hi!

I spent a long time putting together a graphic for this before I realised that you asked for just a description haha... oops. well. here is the graphic anyway XD

If you're looking for a link to the page with more general descriptions, there are some on the RO's page.

Very sorry for the delay in replying! My life is. hectic. smdnfgbsfgf

[whetstonefires]

A LA MEME. MDZS, Really nice guy who hates only you, hate at first sight?

It was totally inappropriate for a corpse to be popular.

But there it was: the Ghost General was more well-liked every day. He seemed to spend all his time wandering around rescuing maidens from monsters and lifting wagons off of old men. In a few years he'd be a hero of the people.

Even the cultivation world didn't expect harm from him anymore. Most of Jin Ling's peers addressed the corpse as qianbei; Jin Ling didn't, but he seemed to get on with him well enough.

Jiang Cheng hadn't actually said out loud, when he saw Wen Qionglin parting ways with Sect Leader Jin with an exchange of polite salutes, he killed your father, but he'd looked it. Jin Ling, fluent in Jiang Cheng's expressions, sighed.

"It was an accident," he said. "And he's apologized. And, you know, uncle, he was held prisoner by Jin Sect almost my entire life, you can't say he hasn't paid for it. And..."

And they had killed his whole family. And his older sister.

Jiang Cheng looked away. "Huh."

When Jiang Cheng had made his first, clumsy attempt at mending a little of the gruesome breach between himself and Wei Wuxian, the Ghost General had been there, glaring daggers at him from behind the Yiling Laozu.

It had been more disconcerting than it should have been, and Jiang Cheng had stumbled, interrupted himself, and fallen silent enough times that eventually Wei Wuxian had taken pity on him, reached out, patted him on the arm one time, said, "Good talk, Jiang Cheng," and extricated them both from the situation.

Freed from the burden of conversation, he'd returned Wen Qionglin's glare, and lost. Corpses didn't need to blink.

He didn't want the bastard to like him. Which was just as well since it was out of the question. Jiang Cheng had never for a second in his life liked Wen Qionglin; from the first time he'd laid eyes on him when they were youths he'd interpreted him as a pathetic, burdensome coward, and despised him for it.

Owing the man his life had made it worse--he hadn't even wanted to be saved, and it was Wei Wuxian's stupid horrible charm and habit of interfering where he wasn't wanted that had done it, and like hell had he owed anything, when that person's family had murdered his. (I owe him nothing, he'd told himself once, because Wen Qionglin had been the reason he lost Wei Wuxian.)

Another time, he found himself in both their company and drew apart, letting the Yiling Patriarch and the Ghost General play at being mentors to the youth. Neither of you lived to see twenty-five, he wanted to shout. What do you think you have to teach them?

Even Jin Ling...it made him furious. Furious to glance over and see a corpse's stiff face conveying softness.

Furious to look past the crowd and see Lan Wangji's eyes falling on Wen Qionglin with an unmistakable resentment. And to know that it wasn't the stiff propriety of the Lan Wangji of their youths, objecting to the heresy of that fierce corpse's existence; that it was the look of a petty, jealous man resenting the way Wei Wuxian knocked his shoulder together with the Ghost General's and laughed.

"Where do you get off hating Wen Ning?" he asked the next time he found himself alone with Lan Wangji. It was a stupid thing to ask, but if he let himself think about how they were threshing through the underbrush looking for Wei Wuxian, about the last time they had looked for Wei Wuxian together...

Lan Wangji ignored him.

Jiang Cheng snorted. "Okay. So maybe you don't hate him. But he likes you! He's so deferential it makes me want to puke."

Lan Wangji favored him with the merest hint of a sneer, just enough to show he was listening to Jiang Cheng talk.

"You're disgusting," said Jiang Cheng. "Do you really think he shouldn't have anyone but you in his life? That he's your property?"

Lan Wangji's stride broke. It was a triumph, in a way--Jiang Cheng had never thrown him so badly in all the years they'd known each other.

"Each man judges others by his own heart," said Lan Wangji, thick with contempt, and then he was walking ahead with pointed rapidity, determined to separate from Jiang Cheng, until staying together would have meant chasing after him, and Jiang Cheng turned and went the other way, muttering blackly.

In the end, fittingly, neither of them caught up in time to be of use. Wen Ning, with his homing sense for Wei Wuxian, had shown up out of who the fuck knew where and bailed him out.

Jiang Cheng stumbled upon the haunted spring just in time to see a sodden, bedraggled Wei Wuxian launch himself away from his pet Wen's supportive arm and fling himself against the upright form of Hanguang-jun, which bent around him with a reverent murmur.

Jiang Cheng was already turning away in disgust to head back home, hating that he'd let himself be dragged into this, when he heard Lan Wangji say with careful, solemn deliberation: "Thank you, Wen Qionglin. For taking care of him."

Jiang Cheng glanced back against his will to see the Ghost General saluting deeply, wide-eyed, infinitely humble, his murmur that it was nothing special, Hanguang-jun, nearly drowned out by Wei Wuxian's delighted shouting about how good his Lan Zhan was and how much Wen Ning deserved to be appreciated.

Jiang Cheng walked away.

Wen Qionglin wasn't rude to him. Not in any way you could point at. And he knew full well he'd be making an ass of himself if he tried to pick a verbal fight.

After all, they had killed Wen Qionglin's older sister.

The whole cultivation world had done it, but only Jiang Cheng had done it after Wen Qionglin saved his life. He'd told himself he owed no debt for that, and perhaps he hadn't, but the fact remained: of the two of them, one had been brave and virtuous and earned the loyalty of Wei Wuxian.

And one of them had been pathetic, a coward, a burden.

Jiang Cheng could never look at the man without seeing the look in his dead eyes across the length of Suibian.

Jiang Cheng had never been good at lying to himself, especially if the lie was meant to be comforting. He always tried it anyway. Comforting lies used to sound so true, in Wei Wuxian's mouth; he should never have gotten into the habit of relying on that. To letting that person think Jiang Cheng was someone who needed to be swaddled in falsehoods to give him the strength to bear up under his own duties.

Wen Qionglin was a kind, gentle, courageous dead body, shy and courteous and increasingly appreciated for his virtues, in this strange new world created in the wake of Jin Guanyao's disgrace. And whenever his eyes fell on Jiang Cheng they were cold, hard, flat, contemptuous.

Every time he looked at him Jiang Cheng could nearly hear him thinking, like a cold wind against the back of his neck: I should have left you in that heap of corpses with the rest of your family.

What are you worth, Jiang Wanyin, that so many should be spent in saving you? That Wei Wuxian would drag us all into the shadow of death to make you whole, only for you to turn your face aside when it was me lying there, and let him die for us without lifting a finger?

Selfish, whining coward. If only I had left you there to die.

If only, Jiang Cheng imagined spitting back, anger hot and bracing in his throat. If only! I never asked for any of it! How dare you expect me to repay you!

But Wen Qionglin never spoke any of the words out loud. He only looked, cold dead flat black eyes. A frozen river. Sometimes Jiang Cheng thought that if he lashed out hard enough he would break a hole in the ice, and be devoured whole.

[python333]

task force 141 reacting to [reader] having excessively watery eyes — python333

— — — —

synopsis just as the title says once again! tf141 and their reactions to [reader] having excessively watery eyes. if you want to get a bit more medical, the term for it would just be 'high tear drainage capacity'! it's basically just something some people have where they naturally just produce more tears and as a result their eyes water excessively at (as far as i know) random times!

relationships platonic!taskforce 141 & reader.

characters cap. john price, soap, ghost, gaz.

warnings 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of c/n [code name/call sign], might be ooc. :{

note i was watching super 8 when i got this idea, because my eyes got watery all of a sudden while watching it and i was like 'omg i should post this on tumblr' because i'm a writing whore so here i am again. my fingers hurt from typing all the things in html to make the text small and shit but we still up!!

JOHN “BRAVO SIX” PRICE

➥ he thinks you’re crying at first.

➥ it’s not his fault! he had no idea your eyes just water up randomly.

➥ when he sees your eyes well up with tears, depending on how close y’all are, his fatherly instincts—which he, obviously, developed after meeting gaz—kick in immediately.

➥ “Are you okay, [c/n]?” “Why are you crying?” “Did something happen? What happened?” “... What do you mean?” “This is normal?”

➥ he’s kind of embarrassed for worrying so much after you reassure him that you were okay and that your eyes just excessively water, to be honest.

➥ he’s glad that you’re okay though, obviously.

➥ he never really gets used to seeing you tear up randomly? even though you told him it was normal?

➥ like he knows that 99% of the time you tear up it’s just because you do that, but he still likes to be sure that you’re okay, so he always makes sure to ask if you’re okay.

➥ he’s such!! a father!! i’m crying!! and it's not just my excessive eye watering!!

—

You both had just been hanging out in the recreation center, Price on the couch and you sitting on a chair right by that couch. You were scrolling through your phone, while Price was reading the newspaper—usual old man activities. While scrolling through your social media feed, you didn’t even notice the way tears started to well up in your eyes until your vision got blurry and you felt a small, wet trail of a single tear roll down your cheek.

You’d sighed and pulled a pocket-sized tissue pack out out your pocket, pulling out a tissue and dabbing at your eyes, ridding them of the tears. Of course, the tears didn’t just stop there, they kept coming, so you kept wiping and dabbing at your eyes, hoping that they would go away soon. This was a fairly regular occurrence— for you.

Price caught sight of this and immediately looked worried. He stared at you for a moment as you wiped your eyes, wondering if he should speak up, and eventually had tentatively asked, “Are you okay, [c/n]?”

You looked over at him and pulled the tissue away from your face for a moment, “Yeah, why?” Your voice didn’t sound strained or hoarse like Price had expected, seeing as you were practically crying.

“You’re crying,” Price had pointed out, pointing to your eyes as if you couldn’t notice it, “Did something happen?”

You sat there, a bit dumbfounded, and Price took your silence as hesitation to tell him what was going on. “You can tell me what’s going on, [c/n]. I won’t judge you,” He’d reassured you softly, setting down his book and putting all of his attention on you.

Oh God. “Nothing happened,” You’d quickly assured him, “This is normal, don’t worry about it.”

“... What do you mean, ‘this is normal’?” Price asked, now confused as well as concerned, “You cry often, mate?”

“I mean, kind of?” You had replied, before sighing and clarifying, “My eyes just water up a lot. It’s not really crying.”

“Oh,” Price said dumbly, before nodding and giving you one last concerned look, “Right, then. Uh… sorry about that.”

“It’s okay,” You smiled at him, going back to dabbing at your eyes with a tissue, while he reluctantly went back to his book.

—

JOHN “SOAP” MACTAVISH

➥ can’t mind his own business for the life of him.

➥ similar to price, he thinks you’re crying at first.

➥ but he doesn’t hesitate at all, the moment he sees you tearing up he’s like ‘woah what the fuck are you okay??’

➥ you have to firmly tell him that yes, you’re okay, you just have very watery eyes.

➥ he still offers to get you tissues and some water, worried by the amount of tears you’re producing, thinking you’re gonna get really dehydrated.

➥ makes sure you’re completely okay and that you’re not just making this all up to hide the fact that you’re actually crying.

➥ after that whole interaction, he doesn’t get as worried when your eyes randomly water up, and instead teases you about it.

➥ learns to know when you’re actually crying, just so that he can offer comfort when it’s appropriate, and tease you when it’s appropriate.

—

The two of you were hanging out in Ghost’s room, since his was cleaner than the both of your’s combined, and he was away on a mission. Soap laid down on Ghost’s bed while you were sitting on the edge of the same bed, the sheets and blankets wrinkled from you both moving around on the bed. Soap was scrolling through his phone while you sat opposite of him and read a book Price had recommended to you—in his usual old man pseudo-father fashion, he’d told you to spend less time on your phone and ‘read a damn book’—so you were doing just that.

It was when you’d just reached chapter six when your vision got blurry and you sighed, knowing what was happening already. It was just annoying, honestly, having to pull out your tissues every ten minutes because your stupid tear ducts couldn’t function properly. When you went to pull out the mini tissue pack you always carried with you—or so you thought—you were surprised to find that the familiar plastic rectangle of tissues were nowhere to be found in your pockets. You checked your back pockets, front pockets, and yet they weren’t in either.

You let out a small, frustrated sigh through your nose and got up from the bed, the movement making Soap look up and over at you.

“Hey, where are ye—blimey, are ye cryin’?” Soap questioned, his questioning tone quickly becoming concerned, “Are ye alright? It wasnae the book that made ye cry, aye?”

You looked back at Soap, sighing, wiping at your eyes with the sleeve of your shirt, “Yeah, I’m fine. Don’t even worry about it, it’s normal, I just need to go get some tissues.”

“What dae ye mean this is normal?” Soap asked, sitting up. I just want to grab tissues, man, You think, miserably before short explanation that yes, you’re okay, no, you’re not crying, your eyes are just watery—basically the same answer you give every who eventually asks about your little ‘quirk’.

“Ye sure ye’re alright?” Soap asked, just making sure you’re actually okay, “Ye’re definitely no’ crying?”

“Definitely not crying,” You confirmed, “Just watery eyes.”

“Alright, then,” Soap breathed out, relieved that you were okay, before getting up and asking, “Dae ye need some tissues, water, anythin’?”

“Just tissues,” You answered, walking towards the door, “I can get them—”

“Nah, nah, ye stay richt there!” Soap quickly said, somehow getting to the door before you despite him having been right in front of the bed moments earlier, “I’ll get it!”

You watched him run out the door at a speed comparable to the usain bolt and stayed there for a moment, just staring at the now opened door, before huffing out a small laugh and heading back to the bed and sitting down.

—

SIMON “GHOST” RILEY

➥ he doesn’t notice until you’re wiping at your eyes and huffing in frustration when tears keep coming.

➥ the first time it happened, he didn’t ask if you were alright verbally, but did shoulder nudge you and gave you a look that asks ‘are you okay?’

➥ when you nodded and continued wiping at your eyes, ghost gave you one last look before trusting that you were okay and continuing on with his day.

➥ he pretended he didn’t care but thought about it for a bit afterwards, especially if you guys are really close.

➥ he asked price if you tearing up is just a normal thing or if you were actually crying, and let himself relax when he was told that yes, your eyes just water up randomly.

➥ he’s naturally a very observant person and will be able to tell when you’re actually crying fairly quickly.

➥ he’ll still look you over to make sure you’re okay, of course, just to double check, but once he’s confirmed that your eyes are just getting watery again he’ll let himself relax.

➥ depending on how close you both are, he’ll carry around a pack of tissues for you.

—

You and Ghost were in a helicopter, another mission successful. It wasn’t the worst one you’d had—but it was far from easy to accomplish. You were reasonably tired after this mission, all the leftover adrenaline wearing off, making you slump a bit in your seat.

You were just about to close your eyes to rest them, when suddenly you realized how blurry your vision had gotten. You were confused for a moment before realizing—oh, right, that happens.

You sighed, knowing you didn’t bring your usual pack of tissues with you, thinking it would just take up useless space in the pockets of your tactical gear. You wiped your eyes with the gloves you’d been wearing, albeit they weren’t the best option but the sleeves of your shirt were far too short for you to use, the hem of your shirt was dirty, and while your gloves were dirty as well, the back of them weren’t nearly as filthy as the hem of your shirt.

As you wiped away with the back of your glove, Ghost noticed your watery eyes and nudged your shoulder with his own. You paused and pulled your hand away from your eye, giving him a questioning look. He didn’t say anything, but instead gave you a questioning look back, a look you assumed to be one that asked, ‘are you okay?’, judging by the way his eyes darted to your own very watery ones. You nodded, mouthing the words ‘I’m okay’, and he nodded back, going back to staring ahead of him.

Hours after you had gotten off the helicopter, you were walking by Price’s office, and couldn’t help but hear Ghost’s voice. Being the nosy person you are, you cautiously pressed your ear to the door.

“—don’t worry, it’s normal,” You heard Price reassuring Ghost, “I doubt they’d cry after a mission like that, anyway.”

“And they’ve told you it’s normal?” Ghost asked, just to confirm, “You know this for a fact?”

You didn’t stay long enough to hear the rest of the conversation, instead walking away and suppressing a smile at Ghost’s mildly worried tone.

—

KYLE “GAZ” GARRICK

➥ he notices pretty quickly.

➥ no matter how many times he’s caught you tearing up, he’ll still ask you if you’re okay.

➥ he makes sure to bring a clean handkerchief with him, just incase you forget your tissues.

➥ he’ll even bring it with him on missions, knowing you don’t want to bring your small pack of tissues with you.

➥ the first time he catches your eyes watering up, he gets pretty worried.

➥ he makes sure not to make a big deal out of it though, trying to be as considerate as possible, and instead quietly asks you if you’re okay.

➥ when you reassure him that you are and tell him your eyes are just naturally watery, he’s pretty relieved, and lets it go.

➥ he trusts that you told him the truth, and doesn’t question you again after that.

➥ around the fifth time it’d happened, he’d grown pretty used to it, so when you started tearing up walking back to the rendezvous point with him after a mission, he had a handkerchief ready for you.

—

You panted while you walked, trying to get your breathing under control. You’d done a lot of running today—while you were pretty fit, and could run perfectly fine, you didn’t particularly like running as fast as you can away from enemy soldiers while your teammates shot them down, leaving you praying that the bullets that tailed your feet didn’t hit you.

Eventually, you got your breath under control, but immediately afterwards, your eyes had started to water.

You sighed and were about to wipe at your eyes with your hands, before your hand was stopped mid air. You looked over at Gaz, who had caught your hand by the wrist and offered you a handkerchief with his free hand.

The handkerchief was fairly clean, and you grabbed it, muttering a small ‘thank you’ as you did. Gaz smiled at you and gave you a simple pat on the shoulder.

Once the two of you reached the rendezvous point, you handed him back the handkerchief, hoping that your grateful smile was enough to express your full gratitude.

[marlynnofmany]

We’re All Weird Here

“Bones are body horror,” the tentacle alien told me. “Not that I would volunteer such information, mind you, but you did ask.”

“I did,” I agreed, lifting another crate. “That’s really funny, honestly. What about them is disturbing?”

Mur twisted his blue-black tentacles in a way that looked anxious. “Just the idea of something rigid, inside your flesh,” he said with a wiggly shudder. “No matter how you move, it won’t move with you. Like your own body is fighting back.” He wrapped his tentacles around a crate. “I’ve had nightmares about stiffness like that.”

“Wow,” I said as I set my crate on top of the others. “I’m sorry to hear that? All I can tell you is that bones aren’t an enemy to us; they’re something dependable and strong that hold us up and make everything possible.”

Mur shoved his crate into place. “I suppose you’d need a positive relationship with your own disturbing parts,” he said with a twitch of his hind tentacles that was probably the equivalent of shaking his head. Since a Strongarm’s pointy squid-head was the majority of their body, they didn’t seem to go in for human-style nods.

“Well sure, same as you,” I said, checking the hovercart for more crates. “You know most humans find tentacles creepy, right?”

“I have heard,” he said with a smug little smile.

No nods, but yes smiles. With a mouth in the right place, even. I was privately glad that he had a mouth on the front of his head, instead of hidden among his tentacles like an Earth cephalopod. I was debating whether to tell him that when a crewmate of an entirely different body type walked in on clicking feet.

I pointed at him. “What about exoskeletons?” I asked Mur.

Zhee stopped beside the cart. “What about exoskeletons?” he demanded. He struck a pose out of an intergalactic fashion show, letting the ship’s lights play on his vivid purple carapace while he snapped his pincher arms. “Are you squishies jealous?”

“Sure, let’s go with that,” Mur told him before turning to me. “Exoskeletons are different from bones. They’re like an exo-suit: a protective case for the natural softness.”

Zhee held the pose. “A glorious one.”

“Yes, Zhee. You’re very pretty.” Mur sounded more than a little patronizing, but Zhee didn’t seem to mind.

“That is the proper amount of respect,” the bug alien said. He relaxed to grasp the cart handles with his pinchers, and towed it out of the room. “I will return with more freeze-dried foodstuffs. Make sure you tie those crates down.”

“Yeah, we’ve got it,” Mur told him. “Make sure you get the right ones; two of the three shipments look similar.”

“This is obvious to one with such excellent color vision as myself.”

Mur made the little popping noises that pass for laughter, and turned toward the adjustable netting. He threw one end to me.

We spent the next few minutes fastening things down to industry standards, which still seemed a little excessive. I’d never seen the ship’s antigravity fail yet, but I supposed meteor impacts were possible. Some of those buggers were much faster than I’d ever expected before I got into space.

“We’re going to need a replacement for this one,” Mur said, fingering a hole in one net. (Does it count as “fingering” if he used a tentacle-tip? “Tentacling” just doesn’t sound right.) He set it aside near the door.

“Do we have enough for now?” I asked.

“Yeah, probably,” he said. “We just can’t forget on the next restocking trip. Hey Paint!” he called after someone who’d just passed the doorway.

“Paint,” she said, replying with her own name where I would have said “Yes?” or “What?” Her full name was Painted Sunset, but since that sounded way too much like the captain’s name, Piercing Sunlight, she just stuck to Paint. She poked her snout of mottled orange scales around the doorframe, all polite curiosity.

“Can you put another net on the shopping list?” Mur asked.

“Big or small?”

“Big please.”

“Got it. One question for you.”

“What’s that?” Mur asked.

Paint spun to stick her tail out into the doorway. She had something taped to it — a stapler? Whatever it was, it clacked like a tiny crocodile when she moved. “Have you seen any tasty fish around here?” she said in a growly voice. “Rawr!”

With a long-suffering sigh, Mur told her, “No, but there are probably some in the kitchen.”

“Thanks!” Paint spun again and stuck her head out. “Was it scary? I think it needs eyes to be really scary.”

Mur sighed.

“That was good!” I said. “Eyes would be better. Hey, do you have access to googly eyes out here? The little sticky ones?”

“No, what are those?” Paint asked, walking into the room. “They sound fun.”

“They are!” I told her. “I used to like putting two on my hand and making a little face, like this.” I demonstrated, wrapping a forefinger around my thumb and moving both together like a talking mouth. “‘Hello! I don’t have teef.’”

Paint thought this was the best thing ever, and despite Mur’s eye-rolling maturity, he couldn’t take his eyes off the display.

“That is unsettlingly convincing,” he admitted. “Even without eyes. If I saw that sneak around a corner and start talking to me, I’d believe we had a stowaway of a species I’d never seen before.” He pointed three tentacles at my face. “Do NOT do that as a prank, or I’ll throw your shoes out the airlock. I know you treasure those.”

“It’s not that I treasure them,” I said. “The floor is just cold without them, and I could step on something sharp.”

“Yeah, so? That’s life,” the squidlike alien said. “You don’t see me wearing an exo-suit about the ship just because the floor is cold.”

“Hey, do that hand thing one more time,” Paint said. “I think I’ve almost got it.” Her scaly orange fingers were too short to manage the same effect, but she was trying.

“More crates,” announced Zhee from the hallway. “Make some emptiness.”

The three of us moved aside for him to direct the hovercart into place. Paint gushed about the hand thing.

“It looks so convincing! I can’t do it right. Show him!”

I did, feeling a bit silly in front of his unblinking, massive eyes. His antennae held still, making his expression hard to read. “‘Hello,’” I said. “‘I’m a mouth.’”

“That’s not a mouth,” he declared.

Before I could say yeah, that’s the point, he stepped back from the cart. With a flourish, he tucked his head low against his shoulders and bent his pincher arms into a terrifying facsimile of a gaping jaw, lined with teeth.

Paint squeaked. Mur slapped a tentacle against the floor.

“Wow,” I said. “Yeah, googly eyes have nothing on that.”

Mur pointed at him. “I see you also have a potential prank that you should not pull.”

At the same time, Paint exclaimed, “You have to show Sunlight!”

Mur gave her a look. “Do not terrify the captain.”

“No no, she’ll love it.”

“I’m pretty sure she’s busy.”

Paint rubbed her chin as Zhee resumed a normal posture. “It wouldn’t take long, but yeah, she’s busy. Dinnertime? Oh, and you have to show off your thing too!” she said, pointing at me.

Mur started to naysay, but I said, “Oh, like a talent show?”

“I have all of the talent,” Zhee announced.

Paint was delighted. Mur waved his tentacles about and went back to work, while Zhee launched into a story of the time he scared off a predator with the “false jaws” trick.

“Come on, let’s tell everybody else about the talent show!” Paint said. “This’ll be great!” She waved for Zhee to follow her, and he went, still talking.

Mur grumbled. “Dinner is going to be interesting. I hope it doesn’t put anyone off their food.”

“I’ll try not to do anything bone-related,” I said.

“I appreciate the restraint.”

After a moment of handling crates, I asked, “Did you know our blood is made inside our bones?”

“Oh, that is so much worse! I may just get sick ahead of time.”

~~~

More fun and games with backstory for the book. Not as much action this time, but some very important conversation.

[emry-stars-art]

For the Royal AU Twinyard backstory... Maybe Andrew, as a second son, was sent away for study? He could have become an apprentice to a knight or a scholar when he was young, maybe even with the Spears, and that's where Bad Shit Happened. And then he could have returned when he became of age, or when their last parent dies and Aaron needs a familiar (ha!) face around

*excited* okay okay this has been brought up a few times now and every time I read it the idea grows on me more, you’re all so smart for it

(I was gonna put the art at the end but this got a lot longer and sadder than I anticipated so. Sometimes Andrew likes to do stuff like this when they’re stuck talking to important boring dignitaries)

(It’s the main reason Aaron develops an incredible poker face)

tws this time are all canon compliant

Honestly yeah! I do think this is great because I want the twins’ father to be around after birth and for a while, because the whole point of Andrew being sent elsewhere is probably so they can give that extra attention to Aaron and raise him as the heir to the throne. So it’s a perfect balance, in my mind, of a family that cares enough to get Andrew an education/proper upbringing and a father that doesn’t care enough to spend time on a second son.

In my head the Spears would be almost always overbearing, partly because Andrew is the prince and they Do Not want to disappoint the royal family and partly because Andrew is the prince and they immediately assume this little five year old they get on their doorstep is going to be a spoiled brat. Even though he isn’t. And, as you may guess, the only thing they turn a blind eye to is Drake. Drake, their own son, probably the real spoiled brat that gets his way in all things, even with the young prince. Faces no consequences, even when Andrew tries to tell someone. It’s probably his governess or nanny at first (either way, it’s not really important what the role is, just that she’s there). And this woman has been Andrew’s biggest advocate since he arrived, she genuinely cares about and is worried for the little prince with his bruises and fear. She cares enough to bring this up to Duke Spear - maybe he really is dumb enough to just be unaware, she hopes - and confront him about Andrew’s treatment. But of course the duke doesn’t do anything to discipline his son. Instead, the governess is fired and a new woman takes her place, a woman that isn’t as outspoken and won’t ever question the authority of the Spear family. Andrew learns soon enough that trying to tell someone or speak out only makes things worse for himself. Sometimes he still wonders where that first governess is, if she’s doing well.

Meanwhile at the castle, Aaron is going through his own rigorous training. A lot of the same stuff as Andrew is learning, honestly, with a few added duties and lessons and a lot more official meetings he attends with King Minyard. It’s a pretty average upbringing for an heir, I think.

Then maybe when Aaron is around the age of ten or so, King Minyard passes. This wouldn’t normally be a political issue, since it’s expected of the Queen to take over and divide the king’s half of the duties as she sees fit until either she remarries or has an heir become old enough to take the throne, at which time she may pass it to the child or continue to reign until she either passes or is deemed unfit. And, politically, this is exactly what happens. What most don’t see is how grief stricken she becomes and then remains. She can’t pull herself from her grieving, and instead of passing duties to more fitting people, Queen Tilda simply lets young Prince Aaron take on as many duties as he can without breaking down. (Though he has, before. Likely a few times. A kid being pushed past his limit again and again.) Aaron grows up so much faster than he ever should have. He’s thirteen now and sometimes he shakes with stress.

Then the queen finally gives into her grief and passes as well. If it weren’t for Katelyn, Abigail, and Betsy, Aaron might have been next to lose his mind, leaving the throne empty. As things are, Aaron swallows everything down just long enough have word sent to the Spear family. He wants his brother back. A familiar face and his quiet, desperate hope: someone to just help.

And return him they do. Andrew’s been perfectly competent with all his studies, they say, they’d even managed to break that stubborn streak. (They didn’t like he wouldn’t speak or shake hands when instructed. They didn’t like being told no.) And yes, it’s a familiar face. Aaron sees the carriage door open, sees his twin for the first time in eight years, but he isn’t sure he recognizes Andrew. Andrew isn’t supposed to have bags under his eyes like this. Andrew didn’t hold his jaw so tightly. And Andrew certainly didn’t answer questions like some kind of unthinking, unfeeling shell.

The first thing Andrew says to Aaron getting off that carriage is “No.” It’s quiet, but he does say it. Aaron is confused - he’d thought they’d still be allowed to hug each other, or shake hands at least - but he does step back and instead ask if Andrew wants to see his room. He can see Andrew relax.

It might hurt Aaron a little when he watches the Spear boy get a hug with no protest, or how Andrew quietly addresses the duke with more than a one word sentence. But he’s not going to ask about it for a while. He’s the stranger to Andrew here, after all.

(I think Andrew does let him ask. The most he tells Aaron about it - maybe as much as a year later - is that the younger Spear had been much worse at listening than Aaron ever is. It is much better here. At least you and Nicky understand the meaning of ‘no’. Leave it at that. And after that Aaron is even more supportive of Andrew’s wide bubble than he was before. He enforces it himself when he has to. And growing up together for longer, with no looming secrets or much reason for animosity between them - it isn’t Aaron’s fault King Minyard decided to hand Andrew off and the twins are both mature enough even at that age to know it - means the twins are much closer than in canon. I don’t think it would be a typically ‘fond’ relationship, because they’ve both still been through it. But they support each other in all things, no questions asked, and always get through problems together.

It doesn’t take much longer than that first year for Aaron to earn the right to touch Andrew, even if he does need to give or show warning before he does. Andrew never says it, but he’s grateful that Aaron is generous with his shoulder pats. It feels a little like the validation he never got anywhere else. And Aaron never says it, but he’s grateful that Andrew is always at his side to tell people ‘no’ when Aaron is technically not allowed to.)

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

The whole discourse about the privacy/secrecy/support thing has been sitting with me for a few days (I mean other than it always does to a certain degree) thanks to all the excellent discussion happening and I know I'm not saying anything that hasn't been said a million times before, but I think what we're seeing and what we're going to learn (e.g. from TTPD) is that it wasn't just the support issue, but how it was shown/handled.

We've all gone out of our way to show that introversion =/= lack of support. Someone can be shy, reserved, etc. and still show up for their partner, whether in public or at home. To chalk any of the differences up to the clash between introversion and extroversion is unfair to folks who count themselves among either tbh.

@thisisctrying said something the other day that hit the nail on the head about how if that support had been offered in private, there very well may not have been a Joever to begin with, or at least not at this point in time. (Sorry for loosely paraphrasing, and for namedropping you! Long time listener, first time poster.)

If this were a case where the "shy" partner said, "I am really uncomfortable with the spotlight personally and do not want to court it, but I will support you in your ambitions and offer you whatever you need to make them happen and make the glare bearable," I suspect that would have gone a long way to making Taylor feel seen and comfortable in pursuing her goals in the way that she now has. Again, that might have been more akin to the balance that seemed to have been struck around 2019 from what we can see, but even speaking in a general sense, there are lots of couples out there, celebrity or not, that have similar approaches where there are highly driven people and busy careers involved.

(A famous example being Dolly Parton's marriage. Tbh I know next to nothing about her and Carl, but she's always heralded as an example in this regard, because her husband is famously uncomfortable with the spotlight and hasn't accompanied her to public events in decades, but she's said that she never minded that because that was always work to her, and what was important was that he supported her in pursuing all her career goals and basically ensured she had a place to call home to return to at the end of the day.)

We're kind of in a brave new world with her current relationship because it felt like, at least at the start, we were maybe watching her figure out her boundaries in real time as to what she was comfortable with or not and adjust accordingly. Like so many have said, I fully believe the extreme privacy thing was initially driven by herself and her experiences in 2016, and she needed that quiet time to recover from all of the things and figure out how to exist in the world again.

Stating the obvious, it seemed like eventually privacy was equated with secrecy, turning the relationship and the celebrity into the elephant in the room and something to never be spoken of to the outside world. People are free to choose whatever works best for themselves and their relationships, and for some the separate public lives might work, but the “kept me like a secret but I kept you like an oath” theme is all over her work and it’s clear that it’s a sore spot for her, because she’s been made to feel shame just for the life she leads so many times in the past.

What I’m trying to say is that it’s pretty obvious something Not Great was happening behind the scenes, which didn’t just amount to “she wanted to be a public celebrity and he wanted to be a private hermit.” (Also, in case anyone forgot, this is a person who also chose a public-facing career who also has to engage in press for it, but I digress.) As her career reached new heights post-folklore, if she had the support at home to do all the things without judgment and with encouragement, and in turn offer the same support to her partner, she may have very well lived just fine with that, not unlike Dolly Parton’s case.

By reading between the lines in all the press since, as well as comments on tour and general ~vibes~ with TTPD teasers, it seems like one of the issues was that that was likely not the case. There was all the stuff that we saw — the reticence to acknowledge each other in the media (particularly on one side), the lack of public support even at events at which they were both in attendance for their respective jobs, the great lengths they went to not to be photographed together at events they attended yet no problem taking pictures with other friends and coworkers, the jobs that separated them, the withdrawing from the public even for work accomplishments, etc. Which could all be manageable if a couple chooses to do so together and are not inherently a sign of trouble in themselves.

But what we’re seeing now I think is a reflection of the things we weren’t seeing then, and it seems to indicate some very deep hurt. (I know, call me Captain Obvious.) And like so many have been saying, it feels likely that that part of that hurt is rooted in that very lack of private support where a person would expect it from their partner. Obviously as a Taylor fan blog I’m going to be more inclined to understand her side of a story, but tbh, it’s also because… this is sooooooo common, and something I’ve experienced in my friend group. (@taylortruther is right when she says most breakups are the same one way or another lol.)

One partner is resentful of the other’s success, or resentful that the other’s priorities begin to evolve as new experiences unlock new goals, or feels the other’s ambitions are not worthy of pursuit, and coupled with perhaps their own struggles in the same domain, it’s easy to see where that can chip away at the other partner’s morale and faith in the relationship. I know I’m just speculating here, but I also don’t think it’s totally unfounded. (Again, because a) I’m picking up what she’s putting down and b) it happens to sooooooo many women even among us dull normals.)

With all the pointed mentions about how much Taylor feels supported in her current relationship and how she in turn loves to offer the same show of support to not only her partner but other loved ones, how she’s stepped out more in the last year to a whole host of events, how she’s mentioned feeling like she locked herself away for years and she’s just proud of her partner and happy she can show up for him even if the chaos around it is unsettling, it paints a picture of what perhaps was happening before last year.

To feel like you’re all alone in carrying the weight of the relationship (or burden of it), of twisting yourself into knots to accommodate the other person’s boundaries (or insecurities) but not feeling reciprocity for your own has to be so painful. (The idea that it may have been even darker and to have a partner not only be unreceptive to your own needs but even perhaps resentful/dismissive/belittling of them is even more painful to think of. I guess we’ll find out when TTPD comes out if that was the case, too.)

At a certain point, that lack of acknowledgement will force your hand to be able to reclaim yourself. And it feels like the further removed Taylor in particular is from it, the more she moves from being sad about the life she felt she gave up by leaving, to angry at the life she felt she was giving up by staying. Especially being in a relationship now where it seems like everything comes much easier, where she can be open about the person she’s with and show up for them, all the stuff that seemed as challenging as climbing Mount Everest in her past is nothing more than a molehill at best in her current life.

TL;DR: I don’t think it’s privacy that inherently spells doom for a celebrity relationship like this; it’s the mutual support and respect that does. If Taylor had felt that in the later years of her previous relationship, I think we could be seeing a different, though not necessarily unfulfilled, person right now in 2024, who’d be happy on tour but whose personal life would look a little different. But it seems like by losing that support she lost parts of herself, and we’ve seen her reclaim that in spades in the last year, and perhaps to degrees she didn’t even realize she could from before all the Bad Stuff started happening in her young adulthood.

I know this was extremely long-winded and unnecessary, especially about total strangers we only know through scraps fed through the media, but I just always bristle at this idea that issues like these boil down to “personality differences,” as though one person wants to live in a city and the other on a remote island, or some shit like that. The whole support (and gender tbh) issue is one that’s just very close to my heart because again, I have seen it play out with so many of my friends in long term relationships and marriages and I just think people in relationships (and women in particular in some circles) deserve better than to feel like they’re being, well, tolerated.

[pencildragons]

snippet from my upcoming foxquin fic sinner, sinner (come to dinner) for foxquinweek !!!!!

“Commander Fox,” says the Chancellor, smiling his kindly smile. Fox stands very still and stares straight ahead, past Palpatine and through the great transparisteel window at the city below, skyline exploding in the brilliance of the sun’s final dying rays. The fanciful part of him that will one day be responsible for his death imagines that, if he’s just still enough, Palpatine will forget him entirely. It’s ridiculous, he knows, he knows, of course he knows, but he clings to it anyway, endeavours to move as little as possible, turns trying to hide even the slight rise and fall of his chest into some sort of test of how good his impression of being a block of stone is. “Sir,” says Fox. “Commander Fox,” Palpatine says again, still smiling that awful fucking smile, but sadder, now, mournful, bushy eyebrows doing something terrible and expressive. “You have disappointed me.” “Yes, sir.” “I gave you a very simple directive, Commander, and still you failed.” Fox is barely breathing now. Only a few klicks away, the spire of the Jedi Temple burns in a halo of pink-red, spearing through the cloud-strewn sky. It looks like one of the paintings hung in the Senate rotunda corridors, the ones that like as not cost more to procure than he did. His throat is dry. He tries to swallow. It sticks. It is likely he is dehydrated. There is a little light flashing on top of the spire, warning away in-atmo transports and low-flying starships. Orange-blue-green. Orange-blue-green. He stares at it, so he doesn’t have to look at Palpatine. “Yes, sir.” “Such inadequacy is, of course, unacceptable, Commander, as I’m sure you’re aware. I really had hoped it would not come to this, you understand.” Liar, Fox thinks. You love this. “But there is only one way to learn, and that is through experiencing consequences of your actions. Perhaps next time you will not take your sworn duty so lightly, hmm?” “Yes, sir.” “Draw your blaster, please, Commander.” Fox blinks and, in his surprise, breaks his stillness to turn his head to face Palpatine properly. “…Sir?” “Must I repeat myself twice? Draw your blaster from your holster.” Slowly, Fox draws. He wonders if this is some sort of test, if he’s going to be punished further for making his weapon naked in front of the Supreme Chancellor of the entire fucking Republic. (In the light of the dusk spilling through the window into the opulent office, Palpatine’s eyes seem almost gold. It is for but a brief moment, just the rays of the fat sun catching oddly, and then they return to that sharp, ice-chip grey like nothing at all happened.) “Good,” says Palpatine, and smiles again. Like this, he looks like some natborn’s father’s father—grandfather, he believes the term is—all benevolent wrinkles and knowing looks. “Set it to kill.” Fox sets it to kill. It is not a difficult thing. He is just as much a weapon as the blaster in his hands, well-oiled, clean, smooth. Efficient. He was designed for this. It is easier to follow orders mindlessly; his brain, like all their brains (except, perhaps, Kote’s, but Kote’s a little fucked up and is an outlier for everything else, anyway), is primed for command, made to obey. A perfect, thoughtless gun, with just enough ruthlessness and self-determination to set them apart from the CIS’ droids. That’s the idea, anyway. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time the Kaminoans failed in the execution of something. “Turn around, Commander,” Palpatine murmurs, words soft and smooth and rich as the heavy velvet-fabric from his home planet that he has all his clothes cut from. “And fire at will.”

rbs deeply appreciated :]

[wikiangela]

seven sentence sunday

tagged by @daffi-990 @diazsdimples @spotsandsocks 💖

this fic is so close to being done! I'm hoping to finish it sometime this week! so need all the motivation and validation i can get so here's another snippet 🤣🤣🤣

prev snippet

___

“Alright, mi amor.” Eddie purrs into Buck’s ear, then kisses him again. He half-sits to grab the lube and spread some over his dick. Buck looks up at him, eyes shining with love and anticipation, as his hands land on Eddie’s sides, gently moving up and down. Eddie positions himself against Buck’s hole, then chuckles at Buck impatiently wiggling his hips with a little grin. He’s so adorable. It should be impossible to be so smoking hot and so adorable at the same time, but that’s Buck, his own personal ray of sunshine Eddie can never look away from. “First time making love to you as your husband. First of countless more.” he whispers, leaning down to capture Buck’s lips again. 

“Mmm, god, just hearing you say that could make me come.” Buck responds, wrapping his arms around Eddie, and kissing him again. Then he makes a satisfied sound when Eddie starts slowly sliding in. “You’re all mine forever.” he moans around the last word, as Eddie bottoms out, his dick filling Buck up just like he loves.

___

no pressure tags: @elvensorceress @gaydiaz @diazass @thebravebitch @silentxxsoul @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @arthursdent @911onabc @housewifebuck @rogerzsteven @watchyourbuck @underwater-ninja-13 @eowon @loserdiaz @evanbegins @ladydorian05 @pirrusstuff @wildlife4life @nmcggg @diazpatcher @lover-of-mine @king-buckley @monsterrae1 @thewolvesof1998 @hoodie-buck @jeeyuns @puppyboybuckley @weewootruck @honestlydarkprincess @buckaroosheart @spagheddiediaz @giddyupbuck @disasterbuckdiaz @fortheloveofbuddie @steadfastsaturnsrings @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @exhuastedpigeon @jesuisici33 @theotherbuckley @hippolotamus @rainbow-nerdss @malewifediaz

[hella1975]

i want the next taob chapter to be done before halloween and im putting that here bc historically the only way i can kick myself into writing is when i have a public deadline haunting my every waking moment. WISH ME LUCK

[rotisseries]

rick riordan dickriders on here will be like "why are you complaining about the pjo tv show, go watch the movies and see what a bad adaptation really looks like" ok well listen to the musical watch it on youtube and see what a good adaptation looks like bitch. it can be done. as a fucking stage musical. what did that 15 million per episode do for disney that chris mccarell couldn't

[jojo-schmo]

Hello ms bubble wizard mage maam', I was just wondering what are your thoughts on magolor regarding how he's apparently **highly aware** of all characters to ever exist in the kirbyverse

Also its become a trend where god is replaced with NOVA in the expressions... Do they know?

Ello ello!

I like Magolor a lot, but he is omniscient? That's news to me. Is there a source for that? :O Unless you're talking about that Magoverse trend I saw floating around a while back- I didn't see much but what I did encounter reminded me of all the different Sans Undertale AUs out there. Hehehe Magolor is quite versatile! What fun.

And I know people use Nova as an expletive when writing Kirby characters! It's cool!

I use profanity in real life but I personally try to not associate Kirby characters with it in the works I make. I want to diversify the vernacular of the citizens of Popstar so I made a small list of expletives I thought of, lol. They should have a variety of things to yell out when they stub their feet or an apple falls on their head! So I get randomly inspired out in the world and I make sure to write them down!

I remember seeing someone have the characters use expletives based on food, like for example, "For the love of shortcake!" or things like that. That idea's fun!! (If you are the person who had this headcanon and are reading this please tell me so I can credit you for it!)

Does anyone else have expletives/exclamations they write for Kirby characters? Please share them if you do heehee. It makes the world building feel more fleshed out and creative >:3

[factorialsotherfandoms]

TW: panic attack, non-graphic self harm, reckless behaviour, fear of drowning

This is like... a bit 5K of Pac and Philza actually bonding for once...

Fear claws into Pac's heart just as easily as his fingernails dig into his palms. There's nothing wrong, objectively there's nothing wrong, but he's been alone all day. It's not at all like working with Mike; he's been trying to decorate the Favela, but his breath keeps catching and his thoughts keep stopping.

He can hear the fountain beneath the warpstone, and he wants it to /stop/.

He knows anxiety now, he knows it, he knows this is what it is, and when Fit found the blood in Chume Labs and the empty graves he made him promise to call him if it happened again. It's happening now, Pac can feel it building, but there's nobody awake. He checks it again, and still it's only him.

So he does the thing he does next best. He holds his breath and he thinks of nothing and he builds. More trees, more ponds, more fountains - anything and everything he can think of. Give the Redeemer a sombrero, then think better of it half way through and take it down. Start returfing the football field, only to decide to put it back because making the goals muddy is just ugly. Hang up more banners, pull them down, add a bit to the fences, swap them for iron, then concrete.

Breathe in, breathe out, there's nothing wrong it's just anxiety.

(But it is wrong, everything is wrong, the back of his brain where Mike sits is empty, not just asleep but empty, torn away and - )

Mike's in the Order hospital, Pac reminds himself, and begins to walk that way.

( - and there are eyes at his back, ready to take him again and - )

Pac forgets to breathe. He drops to his knees in the middle of the street, and scrabbled his hands in the dirt.

Pac checks the communicator again. There's a few more people awake, but... No Fit, no Tubbo, no Mike, no Bagi or Forever... Of the handful of people, the one he knows best if Philza - and while he's happily looked after the man's children, and he's been quite happy to chat or fight together in the past... Philza Minecraft is a legend, and he's never really spoken much without Fit there as a buffer.

But the other option is staying here alone, and he promised Fit that if he started feeling like this again he'd ask someone for company.

He takes a deep breath, and sends a message.

You whisper to Ph1LzA: Can I visit?

As soon as he hits send, Pac slams it shut. He pushes it against his head, shuddering while curled up in a ball. He clings to the communicator, his link to the outside, so hard it leaves indents in his skin.

"It's okay," he whispers to himself. "It's okay, you're okay, there's nobody here to watch you."

It doesn't help; he tries it anyway.

The seconds drag on into minutes, and Pac's fears overwhelm even his attempts to comfort himself.

"You're okay, you're okay, you're safe," he promises himself, even as he claws at his knees, at his face, at his hair and at the floor - anything he can reach to force himself to remember his place.

He hums songs he loves, shuts his eyes and tries to dance along.

He slams hands over his mouth and freezes when he tries.

Too loud, too loud, they'll find you - quiet, quiet, quiet as a mouse and quieter still. Hide amongst the rats, and hope nobody spots you curled up there...

The communicator pings.

In a scramble Pac pulls the lid open, shaking fingers quickly clicking him through to the correct screen.

Ph1LzA whispers to you: sorry m8, missed the message

Ph1LzA whispers to you: still need something or you get it sorted?

What does Pac say? The loneliness is getting to him and the walls are caving in and he can feel something watching from inside his spine? That Mike is gone and he's remembering a /before/ he wants to forget, He can't say that, he really can't.

But what sounds like a normal response which might get him a conversation...

With shaking hands he types whatever comes to mind.

You whisper to Ph1LzA: I am just missing Fit

... Not that. That absolutely does not sound like a request for company.

This time Philza's reply does not take nearly as long, though still longer than anyone else Pac ever messages.

Ph1LzA whispers to you: yeah?

Ph1LzA whispers to you: you want some company? I can put down a sharestone

Pac's heart settles back into place - maybe slightly too high still, but far closer. He didn't mess it up too badly - maybe English is just like that - he didn't even have to ask again.

You whisper to Ph1LzA: please.

It's another minute or two for Pac's anxiety to build and him to cling to the communicator before he recieves a reply.

Ph1LzA whispers to you: red sharestone, name should be obvious

You whisper to Ph1LzA: obrigado

Ph1LzA whispers to you: you're good

There's definitely some emotion to reading those words; Pac pushes it aside, and grabs his warpstone. Moving to the main warpstone for the warehouse seems like too much, so he simply sends himself to spawn.

Only there does he pick himself up, activating the red sharestone. It takes a few scrolls to find the new option, but once he does it earns a small laugh. He selects it, and lets his body be pulled through space.

Where he arrives is cold, deep snow all around, and an icy ocean before him. Pac tugs his sleeves down over his hands, and looks around.

Whereever Philza is, he isn't immediately obvious.

"Philza?" he calls. "Felipe?"

There's a splash as Philza trident-jumps out of the ocean, his paraglider flipping open at the zenith and allowing him to drift safely down to the ice. Pac watches him drift down, the water dripping off him freezing as it falls.

"Hey," Philza calls, once back in voice range, arm moving as though to wave before suddenly remembering he needs to hold the paraglider. "Sorry about that; spotted another jelly and had to get it before it ran off."

Pac waves him off, "it's okay, it's okay, do you need any help?"

Philza squints at Pac a moment, and Pac squirms beneath it. After a moment, though, he just shrugs, "just hunting for rainbow jelly."

"Rainbow jelly?"

"Like the French use to make themselves all rainbow," Philza grins a bit. "You can use it to make glass like that, too. Chayanne wanted some, so..."

Pac thinks of the children, hurting and asleep and under the Federation's "care", the only guarantees of their safety the ability to visit, and the knowledge the Federation knows what is coming if harm comes for their children.

"For Chayanne?" He asks. "I'll help."

"Feel free to hang onto it - if you don't use it, he'll appreciate the gift when he wakes up."

When, not if, even if Pac can see Philza hesitates too.

With that confidence and the thought of their children, Pac doesn't even consider before throwing himself into the water. Behind him he hears the somewhat distorted sound of Philza laughing, and the man throwing himself in after.

Pac spots a couple of the comb jellies, and kicks off towards them. Philza seems to see another group, as he takes another route.

Hunting animals for their innards is one of the few times that sweeping edge is worth it on this island, and so Pac takes out his sword. It only takes a hit to take out the jellies, small as they are, and then Pac just has to scoop up their remains. From there he spots another - deeper - and swims after it. And another, and another - Pac loses himself to the chore, simply collecting jelly for the happiness of a child.

He thinks he's finally calmed down, when he spots another in a cave. Pac doesn't even think about it as he dives in after - but very quickly, it gets very dark.

Too dark.

He tries to ignore it, to push through and find the jelly even as memories start to loom and the dark closes in.

Breathe in, breathe out, remind yourself your helmet is in place and with that much Aqua Affinity you're fine.

It's not the underwater prison again, it's not, it's not.

Just find the jelly and get out...

On instinct he reaches out for Mike, and finds nothing.

Nothing.

Mike? What happened to Mike?

The most frustrating thing is always that he knows, he remembers, but in the dark and the wet and the unnatural silence it doesn't matter. His breathing picks up, and he twists and he turns, looking - screaming - for Mike.

Rationally, he knows he's lightheaded because hes hyperventilating. But in his heart, in his fear, it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, it doesn't change anything because he's alone in the wet and the dark and he /can't do this anyone/.

He wants Mike, he wants Mike, he wants Fit and he wants Mike.

Where is Mike, why can't he reach him, where is he where is he why can't he feel him in his mind?!

He's screaming for them, he thinks, even as tears stream down his face and he twists in the water. By now he's helplessly lost, not even able to find the exit he cane in by. Whatever light there was is gone, and he doesn't even quite remember why he's here.

He twists and he fights, trying to fend off hands that aren't there - only to get his leg twisted up in the seaweed and somehow everything is even worse and worse and worse. He tugs and tugs, but the seaweed grasps tighter - he sees dark prison walls overlaying dark, broken caves, and he sobs as he realises he is going to die here.

He screams again and wonders how he still has air; something responds this time, and he begs it for bitter, screaming help.

A small light he cannot focus on, and hands find their way to his leg. In a panic he twists, kicks, fights - nothing, nothing, nothing can touch him - it's worse than the seaweed, to be grabbed by a hand.

"Shit, Pac," a familiar voice calls, an odd quality to it. "Fuck, I'm just cutting you out, Jesus mate no need to break my nose."

The words don't make sense, not entirely, but seconds later Pac finds his leg free - still entangled, but the seaweed cut from the floor, and he does his best to swim away.

Right from the seaweed and slamming into the cave wall.

Hands grab him again, and say something, and he fights them all the same. Seconds later he's being dragged and pulled and - oh, god, this is how he's going to die.

He goes to fight before remembering, actually, dieing might not be so bad actually... At worst he'll respawns, at best he'll be with Mike again.

It's just as that thought crosses his mind that his head breaks the surface of the ocean. Pac gasps for air and, by the time he's processed that, he's being hoisted and yanked up onto the ice.

He's frozen, he's freezing, but he shakes off the worst of the water and shudders as sunlight presses into his skin.

He's crying - sobbing even - on his hands and his knees, blind terror all about him as he struggles to breathe.

"Aw, mate, you could have said no if it was gonna fuck you up."

There's someone else here; Pac's eyes glance around, only to find Philza there. He can't tell if the man is a friend or a foe or just an acquaintance to be embarrassed around, but the man shrugs off his bag and opens his arms in a familiar gesture.

Pac falls into them, and hides. A hand finds his hair, and another his back, and something very dark curls around to protect him from icy wind. He does not cling back, just cries to the sound of slightly awkward comfort, sucking it in.

"You're okay," the words sound so much more believable coming from someone else. "You got out, I've got you, you're safe, you're okay."

The words are whispered into his skin, and they're not quite a balm but they are a promise and a kindness none the less; he is promised safety, and he knows the man around him can provide.

He just... Did not expect that provision to include himself, only friends of friends as they are.

Pac breathes, and it comes easier now - the air is cold, but between the darkness and Philza's chest he is safe. Slowly, slowly, as he remembers what limbs are Pac reaches out a shaking hand to the void.

It finds feathers; the darkness tenses, and then relaxes to his touch.

Pac, in turn, relaxes with it.

"You good?" Philza eventually asks from above.

"Sim," Pac replies, gathering himself a little more, hiding himself in a laugh. "Sorry, sorry, that was embarrassing."

"We've all been there mate," Fit's friend says.

The wings peel away, and Pac can see them properly - tattered edges and all. Sees how they droop, and the strain in Philza's shoulders as he uses his hands to fold them, and his backpack to keep them in pace.

"Shall we get somewhere warmer?" he asks, before Pac can comment. "I've got a treasure map to somewhere near that mesa you and Fit showed me, if you've still got the warp?"

"Are you sure?" Pac's hands shake as he checks his things.

"Eh, I'm pretty sure it's an iron dungeon," Philza replies, pulling out a map and squinting at it. "I was saving it to troll Etoiles with, but I could actually do with more iron. And someone to deal with mobs while I mine it. You, me, and some skellies - sound good?"

Pac isn't sure; he doesn't want to think, though, he does know that. Dungeons are supposed to be his and Fit's /thing/, one half the time someone intrudes on. The offer almost feels insulting, but...

But when Philza felt bad, they offered him a dungeon - he so clearly means to offer the same. Like for like, not pity but a trade.

"I want the tracks and redstone," Pac tries to sound steady, and knows he fails. "I'll save it for Mike when he returns."

"Sure, I don't even know where to start with that shit," Philza takes Pac's hand, and leads him along a safe route over the ice. "If we go back to that haunted rock area, then glide back towards the mesa? I should be able to find us on the map from there."

Pac nods, placing his hand on the warpstone in advance. Philza's joins it, and together they warp away.

---

Thankfully it is dawn, and any monsters are gone this time - there's just the beautiful sunrise over the haunted sea. The sun is rising, not setting, but Pac waves to it anyway and hopes that, somewhere, Bobby can see.

Philza makes half a laugh as he finds his glider. Pac searches for his own, and tries not to remember the night on the cliff - him and Fit, him and Fit, but also Philza, laughing about cannons and resting in one another's arms, only for Philza to pull away first and let him and Fit be.

Pac instead thinks about friendship, and how Fit would abandon everything for Philza just as Pac would give it up for Mike, and how it seems that isn't limited to just them. Because Philza didn't send him home, just as Fit also kept close to an oddly behaving Mike. How it doesn't really matter, because in the end they both agree with where the other stands.

Pac instead thinks of nothing, and throws himself off a cliff after Philza.

For one glorious second he lets himself fall, before pulling out his own paraglider and following Philza down.

He lands on Philza's boat, and they drive it back to the mesa. It's filled with the sort of talk that means nothing, and with Philza humming tunes to the air. For a man who claims to be musically dead, he manages it well.

It's also noise, white noise to blur the absence in his mind.

"Here we are," Philza gets out first, and offers Pac a hand out. "We should be pretty close. These things are a bit of a nightmare to find, being underground, but I'm sure we'll manage."

To his surprise, Pac is passed the map while Philza puts away the boat. He has to turn it around to orientate himself, but once he has Philza gestures for him to lead the way. Philza puts himself on Pac's left - the side he holds the map, whilst his other has his scythe, shield turned out against the wild.

Pac tries to think of something to say, and what comes out is, "so did you go looking for a big cannon, or did you just stumble into it?"

The comment draws startled laughter from his companion as they walk, having to stop a moment to let him gather himself. "We knew we were going to see one, but we're exactly looking. You find them all over the coast in the UK, and I think some along the Thames too? A lot have been removed, but we like our old crap, so a couple of the old forts are still open."

"So you're saying you come from a land of many large cannons."

"Yes, Pac," Philza laughs again. "Yes, I do; don't you?"

"We have other large things instead," Pac tries to smile, but he knows it looks off. "Like diamonds."

"Diamonds?"

Pac can see Philza looking for the sex joke, and suddenly realises he doesn't actually want to explain what he meant. So instead he says, "quality over size. Even a big diamond is small."

That draws more laughter, "yeah okay mate; Fit's a lucky boy then."

That almost has Pac dropping the map he's holding as he chokes. Philza grabs him, holds him steady, gives him something to cling to with Mike and Fit and Richarlyson and Walter Bob all gone. Something there, some support, something to stop him choking on himself.

"Too much?" Philza's voice is gentler this time.

Pac nods, hiding his blush in his hands even as he leans on Philza.

"Alright," Philza says, handing him a bottle. "Drink some water, king, and we'll get this dungeon cleared. And no more dick jokes until Fit's also here to suffer. Maybe we could even come up with some new ones, just to tease him next time we all meet up."

Pac takes the bottle, hiding in his hood as he does as he's told. Philza takes the map and they continue to walk as he sips at it, hiding himself and his face in the bottle. Philza makes sure to stay in sight, keeping idle commentry going.

At this point, Pac is reasonably sure Philza knows something continues to be wrong - but then so did Fit and Pac when Philza had that strange... Maybe hallucination? Fit says it probably wasn't, and Pac trusts Fit, but whatever it was it was unsettling and strange.

Philza seems fine now, though; maybe one day Pac will be fine too.

It is about ten or fifteen minutes walk to the dungeon. There's nothing on the surface to mark it, just Philza squinting at the map, and passing it to Pac to check.

Once they agree, they dig; Philza calls 'race you!' and begins a staircase.

Pac lives for adrenaline; he starts digging straight down.

Somehow he doesn't hit lava.

He does end up falling from the top of the dungeon into a crevasse, fails to find either a water bucket or his paraglider, and breaks his leg. It's terrifying, and he's alone as he sees his death message flash up in chat but - maybe - it's okay. There's Aypierre laughing and Baghera offering help, and Philza on his black paraglider swooping in from the ceiling to assist.

"You good?" Philza asks as he pours a potion out over the wounds, his eyes almost glowing in the low light as Pac's bones knit together.

Pac leans forwards to check his prosthetic while his body heals, twitching only a little with the pain. The fall knocked a few screws loose and bent some of the metal out of shape, but it's an easy enough fix with a hammer and screwdriver. He'll check it over properly later, or maybe swap it for his spare until he has energy for it, but it'll hold for the day.

"All good," Pac confirms, as he pulls his jeans back down.

He can see Philza side-eyeing the prosthetic, and shifts; the man says nothing, however, just helps Pac up and types out an 'all good we're just dungeoning' to calm the global chat.

And then he looks at his map.

"You've got us near a corner," Philza turns his communicator to show Pac. "If we just start here and work around to the left, we shouldn't miss anything."

Pac nods, and pulls out his grapple. Together they pull themselves up and onto the ledge, and the dungeon begins.

It starts simple - Philza takes out a spawner, while Pac works on the skeletons, then they swap so Pac can loot the minetracks. Trading the mobs on and off, Pac cannot help but notice how Philza even when on mob duty prioritises looting, catching the attention of a swamp of skeletons and sending them on a chase over barrels as he smashes them open and grabs the contents. Only when he can carry no more does he start fighting, laughing as he does.

It's a nice laugh, that one.

He laughs too when Pac fights, hacking away at the iron blocks he claims to want. With every other hit there is a call of "good hit!" "nice one!" "you're doing good, Pac!", and Pac can feel himself starting to grin as well.

Together they dance in a dungeon much easier than the one Phil joined Pac and Fit for, able to let loose without worrying for the giant magma cube around the corner. They keep an eye on each other, and watch their backs, and Fit's deep voice is so clearly missing between them without feeling like a void.

By the time it is finished, they are both laughing, bone-dust covering their clothes and their tools and the world in their hands. Philza gives Pac some of the iron, and they take his staircase - not Pac's hole - out.

They don't talk about what comes next, but neither of them reach for their warpstones. Instead Pac picks a direction and walks. Philza follows.

They find a hill a little way out, surrounded by flower fields but empty of them itself. Philza lights it up with his slingshot, despite it still being around midday, and Pac makes hot chocolate for them both. Pulls out chairs, too - blue and green - and places a coffee table between them.

He sits on the blue and Philza looks at the green and says, "are you sure I'm okay to sit there? I don't wanna intrude."

Pac looks at the chair - it was just habit, just what he carries - and curls up his toes. "It's fine," he can hear the sadness in his own voice. "Mike isn't here, he wouldn't mind."

"Do you mind?"

"I got it out for you."

"Alright, king," Philza finally takes the seat and the hot chocolate, leaning back into the cushions. After a bit he adds, "these are good chairs. Maybe I should invest in something better than mine."

"They're not expensive," Pac replies. "And they're comfy! I have one instead of a bed."

He wonders if he should have admitted that - he knows people worry - but in the crash of the panic attack and the fighting it's hard to keep his mouth shut.

Philza just laughs though, "yeah? I've been using one of those wooden ones. You know? Basic ones, just in a fancy wood."

"How do you not have splinters?!"

"I'm good with my hands - what else can I say?"

They both laugh at that one, a joke which actually lands. There's something comfortable and comforting about it. The laughter drifts into giggles, drifts into sips of hot chocolate - quiet and together. Pac makes a point of not watching as Philza gets himself comfortable, untangling his wings and stretching them... Not to full width, but wide.

It's only when one brushes his arm that Pac dares to ask "what happened?"

"Hm?" Philza looks up.

"To your wings?"

"Feds fucked them up when I arrived," Philza says it like its nothing, but there's bitter pain in his words. "By purgatory they'd healed up just enough to fly, but then carrying Tubbo through meteor strikes and radiation... I can't regret it, I /won't/ regret it, but they're fucked again. I can hold them up so it seems better, but they hurt worse than before."

Pac wants to say he's sorry, but he doesn't think it would be appreciated. Instead he says "thank you for saving Tubbo."

"I couldn't just leave him," Philza says. "He's my friend too, you know?"

"I know," Pac fiddles with his cup. "You're a good man, Felipe Minecraft. I'm not sure I'd do it."

"I think you would," Philza says, with more faith in Pac than he's ever had in himself. "If it came to it. You're also a good man, Pac - if you weren't, I wouldn't let you have Fit."

It's an admission neither of them acknowledge. Instead Pac flops, exhausted, against his chair. "I'd do it for Mike. I miss him."

"I can't imagine," Philza's wings stretch a little further, stroking against Pac's cheek. "But, I'm sure he'll heal. And once he does hold him close, okay? Because you never know when you'll loose him."

It's obvious, of course Pac will try to, but there's pain in Philza's voice, and Pac thinks of a memorial on a wall and a child living in the footsteps of a ghost, and maybe Philza can imagine better than he thinks he can.

Or maybe Philza means he can't imagine, because he knows.

"Did you love him?" Pac asks instead.

"He was my best friend."

Philza's voice breaks on the word, and Pac knows both that he has to stop, and that Philza knows just what it is Pac fears. Even if he calls it different, even if they didn't share one mind... Pac should not have asked.

"I'm sorry."

"You did nothing wrong; it hurts, but in hurting I remember him, you know?"

There's a long silence, in which Pac tries to know what to say, and Philza stares absently at soft clouds on the horizon. Even in Portuguese he would struggle, and Philza is certainly not looking to his translator.

Maybe Philza and Fit are not as Pac and Mike; Philza has already lost his Mike. Or, perhaps, both are true, and even if Pac looses his best friend, someone will be there to keep him whole.

It's a nice fantasy; he knows Philza's wound bleeds open even now.

"I have never been without Mike before this island," Pac eventually admits. "At least... I was seven when we met, he was five. I've heard his thoughts since I was ten, and the first time he ever fell silent was when I was put in that water prison."

"Shit," Philza closes his eyes as he swears, leaning back. "Earlier, with the water... You should have said something, Pac, I wouldn't have judged you. Fuck knows there's shit I can't do anymore."

"I didn't know it'd be that bad," Pac hesitates after those words. "It hasn't been before. Today is just... bad? I already felt bad."

"And you came to me for company, and I made it worse," Philza says. "I am so, so sorry mate - I didn't mean to, I just- It was for Chayanne."

"It was still better than being alone," Pac replies. "The second time our connection broke was when he was taken - I haven't heard him since. Even asleep, even unconscious, even when I was in a coma... We could still feel each other. Not now. It's lonely no, and it's been so long..."

"Pac..." Philza's voice catches. "You shouldn't have to make those choices... You shouldn't have to put up with my whims just not to be alone, mate, you should have just said; we could have gone to the dungeon, or the favela, worked on the train tracks... You didn't have to swim."

"Fit is gone, Mike is gone, Richas is gone," Pac twists his hands. "You were helping me. I wanted to help you - I wanted to do something for Chayanne too! He is a good egg."

"He is," Philza smiles softly, taking the distraction for what it is. "The best. But, king, are you going to be okay?"

"When am I not?" Pac asks, as he thinks of happy pills and his own blood trailing the floors of Chume Labs.

Philza gives him a distinctly unimpressed expression and, yeah, fair, "I'm serious, Pac; I don't have plans today if you just wanna chill somewhere. Here, my place, your place, the Favela... if the karaoke's working, we could steal a room? Hell, we can just keep heading outwards and find some more dungeons if you fancy violence instead."

"... Are you sure?"

"We're friends, aren't we?" Philza asks. "We don't get to hang out as often as we should - if you'd rather get some rest, I won't stop you. Just thought I'd offer."

"Karaoke then?" Pac suggests, if only for some structure to keep the anxiety from seeping back in.

"Sure. No promises I won't fall asleep on the couch, though."

Pac laughs. It is weaker, but it is more real. "No promises, no promises here either."

In time they do, of course, fall asleep on the couch - and that is where Fit will find them in the morning.

[razzle-zazzle]

3682 Words; Discolored

AO3 ver

“Poppy, did Branch crash at your pod last night?”

Poppy turned to look at Floyd as he ambled over to her, cane and tail working together to keep his balance. He came to a stop and sat down on a nearby mushroom, and Poppy smiled. Floyd was making great progress with his recovery! He wouldn’t have made it to that mushroom in a single go last week.

“No, I haven’t seen him since yesterday.” Poppy responded. “Was he not at home last night?” That was pretty unlike Branch—either he slept in his bunker or he slept somewhere else he considered safe enough, which was pretty limited.

Floyd shook his head. “I haven’t seen him since yesterday afternoon.” He looked out towards the rest of the village, frowning. “Is that…” He swallowed, his eyes not meeting Poppy’s, “That’s not normal for him, is it?”

Poppy’s tail lashed behind her. For all that Branch was eager to have his brothers back in his life, they’d been gone for so long that they were essentially strangers. As much as she wished everyone could fall back into familiar routines and get along, the world just didn’t work like that. Once again, she was confronted with the fact that, for all that he was living with him, Floyd still didn’t know Branch as well as she did.

Poppy shrugged off the annoyance—it wasn’t her issue to resolve, and it was well on its way to fixing itself—and focused in on the important parts. “Did he leave any notes on where he was going?” While he didn’t do it as often these days, Branch could still disappear into the forest for days at a time in search of supplies and other materials for his stockpiles. But he never left without some kind of indication of where he was going—not after his and Poppy’s adventure to Bergentown that ended with the formal end to Trollstice.

Floyd’s grip tightened on the handle of his cane. His tail curled around his legs as he spoke, “Not that I could find. He was acting really evasive all day, too.”

Poppy’s tail smacked the ground. Okay, now things really weren’t adding up. “I’ll go ask around,” she decided, “and see if anyone else has seen Branch.” Her duties as Queen took her all over Pop Village and Trollstopia as a matter of course, so she was bound to stumble upon some answers eventually.

Floyd nodded. “I’ll go see if John knows anything.” He decided, standing up. Poppy almost offered to go with him, but Floyd didn’t even spare her another glance as he went on. If something went awry, there was no shortage of Trolls who would happily help him out, so Poppy resolved to put her focus to where it would be most useful.

Her daily rounds were pretty routine at this point—after the morning song, Poppy went around to check on her people, letting them voice opinions, concerns, and even just happy “Good mornings!” Though not a social butterfly, Branch still had a few friends throughout the village and in Trolltopia, so it was just a matter of collecting what information she could and putting it all together.

Everywhere she asked, she got the same response. Nobody had seen Branch past yesterday evening—most Trolls hadn’t even seen him after the morning at all. Floyd seeing Branch in the bunker yesterday afternoon was the latest that anyone had seen him, it seemed.

The market was bustling with activity when Poppy arrived, sun high in the sky. Trolls of every shape and color walked around through the stalls, exchanging goods and gossip in equal measure. Poppy beelined for Smidge’s stall—the stoutberries were in season, and her Right Paw Troll had no shortage of eager customers.

“Good Morning Poppy!” Smidge greeted, passing a mug of stoutberry juice across the counter to an eager Troll. “Here, have a mug on the house.”

Poppy took the mug with one paw and reached into her hair with the other. “In that case, have THIS!” She handed the bag of cookies across the counter. “On the house, of course.” She smirked. It was a routine exchange, but no less genuine.

Smidge giggled, taking out one of the cookies before re-tying the bag and slipping it into her hair. “Oh, yeah,” She passed out another mug, and Poppy shifted to the side so she wouldn’t get in the way, “A pair of Pop Trolls came up to my stand the other day.” Smidge started.

Poppy leaned forwards. Smidge wasn’t one for frivolities—outside of the usual frivolities Trolls concerned themselves with, of course—and Smidge’s tone implied there would be more to the story than face value.

“I didn’t recognize them at all.” Smidge elaborated, passing another mug out to another customer. “But they were nice enough and they bought plenty of stoutberry juice.” She shrugged, pleased at the successful sale.

“Huh.” That was weird. Poppy knew everyone in Pop Village, and was well on her way to knowing everyone in Trollstopia, as well. As her right paw, Smidge should also be able to recognize every face, if not know them all personally. “Maybe they were Putt-Putt Trolls?” Poppy was still familiarizing herself with Viva’s people, after all.

Smidge hummed. “One of them had wild enough hair for it, but I don’t think so. The rest of the details just don’t line up.” She lifted her paw to her mouth, her brow creasing in contemplation. “Come to think of it, one of them had eyes just like Branch’s. Like, uncannily so.”

Poppy frowned. It wasn’t unheard of for Pop Trolls to be out wandering the world—Branch’s brothers had been doing exactly that for years—but something about the timing of it all felt off. Two strangers showing up barely a day before Branch’s… Poppy didn’t want to call it a disappearance—Branch was tough, he was probably fine. But the fact remained that nobody she’d talked to had seen him since yesterday, and nobody had any idea why. It reminded her of years past, before peace with the Bergens when Branch barely involved himself with the village at all if he could help it. But he had come so far since then!

“Speaking of Branch, have you seen him?” Poppy asked, already anticipating the answer.

Smidge hummed. “Last I saw was when he bought some stoutberry juice yesterday morning.” She handed out three mugs to a pair of Trolls. “I don’t know where he went after he left the market.”

Right, just as Poppy had feared. She sighed, and turned to Smidge with a grateful smile. “Thanks, Smidge.”

Smidge’s eyes narrowed. “Have you seen Branch?” She asked, already intuiting the reason behind Poppy’s question. It was just like her to pick up whenever Poppy had a problem. Poppy didn’t know what she would ever do without Smidge.

Poppy shook her head. “Not since yesterday.” She responded. “And everyone else is saying the same. I’m gonna check his bunker for a note after doing my rounds in Trollstopia.”

“That’s unlike him…” Smidge put a paw to her mouth, thinking. “Once I’m done here, I’ll go see if Milton has any snoutsniffers in his care, see if I can’t track down any leads.”

“Thanks, Smidge,” Poppy grinned, “You’re the best!”

Smidge laughed. “Don’t I know it!” She waved as Poppy stepped back, reaching for another stoutberry to refill the pitcher with. “Have a good day!”

“Of course!” Poppy laughed as she skipped off. Like she could ever have a day that wasn’t good in some way—there was always a bright side to everything, even when things got bad. There had to be.

With that thought in her mind and a spring in her step, Poppy went on to continue her rounds.

+=+=+=+=+

“Any luck?” Floyd’s voice greeted Poppy as she returned to her starting point, the sun having long disappeared behind the trees. Floyd was sitting on a mushroom, cane leaning to his side, his arms folded in his lap. His tail curled in on itself.

“Smidge offered to borrow a snoutsniffer from Milton to help investigate.” Poppy responded, sitting down next to Floyd. “But other than that? Nothing.” She leaned back and stretched her arms above her head, her tail and legs stretching as well. There hadn’t been a note in Branch’s bunker—at least, not where he’d usually leave notes. But it could take weeks for Poppy to dig through the entire bunker, and Branch wasn’t the type to leave his notes where they couldn’t be found. So here she was, sitting next to Floyd and looking for something more concrete to do.

“John hasn’t seen him either,” Floyd shook his head, “But he said he’d go looking.”

Poppy brightened. “Oh, that’ll be a great help!” She hadn’t known John Dory for long, it was true—but it was already clear that he had a skill for finding people. He’d managed to find Floyd’s prison in Mount Rageous and Branch at Bridget and Gristle’s wedding within days, after all! For all his… well, Poppy didn’t want to be so mean as to call them faults, and it wasn’t really her place to say, but John Dory definitely needed some work—for all his… rough edges, Poppy trusted that when John Dory put his mind to something, he’d find it.

Floyd nodded. Poppy waited in case he wanted to say anything else, but no words were forthcoming. That was fine, though.

“Queen Poppy!” And there was Smide, approaching with a snoutsniffer in her hair! Poppy stood up excitedly, her tail beginning to lash in anticipation.

Smidge set the snoutsniffer down. “Meet Petunia.” She boasted, “Milton says he’s the best tracker in the litter.” Her chest puffed out as she spoke, pride welling up in her eyes as she thought of her boyfriend.

“He’s. So. ADORABLEEEEEE!” Poppy was already on her knees, tail whipping behind her. With a squeal she brushed her paws over Petunia’s periwinkle carapace. Petunia whuffed in response, shoving his face into Poppy’s paws to demand more attention. “Ohhhh my Troll, who’s adorable? Who’s the cutest wittle snoutsniffer in the world? Is it you? Yes! It’s you! AWWW!” Poppy’s paws were covered in slobber. Her heart wanted to burst right out of her chest. She couldn’t stop cooing—Petunia was just! Too! CUTE!

Behind them, Floyd chuckled faintly, standing with a grunt of effort. “Are we ready, then?”

Smidge nodded, and Poppy stood, tearing her paws away from Petunia’s perfect periwinkle carapace. They started by the bunker, Petunia sniffing at a shirt Poppy had retrieved from within before puttering off to find the scent. Smidge unclipped the leash to let Petunia work more efficiently.

“Does…” Floyd closed his mouth, mulling over his words. “Does Branch ever just disappear like this?” He made a face the moment he finished speaking, ears flushing slightly. Poppy opened her mouth to speak—

“Not really?” Smidge answered, as Petunia kept puttering around. “A year ago this would have been pretty normal—Branch only ever came into the village when he needed something. We’d go days without seeing him at all sometimes.”

“Ugh, and he used to never leave his bunker at all during winter.” Poppy added, flicking her tail. “So we wouldn’t see him for months.” She crossed her arms at the memory.

“Yeah, and you’d end up bundling all the invitations you made him into a basket for him to find in the spring.” Smidge giggled, paw over her mouth. Her tail flirted behind her as she turned to face Poppy fully. “Oh, and that first year when you just piled them all on his welcome mat!” She mimed a big pile falling down with her paws, making a whoosh noise. “He told me about that a few months ago, said the whole pile fell on his face when he opened the trap door!”

Poppy snickered, face flushing. She hadn’t heard about that part! But it made sense; though fifteen-year-old Poppy hadn’t known that the welcome mat was the entrance to Branch’s bunker, that didn’t change the fact that she had basically buried Branch’s door in invitations.

…maybe she should apologize for that. What if Branch had been unable to open the trapdoor?

“Huh.” Floyd was gripping the head of his cane rather tightly, his tail starting to curl around his legs. “...all winter?”

Poppy nodded. “He’s really come out of his shell since!” And she would never not be proud of how far Branch had come. Finding his true colors again, braving the trials and tribulations of developing a healthy social life, reuniting with his family—Troll, Poppy could gush about how proud Branch made her for hours! She almost turned to her side as if to nudge Branch, but—

But Branch wasn’t here. He wasn’t here for Poppy to watch his face flush and ears flutter in the way they did when he got flustered, blue tones creeping up his paws to his chest in that way that made Poppy’s heart melt. Branch wasn’t here, and he was probably definitely fine because he could take care of himself and get through almost anything when he put his mind to it—

But that was fine because Poppy would find out where he went and it would all work out! Her tail straightened out behind her, taut and rigid like a cord ready to break. Of course she was worried, he was her boyfriend, she’d worry about him always because that was what it was to care about someone—

Petunia’s barks snapped Poppy out of her spiraling thoughts.

“Oh my guh, Petunia found something!” Smidge called out. Poppy rushed over to the Petunia, kneeling down to see what he had found.

It was Branch’s Hug Time bracelet, half-buried in the dirt. Poppy leaned down and picked it up, examining the cut in the cord. The flower looked like it had been stepped on—no, stomped. The petals had withered, and the timer was shattered. Poppy had almost missed it entirely—it looked no different from regular forest floor detritus.

This… Poppy tucked the bracelet into her hair. She couldn’t tell how recently it had been cut, but—surely she was overreacting. Branch probably caught it on something without noticing; he could get really single-minded when he was in the zone. Yeah. It was fine. Everything would be fine.

But Poppy still couldn’t shake the feeling clinging to her fur. It hung off of her tail and hair like a foreboding miasma, implacable in its surety. If Branch were here, he’d be doing all the worrying for her. But he wasn’t here, and all Poppy had was a cut Hug Time bracelet to show for it. So far, of course. She would totally track him down in the end, of course.

Yeah. Poppy clenched her paws. She was sure of it: they’d find Branch by the end of the week!

+=+=+=+=+

It had been weeks. Poppy saw neither hide nor hair of Branch, and nobody else did, either. It was official; something had happened, something big.

She’d already told Bruce and Clay and Viva, and John Dory was coming in and out of Trollstopia to tell her how his search was going—

(Not super well. Rhonda could track, but she wasn’t a snoutsniffer. Whatever Branch was doing, he was moving around a lot, and every time Rhonda found a lead it only lasted a few days at most.)

—Poppy had done about all that she could, at this point. Petunia and the other snoutsniffers were earning a lot of treats and attention for their work combing the forest for clues—

(not far from the Hug Time bracelet, Petunia had found critterbuss tracks. They were similar to Rhonda’s, but not quite the same.)

—she’d gotten the word out to her fellow leaders in case they know anything, including Gristle and Bridget—

(even after a full year of peace with the Bergens, Branch was still wary of the ones he didn’t know, and didn’t like going into Bergentown alone. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be near Bergentown; Hole ‘N Fun was in the same general area. None of the other genre leaders had any news, but they agreed to help spread the word around.)

—and between all of that and her regular duties as Queen of the Pop Trolls and Pop Ambassador to Trollstopia, Poppy was outright exhausted!

But even as she settled down on her bed with a sigh, limbs spread out as she stared at the ceiling of her pod, a nervous energy hummed in all of her veins, crackling and stinging with the need to do something. Poppy’s head fell to the side as she considered her crafts table. Maybe scrapbooking would calm the fire in her paws?

Ughhhh, this was way too much worrying! Worrying was Branch’s thing, because at least he knew how to turn his worrying into something productive! When Poppy tried that, she ended up worrying all over again once she was done. She kicked her feet and huffed, glaring up at the ceiling. Maybe if she worried hard enough, Branch would just show up and this whole worrying thing could be done with!

With a groan, Poppy rolled off her bed and stood, stretching for a moment before going over to her crafts table. She sat down, flicking on the radio with her tail as she contemplated what to scrapbook. The radio was a recent acquisition, custom-made by Rhythm and Blues for her last birthday. A song that Poppy hadn’t heard before was playing, upbeat melody drifting into the background as she opened her current scrapbook. Well, it was one of her current scrapbooks, set right between the one she started to chronicle Branch’s disappearance and the one about Rock Troll agriculture that she had been working on and off on. But the scrapbook before her was her current Feelings Scrapbook: a place to work out everything she felt. It didn’t need to be organized, or follow a story—she cut fabric into shapes and drew nonsense lines with glitter glue, pushing pieces together and making something purely for the sake of it.

The radio continued to play, the song having ended. An ad segment started, making Poppy’s tail lash in minor annoyance. Ugh, maybe she could shift to a different station until the adbreak ended—

Wait.

That—

Poppy’s eyes widened. She set down her scrapbooking supplies, not even bothering to tidy up her workspace as she put her full attention on the radio. That was—

Poppy stood, and ran for the door of her pod.

+=+=+=+=+

“Sooooo what’d you drag us all the way up here for?” John Dory asked, pulling himself up to Poppy’s doorpetal with his hair. Floyd came up behind him, mostly-recolored hair pulling him up with no visible strain. He’d really come far, these past weeks—he could go for a lot longer without getting exhausted!

Poppy brought them inside without preamble. John Dory tracked in dirt as he went, not even bothering to wipe off his feet on the mat like Floyd was currently doing. Poppy didn’t care. The radio was still playing, right there next to her crafts table, on the same station she had left it on. “Listen.” She said, as the current song came to an end and, thankfully, an adbreak started instead of the next song.

John Dory listened for all of two seconds before frowning. “It’s a radio.” He said. “I don’t see what this has to do with any—”

“Just listen!” Poppy insisted. The ads were playing out in roughly the same order as before, which meant the ad they needed to hear was coming up. Indeed, the ad about stage makeup ended, and the next ad began, the speaker talking at a rapid clip.

“Hey ho! Tired of single-genre shows for single genre venues? Looking to hear some new talent on stage? Then you’re in luck! Come see Robin Lily LIVE on his tour throughout the genres! Hear music from all corners of the world, including the new hit single ‘Candy’!” A clip of music started playing, the abrupt start making it clear that it was taken from the middle of a song. “Hey, ho! Here she goes! Either a little too high or a little too low! Got no self-esteem and vertigo, ‘cause she thinks she’s made of candy!” The clip cut off there, the rest of the ad playing out, but—

It was unmistakable.

“That’s Branch!” Floyd gasped, his tail thumping against the ground. “That’s—that’s him singing!”

“What in the world is he doing?” John Dory put his paws on his hips, giving the radio a consternated look. “Running off on his own without telling anyone? Is he really that immature?”

Poppy shot John Dory a look, then decided to ignore it. He and Branch were still getting to know each other, after all. Instead, she pushed forwards. “The next concert is tomorrow, right?” She looked at John Dory. “Can Rhonda get us to Garden Grove Theatre by then?”

John Dory grinned, tail waving behind him. “Uh, yeah, of course she can!” He turned to leave, reaching up for his goggles. “C’mon, let’s get going!”

“Wait!” Floyd interjected, gripping the head of his cane. “Aren’t we going to tell Bruce and Clay?” With Bruce back at Vaycay Island and Clay hopping between Hole ‘N Fun and Trollstopia on a regular basis, it would probably take a while for the news to reach them, and even longer for everyone to convene at Trollstopia. It was a valid concern, but Poppy already had that handled.

“We’ll send them crittermail on the way!” She grabbed Floyd’s paw in her own, waiting until he squeezed back before she started to pull him along. “C’mon, we got a concert to catch!”

“Hair yeah we do!” John Dory whooped, already making his way down the tree, goggles over his eyes. With a grin, Poppy followed him down, Floyd following her down with a yelp and a startled laugh.

Now she could say she’d find Branch by the end of the week—and she intended to! He wasn’t getting away from her that easily!

If only the worry trickling down her fur could agree and go away.