#biteless

[a-prekliatyvlk]

someone tell me no

[friendlizard]

i consider myself a friend to the spiders (nicely transported one from my bed to the bathroom windowsill) but i fear i’ve still yet to earn their favour (i think it bit me on the ass)

[ventique18]

(🐉🌸 with Book 7 spoilers)

Malleus’ days have always been uneventful. Have. Because nowadays it’s nothing but eventful— too eventful.

Because when the world found out on one sunny day that he broke his horn and was thus not as strong as he used to be, he started waking up to dozens and dozens of invitations a day. Now, normally that would’ve gotten him terribly excited. If they were normal invitations to cookies and a spot of tea.

But no, they were duel invitations. Challenges from people, NRC students or not, literally anyone hoping they could brag to their friends one day that they beat THE Malleus Draconia once in their lives.

Challenger: “Guh! What the hell?! They told me you were nerfed!”

🐉: “Such infantile arrogance will do you no favors in life. Learn to think before you act next time.”

Humans don’t understand that him at 10% of his power is more than enough to decimate a battalion or two of them.

Another Challenger: “Hey, me next! Hehe, you should be tired by now…”

🐉, sighing: “You humans just don’t learn…”

🌸: “Okay, okay! It’s cut off time! Shoo, shoo!”

Challengers: “The hell you mean cut off?! We walked for three hours just to get here—“

🌸: “Then you should’ve gotten on a helicopter, dumbass! If you wanna fight that much, then I’ll fight you! I’ll clobber you with a frying pan!”

Challengers: “What can a wimp like you even do?”

But when Sebek and Silver, perfectly fit guys with swords on their hips, start herding the pesky visitors away, all they hear are biteless grumbles as the two of them retreat to a quieter spot in Diasomnia’s garden.

🐉: “You always come by at the right time.”

His magestone is already tainted alarmingly dark.

🌸, starting to massage his shoulders: “Why don’t you just tell them you’re tired? It’s not like they can do anything if you refused them.”

🐉: “I am not tired. If I was allowed a better magestone, I could still fight for days on end.”

🌸, letting him go: “Oh, you’re not tired? So you don’t need a massage after all.”

🐉: “I take that back. I am horribly fatigued. My muscles hurt all over. I might just die without your therapeutic massage.”

They slap him on the back.

🌸, laughing: “You didn’t flinch. You’re not hurt, liar.”

🐉: “Ah, you hurt my feelings so. Now even my feelings are injured. I might just die without a kiss to make me feel better.”

🌸, laughing harder: “Oh my god what? I swear, you’ve become a different person since losing a horn.”

🐉: “Have you considered that this is perhaps who I truly am?”

Their touches slow, and a tender smile tugs at their lips.

🌸: “I know. Even a mask can’t hide the eyes that smile.”

And then their conversation drifts to a lull. A comfortable lull, only broken by him wondering to himself, “The only other person who looks at me straight in the eyes.”

🐉: “… Anyway, I feel a chill coming. Perhaps a warm embrace will do the trick… And perchance a head on a lap…”

🌸: “Don’t get ahead of yourself. You still have a reputation to uphold.”

[moonstruckme]

I would love if you wrote something with poly!marauders and they just being so protective over reader. Like maybe they’re at a party and one always has to have a hand on her and just like always holding her drink and watching out for her 🥲 maybe reader doesn’t even notice it because it’s so normal until someone else points it out

Thanks for requesting!

cw: alcohol

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 733 words

“Rem,” you nose at your boyfriend’s cheek. “Sip, please?”

Remus pauses his conversation to pass you your cup. You drink out of it for a moment, but the second it’s lowered from your lips he’s reclaiming it, fingers curled over the rim to keep the top safely covered with his palm. 

“He’s so paranoid,” you complain to Sirius, who’s got his own hand wrapped around your thigh and is kneading the doughy flesh absentmindedly. “Where do you suppose James has run off to?”

Sirius takes a languid sip of his own drink, eyes skimming over the faces in the room. “M’not sure, darling. Kitchen, maybe? Oi!” He glares at John Leedy in the corner. “Your girlfriend know you’re looking at other tits like that, Leedy?”

John goes scarlet, and Remus looks up to scowl at him too as Sirius stands, offering you a hand.

“C’mon, babe, let’s go find him. Moons, we’re going to find James.” Remus nods, still holding your drink as he resumes chatting with the others. 

Sirius slings an arm around your shoulders as you walk, casting noxious looks at John over your shoulder the entire way. In the kitchen, you find James sitting on the counter surrounded by half-empty bottles of alcohol and mixers. He’s deep in conversation with Lily and Mary, but his attention swings to the two of you as soon as you enter, his loose, easy grin brightening. 

Mary sees it and turns around to find the source, calling you over. “I feel like I haven’t seen you all night,” she says, hugging you. “Want me to make you a drink?”

You nod eagerly, but James seizes up the booze before Mary can get to it. “No way, heavy-hand,” he teases, holding it out of her reach. “I saw you make your own, it’s at least half rum. I’ve gotcha, sweetheart.” He turns to you with an angelic smile. “What’ll you have?” 

You give Mary an apologetic shrug before batting your eyelashes at your boyfriend. “A rum and coke, please.” 

“Coming up, pretty girl.”

Mary watches his pour skeptically, and Lily scoffs when he puts down the bottle, reaching for the coke. “Okay, that was maybe a teaspoon of rum,” she says. “Think you guys could let her off her leash long enough to have some fun every once and awhile?” 

“She’s having fun,” Sirius argues, gripping you around the hips to lift you onto the counter beside James. He pushes up between your legs, giving you a dazzling smile. “Aren’t you, babydoll?”

Laughter bubbles readily out of your alcohol-lubricated throat, and you clench your thighs around Sirius’ middle, giving him a good squeeze. “Whaddya mean, my leash?” you ask Lily. 

“I’m just saying, maybe the reason we haven’t seen you all night is because these ones—” She slaps at Sirius’ hand where it roves the curve of your hip, and he pulls it back with a wounded look. “—won’t keep their hands off you long enough to let you go anywhere.” 

“Nobody’s stopping her from going where she pleases,” James says. “We’re just keeping an eye on her, making sure she can have fun without anybody bothering her or giving her alcohol poisoning.” He sticks his tongue at the other two girls as he finishes your drink, giving the cup a good swirl to ensure it’s all mixed up, but when he turns to pass it to you, he’s all sweetness. “You don’t mind, do you lovie?” 

You take a sip. It’s syrupy sweet and biteless on your tongue. “No,” you say into James’ warm brown eyes, “I don’t mind.” 

“She’s been hypnotized.” Mary throws up her hands, but she’s smiling. “There’s no hope for her now, they’ve got her in their thrall.” 

You laugh, and James grins at the sound, leaning down to press the tip of his nose to yours. “You agree with them, hm? You think we’ve got you hypnotized?”

You press your lips to his, a lightning quick kiss that has your teeth clacking together from your mirrored smiles, and a denial is on the tip of your tongue before Sirius’ hand, the one on the opposite side of you from Lily and Mary, slips beneath your leg. His fingers roam wickedly over skin no one can see, nails just barely grazing your soft inner thigh. 

You swallow, words lost to you, and Sirius grins.

“I’ll take that for a yes.”

[stansthemans]

it’s a new years miracle. i wrote canon stan. woke up with this idea and decided it was gonna be the only thing on my to do list

Ford would like to imagine that he is not a man prone to petty or grumbling complaints, but when his first conscious thought upon waking up that morning is that the sheets next to him are cold and then his immediate reaction to that thought is to let out a huffing whine that would not be misplaced coming from the mouth of a toddler, well, maybe he has to reevaluate a little.

Maybe a lot, because he then proceeds to spend a solid two minutes curled in on himself, stubbornly refusing to leave the warmth that he has maintained between the crumpled sheets and continuing to huff to himself that surely nothing could be so important as to draw anyone away from this cocoon of comfort and bliss. He ignores the pointed growling of his stomach and the pressure in his bladder that also demand attention from his now waking mind.

Freshly awake, Ford’s mind is—outside of his petty grumbling complaints—foggy and sluggish. It’s a luxury that he has only been able to afford in recent months and with much coaxing. So when he finally does pull himself up from the bed and is hit with the blast of cold air, he simply grabs up the comforter and wraps it around him before shuffling off to take care of the other immediate concerns.

The most immediate is finding his brother, but he does suppose he can take a quick leak first.

Stanley is not in the kitchen, although the smell of coffee does fill the air, so Ford knows he’s been here recently. Neither is he at the helm. Ford does not bother looking in his lab. Stanley typically avoids it unless he is harassing Ford in some manner—go to bed at a normal hour, eat real food, that’s too much coffee, please for the love of God don’t create a biohazard in this enclosed space in the middle of the ocean. Finally, Ford finds his brother up on the deck, leaning against a railing and staring out at the sun that, this far north and this late in the year, will not climb much higher in the sky today.

Ford does not think that he made much noise—certainly none that could be heard over the wind and waves—but as soon as he steps from the doorway, Stanley turns around. They’ve never been able to sneak up on each other, not once that Ford can recall, so it makes perfect sense that Stanley just knew he was there.

One look at him, and Stanley throws his head back and laughs. It’s a loud thing, from his belly, and the sound alone prevents the harsh arctic air from delivering any ill effects to Ford’s body. “Cripes, Poindexter,” Stan says, his voice full of affectionate teasing. “I know you’re a human furnace, but that ratty thing ain’t gonna cut it out here.”

He then walks right around Ford, who can only whine in complaint that his brother does not come close enough for Ford to latch onto, and disappears into cockpit. He’s back in just a moment, Ford’s bulky coat slung over his shoulder. Stanley grabs at the comforter and wrestles Ford into the proper gear for their current environment. Ford simply stands there and takes it, not at all displeased to listen to his brother’s biteless grumbling about frostbite.

Once he is properly in the coat, gloves, and knit cap, Stan replaces the comforter around Ford’s shoulders. “You actually cold or are you doing your best impersonation of a teenager who just woke up?” Stan punctuates his question with a slightly too sharp clap to Ford’s cheek.

“Ow,” Ford grumbles, although it does not hurt at all. He huffs at his brother, which only makes Stanley laugh again.

“You look like a chipmunk,” he says. “It wasn’t cute when you did that when we was kids, and it’s not cute now as a grown ass man.” But considering the way that Stanley’s eyes are sparkling, the way he looks at Ford’s puffed cheeks and wild curls not at all well contained by the knit hat, the way that his teasing smile is a bit softer at the corners of his lips, Ford must surmise that his lying charlatan brother is, in fact, at least slightly charmed by Ford’s sleepy, if a bit immature and childish, disposition.

That he has charmed Stanley stirs the always lit embers in the pit of his stomach, fanning the flames just a bit higher. However, the feeling of delighted contentment is not enough to stop him from pursuing an all too pressing manner.

“When we were kids,” Ford corrects, and Stanley groans and rolls his eyes as dramatically as possible. Ford does not bother to hide his grin, which might be crossing into dopey territory.

Stan shoves him a bit, and says, “You stop with that shit, or I’ll be forced to dump this right out into the ocean.” From seemingly nowhere, Stan holds up Ford’s thermos and waves it enticingly in Ford’s face.

“No,” Ford whines pitifully and makes grabbing hands at it.

Stan chuckles smugly. He throws an arm around Ford’s shoulders and leads him over to the railing. “Come on, Poindexter. Let’s get you caffeinated. This is pathetic.”

They settle onto the bench, and Ford takes the opportunity to press in close to his brother’s side, unfolding the comforter enough to also envelop Stan. Stan plucks his own thermos—his covered with stickers from one of Mabel’s care packages—from the nearby cup holder, and silently, comfortably, they turn their gazes back out to the horizon. Ford sips lightly at his coffee. It’s the perfect temperature, which means that Stanley must have prepared it along with his own drink when he first woke up. It has the perfect amount of sugar and cream to suit Ford’s sweet tooth. Made with love, as are all things that Stanley gives to him.

Ford drops his head onto Stan’s shoulder and asks, “Why did you get out of bed so early?”

Stan huffs a light laugh. Ford knows it would have been louder and livelier, but he’s likely reluctant to jostle Ford around. “You have less than no idea what time it is,” he says.

“Irrelevant,” Ford states.

Stan takes a long, slow sip from his thermos. “Wasn’t any reason,” he says. “Just thought it would be nice to check out the view.”

“It was nicer in the bed,” Ford grumbles, and Stanley doesn’t answer that. Ford waits a moment before shifting his head just enough that he can get a glance at his brother’s face. There isn’t any particular emotion standing out. He seems peaceful and content enough, but Ford doesn’t have the best angle to see his eyes. Stanley’s eyes have never been able to fool Ford.

The thing about the bed is that it isn’t the only one on the boat. The thing about the bed that Ford woke up in this morning—the bed that he almost always wakes up in—is that it isn’t Ford’s bed. Ford’s bed, theoretically, is the bunk above Stanley’s, the same as it was when they were kids. As soon as they were old enough for their own individual beds, they were given bunks. It was a space saver, as there was no chance they would ever be given their own bedrooms, and two growing, rowdy boys needed all the space they could get for play. Ford had always taken the top bunk. Stanley was scared of heights. Ford doesn’t even remember why—it had just always been like that—but even that little bit up the ladder had been too much for him. It was no hardship, and when they still wanted—or needed—to cuddle and be close, it was the easiest thing in the world to pull down his pillow and an extra blanket and settle into Stan’s bunk with him.

It’s what they still do now. Ford very rarely makes the climb up that ladder at the end of the night. Whether they go to bed at the same time or whether Ford has finally hit the wall after a long day of adventure and research and drags himself up from his lab, far more often than not, Ford slides under the covers of Stanley’s bunk and presses himself into his twin’s space. Stan accepts it each time without complaint. He accepts Ford simply lying there. He accepts Ford nestling himself into Stan’s side and using him as a pillow. He accepts Ford’s arms folding around him and pulling him back against Ford’s chest.

Ford thinks that it means all of the same things to Stan that it does to him, but they haven’t talked about it. For all the leaps and bounds they’ve made since setting sail four months ago, they still haven’t talked about this.

Ford knows how he feels about his brother. He has known for a very, very long time. It had, of course, been alarming back when he initially came to the conclusion that his feelings for his brother—his identical twin brother, at that—were not entirely platonic in nature, although certainly that brotherly feeling was always there as well. Of course it was alarming. He was not supposed to look at his brother and want to smash their faces together, to know the taste of his lips. He was not supposed to look at his brother and imagine trailing hands across his body, memorizing not only the sight but the feel of him. He was not supposed to look at his brother and be so overwhelmed with yearning and desire that the only thing he could possibly do to stay sane—debatable, considering how wild he always felt in the aftermath—was to take himself in hand and stroke until he exploded, Stanley’s name always on his tongue.

Alarming, but Ford is certainly capable of incredible rationalization. He was already considered a freak. What was this one new aspect? If he kept it all to himself—bottled up where it rightly belonged—it could do nothing to harm his brother. If Stanley didn’t know of Ford’s desires, he would always continue to look at Ford with his sweet, trusting, loving gaze. Ford has always been the axis around which Stan orbited. He’s always known that. He could always continue to be that if he just kept the simple secret. And even if he couldn’t, if it got out, if by some miracle Stanley felt the same way, well, they were both of the same sex. Which isn’t to say that the homosexual aspect of it all wouldn’t have given them problems, but as to its connections to the incestuous aspects, well, two men can’t procreate.

Not that Ford hasn’t had plenty of fantasies in which he does his damnedest to try, but that is neither here nor there.

As teenagers, it was never truly a pure thing. Ford had rationalized it, but he’d also been resentful. Those feelings had come into play around the same time he had begun to yearn for separation from his brother, to for once be his own person and stand on his own merits, all without a hovering shadow that shared his face. It was a complicated thing, to love Stan that much, to want to absorb him completely, all while slowly suffocating with that closeness.

And then the science fair project. And then their father kicking Stan out of the house. And then over ten years of separation. Over a decade in which Ford’s bitterness only grew in equal measure to his longing for what had once been, the opportunities squandered. And then Bill. And then the portal.

For thirty years, Ford’s life was a constant type of hell. He had lived in fight or flight mode, and he was forced to become a type of person he would have never guessed, all to survive, all to keep going until he could finally achieve his goal of ripping Bill apart molecule by molecule in revenge for everything he had done to destroy Ford’s life. But for all the very real horrors, Ford cannot find it in him to entirely hate or regret his time out in the multiverse. Around the dangers, it had been the perfect sandbox, an endless place upon which Ford could exercise his vast intellectual curiosity. Sure, he could have done without being a wanted man with alluringly high bounties on his head across multiple dimensions, but oh, the things he had learned.

And one of the more profound takeaways had been just how many dimensions did not give two flying shits about who had sex with who, no matter the circumstances.

Well, it had only further cemented into Ford’s mind that his love for his brother was perfectly acceptable the way it was. It didn’t matter the anger and bitterness that he refused to let go of. It didn’t matter that Ford had no expectations of ever laying eyes on his brother again. All that mattered was that despite it all, he did still love Stanley, was in love with him. It wouldn’t change. He was at peace with that much at least.

But now, Ford has let go of the anger and bitterness. After everything that happened, after what his wonderful brother did to save the world, to save their family, how could he ever continue to cling to those awful thoughts? Because Ford has been given the utter gift and miracle of laying eyes on his brother again. And not just that. They are together again, truly together. A dynamic duo once more. It’s taken a lifetime of struggles and sorrows, but they are together on their boat, finally living out their old dreams.

Ford knows how all of this makes him feel. And he thinks he knows something of Stanley’s thoughts as well. Because he can only rationalize it one way. Yes, Stan has always orbited Ford, always deferred to him and protected him and loved him. But thirty years. Stanley spent thirty years, his every thought, his every action all poured towards the singular goal of reopening the portal and getting Ford back. He had completely lacked the education or even the innate skill set to truly understand the advanced mechanics of it all. He had ignored every single warning of the risks and dangers. Stanley Pines had locked himself completely away, put all of himself on hold, all on the slimmest glimmer of a hope that he could bring back his brother, who, by all accounts, seemed to hate him. And in those initial weeks, Ford had given him no indication otherwise, and still Stanley had been prepared to leave, to fade into the distance, to give up everything once again if that was what Ford demanded.

Love is the only conclusion that Ford can come to that offers any sort of explanation.

Not to mention the looks, the touches, the sheer tension between them. But they haven’t talked about it. And Ford does not know how to start that conversation.

They continue to sip their coffee in a comfortable silence until Stanley nudges Ford gently. “Your stomach’s been making enough noise to set off one of your monster radars,” Stan says, exaggerating, but not entirely wrong. “Come on, let’s get breakfast.”

It’s a routine they have fallen into easily. Stan whisks himself about the kitchen with ease, cracking and seasoning eggs, frying bacon, buttering toast. Ford washes their thermoses and pours fresh mugs to their individual specifications. They each take only the smallest splash of cream, but Stan makes the time to huff a laugh at how many more spoonfuls of sugar make their way into Ford’s cup compared to his.

They set the table, and Stan slides into his usual spot on the bench. Typically, Ford takes the chair on the other side of the table, but he doesn’t today. Today, the comforter still in play, he climbs onto the bench right alongside Stan, pressing in close. The only word to describe it would be snuggly.

“You’ve been—uh—you’re in a cuddly mood this morning,” Stan says, and they have been inside long enough that the pink tinge to his cheeks cannot be caused by cold, arctic winds. Still, Ford is a man of science. He needs to test that hypothesis.

“Yes,” he says, “the reason I was rather discontented to wake up alone in a perfectly cozy bed.”

Yes, Stanley does blush harder at that, his cheeks going from pink to a lovely red. Ford wants to press their cheeks together, to feel that warmth bleeding over into his own skin. He wants to kiss that gorgeous blush, to see how much redder it could get, how far could it spread down Stan’s neck, his chest.

“Of course, I see no reason why we can’t return after we eat,” Ford goes on, eyes locked onto Stanley’s. “As you’ve stated, it is a holiday. Holidays are not for working.”

“It’s New Years Eve,” Stan says, and Ford does not miss the slight warble in his gruff voice. “Really only a holiday if you’re planning to party, and we’re how many hundreds of miles from the nearest shoreline?”

Ford chuckles. “Not that far,” he says. “But still. It is my first one in this dimension in thirty years. And you are always harping on me to take it easy.”

Stan snorts. “And you’re finally listening?”

“If the result is a lazy day in bed with you, yes,” Ford says, and Stan blushes so violently that it takes nearly every ounce of Ford’s willpower to not grab his face and kiss him until neither of them can breathe. He has to force himself to simply pick up his fork and eat the breakfast that his brother has so lovingly cooked for them. “Hm, very good. Are you not hungry, Stanley?”

The choked noises that gurgle up from Stan’s throat do not contain any plainly stated curses or swears, but Ford feels their intent. Stan grabs his own fork and stabs at the eggs as if they are the cause of his flustering.

When they have eaten, Ford gathers up the dishes and drops them perhaps a little too roughly into the sink. But sue him. He’s impatient, and, wrapping his hand around Stan’s wrist when he tries to attend to the mess, he says, “They’ll keep.”

Stan turns an almost unreadable glance to Ford, and Ford could keep teasing, but he knows this is no longer the time. “Please,” he says simply, because he knows that is all it will take.

He’s right. A little sigh, a shake of his head, and a fond smile, and Stan agrees, “All right, you lazy bastard. Let’s fucking cuddle.”

Although the generator and all the mechanics on the boat are in excellent order—personally built by Ford and McGucket—and outperform anything else commercially available by leaps and bounds, this far north, this late in the year, there is always some cold that seeps inside. But Ford can’t feel any of it around the heat in his stomach, flames spreading and crackling like a merry campfire. He can’t feel anything but warmth and comfort as he drags Stanley off to their bed—theirs, theirs, theirs—and envelops his brother in his arms, rubbing gentle knuckles across Stan’s scalp until they are both lulled into blissful sleep.

The nap is overly indulgent and lazy. One might consider it excessive. Every time Stan attempts to move, Ford latches on tighter. When he tries to get up—“Christ, Stanford, can a guy not take a quick piss?”—Ford pouts and complains. Stanley surrenders quickly enough, understands that this is his fate today. He will stay in this bed with his brother. He will stay warm and snuggly and tucked into Ford’s chest, his ear right over his heart, listening to the steady thump and at least somewhere in the depths of his mind knowing that it pumps solely for him.

They lounge for nearly the entire day. Sometimes one of them is sleeping, sometimes both. If they are both awake, they talk in low whispers, and it reminds Ford of childhood innocence, a time he once felt only like he does now. A time when he could not have imagined a world or a circumstance in which he wanted to be parted from his brother.

Finally, late into the evening, Stanley finally puts his foot down and bodily wrestles his way out of the blankets. “We’re getting up,” he says. “Even if it’s just to fucking cook dinner. You’re eating dinner, you maniac.”

Ford lets him out, but he does not allow Stan any space. “Freaking koala,” Stan grumbles, but he also surrenders to this treatment, attempting to maneuver about the kitchen with Ford all but clinging to his back and effectively using him as an oversized teddy bear.

“Ok, knock it off,” Stan says when he truly does need to be released to complete their meal. “And don’t give me none of that fake pouting,” he adds when Ford puffs his cheeks at him.

“I assure you, Stanley, this pouting is entirely sincere,” he says, and Stanley laughs a loud and beautiful sound.

“Shut up and make us something to drink,” Stan says, still laughing.

There isn’t any champagne, of course. It’s not a beverage either of them would drink with any sort of regularity, so Ford sets about heating a kettle and pulling out whiskey and honey. Stan already has a lemon sliced on the counter.

Again, they both slide onto the bench to eat. Ford allows a bit more space between them this time, even as he does tangle their legs together under the table. As he refills their hot toddies, Stanley’s phone lets out an obnoxious oink. It’s the text tone for Mabel.

“Oh shit,” he says with clear delight. “We got a signal.”

“You would always have a signal if you were using the communication device that I built for us,” Ford says, and Stan just waves him off. He snatches up his phone and pulls up the message. Laughing, he shows it to Ford.

The first part of the message is an image—Ford has heard them all refer to as a selfie—of the twins. In true Mabel fashion, she is wearing a sweater unique to the occasion. Little bursts of fireworks have been knitted in brilliant colors, and all of the bursts are decorated with either glitter paint or real, working lights. Her earrings are glowing as well, clearly miniature versions of the Time Square ball. Her headband is a mess of curled streamers. Beside her, Dipper is far more subdued, although he is wearing a silly set of glasses displaying the new year. Each of the kids is blowing on a noise maker, their arms slung around each other.

Behind them, on the wall, is a clock, displaying something very close to the current time—nearly 10:30 in California—but there are messy scribbles over it attempting to erase the actual time and instead show it to read midnight.

Under the image is a text message. “Totally and 100% made it! Not even a little tired!! Party all night long!!!!”

“Oh, they are going to be dead asleep in under five minutes,” Stan says, completely oozing affection for their niblings. “Completely unconscious. End of the world wouldn’t wake ‘em up.”

“Agreed,” Ford says, feeling all that same affection as he laughs at the purposefully sloppy editing.

Another burst of pictures comes through. The twins running around their neighborhood street with sparklers. Toasting each other with plastic flutes full of sparkling juice. Mabel dancing in front of the television with some celebrities that Ford has less than no clue the identify of during their part of the live performance in New York. A very blurry shot of Dipper trying to snatch a piece of paper from Mabel’s hands—likely an in-depth resolutions list that has more than its fair share of embarrassing points.

“God, I miss them,” Stan says.

Ford slides from the booth, pulling Stan after him. “Come on,” he says. “We should send them something back.” They move quickly to dress in their coats and hats and gloves, and Ford pours their drinks into their thermoses and darts to the bedroom to snatch up the comforter again. “We don’t have sparklers,” he says as they step out onto the deck, “however—“ And he points up at the Northern Lights dancing across the sky.

It is not the first time they’ve seen them, but Stan still stares up in awe. “Yeah,” he says lowly. “They’ll love that.”

They take two pictures. One of the sky alone, allowing the aurora and stars and moon to shine all on their own. A second of the two of them, cheeks pressed together, arms around each other, just as the kids had sent. They have no noise makers, but Stan holds up his thermos for Mabel to see the collection of stickers.

They don’t have as many pictures to send, so Stanley pulls off his gloves and sets to typing out a longer message. Ford takes the comforter and wraps it around them both, hooking his chin over his brother’s shoulder to read along. It’s a rambling message, full of spelling and grammatical errors, but it’s warm and affectionate, and no one who ever read it could ever for a second doubt just how much Stan loves those two perfect children. It’s overwhelming, and Ford loves him all the more for it.

Stan sends everything off, and the messages go through, but there is no response, which confirms to Ford’s mind Stanley’s prediction that the kids have indeed passed out from the long day’s excitement.

Stan puts the phone into his pocket, and when his hand emerges, he has a cigar. He waves it under Ford’s nose with a grin. “I wouldn’t say no,” Ford says, and with a quick, well practiced clip and flick of a lighter, Stan takes the first puff before passing it to Ford. It’s a nice Churchill, one that will take them a good deal of time to smoke, even together. Ford is perfectly amenable to that.

And so they stand there together for a long time, the only noise the light splashing of waves against the side of the boat. They pass the cigar, slowly sip at their warm drinks, and watch the sky dance. Stanley has stronger opinions on cigars than Ford, and although Ford would be just fine with taking the cigar down to the foot, he accepts Stanley’s assessment of, “Last pull,” before plopping it down into the railing’s cup holder to allow it to die its natural death.

Immediately, Ford regathers the comforter and tucks himself into Stanley’s back, wrapping his brother in a hug. He nuzzles at Stanley’s neck. Back to cuddling they go.

“You’re ridiculous,” Stanley says. “Seriously, what’s been with you today?”

Ford only holds him tighter, presses Stan’s back so close to his own chest that he can feel Stan’s heart beating right alongside his. His chin is already hooked over Stan’s shoulder, resting comfortably, but even that is not enough. He tilts his head, presses as much of their faces together as he can. “I’m happy,” he says simply.

“Oh,” Stan says, a small noise, so tiny, but so full. His hand—the right one—moves slowly, moves across Ford’s forearm, moves until he can slot their fingers together. Six around five, as they are meant to be.

For a long time, they stand on the deck, wrapped up in each other, staring up at the brilliant lights that color the sky above them. Their breath curls in puffs of fog, and yes, it is cold, but it’s also so perfectly warm surrounded by each other and the simple blanket.

Ford notices the second that Stanley comes to some sort of mental conclusion. He doesn’t exactly go tense, but there is a certain rigidity that was not there a moment ago. His fingers twitch minutely between Ford’s. Ford can feel the quickening of his pulse. But he doesn’t urge him on, doesn’t rush him. He can wait until Stanley is ready.

And when he is, he does not step away. He just turns in Ford’s arms and locks their gazes together. Identical, as are so many aspects of their physical appearance, but Ford has always considered Stanley’s eyes warmer. The same shade, there is no difference there, but perhaps it’s just that Stanley has always worn his emotions so openly on his sleeve. He’s always felt so much, and in his eyes, it’s always so plain. Ford can—and has—gotten lost in them. He would be glad to do so for years to come.

“I’m gonna be a real sap for a minute here, so can you just let me get through it,” Stan asks, and Ford can only nod and wait, nearly trembling, for Stan to properly gather his thoughts. It’s difficult, especially when part of the process is Stan grabbing tight to the front of his coat, clinging to Ford as a means to ground himself.

They have been wrapped up in each other all day, but Ford knows that it is different in this moment.

Even under the collar of his sweater, Ford can see the way Stan’s throat works, swallowing thickly against what is clearly overwhelming emotion. His eyes are wet behind his glasses, and he blinks rapidly to try to contain it. Ford knows that whatever it is that Stan has to say will only be good, but it still sends some pang through his chest to see his brother struggle in this way. Ford moves quickly, tugging off his gloves. He doesn’t care about the cold. He only cares that he can touch the wind-kissed pink of Stanley’s cheeks, skin to skin. He only cares that his hands can be there to catch and wipe away any of those tears that might escape Stan’s eyes. “It’s all right,” he says lowly. “Take your time.”

Stan smiles at him, and the only thing Ford can see is love. His. Stan’s. Theirs.

The reassurance, the physical contact, it does what it needs to for Stan. It calms him enough to let him speak. “This is corny as hell, I know, but fuck it, right? We’ve got the right be corny after everything. Forty years. That’s fucking insane. Forty years completely apart, when I spent the first seventeen feeling like I’d crawl out of my skin if we were separated for just fifteen minutes.”

The choice of the number fifteen is not lost on Ford at all. The number of minutes between their first breaths in this world. The number of minutes that is impossible for Ford to actually recall, but what he always assumed must have been the longest of his life, waiting for his other half to join him again. A small number, truly, but to them an insurmountable time to be forced apart, the absolute longest either of them could stand before they were ready to make it a problem for everyone else around them.

“I just—“ Stan licks at his chapped lips, and Ford doesn’t know if he’d rather lose himself staring at that or the shining reflection of the lights in Stan’s warm eyes. “I don’t care, you know. This is insane, but I don’t care. I don’t care that it was so hard. I don’t care how much it hurt. Because we’re here now right. Fucking new year, new us. I’d do it again, if I had to.”

“No,” Ford says. “No, you will never have to, Stanley. We are never going to be parted again. Never.” He steps closer, unwilling to take his hands from his brother’s face but still needing more of the minuscule distance between their bodies negated. If he could, he would open his rib cage and draw Stanley inside of himself, or he would crawl into Stan’s. Either option, so long as they are joined. “I simply will not allow it.”

Stan huffs a laugh, and one tear manages its escape. Ford is quick to wipe it away. “Yeah, you’re a stubborn old goat,” he says.

“Takes one to know one,” Ford retorts.

They both laugh and then just stand there, so, so close, just staring at each other, just together. And Ford’s watch lets out a tiny little beep. The same beep it lets out each hour. It’s midnight. It’s midnight crossing over into the new year.

Corny. Sappy. Sure, it is all those things. But it’s also tradition, and as Stanley stated himself, new year, new them.

Ford closes the remaining distance between them and slots his lips over Stanley’s. The reaction is immediate and electrifying. Stan’s mouth opens in a gasp, and Ford doesn’t waste a second of the opportunity presented to him. He pushes his tongue into Stan’s mouth, and Stanley reacts so perfectly, just as Ford has always dreamed. He clings tighter, pulls Ford flush against him, and kisses him back as if to do anything less would shatter him apart.

The kiss lights Ford on fire, sets him completely ablaze and then rebirths him immediately from the ashes. Stanley fits so perfectly against him, so perfect in his arms. They belong like this, made for each other like this. This was the true reason Ford was put on this earth, to kiss Stan, to hold him, to love him.

When they finally pull back from each other, gasping, it’s not very far. Stan’s body remains pressed against him, his fingers clinging to Ford’s shoulders like a vice. Ford’s hands are still cupping Stanley’s cheeks, protecting him from the cold night wind. Their noses and foreheads touch, and they breathe in each other’s air. In the darkness, the only light coming from the aurora borealis and the nearly full moon, Stan’s eyes should not look so bright, but they practically glow. Ford has so much to say, but he can’t bring himself to speak. Still, Stanley’s eyes bore into him, searching, finding all of it on open display, every part of Ford there for him, only for him, if he wants it.

And Ford can see, Stanley does want it. He wants Ford in all the ways that Ford has always wanted him. He loves Ford as Ford loves him.

Ford surges forward, one hand sliding around to cup the back of Stan’s neck and pull him the rest of the way to kiss him again. It’s not as deep this time, no tongues involved, just the slide of their lips together. Still, he tingles everywhere they touch. “I love you,” he says, finally finding his voice. He sounds devastated in the best possible way.

And now Stan’s cold hands are on his cheeks. “I love you, too,” Stan says. Another gentle kiss. “I love you.” Another. “This is insane,” he says, but this time he’s smiling, almost giggling. Ford grins at him, so wide that his face hurts. He feels manic, ready to burst at the seams. He never wants this feeling to stop. Stan starts to back away, but Ford tightens his arms around him. Stan laughs, his fingers sliding into Ford’s hair. “Stanford,” he says against his lips, and Ford shudders.

“Stay here,” Ford requests, begs. “Stay with me.”

“Always,” Stan answers.

The sky above them explodes in color, a more brilliant display than any fireworks show. Ford presses his lips to Stan’s, the next in an endless line, too many to count over the next year, decade, the rest of their lives.

[redux-iterum]

Charred Legacy: Chapter Thirty-Six

(AO3 counterpart here.)

Cloudpaw stayed silent, and so did Fireheart; neither mentioned the apprentice’s visits to the Houses, which seemed to have stopped entirely. Fireheart woke up early a few times to make sure, and every time he poked his head into the apprentice’s den, his nephew was curled up and asleep. Only once, he was awake, cracking open a bleary eye to see what caused the shadow blocking the daylight, then shutting it again with a small sigh.

Over the next few nights, Cloudpaw’s energy and focus returned. Even though he couldn’t do much training, he stayed busy, tending to the elders and visiting Brightpaw—which, Fireheart noted with delight, he did with much more enthusiasm than before. He’d always bring her a piece of prey and chatter about this or that when she seemed receptive to it. When she wasn’t, he’d sit quietly with her or help groom her fur that she was in too much pain to turn and reach.

Fireheart, meanwhile, kept himself occupied. Speckletail had him on a patrol every night; if he wasn’t leading it, he was following after Dustpelt or Whitecloud. After those few nights passed and the scent of the dogs faded into the snow, the toms were split up into smaller patrols, mostly for hunting. Prey was scared again and struggling to find food, and the Clan had to be content with thin meals, leaving the best for Goldenflower, her kits, and the elders. As such, hunting was near-constant, the patrols slowly spreading over the territory—even into the burned part of the woods again, in the hopes that something got bold and would be out there.

Fireheart was on one of these patrols one night, leading Teaselfoot, Lizardtail and Sandstorm into the corner of the territory closest to the neutral grounds—and the road that bordered it.

 “We’re probably going to have to stretch out our search area tonight,” Sandstorm remarked, carelessly kicking a small, sooty rock in front of her as she walked. “I really doubt we’ll find anything up that far into the woods.”

“Honestly, I agree,” Teaselfoot said. “Shouldn’t we just head to the neutral grounds and try our luck there?”

Fireheart turned his head around to the cats behind him and replied, “I think we should, but let’s try our territory first. Whitecloud told me we should leave those grounds alone as much as we can.”

Sandstorm rolled her eyes. “Whitecloud’s overly cautious about hunting there.”

“It’s not like you could catch a rabbit,” Lizardtail said.

“It’s not like there’s anything looking for food in the ashes up north.”

“Still good to check.”

“Whatever.” Sandstorm flicked her tail on Lizardtail’s side, earning her a biteless scowl. “I’ll bet you we find nothing tonight.”

“Think positive,” Fireheart encouraged. “We could find anything.”

Sandstorm gave him a dry look. “Uh-huh. And if ‘thinking positive’ doesn’t work out?”

“Then think proactive,” Teaselfoot said. “We can just check out the neutral grounds there, right, Fireheart?”

“Right.” Fireheart nodded with a more jokey than serious authoritativeness. “But within our borders first, just in case.”

Sandstorm sarcastically bowed her head. “Lead on, then, prra*.”

Why did being called that feel so weird?

Fireheart didn’t retort, just picked up his pace into a speedier trot, his Clanmates grouped behind him and starting up a conversation about something or other that Fireheart didn’t pay attention to. He instead focused on his surroundings, ears swiveling and eyes sharp.

With the snow, it was harder to tell where the scarred land began and the preserved forest ended. Even the bark seemed the same color on such an especially dim night. Fireheart had to focus on the jagged branches and a very, very faint scent of smoke that was desperately clinging to the area, begging to not be forgotten.

No problem there, Fireheart thought. The sight of the fire will last a lifetime.

It was a shame that the burned grounds were becoming more familiar with every visit; Fireheart found he was walking the path he’d taken to find those humans the night before the fire. He took it again, turning left when he could smell the road. The patrol finally came to a stop in the uppermost corner of the territory, the neutral grounds visible from where they stood and Fourtrees standing silently in the distance. The road, hidden by its gravel ascent, was just as quiet.

“Well,” Sandstorm said after a pause, “I don’t smell anything edible.”

“That would be because of the snow,” Teaselfoot said. “Start poking around with that long nose of yours, you’ll find something!”

He had to duck away from a lazy attempt to cuff his ear from Sandstorm. Fireheart chuffed and opened his mouth to gently chide Teaselfoot, but his eyes caught Lizardtail, who was turning his ears and squinting at nothing.

“Something up?” Fireheart asked, lowering his voice.

Lizardtail stretched his thin neck upwards, sniffing, ears perked. “Does anyone else hear that?”

His patrol-mates copied him, straightening up and listening closely. A faint rumble, familiar to this place, could be heard in the distance.

“I think it’s just a car,” Fireheart said. “We should be fine—”

“No,” Teaselfoot said. “I mean, I hear that too, but there’s something else.”

Fireheart swiveled his ears again, taking a few steps forward and straining his senses. Somewhere over the road, plants shifted and water splashed. In ShadowClan territory, then? Fireheart squinted unconsciously.

“I’ll look,” he said to the others. “Stay here.”

“Oh, no, not by yourself.” Teaselfoot stepped forward. “Not with everything going on. Let me go with you.”

Fireheart looked at Sandstorm and Lizardtail, who nodded firmly. He relented, crooking his tail for Teaselfoot to follow him. The pair cautiously padded through the snow and up to the gravel slope. Fireheart took great care in climbing as silently as possible, flinching instinctively when a loose pebble slid and bounced down the slope. Teaselfoot moved quickly, only stopping once when he himself dislodged another stone that luckily did not travel far before settling.

They reached the edge of the road and peered out into the darkness, the shifting growing louder. A small shape, blacker than the night around it, was speeding through the marshes, leaping over the web of streams effortlessly and heading closer. Behind it, something equally dark but much bigger thundered and crashed into water, but kept up its pace, barely slowing down.

Fireheart didn’t have to see it perfectly to know what it was. And that it was coming towards the road.

In tandem, Fireheart and Teaselfoot leaped and skittered down the gravel, rushing to their Clanmates.

“Dog,” Fireheart said. “It’s chasing someone.”

Sandstorm cursed under her breath. “What do we do?”

Lizardtail looked upwards. “We can hide in the trees. Come on.”

“But what about—” Fireheart started.

“We can call for them if they make it across the road,” Lizardtail said. “Hurry, follow me.”

He whipped around and raced for the closest tree, lunging and grabbing onto the charred bark. He slipped down for a moment as the bark crumbled and fell off, but he struggled upward, followed by everyone else. Fireheart went last, grateful for the skin of the tree the others had left exposed in their rush to climb to safety. He nearly slipped himself, fighting to get to the lowest sturdy-looking branch.

Up this tree, they could see over the road. The black cat was sprinting for their life, their terrified panting steadily growing louder as they streaked for the black path. The dog panted too—Fireheart caught sight of white teeth and a long tongue—but its breathing sounded more excited than labored.

A light caught Fireheart’s corner of his eye. A car was speeding down the road, swiftly coming closer.

“Oh, muck…” Sandstorm craned her neck forward. “They’re heading straight into a car.”

“Get away from the road!” Fireheart yelled, as loud as he could.

Lizardtail stared at him, hissing, “What are you doing?! The dog will come this way if it hears us!”

Fireheart ignored him. “Run another way! There’s a car coming!”

If the cat heard him, they didn’t respond, just sprinting closer and closer. The dog lunged over the closest stream, taking one step for every three of the cat. The car barreled down, its lights blinding.

“DON’T COME OVER THE ROAD!” Fireheart yowled.

“Fireheart!” Sandstorm half-shouted herself.

The cat appeared on the stone path, the dog’s teeth snapping at their tail. Fireheart caught bugged-out, terrified pale eyes. They suddenly looked to the side and skittered to a halt halfway over ThunderClan’s side of the road as a bellow and a screech announced the arrival of the car.

The dog’s jaws closed over the cat’s back. It didn’t even look as the car crashed into the hunter and its prey.

Fireheart flinched and shouted in horror as the car’s wheels crunched twice in rapid succession, before it screeched to a halt. Red lights flickered awake as it stopped. A door opened and a human jumped out of it, hollering something incoherent that didn’t sound too far from Yellowfang’s cursing. Something in its hand lit up and it scrambled over to the bodies, shining the light down on them.

The dog’s black-and-brown fur didn’t give away much more than a dull reflection of the light, but blood, pitch in this darkness, shone around it. It was still holding on to the cat, who lay limply in a running position.

“By the Three,” Teaselfoot said softly.

Fireheart started backing down the tree, his feet sliding and catching bad bark.

“Where are you going?” Sandstorm hissed.

“We have to do something—” Fireheart caught himself before he could fall. “We’ve got to get that cat.”

“Fireheart, they’re dead,” Lizardtail said, effortlessly descending after him. “Their body is twisted all wrong.”

“No, we—” Fireheart stumbled onto the ground. “Maybe they weren’t—”

Before he could take a step, Lizardtail was in front of him. His long tail blocked Fireheart from stepping around him.

“There’s nothing you can do,” he said, oddly kind.

Fireheart stared at him, unsure whether to plead or order him to step aside so he could move forward. Teaselfoot and Sandstorm scraped down the tree behind him.

“I can check,” Teaselfoot said quietly. “But they’re definitely dead, Fireheart.”

“We can’t risk getting close to that human,” Sandstorm said. Fireheart stared at her now and her eyes almost shamefully flicked away. “But if you’re quiet…”

Teaselfoot looked to Lizardtail, who nodded curtly, and sped off at a rather silent pace up the slope. Fireheart stood, frozen, his mind cloudy.

We have to do something, he thought. That can’t be it.

Teaselfoot returned a few moments later, his face grave. To Fireheart, he said, “He’s not breathing.”

Fireheart wanted to be sick.

Everyone stood in silence for a long moment, or a single heartbeat, Fireheart didn’t know, before Lizardtail lifted his head and spoke.

“The dog’s dead, too?” he asked.

Teaselfoot nodded.

“That’s two down,” Sandstorm said quietly. She looked at Fireheart. “We should get home and report this immediately. Hunt later.”

Teaselfoot and Lizardtail hummed in agreement. Fireheart didn’t say anything, just slowly turned and started jogging in the direction of home. His Clanmates silently followed him.

He didn’t register the journey back. Nor was he conscious of what he was saying to Speckletail, though going by her darkly alarmed face, it wasn’t pleasant to her, either.

“And you’re sure it’s dead,” she said at last.

“Positive,” Teaselfoot replied.

It took Fireheart a moment to realize that everyone in camp was watching them, staring and whispering to each other. Cloudpaw’s tail trembled out of the corner of his eye.

“We’re safe from that one, at least,” Lizardtail said. “The question is…”

“Where are the others?” Speckletail finished. “Yes, that’s important. Did you smell them?”

The patrol shook their heads.

Speckletail hummed, nose down as she thought. Fireheart’s eyes kept flickering the image of the dead cat in front of him, and his pale, terrified eyes.

“We should tell ShadowClan about their Clanmate,” he said, voice muffled in his own ears. “They should know.”

“They’ll find out on their own,” Speckletail said, looking up again. “And if the dogs are in their territory, we can’t risk them following after us if we visit.”

“So…” Fireheart met her eyes, a dull anger sparking in his sorrow. “So, what, we just leave the body there to rot?”

Speckletail was not perturbed, though her voice was gentler. “ShadowClan will retrieve their Clanmate, if the humans don’t take him. He won’t rot away on the road either way.”

Fireheart said nothing.

Speckletail waited a moment for his response before turning to Lizardtail. “Get some rest.” Her eyes went to Fireheart. “I’m sorry the four of you had to see that. It sounds horrible.”

“It wasn’t pleasant,” Teaselfoot agreed. He nudged Fireheart. “Come on, let’s get food.”

Fireheart shook his head. “I’m not hungry.” Before Teaselfoot could say anything, he stepped away and for the corner of camp. Cats quietly let him pass, murmuring in concern to each other. He turned and sat down once he reached the corner, eyes seeing without really observing what his Clanmates were doing.

He didn’t notice Cloudpaw staring at him with a dreading, frightened face. Nor did he notice Brightpaw shaking beside his nephew, her claws sunk into the sandy ground.

*”Prra”: superior, equivalent to “sir” or “ma’am”.

[crazylittlejester]

Uh, here! Have a little story!

~~~~~

"This would be easier if you'd sit still."

Wild curled his fingers into the fallen log he was sitting on as the Captain once again brought the saltwater-soaked rag up to his reddened ear. A pair of brand-new earrings with bloodied posts sat on the bark next to him. "I'm trying," he said, wincing and pulling back again. In lieu of a fight-or-flight response, he shifted in his seat and occupied himself by readjusting his hair band. "Why's it have to burn so much, though?"

Wars sighed and set his rag back in the bucket. He gave Wild's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Because it's killing the infection. Let's see how we're looking now." He shifted his hand to the back of Wild's head, who in turn leaned forward. With his other hand, Wars pressed gently against the back of the miniscule hole in Wild's ear. He winced sympathetically when more blood and puss oozed out. He fished the rag out of the bucket and resumed his work.

Wild didn't even know Legend was around until he climbed over the log and sat down, his back leaning against it. Legend looked over at the sparkling (albeit gross) earrings, then up at Wild's feverish ears, and folded his arms. "This is why we don't have nice things," he huffed.

Wild shrugged. "What did you expect me to do with them?" he asked, gritting his teeth as Wars soaked more of the disinfectant down into the wound.

"Sorry," Wars muttered, not looking away from the infected piercing as he dipped his rag into the bucket again.

"I guess I just expected you to, I don't know, switch them around like anyone else would???" Legend sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I certainly didn't expect you to just jab them through your cartilage. Go figure."

"Well, I thought that they would all look nice together!" Wild had pulled his hair over the front of his shoulder, weaving small braids into the tips. "And how else are you supposed to pierce your ears?"

Wars paused, looking Wild dead in the eyes. He spoke with crisp (almost sharp) enunciation. "You're supposed to make sure everything's clean. And that you keep it that way." Wild gulped and nodded, and Wars resumed.

Legend chuckled and leaned back, arms draped over the log behind him. "I guess we should just be relieved that you failed to convince Sailor to let you pierce his ears! I doubt he'll ever go for it now, though."

"I think you'd be surprised," Warriors added off-handedly, still fixated on the task at hand.

"But I mean, still, didn't you have to keep your original piercings clean?" Legend asked, gesturing with his hands as he spoke. "Or did you just let them fester so long they stabbed over in self-preservation?"

"I dunno." Wild shrugged, now braiding the smaller braids together. "I've had earrings for as long as I can remember." Legend nodded, rubbing the back of his neck.

"There. I think that's all of it, at least for now." Wars dipped his rag in the salt water one last time, now wiping down the earring posts. "Will you want help getting these back in?"

"I've got it, thanks though." Wild slid them back into his ears, wincing only slightly. "Seriously though, thank you."

"Oh, don't thank me yet," Wars said, as he began gathering all his things. "We'll have to do this several more times, I'm sure." He tried to put on a sympathetic smile, as Wild visibly drooped.

"Well, you won't be receiving any more earrings, that's for sure." Legend stood up and stretched, pretending to ignore Wild's dramatic and betrayed gasp.

"Surely you jest? Surely I've learned my lesson??" Wild clasped his hands pleadingly, batting his eyelashes and pouting.

"Nope, don't wanna hear it," Legend said, turning and walking back to camp. "You can't be trusted. From now on, you're only getting earcuffs, and those little clasp-ons they make for small children."

Legend let out a yelp of laughter as Wild came up and shoved him from behind, and tried to retaliate before they both took off running and laughing; shouting biteless threats and accusations all the while. Wars shook his head and smiled, following behind them.

~~~~~

So, uh, all this to say: keep yapping! Regardless of how involved I am with LU (my hyperfixations have been varying WILDLY lately), your posts always brighten my feed! Thank you!

THANK YOU FOR THE LITTLE STORY I LOVE IT SO MUCH!! This would absolutely happen to poor Wild

also im glad you like my yapping, i will continue to do so

[kalgalen]

biteless hunger demanding

(man idk i just thought it would be funny if armand was back to playing Totally Human Rashid for vampire old maniel)

It's still dark when Daniel crawls back to his lair - not quite late at night anymore, on the cusp of being early in the morning, even. He feels a bit tired, comfortably warmed up by his latest meal; he's still got a good few hours ahead of him that he hopes he can use to work on Lestat's book.

That is, unless Armand is waiting for him and has other plans.

Daniel smiles indulgently as he stops in front of his apartment's door. They've got a lot to figure out still, a lot to heal from, but they're both trying to make this work - to everyone's surprise, especially their own. Daniel has let go of his anger over being left to fend for himself following his turning, and Armand has stopped running from his fears and past mistakes (for the most part.) They're working it out. They have all the time in the world.

He unlocks the door and lets himself in. His shoes are left by the doormat, and he even takes the time to hang his jacket in the coat closet when he sees the light coming from the living room.

"Armand?" he calls as he walks towards the light. "You there, boss?"

Daniel frowns when he doesn't get an answer; even lost in his thoughts - or in his iPad - Armand usually pays more attention to his surroundings than that. It can't be anyone but him, though. Daniel can feel their bond hum, blood calling to blood.

[read more on AO3]

[moveslikekeithrichards]

so hows your new batch of youths this year? my middle schoolers have decided i definitely bite and while they are 100% goofing i am thankful for the camera in the room which will provide certain proof i have never bit a student lmao

So Far So Good although the other day there were like three separate Pee Incidents. wishing you a very biteless year

[wutheringmights]

I ended up reading three books in quick succession over the past 2-3 weeks, mostly because my library holds and book club assignments were due at very similar times. I didn’t want to take time to write reviews for each one when I was in the throes of finishing up the latest CTB, so I decided to save all three for a single post. 

Like Water for Chocolate by Laura Esquivel

Genre: romance, melodrama, magical realism

Rating: 3/5 ⭐

My book club’s theme this month was a book that has food/eating as a major motif/theme, and this was the vote’s consensus. In terms of its usage of food, I really enjoyed it. Every chapter is framed around a new recipe, it really works. It reminds me of a short story called “How to Leave Hialeah” by Jennine Capó Crucet; while not about food, it also blends a how-to guide into a larger narrative.

But the narrative itself was not for me. I get that it’s supposed to be a fairytale, but I struggled with its melodrama. Pedro was not only not worth it, but John was right there. The magical realism was fine, but some of the magical happenings had a meanspirited edge to them that I did not enjoy. 

In my book club, we talked a lot about how the poetics of the prose might have been lost in translation. As an English speaker stuck in this language, it just never really came together for me. Overall, it's just okay. 

--

James by Percival Everett

Genre: literary fiction, classic retelling 

Rating: 3.5/5 ⭐

When it comes to retellings, I have a baseline rule that all of them need to clear: a retelling as to say more than just ‘it sucks to be X.’ For example, let’s say you’re a retelling of a Greek myth like, say, Helen of Troy. Your thesis needs to be more than just ‘man, it used to suck to be a woman.’ You have to add something to the original story, and that has to be something new!

On that level, James does its job. Yes, it is functionally The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn from the point of view of Jim-- or, really, James. But along with all the usual trappings of a retelling, it is an exploration of language, cultural and racial dialects, and code switching. So much of the modern discourse surrounding Huck Finn is in how language is used, from its use of slurs to its depiction of how Black Americans spoke. It’s an extra thematic element that’s pertinent to how we think about the original story and is worth examining. I like it.

But as a retelling of a Twain novel, it plays itself safe. When approaching the zany weirdness of Twain’s story, Everett goes for the less fun answer: that Huck’s point of view embellished things and James’s version of events are far more realistic. When James is with Huck, the narrative is never all that interesting. Ironically, it’s during a 50-odd page stretch where James is separated from Huck that the novel feels the most like a Mark Twain misadventure. James encounters people and falls into situations that are strange and, at times, disturbing. That’s when the novel is at its best, but it does not last forever and the novel swiftly goes back to playing it safe when Huck returns. 

Do I think this book is good? Sure. But for a reclamation of one of the most famous Black characters in the American literary canon, I wanted it to do more. I wanted this book to either be much weirder or much darker than what we actually got. The final product is ultimately very safe and biteless. I’m amazed that it garnered as much critical acclaim and awards as it did, since it reads as more commercial than thought-provoking. 

--

Stag Dance by Torrey Peters 

Genre: short story collection, queer literature 

Rating: 5/5 ⭐

I read Peters’ debut novel, Detransition, Baby, shortly after it came out. I remember liking it, but feeling like it never lived up to the amount of controversy that surrounded it. For the subject matter at hand-- a character who was once a transwoman  who had detransitioned --it felt a little too approachable, like it was restraining itself. I finished the novel wishing that Peters went that extra step to knock me out.

Stag Dance goes that extra step. The collection contains three short stories and a novel, and while some were stronger than others, all of them were bangers. That I didn’t hate at least one of the stories (which usually happens when I read short story collections) is a testament to how good of a writer Peters is. 

I also think Peters has an interesting way of writing about trans-femininity. Her protagonists are almost all transwomen, but they often don’t view themselves that way, either from a sense of shame or a lack of language. Some of her characters are out and proud, others don’t know what being trans means, and some view tranness as a vehicle for sensuality. All of them bring something new to a conversation about what gender is and how you go about expressing it. In Peters’ stories, being a transwoman is the correct answer; it’s the world that surrounds her that makes transition fraught, and the danger the world presents necessities becoming mean and jaded. 

This is an early contender for best book of the year for me. I loved it so much, and I highly recommend checking it out. My favorite story from the collection is “The Chaser.”

[kamesama]

— match-up trade: jjk.

for @fourtyfourcatss › match-up trades › HELLO AGAIN. so excited to trade match ups with you once more ( you're a great writer ayo ). i hope you like this. i literally sat at my desk for a while just trying to figure out what dynamic works the best, i was stuck on details and torn as hell so hear me out, ok? ok.

your match: fushiguro tōji.

quiet glance thrown your way, morphing into a stare; you can hear the gears running; you can smell the admiration. being observed so keenly as you bring the tip of the eyeliner pen to the edge of your eye. pride so overwhelming it pulls mouth into a smile. hands-on experiences. puzzles. pet-names that portray you as something utterly precious and biteless; given on purpose, with a grin. ordering a pizza in the dead of night. black clothes. lipstick stains. sharp glares. leisure afternoons with no tensions in sight. rawness. friction. mutual understanding. sound of chains. soft silver. crisp night air. smell of an average male cologne sticking to the neckline of a sweatshirt. wrinkled white bedsheets. unspoken yet overwhelming respect. edge of a sharpened knife. lilies. felines.

it's the respect; it's the admiration; it's the acknowledgement. fushiguro tōji can recognise a strong character, and he can most certainly appreciate it. he snorts, amused by the way your face spells out unimpressed despite your cordial approaches. friction draws him in, and theatrics push him away; you just so happen to have it balanced out. find him with his cheek leant against the knuckles as he listens to you run your mouth, waiting for your tongue to slip up just so he could see your face twist in realisation. he has his smirk queued for the right moment.

there is hardly anything extraordinarily charming about fushiguro tōji — a man clad in black, licking the soy sauce from the edge of his mouth and stretching his spine with an overwhelmingly mannerless attitude. however, it's raw simplicity that serves him as a signature trait, primal enough to leave a mark and tickle a fancy. it's the determination that seems nearly effortless despite the years of spite behind it. those hands clawed their own way out and you might as well be able to taste that strength on your tongue. it's inspiring, really. individualism links you.

tōji can appreciate a little push in a right direction, even if he has a scowl on his face about it. be blunt, speak your mind; he is not the type to admire delusions. there is a sense of honesty between the two of you; an unvarnished dose of trust so sweetly sprinkled by your optimism. it's the solid ground. it's the transparency. and you don't make it dull and boring; you make it comfortable.

the road is a little rocky, yes. two strong characters can be nearly impudent to one another; boldness makes one grind the teeth and clench the jaw. it's easy to profane the other. but, there is a thick silver lining worth holding onto. things fall into place, almost as naturally as breathing. it's worth it; it comes with an odd sense of peace. the calm after a storm; thrilling but steady.

although a little rough around the edges, tōji is nonetheless capable of a hearty commitment. he comes off as frigid, but such a broad chest has plenty of warmth. his character requires a firm fist but also a generous amount of patience; have a dose of empathy on reserve and you've got yourself a rock to lean against. a hand in your hair at night, whispers that you've done a good job. tōji does not believe in empty words, so his praise, compliments and sweet-nothings stem from utter sincerity. heh, you're too cool.

oh, and he loves the cute-sque attributes so neatly splattered across your features. he adores them. you may be firm and bold, but you're a doll; you're a dear. it's a promise; he will ruffle your feathers here and there, guide his hand through your hair to wisp it all the more. you can't do much about it. just keep being so damn adorable whilst passion drips from your mouth and into his ears. his eyes might just soften a little bit.

other matches: ryōmen sukuna. nanami kento.

thank you for reading!

— kamesama.

[swampwart]

its only been two hours!

if i dont bog myself down with work, i think of you

i cannot escape you, oh i really really dont want to

i wish that dream was real i wish it was fucking real

i cant forgot how you kissed me

i wish you kissed me

i love your lips, i miss when you'd stare at mine wheneber we spoke

i want you back and im so deeply ashamed about this

this is not what i thought it would be

breaking up was suppose to get rid of all these feelings

but now.i feel all of them, just without having you

i cannot have you in my heart like this

i cannot keep ranting to you in brain about jow horrible my emotional life is and how badly i just want to reach over, hold me, rub my spine again and tell me its all going to be okay with such raw confidence it was like god told you or something

ive never dreamed about anyone before, not even him

but you have entered my escape so vividly and in such detail i cannot ignore it

it tricks me into thinking its real life

like you were actually upset i ever made a joke about taking another man's name and you wrapped your arms around me when i told you w out prompt i was only jokinh

in my dream that didnt reassure you either

you asked me "are you crushing on anyone else right now?" and i giggled and said "noo" w a knowing eye and you got nervous and looked to the side and forced out a laugh "noo thats not okay, we need to find you someone" then you took me by the wrist and had me speak to a guy

all i could do was watch you while you laughed at everything he said, and i think i was just happy i was with you

(he didnt even have a face, yet i could see the peak of your cheekbone that causes the depression beneath your eye)

later on i went home w a beautiful girl, tough and thick in every aspect, in a sick way i cannot deny het beauty

she was into me, i think we wanted this to go somewhere,, her friend had set us up and were hung out alone in rug covered room with a mirror and magical beads,, and she spoke with a tough sarcasm that ive gotten used to over the years, i dont think i looked at her long

then you came in, light in your weight and smiling lile ive never seen. Im use to this i think, but something hurt inside so far down and so unimportantly, i just focused on that you were happy. And you began to recount to me the tome you had, laughing the whole time, and i asked you "are you drunk" and in your beautiful, biteless irony you said "nooo maybe judt a little champagne" and we laugjed anf i was so happy to be wuth you, giggling in out own language rven thoigh i hear you speak this way with everyone. In dream and now, shamefully for my own comfort, i will believe it is special when you do it with me

and you held my hand and played with my fingers while you pattered on, and swinging your head this way and that, and in a moments confusion we forgot who we were and you kissed me.

That moment convinced me this dream was real. Your lips left a session on mine that felt so real. I know i felt pressure, i know i did. At that moment,i was convinced it was because we really did kiss. Now i know itd because our last kiss, whenbeer that was, has not left my lips this whole time. That kiss we had, whenvef that was, has traveled through time and told me we are still in embrace.

i was left in a daze after that, and i heard you gasp and laugh and say "oh i forgot!" and take hold of my second hand. But i stared off, with a dopey smile growing all over my face. Thid whole dream I've felt so tired, my eyebags leading the way. But that kiss sparked rhe rest of my physical existence, and golden light rippled along my skin, into my brain, and swayed its way across my eyes. I heard angels singing, the muses, everything that comes witj a golden kiss. I was so happy. And i agreed with you and said "dont worry about it,"

latter on, the girl saw us and was less than impressed. You were layed across your back (your hair was parted in the most stunning way) and playing with my fingers. My exhaustion was back, but it did not matter to me when i was with you. And she asked what my boyfriend was doing here, and i told her "its complicated" while focused entirely on you playing with my hands.

And she told me she doesnt do cheaters, and i told her dont worry about it. I said before you walked into the room i had a boyfriend, so she assumed it was you. I told her "this isnt him," and it confused her more. She sat down and began to do her make up and in a distance, maybe even hurt, but still open manner. And i turned my attention away for a while, sadly my back to you, and i asked her if she knew what polyamory is. And she adjusted in her seat, squinting her eyes as she tried to think, then we spoke at the same time, it isn't / is it, "what the mormans do." I told her that was paligamy and involed religion and stuff we didn't jave here. She nodded along, confused, partly wanting to understand and partly wanting to leave, and i was fine with that.

Then i think someone walked in for you. I think it was him. And then you were gone. You where gone snd i think my dreamself felt there was no point to remember the dream anymore. Now ive woken up, sad, confused, happy, and feeling so stupid.

i cant decide if i want all of this to be real or not. I do, hell i want you so bad, its such a deep seeded need in me, i dont know what to do. But what the hell am i doing. what the hell am i doing. I have a boyfriend, but shit i think its getting rocky. Im makinh mistakes, he is too. And im so scared. And i just want comfort. Like a child i just want to be held and told itsnall going to be okay. And everytime i think about it, im always telling you. Im always telling you.

i miss you so much, i miss you more than anything

[manaosdeuwu]

I have tested positive for biteless

[rael-f-wae]

This was ever Brutax’ problem: ere he chase murloc or goblin, the quickly creatures run away. Brutax isn't fast enough, or they are made of quicker stuff. "Still and still," Brutax nod -- "They leaved the place where they had trod -- now Brutax trod upon their sod." Their eggy eggs, or goblin nuts, Brutax entered and ate up. So, biteless, Brutax had orc's fill, and marched home, grim grum gruff and satisfied -- for eggless murlocs, woe betide -- thinked he, "Na busy laying -- na more good hogs will be taken." But saw he saw, a-coming back, an old strange shaman in his shack. "I hope he not much hungry, he -- not much in Brutax' shack there be." But he had come on stranger searching. He had tasteth eerie sign, and needed orc of constant mind, who disdained them fools full-pursed and had him ax of mighty girth. An orc, who honest watcher be, who could turn a watch with he, so neither would be sleeping never and a watch would keepeth ever -- long as it musteth be, long as he wid crack in earth or air, an all-removed something there, which itched his wid like nothing else. Such an orc -- so Brutax was -- He grabbed all three goodest axes, all his hogskins, and dried cactus in with fat of pork bepounded. He filled up his sixteen bladders with rooty cactus cider gruff, strapt ax-o-grim on adder belt, strapt rest of axes to hog-pack, which, made of quite colossal swine, even when well full of stone Brutax could well bear alone. Strapt him hobs on, him ruddy toughest, and his second in the pig stuft. Lastly in, his sharpening stone, with which Brutax always at home. Brutax a-cast a grimmer face, and casted sand on his hearth-place. Off in the night, the two were led by shaman's torch, a-burning red. "Mighty big day," Brutax said to me one day from on his mat. Brutax is not big for jawing but sometimes in his sleep be talking. So sometimes I do sit I there, see him dream of boar or bear, and listen for what he grumbleth out -- though that I could sleep, I do doubt -- that's how this book doth come about. Quickly through the dark did lead that shaman's torch that Brutax heed to where the shaman tied his steed, a boary boar-o-boar so big that never the like had Brutax wid. Brutax and boar eyed him each other -- Brutax a-grimmed, and that boar snuffed -- for both were gruff and grimsome creatures -- that grum shaman his old rod tapped -- that grim boar snuffed, quick-turned his back, stood gruffly snouty, in his pride, and Brutax, hesitant, did him bide, and grim-regard his scarry hide. Good he was tied far away from where his juicy cactus lay. That shaman tapped his rod again, and the boar sat down so that the shaman could grip upon his back. For one a good boar must strong hold -- Rushy creatures, good in tunnels, but best for those with good strong stomachs. The shaman must have a fine hair tugged, for off and off that boar did dust kick up and up from busted crust as zig-zag-yackward he did rush -- Brutax eyed the shaman's light, and it before too long stood still, far O far on yonder hill. Brutax well he knew the way -- it was straight across the clay -- thus far, thus far, anyway -- Brutax make yon hill by morning, but much further, he had not been.

[mylarena]

u rlly take mosquito-biteless life for granted. until u get a mosquito bite again

[a-prekliatyvlk]

-sweats- hi enjoy one Katia.