#i may revisit this one later and color it

[vamp-a-day]

day 25

i was gonna like Actually color this but i don't really have the time for that

[yukirayu]

Slow Damage Timeline

After countless edits and reviews, I wish to share with you a project of mine: the Slow Damage timeline, which pinpoints (or approximates) how old a character is when a certain event in their life occurred.

Note: The link is in the image description (though I'll also share the direct link here, to be safe). 😉

The remarks below are also found in the spreadsheet, but I'll go ahead and share them here, just in case.

Remarks:

Some of the characters’ ages are confirmed, while others are left for us to guess. The latter half has their final ages (deceased or alive) colored red as a distinguisher, and I did the same for the latest year that the visual novel is likely to currently take place in.

The general age ranges of the characters when they'd attend school, regardless of the level of education, are merely an approximation, especially at university-level and onwards. I did some research on the education system in Japan (and China, for one case), but the answers vary from source to source, especially when I try to narrow it down to a specific course, so I'm just going with what seems most probable depending on each character's history (as well as personality).

What I've said in #2 also applies to the years in which each event is likely to have taken place. I can't guarantee that it's 100% accurate, but what I can at least say is that it's a close guess (in other words, it may have even happened 5 years earlier or later).

Try as I might, I couldn't include every single character because even as I gleaned through the VN and the artbook over and over, there's too little that we know about them. A few examples are Inada and the unnamed vampire.

As much as I wish I could, I never got around to playing Clean Dishes (the fact that it's a mobile game restricted to Japan being the primary reason). Anything I know of it is from the summaries and (currently ongoing) translations given about the story. but it is at least certain that the entire plot of the spinoff (including its epilogue and its own sequel drama CD) happen before the events of the main game, since a certain trio is still working for the Takasato Group, and Towa is still living in the clinic (as well as working there).

I have to stress that about 70% of the timeline's contents consists of educated guesses. The education aside (especially for some characters), the events in each person's timeline is confirmed to have occurred; the hard part is pinpointing the when for at least half of those events, given that the VN left only hints or even none at all.

I've updated this spreadsheet with all the information I could gather (and will still update it in the future whenever needed), but I am only one person so there still might be something that I missed. If you know anything that has yet to be here or requires some revisiting, DM me about it. Of course, please be civilized in your approach.

Extra: Also found in the spreadsheet is the status of each character per route, whether they're dead, alive, or if their fate is uncertain, especially when taking what happens in each route into account.

[hold-him-down]

Hold Him Down (pt. 1)

TW: Med Whump, Gratuitous Med Whump, Medical Restraints, Chemical Restraints, Noncon Touch, Referenced Noncon, Parker Destin, Institutionalized Slavery, Noncon Drugging, Conditioning, Referenced Food/Water Restriction, Referenced/Described STI testing, Referenced/Described Shock Collar, Whumper POV, literally over 4k words wtf, get leo a pet fish and warm hug when.

Notes: This is one of those things that I'm, as usual, not sure needs to or should exist, but I spent so much time writing it that I couldn't just NOT post it, sooo here it is. Parts 4-6 coming eventually. Takes place in the 12-ish hour span after Leo is prematurely returned from our best guy, Parker Destin. This may be one that I revisit and try to refine down the line.

✥ ✥ ✥

From behind a two-way mirror, Handler Otto Gray and an unfamiliar intake handler stand, arms crossed over their chests. They watch Leo quietly, relieved that, at least for now, the dust has settled. 

His eyes finally closed, a few hours earlier, following a massive fight that ended in a sizable dose of Lorazepam. Even drugged, it took what felt like ages for him to settle down, and even longer for his body to finally go limp. Hours later, the salty tear-streaks are still visible on his cheeks.

The doctor asked them to wait on cleaning him up; in spite of the second handler’s objections, in spite of the apparently innate desire to put this unconscious boy in his place, the handler turned on his heels and left in a huff. Otto hesitated, sparing a quick glance at Leo. He wondered, briefly, how he had managed to fail so spectacularly, before dismissing the thought all together. Against his better judgment, he squeezed Leo’s hand briefly, then he checked to make sure the restraints were appropriately secured and exited. Today was sure to be a long day, sure to be even longer if they could not get a handle on whatever panic-induced psychosis Leo was clearly grappling with.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, shift change happened. The handler who had spent the evening scowling at Leo’s lifeless form clocked out, muttering a, “Good luck,” to his replacement. Otto stayed, though, with a quick glance at handler Nick Ford, according to his name tag, and a muttered greeting. Hopefully, he thinks, this one is better suited for this type of work than the last. The doctor comes up behind them, and the three stand in silence for a moment.

“He’s asleep?” the doctor asks, which is a question that could ordinarily be answered with a quick glance through a chart, but Leo has a notoriously unpredictable response to sedatives and that, if nothing else, has been noted numerously in his file.

Otto nods, his jaw locked. “I think so.”

Leo’s wrists are red, raw where each strap hugs them, but for the last few hours, they have been still. Mostly.

“For how long?” the doctor asks, thumbing through the notes from the night before. A colorful account of the events that led to this moment, which, although maybe not immediately helpful, might lend insight into the inner workings of Leo Evans.

“A couple hours,” Handler Ford supplies, and Otto is struck suddenly with a potent distaste for how this night has played out. 

It’s not out of the ordinary, exactly, for a worker to require this level of support after a contract.  He hoped, though, maybe naively, that Leo was more resilient than this.

He’s been drugged out of his mind, and as hard as he fought it, the drugs eventually dragged him under. To Otto’s understanding, it was only after several hours of trying to calm him down using other methods that he was eventually medicated, and, to Otto’s understanding, the doctor intends now to keep him drugged until he’s under control. He idly wonders if there’s a chance at modifying those plans. Leo is tough, sometimes damn near impossible to work with, but they had found a kind of balance when Otto was his handler. And he thinks, now, he can perhaps spare everyone some heartache if he can have a go at his former trainee.

Otto peers in closer to the window as Leo gasps, his wrists pulling once, lightly, at the straps.

“Alright,” the doctor says, at the same time that Leo’s eyes crack open. As Handler Ford reviews the notes with the Doctor, Otto studies Leo. He hadn’t been an easy trainee. He had been downright defiant at times, resistant to every standard training tool the DLS employed. Otto had been called in in his second month, after his primary handler was fired for, more or less, losing his patience with Leo one time too many, with Leo landing in the ICU. Even after that, success came in short, nearly unpredictable bursts.

When Leo had finally been cleared to take his first contract, that would usually have been the end of Otto’s time with him. But, at least in some of his most challenging successes, he liked to keep an eye on them, if not just to see how they did. He would tell you he did this to improve his own methods, and to help him understand the longer term implications of his work. That wouldn't be the whole truth, though. 

Leo was one of the select few that Otto found himself keeping an eye on. He had gotten through his first contract easily, and Otto recalled the feeling of immense relief as he read through Ms. Smith’s post-contract interview. Leo had been put in a short term holding site and almost immediately secured his second contract. That one wasn’t set to terminate for three months still, so when Otto got the notification that Leo’s file was being updated last night, he called in some favors with the intake department.

He stands here now, mostly frustrated, a little bit confused, and perhaps, maybe slightly sympathetic. Simmering beneath all that is anger, misplaced but a constant undertone that, he worries, may drive some of his decisions today. He buries it as deeply as he can. It serves neither him nor Leo.

Leo blinks hard toward the ceiling, but seems to clock his circumstances quickly. His head turns toward the mirror and for a moment, Otto thinks Leo can see him, right through him, right into the place Leo used to occasionally access and attempt to exploit.

Otto stares at his eyes, red, heavy, and unfocused, and wills Leo to remain calm. Leo swallows, and pulls again against the restraints.

Stop, Otto silently commands. But he doesn’t. Of course, he wouldn’t.

“What are the odds he’ll take it on his own?” Otto hears from next to him.

“What?” Otto responds, shifting his focus.

“The meds?” Handler Ford says as he holds up a small cup of pills in one hand, a syringe filled with an off-white liquid in the other.

“Oh,” Otto responds. The odds, he thinks, are nonexistent. The good news is this isn’t explicitly his problem anymore. 

“Any pointers?” Handler Ford asks then. At Otto’s look, he says, “You worked with him, right?” 

Otto nods, but doesn’t offer any pointer. Handler Ford stares at him intently, so, out of some misplaced desire to prove that he is not, in fact, completely incompetent with his trainees, he says, “A long time ago. I did his initial training after his first handler got canned.”

“What for?” Ford asks. He’s stalling, Otto thinks. 

“Assault,” Otto supplies. He inclines his head toward the room, and turns away from Handler Ford, re-orienting himself toward the window.

“Wish me luck?”

“Good Luck,” Otto says, not unkindly, as the handler disappears behind the door. Moments later, he is in Leo’s room.

Leo’s demeanor immediately shifts, from alarmed and fighting to gain function to panicked, but he stills, he swallows, he forces his eyes on the handler, and takes a breath. Good boy, Otto thinks.

He’s whispering something, but Otto can’t make out the words. He thinks he’s heard Parker’s name, and Handler Ford shakes his head.

Leo nods, then, and takes one of those deep, shuddering breaths that usually mean he’s on the edge of some big feelings. Otto, once more, leans closer to the window.

Handler Ford begins listing out the things he needs Leo to do this morning, and Leo’s brow creases as he takes it in, nodding after each item, but seemingly oblivious to the actual requests.

Inside the observation room, the doctor joins Otto.

“Do you know what happened?” Otto asks the doctor. Otto, immediately realizing he could be asking any number of things, clarifies, “That led to this. He didn’t have an issue after his first contract.”

“Sometimes they get freaked out after spending some time with a particularly cozy buyer,” he replies. 

Otto nods. 

In the room, Handler Ford’s hand is on Leo’s neck, pressing under the collar. Leo stays still, but Otto can see the fear in his eyes, behind layers and layers of grief. It’s odd, seeing him like this.

“You didn’t last too long, did you?” Handler Ford is saying, dripping condescension, as Leo swallows, holding in a fresh wave of tears.

✥ ✥ ✥

“It’s nothing personal, Leo.” Parker’s driver waits for Leo just beyond the threshold. In his hand, Parker holds out a DLS-issued bag.

Leo nods.

Parker grabs his face between his hands and presses his lips to Leo’s forehead. “You have to understand I didn’t plan for this,” he’s saying, but Leo’s ears are ringing. “I would have waited to take on a worker if I had any inclination I would be called away.” His words are kind, Leo thinks, but there’s almost a note of condescension under them. 

Leo feels a sort of emptiness spreading throughout him, a cold void that precedes what he could only describe as terror. For what’s next. For losing this thing, that he isn’t sure he should want, but he wants, so desperately. He clings to it. 

“Parker, I– I can,” Leo starts, taking a step back. He can, what? fix this? do better? be better? “Please don’t do this…”

Parker’s thumbs glide across Leo’s cheeks.

“I thought they beat that out of you,” Parker says, his lips pulled into a half-smile. Leo falters, the words he has prepared are completely knocked out of him.

“I– I’m sorry,” is all he can now formulate. He can feel his circumstances changing as every second passes. He’s going to be sick. The feeling of bile rising wars against the knowledge that if he is sick at this moment, it will be unforgivable. 

Parker’s hands drift down to Leo’s shoulders and he pulls him into a half-hug, pressing his forehead against Leo’s.

“Don’t worry about it,” Parker says. He wants to say more, Leo thinks.

Instead, Parker uses the grip he has on Leo’s shoulder to push him away and rakes his eyes slowly over Leo, from his head to his toes. He smiles and grabs the collar of Leo’s shirt, poking out from under a deep blue sweater. It’s Parker’s favorite.

He inclines his head briefly toward the door and Leo counts every breath he takes.

“They said not to send your books and clothes and things,” Parker explains as he pulls open the front door. “It’ll just go to waste. I can donate it, if you’d like?”

And Leo, in that moment, hesitates. Can he ask Parker to keep it, for when he gets back from his trip? Maybe, he thinks. Maybe Parker hasn’t considered that Leo could stay in the house and look after it, and he doesn’t need to send him away. 

And then it occurs to Leo that maybe Parker is using this time to help figure out the gaps in his training, because they’ve been butting heads lately, and if that’s the case, he wants to tell Parker that he will take this time seriously, and will be better suited to be what Parker needs him to be when he returns.

Leo opens his mouth to say this, to say any of it, even just to tell Parker that he will try harder when he gets back from his trip.

But the panic wraps itself around Leo’s throat, and Leo says nothing.

✥ ✥ ✥

“Are you ready to behave?” The words distort around the edges and Leo blinks hard, willing himself to focus.

This handler, Leo thinks, is unfamiliar to him. There is a fuzziness to both his vision and his thoughts, compounded by blurry memories of the night before. The handler is standing just outside of his line of sight, offering terse reprimands each time he fails to respond. He is trying, though. He wants to tell them he’s trying, but his tongue feels too thick and his voice won’t work.

There’s an added danger that Leo tries not to acknowledge, even silently. They’ve put a training collar on him, but they haven’t gone so far as to shock the world into focus. Even if his limbs didn’t weigh a thousand pounds, he would not be able to lift them. Thick canvas straps wound tightly around each wrist and ankle keep him in place, and Leo blinks at the unexpected wave of terror: these people can and will hurt him with no regard for the fact that he is wholly unable to protect himself. 

The drugs help him accept these facts, but do not help him to forget them.

Memories of the night before claw their way to the surface. Of the sound of his own screaming, of gloved hands pinning him down, of his clothing being pulled off of his body. Of Parker's favorite sweater, which he held tightly to his chest, as it was ripped from his arms. He flinches at the memory of himself, just [some?] hours earlier, as he begged them to let him keep it, as a needle digs its way deep into his thigh. The darkness was quick to swallow him up after that.

And then there are other memories, too, from later in the night. Distorted flashes of the handlers coming to visit him, of cold hands pulling off the thin blanket that had been draped over him. He wondered if the drugs might ease the pain. When they didn’t, he allowed himself a moment of relief in the hope that this might all just be written off as a drug-induced nightmare in the light of day.

And now, the drugs fading, and the light of day doing nothing to erase ache deep inside of him, he swallows, blinking slowly, and longs only for the reprieve that unconsciousness may bring. That maybe they will drug him again, before they touch him again. His stomach turns over, and he draws his focus to the lights on the ceiling.

“He’s lost some weight,” he hears the doctor say, but they aren’t speaking to him, so he closes his eyes and taps each finger on the pad beneath him, just to see if he can feel them all. 

“His buyer kept him hungry,” the handler replies. He can, he thinks, feel them all. “My understanding is he kept him on a pretty strict eating plan.”

Leo recoils, hearing Parker’s voice in his head. The DLS has asked that you start out on a kind of strict meal plan for a little bit. He blinks back tears at the unwelcome memories. Of Parker, event after event, selecting everything he ate, everything he touched. Of the imperceptible nod Parker would give him when he reached for something at the dinner table. Or the terse shake of his head when he moved to something unacceptable. 

Leo wants to tell these men that Parker didn’t keep him hungry. That he was just enacting the plan he had been given.

“I’ll need a copy of it,” the doctor responds, and Leo squeezes his eyes shut, forcing his mind blank.

“It’s in his file,” the handler says. Leo’s ears ring. 

“Good.” The doctor presses his hands fingers into the back of Leo’s neck, the collar momentarily tightening as the fingers explore under it. “He’s dehydrated,” he says, and Leo can picture the handler typing his notes. “Are you going to tell me the buyer restricted his water intake too?”

From somewhere far away, the handler laughs, and Leo’s expression tightens, momentarily stunned by the mockery.

“It’s alright,” he thinks he hears, but the voices are so far away now. He doesn’t know that he’s crying until he feels a thumb wiping at his cheek, and Leo sucks in a breath. “You’re alright.”

The world stands still for what could be seconds or minutes or longer. When the doctor’s hand finally migrates upward, and a light is shined into each of Leo’s eyes, he is momentarily blinded, but immediately aware that he has lost time.

The doctor’s fingers, inches from his face, snap once. “Hi, Leo,” he says simply. And then, “I’m Dr. Grant. Are you with me?”

Leo swallows, which hurts, and other memories slide to the surface of the night before. He tries to nod. The movement makes his head pound. “Yes,” he whispers, but based on the doctor’s– what was his name?– grimace, he doesn’t think it came out right.

The doctor sighs and seemingly gives up on Leo’s active participation, instead pulling the blanket down to Leo’s waist and putting a stethoscope to Leo’s chest. It’s nothing, Leo thinks, but it’s never just this. He closes his eyes again and begins counting in his head. Every so often, he forgets where he left off, and he starts over.

The doctor explains what he’s doing as he works, and Leo wonders idly if it’s for his benefit or for some other reason. To pass the time, and maybe to distract himself, Leo imagines a new doctor in the adjacent observation room, learning this trade. He wonders if it’s a good doctor or a bad doctor, and opens his eyes just enough to glance toward the mirror, to see if he can spot him back there. There are no good doctors here, he decides, and starts counting again.

The doctor looks at Leo’s wrists and describes them to the handler, who writes it all down. He examines Leo’s arms and his shoulders and his chest and his stomach as he searches for signs that Parker hurt him beyond what would be considered reasonable, which he didn’t, Leo wants to say, and that Parker will come back for him after his trip, and that he needs to be ready to go home. Then he starts counting again, because the idea of telling this man that Parker will come back for him will be met with laughter, and Leo doesn’t know if he can handle it. He’s pretty sure he can’t.

Fingers prod at Leo’s stomach and he can’t suppress the accompanying flinch, and as the drugs start to wear thin, he feels himself less and less able to accept what is being done to him.

“Alright, Leo,” the doctor says, and Leo opens his eyes and is met with mostly, he thinks, concern.

“I’ll be back.” The doctor shoots the handler a look, and Leo wants to close his eyes again, but as the handler approaches, Leo knows, acutely, that it’s a bad idea.

“Are you going to cause a scene?” the handler asks, before lifting the blanket from Leo’s lap. Leo shrinks back, an instant passing in which his entire body goes rigid, but shakes his head ‘no.’ He hopes it’s enough.

He holds his breath, waiting for it to be over, or, waiting for it to start, and feels the handler’s eyes sliding down his body.

He thinks he might be shaking, but he isn’t sure. 

The doctor returns a moment later, and after a quick assessment of how things have evolved, issues a quick but gentle, “It’s alright.” It’s not, though, and Leo locks his jaw to keep from crying. He wants to ask if he can close his eyes again. Sometimes they would let him, when things were about to get really bad, in initial training. Sometimes, if he asked clearly, and if he caught them on a good day, they would let him.

“No wonder he was returned,” the handler says, leaning back against the wall. 

“Can I close my eyes?” he whispers then, before he can catch the humor in the handler’s expression. The doctor looks at him once, and nods. Leo doesn’t hesitate to clamp his eyes shut, unwilling to chance opening them at all, maybe ever, and instead continues counting in his head. 

“Continue working on your empathy,” the doctor says evenly, but Leo is pretty sure he isn’t speaking to him so he works on breathing and counting and nothing else.

He tries to block out the words. This is another moment in training, and it too will end eventually. 

“They put him through hell in training. He has a right to be mistrustful.” And then, to Leo, he says, “I’m going to give you something to help balance you out,” and his touch disappears. “Just hang tight, Leo.” 

Without warning, a hand clamps around his neck, pinning him in place. His eyes fly open, his arms pull instinctively against the restraints, as the tip of a syringe is pushed past his teeth and to the back of his throat.

He gags, his head knocking back against the thin pillow, but the handler’s grip is merciless, and in the next instant, a thick, bitter liquid is sliding down his throat. Tears well in his eyes, and he would swear the culprit was simply the bitterness of the medicine.

It’s mistaken for something else, though, and the handler releases him as the doctor runs a hand through his hair and says, “You’re alright.”

Leo’s shaking harder now, and his fingers grip into the pad he lays on and he urges himself to still. His chest aches as he tries to catch his breath, the taste of the medicine still heavy on his tongue. But still, almost immediately, he can feel his body lightening, the tension pulling back until the shaking eases, and the doctor nods, and approaches. Leo can’t feel the fear he knows he should feel. 

He can feel nothing.

Even with the memories of the night before, even with the doctor and the handler so close to him, he can breathe again.

Still, Leo can’t contain the subconscious jerk of his body as a flash of sharp pain shoots through him. The doctor issues an apology, along with a soft, “almost done,” and turns the swab, over and over, as Leo’s legs fight against the hands that hold them in place. He tries to find a place in his mind to retreat into, but he hasn’t been there in months, if not longer, and in that moment, it offers no reprieve. He thinks he cries out, locking his teeth and pressing his head back into the pillow as hard as he can to distract himself from what goes on lower. When the doctor is finished, he wipes Leo down and drapes the blanket over his lap.

What he doesn’t say is ‘Good, Leo,’ because they would both know it to be untrue. 

Still, in the next breath, the restraints are being unbuckled, and Leo is lifted at his shoulders until he is sitting, and his wrists are being examined, and there is a hand rubbing his back. He blinks slowly, willing the room back into focus, and he can hear voices but he isn’t able to follow their conversation.

“It doesn’t need to be this hard,” he thinks the handler is saying, and even though his head is hung low and his shoulders are scrunched to make him as small as possible, in his peripherals he can see the doctor shooting the handler a sharp look. “What?” he bites back. “It’s true.”

“Alright, Leo,” the doctor says then, ignoring the handler entirely. Leo keeps his eyes locked on the ground and he takes the blanket in a white-knuckled grip.

The doctor lets him catch his breath, rubbing his back every few seconds. Leo thinks he’s using it to get a read on his heart rate, but he doesn’t care just then. The doctor explains what’s next, and moves to ease Leo onto his side. Leo, for his part, cooperates, lowering himself slowly, watching as his fingers shake. He wraps his arms so tightly around his stomach he think he might leave bruises, but when the doctor touches him, he doesn’t flinch.

“There’s some bruising,” the doctor says neutrally, but Leo can’t look at the handler to see if he types it. It could be from the handlers, or it could be from Parker’s friends the night before. Leo chokes on his next breath, and in spite of the drugs, he can feel the panic rising.

“Leo?” the doctor says. “Are you doing alright?” 

The handler takes a step forward.

“I don’t consent to this,” Leo whispers, so softly he isn’t sure anyone hears him. The look the handler levels on him is scathing. “I–I kn…know it doesn’t… I know it doesn’t matter.” His voice is soft, slurred around the edges, but clear enough. “But I… I j-just– I want to make sure you know.”

The doctor says nothing, and the handler frowns. Leo wants to ask him to type it into his chart, but the doctor moves behind him, and Leo’s vision is suddenly and immediately blurred by his tears. 

By the time they finish, by the time the doctor drapes the blanket over his hips, letting his hand rest on Leo’s head briefly before retreating, Leo’s body is wracked with sobs. They leave him to calm himself down, and he finds himself, for a moment, grateful for the simple mercy.

But he cannot stop crying, as he stares into the mirror and thinks of all he’s lost. Of what, in spite of what he tried to convince himself he could have, he will never have. Of Parker, laughing with his friends as he picks out a new worker. Of the handler, and all those that came before him, smiling as they hurt him. The door opens with no warning and a familiar voice, a voice warm enough to burn Leo’s entire world down, issues a commanding, clear, “Stop this, Leo.” 

And almost instantly, Leo stops.

FIGHTER TAG LIST:

@whump-cravings

@afabulousmrtake

@crystalquartzwhump

@maracujatangerine

@pumpkin-spice-whump

@distinctlywhumpthing

@thecyrulik

@highwaywhump

@batfacedliar-yetagain

@finder-of-rings

@dont-touch-my-soup

@skyhawkwolf

@suspicious-whumping-egg

@also-finder-of-rings

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@peachy-panic

@melancholy-in-the-morning

@urban-dark

@nicolepascaline

@quietly-by-myself

@pigeonwhumps

@whump-blog 

@seasaltandcopper

@angstyaches

@i-msonotcreative

@mylifeisonthebookshelf

@anonintrovert

@whump-world

@squishablesunbeam

@considerablecolors

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@whumpsday

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@lonesome--hunter 

@darkthingshappen 

@alexmundaythrufriday

@whumps-and-bumps

[twentyfourducks]

Con alcuna licenza: Sunday x Reader

Robin invites you to look through some old photo albums, and Sunday decides to revisit an old hobby.

(intended as somewhat of a character study with some fluff)

check it out on ao3?

4213 words

You open your eyes to dappled sunlight illuminating the foot of the bed. There’s no presence to your side to keep you company as you wake up fully, only the fading scent of familiarity. In your half-asleep state, you can’t help but feel a bit of sadness; couldn’t he have stayed a bit longer? 

Once you decide you’re ready to get up, you rise and shuffle to the kitchenette in this wing of the house. The journey from the bedrooms to the main area is a short trip, but you always take your time in the mornings to absorb the beauty of the mansion’s main hall. Light filters in through stained glass windows, projecting vivid images onto the marble flooring. As you proceed, your shadow is the lone subject in the colors painting the tiles in myriad hues.

From staying here many a night, you know that it’s not often that either sibling has the time to cook their own food. However, you still look through the cabinets in hope that there’s something that could be eaten…plus, you don’t really want to bother the main kitchen staff if you’re the only one being served. 

After rummaging through everything available, the only thing that looks somewhat appealing to you is the untouched oak cake in the fridge. You try to slice through it with a knife, but it fights against you; the tough consistency makes you wonder if it’s stale or just meant to be like that…

Once you’ve wrestled a piece off, you take a bite. How does Sunday manage to eat this? You think to yourself between chews. This tastes…like tree bark. 

You’re looking for a trash can to inconspicuously spit the earthy mouthful into when you hear someone approaching. 

“I thought I heard someone in here!” chimes a pleasant voice. “And, well, I figured it couldn’t be my brother…”

With your back to Robin, you force yourself to swallow the awfulness. “Good morning,” you say as you fill up a glass of water.

Robin clasps her hands together. “What’s that you have there?” she asks, but then falters as her eyes see what’s on the counter. “Oh no,” she hurries over to snatch the plate away. “Don’t—I wouldn’t recommend eating that. It’s a very…acquired…taste.”

“It may be a bit too late for that,” you say, grimacing as you try to drown the remaining taste in your mouth.

“I’m sorry you had to taste that…” She places the oak cake back in the fridge, and slightly obscures it behind a bottle of SoulGlad. “I’ll phone the chef so they can send something better up. Is there anything in particular you want?”

“It’s okay. I think I’ve lost my appetite anyway.”

“Are you sure?...I’ll ask them to bring something anyway.” She pulls out her phone and walks away. A moment later you hear her speaking indistinctly around the corner. 

In a matter of minutes, a platter of tantalizing breakfast food is set in front of you, and you’re thankful for Robin’s hospitality (and thankful for not having to force yourself to consume any more of the oak cake roll.) 

You eat and then go into the parlor to relax. When you enter, Robin is there flipping through pages of a book. A bag of sunflower seeds and a pile of books rest near her on the coffee table.

“What are you doing?” you ask, and she perks up at the sound of your voice.

“I was just looking through some old photos.” She pats the open cushion next to her. “Care to join me? There’s photos of my brother when he’s young,” she says, adding the last part in a singsong voice. 

Not wanting to turn down the prospect of seeing an adorable Sunday in his youth, you take her offer up, sinking into the plush cushion as you sit down. 

“We used to scrapbook together in our youth,” Robin sighs as she lays out the pile of books. You notice that in the crevices and along the spines, there’s an accumulation of dust. “At some point, when our careers began to develop, we slowly moved away from it…but there’s a part of me that wishes that it was a hobby we still continued. Maybe…maybe I’m just too nostalgic.” She shrugs before leaning back against the couch and returning to the book she was looking at. “Feel free to choose any one you want.” 

You choose one bound in dark red leather with a pattern of music notes painted on the front, and open it to a page with a light blue ribbon sticking out. The ribbon unfurls to reveal “First Place” in a gold-lettered cursive font. Affixed to the page with musical stickers are photos of a young, well-dressed Robin who couldn’t be any older than ten. In the background are the tall red curtains of the Penacony Grand Theater. 

Turning the page, the center photo has teenage Robin and Sunday standing in the Theater’s grand hall.. You can’t help but giggle at Sunday’s outfit: a white dress shirt with a red bow tie and suspenders attached to his pants. His silver hair just barely reaches his shoulders, and a glowing smile is on his face. The rest of the photos on the page are Robin standing with various other performers.

The next page is populated only with Sunday, who looks to be the same age as in the previous photo. He’s dressed in formal concert attire, and the largest photo on the page is him in an auditorium playing the violin. 

You turn to Robin. “Sunday used to play the violin?” you ask. 

“Hmm?” She looks up, and eyes what page you’re on. “Yes, he was great at it. As we grew up, we were encouraged into music. The violin was his favorite instrument.” She wistfully sighs as she studies the photos. “I wish he still played.”

“When did he stop?”

Robin pauses and does a quick count on her fingers. “It has to be..maybe three or four years ago? He kind of…tapered off as he began to take over Oak Family duties. I wish I remembered more clearly, because that was also around the time I began to take my career seriously…”

There’s a silence as she stares off into the distance. Then, she turns to you and asks, “Do you mind if I look at that album after you?”

You nod, and she returns her attention to the photos she was looking at. 

Turning the page again, there’s a certificate that takes up the bulk of the area. “Best Performer Award,” it says in print. In these photos, Sunday beams as he holds the certificate and a trophy, a proud warmth in his eyes. 

Mixed into the following pages are the siblings playing a variety of instruments; you see images of Sunday on the piano, tuning a cello, playing the flute. He gets taller, and his hair grows longer. Some of the photos are taken in what looks to be a music room with instruments in the background, others are in performance halls. One of the photos has Robin and Sunday singing in a choir in what looks to be a grand tribute to Xipe; the entire ensemble dons long robes in a deep purple hue.

As you leaf through, you note that Sunday shows up less and less in the photos. The last page is a group photo of smiling people, with Robin front and center in a beautiful dress, an updo, and a trophy in her hands; you recognize a logo in the background to be one of a famous award show hosted by the IPC every few Amber Eras. Within the group is Sunday as you know him to look today.

When you close the book and set it between you and Robin, she looks up. “If you liked looking at those photos, you might like the ones in this book.” She picks an album up from the table and hands it to you. “Careful, this one hasn’t been organized yet.”

You can tell from the unworn leather and the crisp pages that this book is the newest out of all the others. Still, it has a faint layer of dust that looks to be recently brushed off. When you open it, inside are newspaper clippings and concert programs disorderly strewn throughout the pages in no particular order. Everything in it has one thing in common: it’s all related to Sunday. 

Robin’s eyes linger on the pages of the book. “When we each began to take our own path, and we began to spend less time together, I still longed for the carefree days of our youth when we could indulge in being creative…The thought of scrapbooking probably hasn’t crossed my brother’s mind in ages…but that won’t stop me from collecting thing for the next time we get a good opportunity.”

The first item you pick up is the booklet for an orchestra performance that, according to the date on the front, took place five system years ago. Penacony Symphonic Orchestra, reads the flourishing text at the top, followed by the subtext Spring Concert. You turn the page to the list of performing members, and recognize one of the names at the top credited as the orchestra’s concertmaster. 

Indeed, in a photo of the orchestra on the next page, you see Sunday sitting closest to the conductor along the stage’s edge. 

A page of newspaper from four years ago is under the previous page, with the headline stating in bold that the conductor of the Penacony Philharmonic Orchestra had to take a leave of absence due to health issues, and that concertmaster Sunday will be replacing him for the time being. 

The corner of a photo peeks out from the middle of the papers, and you pull it out. It’s a picture of Sunday taken from the audience as he conducts the orchestra, arms outstretched in a gesture for what must be a grand part of the song. You can’t see Sunday’s face, but from his posture, it looks like he was made for the role. 

Another photo is stuck behind that one, and so you peel the two apart. This one seems to be from a different concert. It shows Sunday from the side with a focused expression. His left hand is behind his back, and his right hand seems to be in the downbeat of the meter, judging by the position of the baton. 

You didn’t notice Robin leaning over to view the pictures as well until she speaks. “I wish I had been able to go to more of his concerts,” she says. “During this time, I was touring, and to go to those two concerts I had to take a rushed trip here and then rush right back to the star system I was performing in.”

“Why did he quit?” you ask.

“He was trying to balance his orchestral role with his role in the Family.” She rests a hand on her necklace with furrowed eyebrows. “Shortly before he was made Oak Family Head, he…decided to focus solely on that role.”

Judging from the pensive look on Robin’s face, you decide to lay off of the topic of Sunday not being in the orchestra anymore. “And he doesn’t play as a hobby anymore, either?”

“Not that I know of. But also…I’m not home as often anymore, so it’s possible he could pick up the occasional instrument.” She shakes her head. “Every time I’ve asked why he stopped, he emphasizes the importance of his role in the Oak Family. I personally doubt that's the entire reason, however…maybe if you asked, he’d be willing to open up more to you?”

___

Time goes by faster than you expect it to while you’re looking through the photo books. At some point, Robin left for singing practice, and your eyelids began to get heavier and heavier…

Sunday returns to you asleep on the couch with an open book on your lap and other books splayed out around you. Curiosity piqued, he quietly inches closer to eye what it is that you’re reading. The ghost of a smile plays at the corner of his mouth when he sees the photos on the page. Robin must have been saving these throughout the years. 

A pang of nostalgia hits him as memories return to him. There's no other responsibilities pressing at the moment, so it wouldn’t hurt to bring his violin out briefly…plus, he knows you’ll be interested in hearing him play after seeing the photos.

He makes his way to his bedroom and eases the door shut in hopes no sound would leak out to disturb you. He goes for his closet, and searches the back shelf for his violin case…when his fingers find the handle, he frees it from the darkness. 

The first thing Sunday does is clean the dust off of the dark case. Then he sets it on his desk and undoes the silvery latches; the lid releases, and he opens it. 

Inside the case, resting in a bed of velvet, lies a remarkable piece of work: a hand-carved, beautifully varnished, multiple amber eras old violin that was gifted to Sunday in his youth. His eyes linger on the details, as he’s always been enamored with its beauty. 

He strips his gloves from his hands and plucks at the taut strings in sequence. A discordant chain of notes play; the violin is evidently out of tune from disuse. The corner of his mouth twitches downward. Old habits arise as he seeks to correct this injustice.

As he tunes, he hums the specific frequency he wants the string to sound like. The pitches have been etched into his mind from a young age when he was taught by his instructor to use oneself as the reference. Each tone is separated by a fifth; he’s able to capture them perfectly as he turns the fine tuning pegs.

When he’s done, the pizzicato notes are satisfying to the ear. 

Sunday takes the bow from the case and tightens the tension of the bow hair. He recalls the last time he played, and he remembers how meticulously he cleaned and polished it before leaving it on the shelf to wait for him to take it up again. The body of the instrument still retains its shine.

He checks his container of rosin: lucky for him, it’s not dried out. In long, slow strokes, he runs it across the bow hair with a firm but gentle touch. He’s thorough when he cleans off the excess with a piece of cloth.

After the violin has been restored to its former glory, he brings the violin to his neck in a playing position, touches the bow to the string, and plays a slow, drawn out note as the bow runs along the string. A shiver runs up his spine as he absorbs the sonorous timbre, and he eases into a melodic sequence of notes. 

You’re witness to most of this; at some point, you were awoken by the faint sounds coming from Sunday’s room and crept down the hall only to be hindered by a closed door. In a painstakingly slow manner so as not to get his attention, you opened the door only a sliver, enough for you to peer into the room. 

You watch as he sways with the rhythm he plays. The tune itself is simple and gentle in nature, one you’ve never heard before. His movements are entrancing, and you’re enamored, so much to the point that you forget to make yourself scarce when he’s finished…

When he plays the ending note, his eyes catch yours through the ajar door. 

“Like what you see?” he asks with a smug smile. “You can come in now. Or would you prefer to continue watching from a distance?”

There’s a coy guilt all over your face as you push the door open fully and walk in. “How long did you know I was there?”

“Only the whole time.” He lowers his violin and sets it down on his desk before pressing you a chaste kiss. “Did you have a nice rest?”

“I did. I…” You laugh nervously, bashful at the fact that he definitely saw you looking at his old photos. “I didn’t hear you come back. How was your day?”

“Rather tedious. The bulk of it was overseeing the creation of The Reverie’s budget for the next fiscal year. But…I’m here now. I noticed you were looking at old albums; shall I assume Robin was the one who brought those out?”

“Yes,” you nod. “You were cute as a kid.”

“Ah…really? You think so?” He angles his face away from you to hide the blush forming from your compliment.

“Very photogenic.” You rest a hand on his jawline and guide his face back towards you. His wings flutter in response, but he doesn’t shy away from your touch. “I’m jealous, actually.”

“You know as well as I that there’s no need for you to be jealous.” 

You brush your hand against his neck before you pull back, lest you get carried away. “I was hoping you would play me a song.” 

“What is it you would like to hear?”

“Anything you play would be lovely.”

You sit down on his bed and wait in hushed anticipation as Sunday readies his violin once more. He closes his eyes, and you wonder what he’s thinking. Is he visualizing the music? Is there an internalized metronome he’s counting along to? Maybe he’s—

Interrupting your thoughts, and with his eyes still shut, he starts into a slow melody. His fingers glide across the strings while his other hand draws the bow to weave the notes of a flowing song. Your mind wanders to how mesmerizing he must have looked under stage lights. 

The music swells like the crest of a wave, and it sounds like his tempo has quickened to be more spirited. Already, you’re impressed by how he hasn’t faltered at all while playing. How many more songs must he have memorized? He continues to evoke a sort of vividness through his motions and navigates complex sequences with fluidity. 

His song tapers down, creating a sense of finality that mirrors the beginning of the piece. In the last cadence, he opens his eyes to witness the last prolonged note softly washing over you. He savors the sound before letting it fall into silence. 

Sunday looks to you in anticipation, and to his surprise, whispers of doubt swirl in his mind: Did he make a mistake he wasn’t aware of? Was he in dire need of practice? Or maybe…you didn’t like it. It’s been ages since he’s played for an audience; maybe his skills have deteriorated since then. 

It’s a bit funny, he thinks wryly. I doubt I've been this nervous to know how I did since my first ever playing test. 

The tension leaves his body in reaction to your rapid applause and bright smile. “Sunday! That was amazing!”

He’s awash with relief that you seemed to be satisfied with the song he played. He turns away to set his violin down, but can’t help the feeling of pride blooming inside him as he puts his gloves back on and joins you on the bed. 

You grin at him. “I expected you to be pretty good, but you love exceeding expectations, don’t you?” 

“I admit it’s not…that bad for a long time without practice,” Sunday says, taking your hand in his. “Definitely not my best.”

“If that’s not your best, I wish I could have seen you at your peak.” You lean back onto the bed, and he follows, the mattress shifting with the change in weight distribution. Studying the ceiling, you voice your thoughts by asking “Why did you stop playing?”

“I had to devote myself wholly to my role in The Family,” is the answer he responds with.   

Your eyes drift over to glance at him. “You couldn’t find a way to balance both?”

He sighs. “When I was given my role as the Bronze Melodia, it…was tiring, to say the least. Listening to the confessions of people is more draining than it sounds, especially when…” 

Sunday trails off, lost in thought. You squeeze his hand to bring him back, and he exhales a shaky breath.

“...Right. I…would be completely drained upon returning home from Dewlight Pavillion, and it was difficult to even muster the strength to practice. And then…I became the head of the Oak Family. I had to relinquish my roles in the orchestra, both as a player and conductor. I can’t say I don’t miss it,” he says, longing in the undertones of his voice. “But those roles have since been filled with deserving people.” 

There’s a moment of introspective quiet before Sunday looks to you. “Have you had dinner yet?” 

You shake your head no. 

He rises from the bed and towards the door. “Then I shall inform the kitchen to prepare a meal for us. I don’t think Robin will be joining us tonight…”

As he retreats down the hall, you remain on the bed, pondering his words. Knowing Sunday and his relationship with the Oak Family, you can’t help thinking about the possibility that there may have been a more persuasive force behind his departure from the musical scene…

You stand up and neaten his bed to the way it was, your mind stuck on the things left unsaid.

___

You open your eyes to a dark room. The bad dream you were just having vanishes before you could even recall it, leaving only a pounding heart in its wake. Your eyes flit around the room as you remember where you are. The pale luminosity of the night streams in through sheer curtains onto the foot of the bed. There’s a warm presence to your side — your lover — who is fast asleep, unaware of your racing mind. 

Exhaling, you blindly reach for your phone on the nightstand and squint at the bright screen. System time is three something in the morning. You set it down and roll over, trying desperately to return to your slumber, but to no avail; all of your tiredness has quickly dissipated. 

In the dimness of the room, you gaze at Sunday in his tranquil beauty, and watch his chest gently rise and fall. His silver hair captures the moonlight in the way it shines and disperses it into locks strewn about his pillow. Slightly parted lips give way to faint somniloquies that you wish you could understand. 

You’re lost in how idyllic he looks…until long eyelashes flutter and reveal golden eyes under drowsy hoods. Your body quickly stiffens with the hope you haven’t accidentally woken him up. He stirs beneath the sheets, and looks at you with tired eyes. 

Softly, he asks “Dear, why are you up?”

“I…had a dream that woke me up,” you whisper in reply. “Go back to sleep.”

Without saying anything else, he reaches out and pulls you into an embrace. You melt into his chest, warmed by the comfortable heat he radiates. 

“Was it a bad dream?” he softly inquires.

You nuzzle closer to him. “It was gone as soon as it came.”

Sunday holds you tighter under the blanket. 

After what could have been moments or minutes elapse, you look up to him. He’s still awake. 

“...I’ll miss you tomorrow morning,” you say. “What time do you have to be up?”

“That doesn’t matter,” he murmurs. 

“What time?”

“...Five.”

You wearily groan into his chest. “Oh, Sunday…you work too hard.”

His hand traces languid shapes into your back. “That’s why I have to savor as much time as I can with you.”

In his arms, you reflect on the day, fatigue slowly beginning to weigh down your thoughts. You recall glimpses of Sunday playing his violin, and his effortless grace. The first melody you watched him play, the one you watched through the door, swims through your head. 

A question pulls at your mind, and you choose to ask before you forget. “Hmm…Sunday?”

“Yes?”

“What was the first song you played earlier?”

He takes a breath. “It…was a song I remember from my youth. When I first started playing music, it was one of the first things I transcribed…from memory. Because I never wanted to forget.” 

“It’s a beautiful song.”

You can’t see, but a smile forms on Sunday’s face. “It…was a song our mother would sing to me and Robin.”

“Could I hear you hum it to me?”

He begins to hum the melody, and the dulcet tune coupled with the faint vibrations of his chest begin to lull you into a peaceful sleep. You try fighting it off, just to hear his voice a little longer…only to end up closing your eyes in the end.

Once your breathing is even, Sunday admires your sleeping form. Before he closes his eyes to return to sleep himself, Sunday whispers three words into your ear that evanesce into the air; three words he’ll be sure to repeat to you again once you’re awake.

___

"Con alcuna licenza" is a musical direction that refers to expressive and rhythmic freedom, allowing the conductor to speed up or slow down the tempo of a piece at their discretion.

[vangbelsing]

Emmrich X Rook: First Meeting Prompt for DADreams

So this was made VERY quickly and it's so rushed because I wanted to get it out before the night is over soooooo it's not gonna be good🫠 Please forgive the pacing, it's so bad LOL but I was running out of time😭 I may even revisit this at a later date because this doesn't really get Alinas character across that well... Also the ending is pure projection because I am sleepy and cannot force myself to make this better. ANYWAY here's wonderwall

She had met him with a gaze one might expect from a pampered noble woman who had just lain eyes on a sack of grain, or a King looking at the common man who lived with means far more humble: utter indifference. She spared no thought nor consideration in her appraisal of the necromancer. A quick summation of his physical attributes was all she had done, and even that was hardly committed to memory.

His eyes met hers then, as if suddenly aware of the unimpressed stare that had been leveled at him. She anticipated the furrowing of brows, the downward turn of his lips into a look of displeasure or familiar scrutiny. Or perhaps even for him to simply turn his eyes elsewhere, disregarding her with the same indifference she had afforded him.

What she had not expected, however, was the swift quirk of his lips into a welcoming - perhaps even charming - smile. A gesture easily forced, though she noted the way his smile seemed to reach his eyes with all the warmth and decency to which she was so unaccustomed.

Few words had been spoken then, as necessity demanded swift action. At least, few beyond that which accompanied a sudden and... colorful introduction; mere formalities and what could have been described as a review of qualifications. Alina noted the way Neve had practically rolled her eyes at her for all but making Emmrich recite a resume while they had been under threat of attack.

Now that they were back at the Lighthouse and with no pressing concerns, as they had finished the debriefing, she assumed everyone would go about their individual business. Her hope was that she would make proper use of that feather bed after having done enough training and preparation for todays excursion to make even a veteran caffeinated lunatic wince.

Yet, no sooner than she had undressed from her armor into more comfortable raiment was there a knock at her door. And there he was, not even changed from the attire she had met him in, all smiles and proper conduct. She couldn't help the way her eyes blinked at him, the surprise in her gaze likely just as apparent as the raven hair that cascaded down her shoulders like waves of liquid midnight across a starless ocean of sky.

"My apologies, I hadn't realized you had already made yourself comfortable." Emmrich said with a soft and apologetic chuckle.

"Right." She replied, obviously taken somewhat aback by the necromancers arrival, "Did you need?"

The man lifted a hand, dismissive of the suggestion. "Oh, gracious no, I should hardly think to allow myself such impropriety as to impose so brazenly upon a new acquaintance. It's simply..." he paused, his slender fingers reaching to perch at his chin, his expression momentarily pensive, "ours was an introduction made swiftly, and with so little geniality. I would like to correct that."

Her head tilted to the side, a sliver of her black hair falling loosely in her eye. She appraised him warily, gauging his intent as if searching for something. He seemed to notice her perusal of features and smiled, the gesture catching Alina off-guard.

"I...see. You're fairly friendly, for one of your profession." She mused, resting a hand at her hip.

He waved an ornamental hand, seeming somewhat amused by her assertion. "One might argue those in my line of work may benefit from a little friendliness. The dead rarely respond well to hostility."

Her lip quirked upward, the ghost of a giggle escaping her throat. "When framed like that, I can hardly disagree."

She held her out then for him take, her pale skin now bare as opposed to the black leather that had adorned her body earlier. The armor that covered her was now replaced with a scarlet chemise, the satin fabric hanging over her shoulders loosely.

He mirrored her gesture, taking her hand gently, almost carefully in his own, the jewelry he wore jingling at the movement as it reached her skin, the contact of cool metal causing a slight shiver to climb her back. Her hand was far smaller than his, she noticed then, her eyes peering at the way her hand seemed practically engulfed in his hold.

His other hand, balled into a fist, shot up to stifle the sound he made as he cleared his throat, his face then taking a pleasant smile. "Allow me to formally introduce myself. I am Emmrich Volkarin, very much pleased to make your acquaintance."

"My name is Alina, and the pleasure is mine, mister Volkarin."

"Please," he said, taking her hand in both of his now, "there's no need for that. Emmrich will suffice."

He then broke the contact, releasing her hands with just as much tenderness as when he had taken them, the shifting of his body causing his chains and bangles to clang and clink once again.

"And now that we have met more properly, I believe I should allow you to return to your rest. Today has been quite the trial, after all."

Alina nodded, "True enough. It was... eventful, to say the least."

"Quite." Emmrich replied softly, the mirth on his features betraying the calm of his voice. "And as such, I should bid you good evening. Though I hope we will have more opportunities to speak with one another in the future."

She gave him a small smile, courteous and slightly mischievous, "I'm sure there will be plenty of time to mingle whenever we aren't occupied with the occasional beheading of Venatori and the like."

"One hopes. I haven't properly introduced you to Manfred, after all... But, that shall have to wait." He gave a quick bow of his head, "Goodnight, Alina."

"Goodnight." She returned his gesture, if perhaps somewhat awkwardly.

At that, he had turned on his heel, hands clasped together as he made his way back down the staircase that led to Alinas quarters. She watched him walk briefly, observing the way he moved and noting the posture with which he carried himself before finally shutting her door.

She wasn't fully convinced that he warranted special attention, but perhaps she had been hasty to dismiss him so readily. Or, perhaps not. Time would tell, and for tonight, as far as she cared, the only thing that mattered to her was the feeling of her body sinking into her bed. Everything else could wait.

[non-plutonian-druid]

[ID: 11 doodles of Umbrella Academy characters in a style imitating the webcomic Paranatural. Allison, Luther, Diego, Klaus, Viktor, and Lila are drawn as kids, approximately 12 yrs old. Ben is a similarly aged ghost. Hazel, Cha Cha, and the Handler are present as well, all looking vaguely villainous. Five is drawn to be maybe in his twenties. All of them have colorful smoke rising from them indicating the powers from Paranatural, except for Viktor and Lila, for whom the smoke is white. End ID.]

Look, a Paranatural au! I wish I had been hit by this muse in time for Masked Author/Artist, but alas it was not to be. If you've read Paranatural is you can probably guess.... basically everything there is to know about this au. If you haven't read Parantural, you should!! It's a wild ride! But also I rambled for a super long time about it under the cut

Everyone has cool spirit powers and can see the dead, so Klaus isn't special sorry Klaus. I'm making up for it by making him directly possessed by a spirit that gives him superpowers, instead of everyone else who has to use a possessed object to get superpowers. I didn't put a ton of thought into what Cool Accessory (possessed object) to give the kids so I could change that later, but for now Allison has a megaphone, Diego has a yo-yo, Viktor has his violin, and Luther doesn't have anything because his dad thinks he needs to learn to control spirit energy on his own. Klaus doesn't have any either because he's possessed directly. I adjusted the rules of Parantural slightly because [Paranatural spoilers!!] in the comic someone with white energy can connect with spirits whose energy is any color. Viktor's should absolutely be white by show rules, but that power set suits Lila a lot better. So in this au, the rules are adjusted so that white can only connect with white, and Lila's is actually colorless (IE, it only looks white now because the background is white). She can't bond with any one spirit for long, but she can bond with any of them for a short time.

Hazel, Cha Cha, Five kind of, and the Handler are all members of a version of Paranatural's Consortium, which I'm just going to call the Commission again because why not. As you may be able to guess, it's slightly more villainous in this au than the Consortium. I wanted AJ to be a high ranking member, but if I made him the Handler's spirit then we wouldn't get to see him ever, so I made him Five's. This was before I remembered that people possessed by spirits look more and more like their spirit over time so the fish head thing could still totally work, so I might revisit that. Hazel and Cha Cha's spirits look like thier masks, of course. I didn't spend much time on the mask/spirit redesign so they're not as fun and funky as I'd like, but they're still reasonable stand-ins. The Handler is this version of the Boss Leader because.... duh. If you've been keeping up with Parantural and are wondering about how That One Thing About Boss Leader translates... I haven't decided yet.

Five is the Mr. Spender of this au. He is possibly the least Mr. Spender-like character to ever exist, but look me in the eyes and tell me that acting as the teacher-supervisor of a club of unruly kids that can see ghosts who is secretly part of a nefarious (?) organization is not where he belongs.

I have a few more doodles of this waiting in the wings! Mostly of Five because I love him. But also if you have stuff you want to see, send it in. No promises I'll draw your suggestion, but the main obstacle between me and drawing more of this is not having concrete ideas for situations to put characters in

[sweetshelluvaau]

Finally, I finished him!

So here he is, the King of Lust himself, Asmodeus! I wanted to take a break from the main cast plus hyperfixation came into play so if I didn't draw Ozzie my brain would have exploded so here we are. I'm putting this under read more because there's a lot of ranting before I get to the notes on the redesign plus pictures to address my points:

To be honest: I don't mind Ozzie's design/outfit in the show. It isn't horrible by any means and there was a time where I could say I even liked it. But when Oops dropped and seeing him without the suit happened, disappointment sunk in.

Are you telling me this man, is a beefcake under that compression suit? The embodiment of lust is jacked and his outfit doesn't show that!?

Seriously Viv, where's the beef?

And while I did say that I did at one time like his design, I never found it really 'sexy' (his voice on the other hand...) and after seeing his beautiful chest all I can do is cry about it.

Also: what is it with Viviziepop and top hats? It's if half of her male cast wears them. It'd make sense for some characters, notability sinners who died in their era that they were popular but it makes no sense for other characters. In this case, I just think Ozzie looks better without one.

Ahem, yeah okay, right, soooo notes:

I noticed one of his earlier looks before the final design he had a longer, thicker and fluffier neck and kinda sad they didn't keep that being it worked with the rooster motif he's suppose to have. I decided to incorporate it back into my design just because I can. Plus, ya know it's fluffy:

I also decided to give him bird feet/chicken legs and make him a bit thicker thighs because excuse me he's part rooster have you seen the meat on those things?!

Because my obsession with his chest, I decided that the outfits should show it off more because, um...chest. Also: FLUFF. idk why I just really wanted to make him fluffy.

The outfit on the right was the one I drew first but I felt it was lacking the regal feel I wanted to go with being he is one of the Deadly Sins and I wanted to show that (along with his chest and fluff but shh). I decided to keep it as a secondary, causal outfit on days off when all you want to just lay on the couch and chill/cuddle with your boyfriend. (likely gonna get rid of the neckless being I mostly just added it because I thought it was funny. If you know, you know.)

After going back at it a second time I decided to go for a burlesque style (Not sure if I nailed it or not) considering his club sorta had that theme going for it and while I'm more than likely going to revisit and change a few things later on, I overall love how the outfit came out.

And of course, a crown. I may get rid of the fire/flaming top in later drawings but I thought it was cool at the time.

I may still revisit the design to maybe add a bit more bull, goat and possible dragon to his design outside of the heads but I think I may save that for when I cerate his full demon form where I'll have those features stand out more. Likely won't have him have his tiny form in my au, no matter how cute it is.

not really a design note persay but kinda want to mention it because it bothers me: I drew/inked and colored both of these at different times which is why the anatomy and coloring is so different from each other. I'm still playing around with clip studio paint tho I think the shading style on the right is the one I'm gonna go with for now on.

As for character/lore notes: I really don't like how it feels as if Ozzie (along with some other characters) was defanged in season two plus how they made him, a deadly sin, not feeling all too threating. Granted, Ozzie being nice isn't the problem (being nice doesn't necessarily mean you're a good person plus I do like that the sins do have some virtues like believing in consent being ya know, complexity and what not suppose to be full on evil) and I even have him being one of the nicer Sins in my AU but still can have his dickish moments and hell, he and Fizz are gonna drag your corpse with the amount of roasting they're dishing you about your sex life because god they were so much fun when both them had more bite. Please bring back my chaotic asshole jester gremlin and his rooster boyfriend tag teaming about how much you suck in bed and just being a general nuisances to society plzthx. (plus ya know, Fizz is a Jester his job is roasting people. Not to say he can't have some kindhearted moments. His friendship with Blitzo gives me life and I love the moment with the deaf kid even if you have to question why a kid is doing at a 18+ event to begin with but that's a whole other can of worms.)

While I'm not going with the circus theme that Viv claims she's going for with each Deadly Sin being based off a circus act (which is a fun idea in theory tbh if that idea expanded on outside of a poorly done aesthetic), I kind of like the idea of a magician motif for Ozzie due to his use of fire plus one of his infernal correspondences happens to be illusions, which we kinda saw him do in Ozzie's. I thought it was a cool touch, regardless if that was intentional or not.

Also, apparently it's canon that Fizzarolli is his first romantic relationship and idk that kinda bothers me. Asmodeus is over thousand years old and in biblical lore he's been in a few relationship (plus what happened in the Book of Tobit with Sarah). Why not play around with that? In my AU, he's been in at least two (Lilith and Mammon respectfully, and I'll talk about that at a later time) before but they were all failed relationships, which soured his view on love for a long time until he fell for Fizz. I also headcanon Ozzie being/use to being a bit of a hopeless romantic, as much as he tries to hide it (poorly).

Hey, I drew some half decent hands for once.

Anyways, yeah, here's my version of Ozzie. Next up with be either Stolas (which is less of an rewrite and more of a damn overhaul because holy shit I really had enough of this guy in canon) or perhaps Beelzebub being I got some ideas for her too.

Made with Clip Studio Paint and Photoshop CS6 for final touches. Okay to reblog, Feedback is encourage.

[areyoudoingthis]

Rated E. 7,724 words. This isn't at all what Stede saw in his own fantasies - there's no beard, no sword, no avenging swashbuckling pirate standing in the mirror in front of him. There's just Stede, swaddled in fine fabrics like he was most of his life, but not the same at all. This is Stede touched by Ed, draped in Ed's love manifest in the clothes he picked for him to wear because they reminded him of a time in his life when the memory of Stede helped him breathe underwater. This is how Ed seems him. This is the image of Stede Ed saw when he needed him most. He feels his eyes well with tears at the realization. - Ed gets Stede to open up through the magical power of new clothes.

They're mostly done with their list of purchases for the day when they walk by the tailor shop. Ed's eyes bore through the windows as his legs stop moving, and Stede's heart pitter patters at the thought of going clothes shopping with him, of sharing something that always brought him solace in his lonely years with someone who fancies a fine fabric as much as he does.

He smiles encouragingly at Ed and nods towards the store, and Ed doesn't need any further invitation; next thing he knows Stede's being dragged excitedly by the hand across the threshold.

He lets himself be pulled, gazes adoringly at Ed as he watches him drink in all the colors and patterns that are theirs for the taking. He will never forget that this was the first thing they bonded over, the way Ed's eyes shone when Stede showed him all the treasures he kept tucked safely away in the auxiliary wardrobe for the first time. The awe in his expression as he took in the rows of autumn vibes and summer linens much like he's doing right now, his excited giggles as they traded clothes.

He loses track of Ed as they browse, picks up an emerald green cashmere robe with silver accents that he simply has to get for him, gets lost in the daydream of holding Ed in his arms while he's wearing it and forgets where he is and what he's doing for an indefinite number of minutes.

He goes looking for Ed when he comes back from his fantasy, and finds him standing uncharacteristically still next to a rack of colorful suits. He's pulled out one in particular, satin in a gorgeous shade of orange with intricate patterns of leaves and flowers on the front and the sleeves. He has impeccable taste, Stede's always known this about him.

Ed seems mesmerized by the fabric, rubs it between the pads of his fingers and stares at it with something like reverence. Stede smiles, always happy to get Ed anything that makes him light up like this.

"Do you like it, darling? Should we get it?"

"It's..." he turns to Stede, all wide eyes and intense longing. His voice is small and awed when he replies. "It's the same color as your scales in my vision."

Stede swallows around the sudden knot in his throat, struggles to draw air into his lungs, but Ed isn't done knocking the breath out of him yet.

"I wanna see you in it."

There's no way Stede can say no to that, even if he was inclined to turn down a well-made, beautiful coat like this one, which he hasn't been once in his fifty years on this earth.

He wonders briefly if it may need to be tailored, but judging from the avid way Ed's still glancing between him and the fabric pooled in his hands, he worries that something may happen if he decides to try the suit on in public. He doesn't fully know what, but he decides wisely not to risk it and just pay for everything and make sure he can bring it back later if it needs any adjustments. The saleswoman is gracious and reassuring, and Stede makes a note of the store in his mental list of "Stede's favorite places in the world he absolutely must revisit later."

He's ready to pay for the robe, coat and matching breeches when he remembers that all he has at home are worn shirts and an assortment of leather and rough cloth trousers.

"Will you choose a shirt and waistcoat for me, darling?" he ventures, and is rewarded with Ed's eyes going big and hungry again.

"Me?"

"You picked the suit, you know the color scheme you're working with."

Ed nods determinedly, squares his shoulders and heads back towards the racks of clothes muttering quietly to himself, like he's got a big mission to fulfill. Stede feels so impossibly in love every minute of his life these days that it's a wonder he gets anything done at all.

He turns back towards the woman behind the counter and inquires about a new pair of shoes (he can't possibly wear something this delicate with boots) and, heart hammering in his chest for some unknown reason, stockings.

He's purchased stockings dozens of times in the past, but his mind seems to have attached some special significance to the idea of stockings-and-Ed, and wearing something for Ed just because he asked. He breathes deeply and tries not to turn red, doesn't want to make the poor woman uncomfortable.

He chooses white to go with the suit (one can rarely ever go wrong with white, unless one is perhaps Lucius at the Republic of Pirates), and can't help but get the lavender pair she shows him, too, imagines the way the color will look against Ed's skin and loses the fight with the blush spreading warmly on his face. He has time to ask her to wrap those separately, please, they're a gift, before Ed comes back with the items he picked. He shows Stede a flowing white shirt with lace cuffs that he immediately falls in love with, and a golden yellow waistcoat with delicate pearl buttons that's almost as lovely as him. Stede thinks he'll gladly let Ed pick all his clothes from now on.

They pay for everything with the money Ed always seems to have on him in infinite amounts (Stede often has to remind himself that one of them is still rich, and that living in a house that keeps threatening to fall apart on them was a choice they made), and they start on the trip back home with all their new treasures in hand, along with the groceries they got earlier.

It isn't until later that day that the suit is brought up again, when the food has been put away and dinner's come and gone and they're on their second cup of tea of the evening, and Ed asks him, timid and hopeful, to try it on. Stede heads towards their room with his heart in complete disarray, wondering if he'll ever get used to the way Ed can set his whole body and mind alight with a few simple words.

Ed has unpacked every piece and laid them neatly out on the bed for him, and Stede feels himself choke up a little at the caring gesture.

His fingers tremble slightly as he ties the laces of his new shirt, and he wonders if this is how brides usually feel as they get ready on their wedding day - at least brides who are getting married by their own choice. He certainly felt nothing close to this pleasantly agitated and anticipatory when he was about to be married. That suit was given away to charity as soon as Stede considered it polite to do so; he hopes someone got some comfort out of it.

He holds the lace that decorates the sleeves between his fingers and gets lost in the sense-memory. His fingers welcome the touch back like an old friend.

The waistcoat goes on next, and Stede admires the color and the way it fits around his chest and waist. Ed could make a living out of dressing people if he wanted to, his eye is unerring; he may not even need to get the suit adjusted at all. He leaves the buttons undone for now and turns back to the slowly diminishing pile of garments on the bed.

He sighs ecstatically as he slides the stockings up his legs. He missed this most of all, the soft, decadent whisper of silk against his skin. Boots and leather are fun, definitely practical and useful for fighting and working on the house, but it's so nice to be able to indulge like this again. His body's readily and easily adjusting to being covered in finery once more.

The thought of Ed waiting expectantly on the other side of the door to see him in these makes a thrill run down Stede's spine that has nothing and everything to do with the stockings and the shiny laces he's tying them up with.

He pulls the breeches on top once he's done, and goes about the slow task of doing up every button on every piece with slightly impatient hands. He's never gotten dressed this elaborately in the past knowing that he'd be getting undressed a short while later, and this part feels a little like a waste of time and effort. He grins to himself, feels his whole body bubble with an exhilaration he's never experienced while putting on clothes before. These days the excitement is usually reserved for taking them off, and Ed tends to be the one impatiently taking care of that. He wonders how many new firsts he'll keep discovering every day of his life with him, wishes hopefully that they never run out.

When he's finally done securing the last buttons down the side of his new breeches, he slips his feet into the shoes and stands up straight, tugs on the coat a little to adjust it. It's got that stiff new outfit feeling, but Stede doesn't mind, because as soon as he focuses on the mirror in front of him the breath gets knocked out of him for the third time today.

He looks absolutely radiant. The satin glimmers where it catches the light, and the mix of orange and gold, delicate pearls nestled in embroidery and soft touches of lace and silk all combine to make him look otherworldly to his own eyes.

And, he thinks, this isn't just any old fancy suit, something he's donning like armor first thing in the morning for the umpteenth time. This is what Ed chose especially for him to wear, because it holds a particular significance to him, because it reminds him of a time in his life when the memory of Stede helped him breathe underwater.

This is how Ed seems him. This is the image of Stede Ed saw when he needed him most. He feels his eyes well with tears at the realization.

This isn't at all what Stede saw in his own fantasies - there's no beard, no sword, no avenging swashbuckling pirate standing in the mirror in front of him. There's just Stede, swaddled in fine fabrics like he was most of his life, but not the same at all. This is Stede touched by Ed, draped in Ed's love manifest in the clothes he picked for Stede because he wanted the pleasure of seeing him in them.

He feels slightly unstable with everything going through his head and his heart all of a sudden, and for once in his life he knows exactly where to turn.

"Ed, can you come in?" his voice wobbles a little as he calls out.

Ed confirms his suspicions that he was waiting on the other side of the door by opening it immediately and stepping into the room with him.

He zeroes in on the tears running down Stede's cheeks instantly, with the same care and devotion he always shows him. He's got Stede's face cradled in his solid hands within seconds, thumbs wiping away the saltiness and lips whispering soothing words on instinct.

"What's wrong, babe?" he asks once Stede's been profusely comforted. "Don't you like it? You don't have to keep it on if you don't."

"I love it, Edward," Stede confesses quietly. "I love it so much." His voice grows even smaller. "Too much."

Ed's eyes and nose scrunch almost comically in confusion.

"How can you like it too much? That's not a thing, Stede. Ya like it, ya wear it. That's how clothes work."

And he makes it sound so impossibly simple. But it's never been simple, has it? Not in Stede's experience. Wearing pretty things because he likes them has never been as straightforward for him as Ed assumes. He doesn't know how to explain that, though, doesn't know where to find the words to encompass his father and his peers and his own wife and the contempt Stede's enjoyment of fine, delicate things was met with his whole life.

He starts crying in earnest instead, and Ed stands unwavering with Stede's face held gently in his hands, kisses his tears dry and presses their foreheads together, pours his adoration into the silent, intimate space between their mouths as he lets him figure out how to say what he needs to say.

Stede tries to breathe through his tears, tries to make his mind and his tongue cooperate with the arduous task of summing up a lifetime of disdain in a few sentences. And then a memory comes to him, of another time when fine things were worn and one of them also ended the night upset, and he thinks maybe he knows how to help Ed understand.

"Do you remember the french party boat?"

"Yeah, I remember," Ed grits out, clearly still has the same negative associations with it that Stede does. And Stede is sorry for what he's going to bring up next, but he hopes Ed will forgive him once he gets where Stede is going with it, why he's digging up the unpleasantness to poke at it.

"Remember how they made you feel when you used the wrong spoon?"

Ed grumbles his assent.

"I always picked the right spoon, Ed," he sobs, trembles against him, unable to stop the grief from ripping out of him. He keeps talking as his voice breaks. "I was taught which spoon was the right spoon and I picked it every time after. And I always felt just like you did that night. Every day. For almost fifty years."

Ed's hands leave his face to wrap around his shoulders and pull him close. Stede feels safe pressed here against his chest, feels shielded from the harshness of the world like he's never felt in his life. Inside the circle of his arms is the only place no one's ever been able to harm him, the wall no pointed barbs can pierce, a refuge where no dark thoughts can thrive.

"Stede, you made those fuckers set themselves on fire," Ed reminds him.

"Because they hurt you," he says, raising his face from his shoulder to stare earnestly into his eyes.

Stede thought it was obvious this whole time. There's nothing he wouldn't do to make Ed feel safe, to punish those who insult and hurt him.

Ed's eyes light up with understanding, and then flood with compassion.

"There was never anyone to set them on fire for you, was there?" he whispers softly into the quiet room.

Stede nods through his tears, burrows closer into his arms. Ed holds him tight, tireless in his love, presses his lips tenderly into his curls, rubs his hands up and down his back and makes warmth bloom in his body. Stede is always surprised to be handled this gently, hasn't managed to get used to it yet.

"You've got me now," Ed promises. "I'll set anyone on fire for ya, love." He says it like a prayer, like a vow, and Stede smiles shakily and keeps crying into his shoulder, keeps drawing comfort from his steadfast presence and the way he offers himself up for Stede to take whatever he needs.

Ed lets him weep in his arms until he calms down, until the reassurance of his presence eases the hurt of his absence for all the years that came before now a little. And then Stede remembers he had more to say before he broke down.

"I look beautiful in this. I feel beautiful, Ed."

Ed nuzzles his cheek affectionately.

"You sure do, babe. Happy you agree."

"It feels different, kind of. From when I used to dress like this, before." He pauses. "I like it when you dress me."

"You like it when I undress you, too."

Stede chuckles a little wetly.

"That's not what I mean, you menace. I like that you picked this for me, that you showed me how you like me." He takes a breath. "I like that it's how I like me, too," he adds.

Ed beams at him from underneath impossibly long eyelashes.

"You do?"

"Yeah."

"Can I pick more fancy stuff for you?"

There's that boundless excitement that he loves again. Stede knows if he lets him he'll soon find himself with even more clothes than he had when he moved into the Revenge, and then they'll need to build a whole secret wardrobe into their house, too. He'll start drawing the plans in the morning.

"Please do," he asks.

Ed smiles, pleased, and says, "I liked that store."

"Oh, I noticed, darling," he teases. "I like it, too. We'll have to go back soon."

Ed hums in agreement and kisses him enthusiastically, and soon he's making Stede's head spin until he forgets that he was crying and why. He pulls him greedily into his body, runs his hands reverentially down the soft fabric of Stede's new jacket.

"You can keep this bit on," he murmurs, and Stede whimpers into his mouth and feels his knees go a little weak at the ravenous tone and the clear intent behind the words.

Ed slides his hands under the coat and wraps his arms around Stede, guides him backwards towards the bed as he steals his breath with his lips.

He stops when the backs of Stede's legs meet the bed, pushes him down gently until he's got him sitting on the edge, and then shorts out his brain by sinking to his knees in front of him.

"Ed," he moans, fingers tangling in his hair without Stede ever making a conscious decision to make them do it. Then he has a brief moment of lucidity and says, "Pillow, darling. We don't want your knee to be sore in the morning," as he passes him one from the pile on their bed.

Ed places it obediently under his left knee, gives a pleased little sigh and bends down to remove Stede's shoes. He drops hungry kisses along the way, touches his burning lips to his knee, his calf, his ankle, sets Stede's skin ablaze as he goes.

"I love your fuckin' fancy lacy shoes," he says, holding his leg delicately to slip the shoe off his foot.

Stede laughs. Only Ed could manage to sound ferociously enthusiastic about shoes.

"They're not the most convenient footwear," he points out.

"Who fuckin' cares about that, Stede. Your legs look fuckin' great in heels."

Stede feels the blush climb all the way from his toes to his ears. He's feeling perilously close to overwhelmed and all Ed's done is kiss him and compliment his shoes.

Ed sets both of his bare feet down on the ground and rests his hands on Stede's knees as he comes back up, uses the leverage to pull his legs apart and settles easily between them, like he's belonged there his whole life. Stede's chest rises and falls rapidly as he watches him - he's all perfect curls and lovely brown skin, pupils blown wide in hungry eyes, and Stede loves him so much he's afraid his heart might burst.

His mind has inexplicably decided to make him experience everything tonight with an intensity that's making him feel as if this somehow the first time they're doing this all over again. Perhaps it's how their first time would have gone if no one had ever told them who to be or how to live - the two of them undressing each other unhurriedly layer by layer, long before there were any scars hiding under them, before anyone left and any hearts were broken. But he knows they wouldn't be the people that they are if none of that had happened, and that's without a doubt the most heartbreaking possibility of all. He loves this man just as he is, loves who he's learning to become around him. Losing this is unthinkable.

Ed draws him back from his bittersweet musings by slowly undoing the buttons of his waistcoat and pushing it aside so he can bury his face against Stede's stomach. Stede combs his fingers through his silver-threaded hair, thinks idly that he should brush it and plait it for him one of these days. It's as if his hands have remembered all the soft things they used to do and are eager to get back to them.

Ed kisses his body over the shirt, slides his lips down to mouth at his cock through the front of his breeches. He moans when he finds him hard and wanting, and Stede moans with him, blood humming electric with every touch Ed lavishes on him. Ed's fingers work deftly on the buttons while his mouth is busy, and he tries to push the breeches down his hips once he's got them open, but the fabric has no give and they stay stubbornly where they are.

"Pants have to come off, babe," he says, tugging on them. "They're too fuckin' tight." Stede giggles and leans back on his elbows to let him pull them off. He belatedly recalls the tiny buttons down the sides of the legs as Ed's about to slide them down his calves.

"Ed-" but there's a small rain of metal tinkling musically on the floor before he's finished getting two words out.

"Shit," Ed says, forlorn. He looks utterly dismayed about a few pieces of metal and fabric, and his face is so expressive that Stede can't help but laugh and lean forward to kiss the sour look off his lips.

"They're just buttons, darling," he consoles. "At least you didn't tear the ones on the waistcoat, those are my favorites." Ed smiles as Stede presses their mouths back together, and Stede will consider the buttons a fair sacrifice for everything he's gotten out of tonight.

Ed forgets the urgency of his task and keeps kissing him instead, hands still bunching up the fabric around his ankles. He looks so pretty on his knees between Stede's legs, cheeks flushed and mouth red and bitten. Stede would gladly stay here kissing him forever.

They need to come up for air eventually, though, and the pants finally come off without further incident. Stede loses Ed to some transcendent experience the second he notices the stockings he's wearing and the laces holding them up, judging by the glazed look in his eyes. He's instantly pressing forward to rub his cheek against them, and Stede can feel the tingly drag of his beard through the thin fabric, feels his cock jump at the sensation.

"Stede, holy fuck. I'm gonna live between your legs if you keep wearin' these."

Stede's heart beats a wild rhythm at the words. He's definitely tempted by the promise, will wear them again on purpose now that he knows the power silk stockings wield on Ed. He remembers the package he hid away as soon as they got home, wonders if he's gonna be as excited about wearing them himself as he's about seeing them on Stede. His mouth waters at the picture of Ed in nothing but lavender silk, cock standing proud and tattoos stark against the light shade of the fabric. His breath hitches and he groans out loud.

Ed's still lost in silk and Stede's legs, keeps running his palms and his face against them in deliberate movements that make Stede tremble. He wonders briefly how they stayed away from each other for weeks while he wore tight breeches and silk stockings day in and day out, sighs wistfully at the memory of those early days and is brought crashing back to the present by Ed's mouth sucking wetly at the skin of his leg through the silk. His back arches and he rests his weight more heavily on his arms, head falling between his shoulders and breathy moans spilling hungrily from his lips. And then Ed bites his thigh right where lace meets skin, and Stede's hips shoot off the bed, a bolt of electricity coursing all the way up from Ed's teeth to his cock.

"Like that, do ya?"

He nods vigorously, and Ed smirks and gets right back to it, pinches the tender skin between his teeth and lips and makes Stede see stars.

There's something so fucking intoxicating about Ed worshiping his body like this when he's back in his favorite clothes. He's felt desired and admired every time they've made love, couldn't feel anything but with the way Ed touches him and begs for him and cries out his name. But everything feels heightened today, as if being back in silk and embroidered satin has awakened Stede's senses to unprecedented degrees.

"Ed," he sighs longingly, runs his fingers through his hair with all the devastating affection he feels.

Ed caresses his hands up and down his calves as his mouth sucks bruises into his thighs, and Stede congratulates himself on the stroke of genius that told him to invite Ed into the store earlier and led to this particular moment in time. He thinks it may have been the smartest thing he did since he left Bridgetown and settled down here to renovate an inn with the love of his life.

"This is making a mess," Ed tuts, pulling Stede's cock away from where it's smearing precome on his white shirt. Stede pants as his hand closes around him, whines when Ed presses his thumb against the slit and then sucks the digit into his mouth to taste it. It comes out with a loud pop, and Stede can't take his eyes away from Ed's mouth.

"What are we gonna do about it, babe?"

Stede feels like a deer caught by a hunter, eyes wide and heart racing madly against his ribs. His entire mind has gone up in flames, his body is Ed's for the taking however he wants.

"Stede, you okay?" he hears Ed ask, and realizes he went somewhere else made of pure sensation for a while. He has no idea what's happening to him tonight, and his mind feels too placid and liquid to try and find out. He'd rather just let Ed decide how best to make him feel good.

"Yeah," he whispers, and he bends down to kiss him again, thinks he can detect the barest aftertaste of salt on his tongue. Ed kisses back easily, and the way he gives Stede anything he asks for makes him say the next words without hesitation.

"You know how you like to let me take over sometimes?"

Ed nods.

"Can you do that tonight? For me?"

Ed moans and positively devours him, wraps his hands around Stede's jaw and holds him still while he kisses him and kisses him until they're both gasping and clinging to each other.

"Yes," he answers fervently. "Yeah, I can do that, love."

Stede smiles adoringly at him and relaxes further on the bed, groans when the wet heat of Ed's mouth envelops his cock and tightens his fingers reflexively in his hair. They're both here and somewhere else at the same time as Ed's tongue licks a slow stripe up his length, dips into the slit for a few seconds and disappears only to come back and do it over again. Stede cries out his name, feels the easy heat of earlier burn brighter and cascade through him, scorching him.

Ed takes the sound as the encouragement it is, sucks the head of Stede's dick eagerly between his lips, his tiny moans muffled but still audible over their heavy breathing. Wherever they are, it's together, and that's all he cares about.

Flames skitter over Stede's skin as Ed's lips slide up and down his shaft, and his hips shift in tiny movements to press into his mouth. The drag of soft fabric against his skin adds to the intoxicating luxury of it all, and Stede is drowning in molten fire.

He struggles to keep his eyes open, mind soaking in the thrill of Ed's mouth being in control of everything he feels. He shivers when he takes him deep, feels his cock hit the back of his throat and moans Ed's name reverently. Stede feels drunk on him as Ed sucks him off at a lazy rhythm, keeps taking him in as deep as he can, swallows around him and hums contentedly every time Stede's cock hits the back of his throat.

He knows how much Ed loves doing this, has watched him fall apart from nothing but Stede's cock in his mouth, and he takes pleasure in his obvious enjoyment of the act. Ed's fingers curl around his thighs as he bobs his head with abandon, pull on the lace and the silk and shoot tiny pinpricks of pressure and pain down Stede's spine that zap him like lightning.

He can feel the pleasure build and build in his hips and sweep incandescently through his whole body, the delicious rush of Ed's mouth and clever tongue drawing it out of him in increments. He bunches the lace cuffs in his fingers, enjoys the soft-rough drag of the material over his skin and the way Ed whimpers around him at the sight.

Ed's hands leave his thighs to dig into his ass and pull him closer, until his legs are resting on his shoulders. Stede spins out of control at the new position, the way his stockinged legs are on display against Ed's skin as he continues to suck him indulgently. He feels decadent and desirable, skin on fire and lungs burning on every exhalation of Ed's name. He holds onto him almost desperately with the fingers buried in his hair.

Ed's hands hold him safely in place as his nails push into his skin, the sharp sting dizzying and grounding at once, and something settles within Stede, makes him feel impossibly bright, awash with the glow of the devotion Ed is doting on him. He loses himself to the liquid fire flowing joyously inside him and sinks into blissful, velvet heat and wetness, floats happily in it for as long as he can. Ed keeps him on the edge expertly, uses his tongue and his throat to push Stede right where he wants him and draws him back just as he's about to tip over. Stede is mindless with it, made of love and pure sensation for minutes, hours, ages.

His orgasm is the cresting of a wave when it hits, breaks over him blazingly as he pulses and pulses inside Ed's mouth. His world turns hazy around the edges, body going utterly pliant and relaxed as a warm ocean of pleasure flows through him. It feels endless and golden, and he's never enjoyed giving himself over to anything this much before.

Ed sucks him greedily through it, slips off Stede's cock to swallow and breathes heavily against his thigh while Stede recovers. He gets up slowly, leaning on Stede for support as he regains the feeling in his legs.

He stands over him for a few seconds before he starts pulling off his own clothes, and only then does Stede notice that he hasn't taken a single stitch off so far. He thinks through the lingering fog of his orgasm that he should insist on fucking him in his new robe sometime soon, seeing as how clothed sex is something they both apparently enjoy. The list of things to try with him that Stede's been writing in his mind grows exponentially every hour, and he celebrates the realization that he'll never run out of things he wants to do with Ed.

He's not wearing any leather today, so undressing goes quickly, and as soon as he's done he descends on Stede hungrily, licks the taste of him back into his mouth. Stede moans and lets him rearrange him on the bed until he's kneeling between his legs again.

"Told ya I wanna live between your legs from now on," Ed groans, and the way his voice is rough from having Stede's cock down his throat makes Stede's head spin with searing want even though he came a few minutes ago.

Ed crawls leisurely back over his body, wraps Stede's legs around his waist and sinks back into his mouth. Stede tries to keep up while he swims in the heady combination of Ed's damp skin on his, the smell of sex in the room and the taste of himself still on Ed's tongue.

"I'm gonna fuck your thighs, just like this," Ed whispers suggestively into the shell of his ear before biting down on it.

Stede swallows and struggles to pull air into his lungs, clutches his shoulders while Ed's hips roll sinuously against him, his hard cock dragging against Stede's spent one and making him whimper on the edge of oversensitivity.

"Please promise me you'll wear these to bed every night," Ed asks greedily as he strokes a hand over the stockings still covering Stede's legs. A breathless giggle bursts from Stede's lungs at the request.

"You want me to sleep in silk stockings every night."

"You look fuckin' sexy in them, babe, 'course I do."

Stede glows, pleased at the compliment. Ed smooths his hands slowly against the shimmering satin of Stede's jacket, sits up to take him in.

"Fuck, Stede. Look at you." Stede blinks dazedly up at him, a question in his eyes he doesn't dare to ask with his lips. "You should see the way you look right now," Ed answers anyway. "You're the fuckin' prettiest shade of red I've ever seen, all golden and sparkly in the clothes I picked for you." Stede blushes intensely.

"Is it what you imagined?" The hunger he sees reflected in Ed's face makes him feel brave enough to ask.

Ed bends down to press their foreheads together, speaks the answer fondly against his lips.

"Merperson you was lovely, but havin' real you splayed out like this for me in the clothes I picked for you is so much fuckin' better, love." Stede's whole being lights up and overflows with love for this wonderful man, who somehow guessed exactly what Stede needed and insisted on giving it to him, who allowed him to fall apart in his arms, kept him safe while he did and then put him tenderly back together.

Ed licks his way back into his mouth, kisses the breath out of him as he rocks his body lazily against Stede's. Stede welcomes him eagerly, slides his legs over his naked skin and feels Ed shiver on top of him.

Ed sits up abruptly and pulls him up with him by the lapels of his jacket.

"Let's get you more comfortable, love," he says, and Stede can't deny that it's hot under all these layers.

The jacket is pushed delicately over his shoulders and down his arms, and Ed stands to fold it and place it on the chair in the corner of their room before he keeps undressing him. Stede's heart swells at the gesture, at the care he shows for his precious things and for him both.

He feels a pang of regret as Ed removes the waistcoat - it really is his favorite piece. He's already planning how he can start wearing it with his other clothes, coming up with exciting combinations of colors and textures. Ed must see something on his face, because he places it on the bed next to him, smiles and says, "You really like this, don't ya?"

Stede nods.

"Hmm. I could put it back on, fuck you in nothing but your silk socks and your shiny new waistcoat."

Stede feels his cock twitch in interest at the suggestion, thinks maybe if they'd been doing this a few decades earlier Ed's tone would have been enough to get him hard again, with the way his words shoot fire through his whole body. He stares at him with wide eyes, lips parting soundlessly, and Ed just grins and pulls the shirt over his head to drop it somewhere around their feet.

He puts the waistcoat back on him just as he promised once he has divested Stede of the rest of his clothes, and sits back on his heels to admire his work. He must truly like what he sees, because his eyes go dark with hunger.

"Want you right now," he growls, and surges into Stede to push their mouths back together, bites his lips until Stede's ready to beg for it.

"You can have me," he gasps wantonly in between kisses.

Ed is reluctant to pull away from him despite the urgency of his words, keeps nibbling Stede's lips between his teeth like he can't help himself, and Stede understands the feeling perfectly, wants nothing more than to hold him forever, be touching him constantly. He runs his hands over his back, revels in the broadness and hard muscle they meet, the solidity of Ed's body above him.

Ed does move eventually, grabs the vial of oil from the shelf above the bed and spreads some over Stede's thighs. He fists a hand around his cock to slick himself up once he's done preparing him and his eyes fall shut, lips parting on a moan of Stede's name as if he's picturing sinking into the warmth of his body already. Stede couldn't look away if he wanted to - Ed in the throes of passion is the loveliest thing he's ever witnessed, lovelier than any silk or lace or pearl buttons in the whole world.

When Ed comes back to him he presses their whole bodies flush together, foreheads to feet, settles heavily on top of him. He sucks wet kisses into Stede's neck, grinds his hips into him and the slide is so much better now. Stede shudders and sighs into the safety of his mouth; he feels held and precious. Ed sinks his cock between Stede's legs, starts thrusting slowly until he finds a rhythm he likes.

"You're so fuckin' beautiful, Stede. Want you so fuckin' much all the time. Sometimes it feels like I'm gonna die if I'm not touchin' you."

Hearing his sentiment from earlier echoed back at him makes Stede feel glad that the intensity is mutual, that they can simply touch and kiss and fuck whenever they want to and don't have to deny themselves ever again.

"Me too, Ed. Always."

He presses his legs together as tight as he can, holds on to Ed's arms as he fucks into him, the glide of his impossibly warm cock between the sensitive skin of his thighs and the way it drags against his balls on every other thrust making him feel delirious and ragged. His nails dig into Ed's biceps as Ed pants above him, pace becoming faster and more erratic with every minute.

Stede feels his urgency as if it was his own, the waves of pleasure radiating off of Ed crashing into him and making his blood thrum with desire. He's never felt this intensely aroused after having already spent himself before. Ed's holding himself up on his elbows and snapping his hips feverishly above him, cock dragging deliciously against the meat of Stede's thighs.

"So fuckin' close, Stede. Fuck. Want you so hggn much. You're so fuckin' tight and soft."

Stede is breathless at the praise, all the needy corners inside him that have gone neglected for decades filling with the brightness of Ed's desire for him. The drive to make Ed come is equally intense, to feel the proof of his love and his pleasure on his body.

"Come on, darling, show me how good I make you feel."

A guttural moan tears from Ed's chest, a frantic litany of his name falling from his lips, and Stede feels him come warm and welcome between his legs, moans right along with him as Ed's orgasm ripples through them both.

Ed collapses boneless on top of Stede once he's done working himself through it, as if his limbs have given up on the task of holding him up, and Stede receives him gladly, relishes the sweat on his skin and Ed's hot breaths against his neck.

"Fuck," Ed says eventually, when he's regained the ability to speak. "That was..."

"Yeah," Stede agrees fervently.

"We need to go clothes shoppin' more often."

Stede laughs, sated and exhausted.

"We definitely will. But we're not even done trying on everything we got this time. I haven't seen you in your new robe yet. And I have a surprise for you, too."

Ed unpeels his face from Stede's shoulder to look at him eagerly.

"I may need to stay on this bed for a few days before I can move again, though," he jokes. Ed snorts against his skin.

"Talk about you, mate. I did all the work tonight."

"And you did such a great job that my legs have turned to jelly," Stede replies honestly, and he can feel the tiny huff of pride and amusement Ed lets out even though his face is still buried against Stede's neck.

"Well, I'm gonna have to get up sooner or later," he grouses, put upon. "Unless you want me to clean you up with your shirt."

"Don't you dare, Edward. My boyfriend got that for me," Stede chides fondly.

"Mm, sounds like a nice guy, this boyfriend of yours."

Stede looks at him with endless affection in his eyes.

"He's the best boyfriend. And the best man. I don't know how I got so lucky."

Ed starts to raise himself on his arms and drops a loving kiss on his mouth.

"Right back atcha, babe." He stays against Stede's lips for a few more seconds. "'M really gonna have to go get somethin' to clean you up with, don't wanna ruin all that pretty silk with spunk."

Stede makes a grossed out face at him, and Ed's laughter lingers behind even when he leaves the room.

He returns with a damp cloth and runs it over Stede's thighs and stomach gently, cleans off every last drop of oil and spend, still worshiping his body with every touch. Stede lies on the sheets and allows himself to be taken care of, basks in the tiredness of his muscles and the happy sparks still coursing through him and the love Ed shows him always.

"Up," Ed says, grabbing his hand and pulling once he's tossed the rag aside. He removes the waistcoat when Stede complies, folds it and sets it and the shirt down with the jacket on the chair, picks the breeches up off the floor and does the same. His own pants and shirt follow.

"Those are stayin' on tonight," he says, nodding towards Stede's legs. Stede stretches out contentedly, doesn't even dream of arguing, not after the reaction the stockings got.

"Dickfuck!" Ed yelps.

"What?"

"Stepped on a button," he complains, rubbing his foot resentfully and bending down to retrieve the offending bit of metal.

Stede laughs.

"I'll hunt them down in the morning and put them somewhere far away from your feet, darling, don't worry."

Ed steps carefully on his way back towards the bed once he's done folding their clothes, keeps an eye on the floor for more unexpected attacks. When he's made it back safely he grabs Stede in his arms and shifts him around to lay them down side by side on their bed. Arms go around waists and legs tangle together instantly, as if staying away from each other for a second longer was impossible.

A question pops into Stede's mind when they've been lying quietly together for a few minutes enjoying their post coital bliss, and he has to ask.

"Ed?"

"Hmm?"

"Would it be okay if... if I didn't want to dress like this every day again?" He bites his lower lip, oddly nervous about this. "I just... like my other clothes, too."

He thinks of the colorful cummerbund he added to his black pants, made with a bit of salvaged fabric, and the blue shirt he was wearing when Ed first told him that he loved him, the one he later tore the laces off of with his teeth. Or the red shirt with the lovely black ruffles that survived the purging of his red suit, the one Ed complimented him on when they kissed under the moonlight. He loves collecting clothes, and he grows attached to most of them for some reason or other (most of them seem to be Ed related these days).

As fun and enjoyable as it is to have nice suits again, he doesn't want to go back to dressing in no less than three layers at all times. Sometimes it's nice to have less stuff on, to be able to move more freely, feel the sea breeze and the sun on his bare skin, watch the way Ed ogles his chest in every low cut shirt he puts on. There are so many more pleasures in life than Stede once dreamed of.

Ed smiles and kisses him playfully on the nose.

"Babe, ya could wear the rice sack the crew made me put on every day and I'd still want to spend the rest of my life with you."

Stede grimaces in horror, thinks that may be too much to ask even of someone as generous as Ed, and definitely too much to ask of him. A lack of color and variety he can live with, but sack cloth is a step too far.

Ed laughs at his alarmed expression and hides his face in the crook of his neck, keeps shaking with laughter against him.

"Seriously, Stede," he says once he's calmed down. "You can wear whatever you want. 'Slong as it's what you want, I'll love it. I love you."

Love thrums golden through Stede's veins at the acceptance, at the praise and adoration he's been showered with all night. It pools warm in his heart and lulls him pleasantly to sleep in Ed's arms.

"Love you, too," he whispers right before sleep claims him.

[jupiterswasphouse]

WASP REVIEW - WASPS (GROUNDED)

[Image IDs: A screenshot and a render of the wasps from Grounded /End IDs.]

Now this is a game I've been interested in for a while, one that has a rather large and lively cast of bugs throughout it, all viewed from an up close perspective (although one that is often detrimental to the player character)! This, of course, includes plenty of wasps, specifically for the purposes of this review, those directly referred to as Wasps, including the Drones and Queen. Now, some of you who have read these reviews before may be wondering "Ms. Jupiter, doesn't this game also have bees? You usually cover those too, if they're present!", and that is true! I will be covering the bees as well, however, I will be doing so at a later date, alongside the ants! Unfortunately I've neglected ants for some time now (despite also being, taxonomically speaking, wasps, as Formicidae evolved directly from Vespoidea), due to not knowing as much about this subset of species. I'm still learning, but excited to look into them more, so be sure to tune in later for the Grounded revisit!

For the time being, lets start this review the same way we always do, taking a look at their appearance. It's clear to me that the face of this wasp is based directly on the yellowjacket species Vespula germanica, with the distinctive trio of black spots on its clypeus (the broad front sclerite plate above the mandible). The mesosoma markings seem to support this theory, although the metasoma makes things a bit less clear. One could argue those markings do bear some resemblance to the spots on V. germanica as well, although they're far from the same.

[Image Sources: Wikimedia Commons, Entomart, and Wikimedia Commons, no further source information provided | Image IDs: A photo of the face of a Vespula germanica yellowjacket, followed by a screenshot of a dead Wasp in Grounded, followed after that by another image of Vespula germanica, this one in front of a pure white background /End IDs.]

The legs should also have a black marking around the coxa, trochanter, and femur if this is the case. Speaking of the legs, they're mostly accurate, but there should be one more short tarsal segment than there is. The antennae are close as well, but should have more segmentation on the flagellum than they do here. Furthermore, the eyes aren't quite the right shape, and they should be black, rather than the oddly glowing red they are in this game. The presence of ocelli, ie simple eyes, is unclear. Lastly, it's missing some distinct yellowjacket fuzz! Overall, though, I feel like this is close enough to correct! Certainly much closer than last week's example, that's for sure.

Although, these are just the standard Wasps! There's also, for one, the Wasp Queen!

[Image IDs: Two screenshots of the Wasp Queen from Grounded /End IDs.]

It's mostly the same exact story here, except for a few points. Notably, I can see the ocelli on top of the head more clearly on this model, and the initial leg segments have all the black markings they should now! The facial markings, though, while admittedly closer to a real Vespula germanica queen's markings than to a worker's, aren't quite right, with its asymmetrical and oddly placed spots. On top of that, the Queen, for whatever reason, has antennae with a yellow scape and pedicel but black flagellum, when the entire antenna should be black.

[Image Source: NatureSpot, David Nichols | Image ID: A photo of a Vespula germanica yellowjacket, more than likely a queen, on the end of a green-leafed plant /End ID.]

Lastly, we have the Wasp Drones, and, realistically, these guys should look very similar to their sisters, just a bit smaller than the queen and bigger than the workers, and with longer antennae. But, strangely, these guys don't seem to have longer antennae at all, but do have different coloration, with red in place of black, as well as yellow tips on their flagella, on top of having this sort of odd bend in them as well. It honestly brings to mind the mental image of a yellowjacket mixed with an executioner wasp (Polistes carnifex).

[Image Sources: iNaturalist, Eric van drn Berghe, and DeviantArt, Eldar Zakirov | Image IDs: A screenshot of a Wasp Drone from Grounded, followed by two photos, one of a Vespula germanica yellowjacket drone on a small branch, and the other of a Polistes carnifex paper wasp on a wooden board /End IDs.]

I think that's all that can really be said in regards to that, however, so let's now discuss their nesting behaviors, and honestly, it's a little bit strange. There appears to be one main nest, within which the Wasp Queen resides and can be summoned to fight, looking about like a standard yellowjacket nest (enclosed structure, vaguely teardrop shaped), oddly found inside of an old bin. But, there are also much smaller nests found throughout the yard, in a more paper wasp type configuration (open structure, umbrella shaped). This would be entirely normal, if they belonged to different species, of different subfamilies or at different stages of construction, but they don't, and, in fact, every small nest comes with only two Workers and one Drone, with no additional Queens to be found, seemingly all under one collective hive.

[Image Sources: Ohio State University, Joe Boggs, and Flickr, Bob Peterson | Image IDs: A screenshot of the main nest in Grounded, followed by a render of a small nest. These are then further followed by photos of a nest of Baldfaced Hornets, which are actually a type of yellowjacket, and a nest of paper wasps, species Polistes major, subspecies major /End IDs.]

The interior of the main nest is also a little strange, but it's not too far off, appearing to have proper layers of cells on the inside. The nests themselves seem ok, though notably different from each other, but this nesting behavior is odd no matter how you slice it. I've heard of multiple queens/foundresses working together under one hive in some Vespidae/Polistinae species (Polistes fuscatus, Polistes dominula, Parachartergus colobopterus, and potentially others), but not one queen ruling over multiple nests simultaneously.

With regards to their behavior outside of nesting, they seem to be notably more aggressive than the real thing would be towards something as small as the player character (which they're not trying to hunt), at least comparatively to how I've observed wild Vespids to be. I've witnessed various different creatures pass by Vespid nests at relatively close distance with no issue. Speaking of their aggression, each variant of these wasps has its own offensive and defensive behaviors as well!

The standard worker Wasps have the sting and bite you would expect, yellowjackets being known for both while defending and hunting, but they also have... A venom shot projectile. It's odd just how common this is to see in video game wasps! It's an interesting attack, yes, but it's also a notably inaccurate thing, only being an ability found in a select few ants, as mentioned in certain reviews. I do have to mention that there is one alleged incident of an Asian giant hornet spraying venom into someone's eye, but given this appears to be an isolated incident with not a lot of research done regarding it, I'm more inclined to believe this was an instance of incidental venom discharge from an "angry" (defensive) wasp.

When it comes to the Wasp Drones, they have two abilities themselves. One of these is the aforementioned projectile, which is even more odd for them, as male wasps (the drones) do not have venom due to not possessing stingers. The other ability, however, is a scream that applies beneficial status effects to them and their wasps. The ability that they and their sisters have to create somewhat complex vocalizations is odd, as most noise-making wasps have simple stridulating chirps, and these species do not include yellowjackets! Side note, their loot table also includes Wasp Paper, which is something that drones would not typically be out collecting.

Finally, the Wasp Queen mostly has similar attacks, those being stings and projectiles, with a scream that summons worker Wasps and Wasp Drones (usually, in the real world, they'd be summoned to attack with pheromones or just with the fact an invader is in their nest at all). Although she does have a couple more things that can deal damage to the player, the first being landing on the player, and the second being POISON BOMBS, FOR SOME REASON. I don't think I need to tell you guys this, but yellowjackets and other wasps are not capable of producing noxious projectile explosives in the real world.

Now, for the first time in this series of reviews, we get to talk about attack weaknesses! and, strangely enough, these wasps are resistant against Chopping, Stabbing, Slashing, Explosive, and Spicy attacks, but are weak against Salt of all things? I can't speak for real world yellowjackets' ability to take proportionally small explosions and sharp weapons, but insects in general are known for having an extreme distaste for capsaicin. As for salt... I mean come on, they're not snails, it may be harmful if it got into an open wound but they still need salt to live, and are in fact often attracted to sources of salt.

In conclusion, they have quite a few features that are fairly accurate! But they made quite a few decisions that baffle me as someone who takes a loving interest in these creatures. Visually, their markings can be notably off but their body structure is almost entirely accurate, meanwhile their behaviors often quite odd. So, my rating for these wasps would have to be...

-

Overall: 6/10

-

Leave your wasp review suggestion in the replies, tags, or askbox!

[brightsstar]

Felt like revisiting Organic Eclipse.

This time with his cats. And Starstrike as a cat.

I said Starstrike can make themself look like whatever they want, and that includes making themself a cat if they want.

Eclipse had a rough day and Starstrike wanted to cheer him up. And look, he has his old outfit again! Not the same one, but the jacket is from his own line of merch. He finally got merch when Fazbear Ent realized how popular he's gotten. Nova, Dusk, Badger, Raptor, and Lunar also have their own merch as well.

Misto and Feather are the other two cats. I may change Misto's pendant later. They're just doing typical sibling stuff. I'll give the cats collars, even though we don't have collars on any of them irl (except our newest kitten: Jasper)

I don't exactly have a drawn reference for Starstrike's colors in cat form rn, but i did make them in Warrior Cats: Ultimate Edition a while ago. They look something like this.

Third picture is there cuz in the other ones, they have throat fur blocking the collar.

[tarisilmarwen]

Rebels Rewatch: “Vision of Hope“

Plot threads coming together as we approach the home stretch and season finale arc, lets explore some sewers today!

Kanan has deemed it safe enough to enlist help training Ezra again.  Fortunately this time they are solidly on the ground and taking precautions. XD

This exercise is a little bit similar to the one Anakin put Ahsoka through in Trials of the Jedi.  Only, you know, it has an actual achievable goal and endpoint (redirecting a blaster bolt into the target helmet) and Kanan doesn’t force Ezra to keep getting knocked unconscious over and over again.

Nice detail in Ezra sensing bolts coming and ducking, moving before they even remotely reach him.

Please help him, he’s so tired.

Seeing that Ezra’s distracted, Kanan calls a brief halt.  I do wonder if Ezra’s own anticipation of catching Gall Trayvis’s broadcast, while he’s open to the Force and letting it help him deflect and dodge shots, is what triggered his vision.

The boy does tend to accident his way into Force breakthroughs lol.

This full-body eyeroll is such a typical teenager thing.

The “Shenanigans” leitmotif comes in here, in playful synths.  Then the Force ring sound effects starts and it crashes to a halt with a note of cymbal percussion.  The strings take over with high frantic ascending trills that drop away into the full-on soundscape of Force noises, only a strained trumpet bleeting out halting notes of Ezra’s theme.

There’s a pulsing heartbeat sound underneath everything too.  Also love the wavering effect on the sides of the screen to indicate the vision.

The amazement when Kanan tells Ezra he deflected every single shot into the helmet, aww.

He looks so proud.

You know in hindsight it’s really not surprising that Kanan assumed Ezra had graduated to tracking through the Force in “Legacy”, given how often the kid had already surprised him. XD

His face.  *sobs*

I haven’t been commenting on it much but pay attention to whenever the titlecard pops up without its normal bombastic fanfare.  Usually a sign that things are serious.  I remember we went a solid streak of like five episodes in Season Four without a single fanfare and it was STRESSFUL.

Kanan brings up the very likely possibility that Ezra’s desires are coloring his vision, making him see what he wants to see out of it, which again goes to show why the Jedi teach discipline and clarity of mind when tapping into the Force.  You bring your own emotions and junk into the connection with you and they can trick you even more than the already cryptic and vague visions can.  “Your focus determines your reality.”

We’ll revisit this concept later in the series.

Zeb going for a headsmack while Sabine chooses a shoulder bump.  Sabine has this adorable devilish grin right before she lays it on him.  It turns softer and more playful as she passes.

Ezra smacks Zeb back as he runs into the Ghost, cute.

Subtle animation appreciation moment: The way Ezra twirls his helmet before sitting down, lovely little character touches like this make the animation feel more natural and immersive and realistic.

Hngh, Ezra’s eagerness in these early scenes hurts.

Lol, Sabine leans in when Ezra mentions the mural, the artist in her is intrigued.  And without missing a beat she pulls up the correct schematic.

This is the biased shipper in me but I’m loving their comfortable proximity, you can see Sabine slip out of her seat in the booth and kneel or crouch next to Ezra who’s on the stool.

Kanan once again warning Ezra not to put too much stock in his vision and Hera raising an eyebrow like, “Mais, c’est quoi?”

“He had a what now?”

Hi Zare!

Zare is exiting state left into his own spinoff adventure lol.  (Really gotta get myself a copy of his books.)

Ezra’s eyes are really pretty this episode.

The crew talking about Ezra’s tragic backstory. :(

That old Ralph McQuarrie concept art put to use in lovely fashion.

*has a plan*

*DOUBT.jpeg*

And Chopper straight up murdered his first other droid lol.  And also very nearly takes Kanan’s head off.

The sass on this droid. XD

Always found it cute how Ezra doesn’t get indignant or offended by Sabine implying he smells like the sewers but glees up like it’s the most exciting thing in the world that she’s paid enough attention to him to tell.

Even Kanan’s like, “Okay, can you not be embarrassing about your obvious crush for like two seconds?”

Hi Trayvis, you dirty lying snake. :)

This shot of Ezra and Kanan igniting their lightsabers together for the first time is pretty sweet.

“Padawan Jabba.”  Snrk, love that Kallus remembered that.

Oooooh lookit the way Zeb’s bo-staff lights up the smoke!

Hera’s blaster has a very unique sound that I like.

The “Shenanigans” cue comes back but it is a lot less fun and upbeat.  Some of the chords sound transposed to minor key.

Trayvis starting pinging me the moment we saw him in person, honestly, just something about him and the way he talked was way too slimy but his hesitance to actually escape here definitely got me suspicious.

Good thing Kanan was reviewing blaster bolt deflection earlier lol.

SNAAAAAAAAKE.

NO ONE LIKES YOU. >:(

“How will you find us?”  “I can smell you, remember?” <3333333

Love to see Sabine initiating the banter for once.

Even Hera is like, “THAT’S CUTE GUYS BUT WE GOTTA GO.”

Trayvis digging for leads to other Rebel factions like the lying rat he is. >:(

Aaaaaand this is why Hera doesn’t tell the others anything, Ezra’s so eager to believe Trayvis is an ally that he’s just talking openly in front of him.  Disaster averted only because Ezra thinks the Ghost crew is literally all there is.

Subtle animation appreciation moment: The consistent wafts of air from the fan that blow Ezra’s hair.

The sharp-eyed can tell that Hera adjusts something on her blaster moments before handing it to Trayvis.

EVERY SINGLE SHOT OF THE BETRAYED LOOK ON EZRA’S FACE HURTS ME PHYSICALLY AND PERSONALLY.

Bbbbyyyyyyyyyy. :((((((((((((

Hera’s furious Mama Bear haymaker to Trayvis’s face is... satisfying.

I love the sound Ezra’s saber makes when it’s turned on, it sound so unique to normal lightsaber ignitions.

And then there’s one last distorted iteration of the “Shenanigans” cue and Ezra’s death glare game continues to be on point.

Hera’s turn to comfort Ezra this time, though Kanan’s flat, “I saw this bratty kid who constantly caused me trouble.” gets a chuckle out of him first.

“Shenanigans“ comes back, properly in the woodwinds section and major key again to close us out.

Oof.  This episode isn’t one I particularly rewatch that often, since it’s kind of a bummer.  Our potential ally turns out to be a fraud and a spy, all the work the crew has done only seeming to put bigger and bigger targets on their backs.  But this is a franchise about hope, about enduring until the dawn breaks, so our heroes escape to lick their wounds, regroup, encourage each other, and try again.

And next episode they make some big splashes.  Boy oh boy. :)

[vdragon-creations]

TMayNT Day 18: Human Version of The Turtles

Day 18 of @tmaynt Prompt: Human version of the turtles!

So these took a bit longer then i expected to, but most of that was due to trying to get the skin colors right! A lot of folks head canon the turtles as POC's, mostly in reference to RISE and MM. But I could really see that in about all of them honestly. So I hope this looks good!

(Side Note: Am whiter then sour cream guys, with the most color I have in my fam is Cherokee native on my sperm donor side. I'm using this as practice for more skin colors. Any tips and critique you might have would be nice.)

But, with that out of the way, I wanna talk a little about my thought process with these designs! I wanted to go with them being mixed race, mostly Asian with either a dash of African American or even Latino in there. And I was trying to lean more on the 2003 TMNT as my main inspiration for these guys! As well as a few headcanons younger me had when I was younger about what they would look like! So let's get into each one!

Leo: I knew that with him, I still wanted to give him a more obvious "Ninja" look to him! Especially since, they're humans in this AU and not Turtles, I don't think Splinter would be HAVING to teach his sons martial arts as they wouldn't really NEED to defend themselves. Still tho, seeing how much of a father's boy Leo is, I could see him wanting to learn from him anyway. Just out of principle. He's got dark bluish gray eyes, and keeps his long hair in a ponytail! I complete his look with a scar along his shoulder and cheek. (Perhaps a childhood accident. Rough housing too much with Raph.) I also sprinkle a few freckles on his shoulders too, cause...they cute! QvQ

Raph: Now, you know this kid is a little punk. He's defiantly the rebel of the family! I knew I wanted to give him a ripped vest from the beginning, and I added a scar on his face as well. (Probably from the same rough housing with Leo, idk.) Also, you will never convince me that this boy doesn't have a piercing, or maybe a tattoo somewhere hidden. (Splinter would kill him if he ever saw it, after all he nearly did after the piecing and died hair.) But, despite all the roughness, he's topped off with pretty green eyes, freckles, and a tiny little beauty mark right on his jaw.

Donnie: Oh my baby boy! He's defiantly the most plain looking out of his brothers. Plain purple sweater and glasses, he doesn't scream outrageous like Mikey! And why should he? He's too busy with building things in his spare time to give a shit about looks! Shown by the oil stains on his shirt, really messy hair he keeps in a low ponytail, and eyebags so big that if it weren't for his (Admittedly) pretty golden eyes, you'd think he only had dark sockets on his face. And of course, cute nerdy freckles pepper his face! (Cause I'm predictable!)

Mikey: By far the most colorful (and obvious) out of his brothers! Splinter wasn't too happy when he and Raph both decided to dye their hair and get piercings, but it sure didn't stop them! Mikey really wanted to embody the "Surfer Dude" look, and he sure pulled it off! Long Blonde hair? Check! Shark Tooth Neckless? Check! Rad Shades? Double Check! (Rarely actually worn tho, gotta make sure the Dudes & Dudettes see those beautiful bright blue eyes!) He also started carrying around a set of headphones that Donnie made personally for him!

Maybe I'll revisit these guys at a later date, cause I do really dig the designs! And I think they would make they're own neat little AU! (I may even toss my OC Sasha in there some day! Been wanting to make a few human versions of her anyway. Hell, in some versions she was a human starting out anyway. So tis very needed!)

[azulera]

The Experiment

Pairing: Emile Smith Rowe x Black Reader

Summary: Emile's kisses require scientific investigation.

Notes: Scavenged this out of my drafts in honor of u21s winning euros 🎉 if only the 1st team could do the same, anyways can u tell how badly i wanna give ESR a k*ss … my yardie … arsepool is real

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

After the first kiss, in the morning, his lips were still tingly, and you could taste the traces of cool mint toothpaste. He’d rolled from bed before you, up early for treatment, which may have sabotaged things from the start.

“You changed it?”

“Changed what?” He asked from the wardrobe, pulling his training kit top overhead.

“The toothpaste. It was cinnamon before, now it’s mint.”

“We were runnin out.” He shrugged. “But I didn’t mean to wake you. Be back around three later.”

You nodded, trying to shake the sleep from your body. “I probably won’t get out from the lab until six. So may I have another kiss, please? A proper one.”

“Needy girl” Emile tutted, but leaned down to meet you anyway, trying not to smile. You held on, turning his one soft peck into two more, and then holding your mouth to his, muffling his sound of surprise.

“I’ve gotta go, bab— baby, mm–”

“I know, just one — more.” You pulled back, with a deep sigh and Emile’s hand somehow tangled in the back of your sleep scarf. “There. Have a good day.”

When he stepped out the door, gently touching his mouth, you flopped back down on the bed. Grabbing your phone from the nightstand, you opened the notes app, and typed away.

~~~

The drive from the lab to Colney was a quick one, and you caught Emile just before lunch finished. He sat in the passenger seat with a smoothie in hand and questions in his eyes.

“What? I wanted to see you. Ain’t that allowed?”

His face was still frost-bitten from the cold, and his lips were redder than ever as they split around a smirk.

“Yeah. Just weren’t expecting you, is all.”

“Well, here I am. How’s the day going?”

You turned toward him in the seat, tuned in as he began the story of how he'd nutmegged Bukayo twice in the same rondo and then got him again later during five aside. You wrapped a hand behind the back of his neck, rubbing into the tendons as he mentioned his lack of playing time, and the frustrating conversations he’d had with the coaching staff concerning it. The hand moved around to cup his chin, thumb moving over his bottom lip when he’d finished speaking.

“Your lips are still so cold, Emi. Let me warm them up.”

“What?” You had leaned over the center console, bringing your other hand to catch along his cheek. “What do you mean?”

“I’m saying can I kiss you?”

“I mean,” Emile licked his lips, eyes darting around the empty training lot. “I mean, yeah.”

You grinned and leaned in, bringing your mouths together gently. A few brushes of tongue later, things were not so gentle, and you hummed when his hands came to grip around your waist, pulling you towards his lap.

“Hold on, this is mad,” He breathed. “Feel like I’m back in year 11.”

“You were snogging girls in the car in year 11?”

“Nah, no,” He kissed your cheek once, fingers still pressed into your hip. “Never. Was straight on football.”

“Right, whatever you say.” You had released him, and settled back into your seat. “How much time until you need to be back?”

“Like 15 minutes. But under 18s will be on that field right there in like five.”

“Okay,” You snuck one more kiss to the corner of his mouth, then revisited the notes app, while Emile checked his cheeks for lip gloss marks, and tried to regulate his breathing. “Tell me about the nutmeg again?”

~~~

By the time Emile disentangled himself from the final kiss, the fifth of the last five minutes, the twentieth of the day, he had developed some concerns. But they didn’t stop his chest from thumping, or blood from spreading warm through his veins, coloring his cheeks a rose tint that matched his lips. He licked over them once, and your eyes tracked the movement.

“Are you alright, babes? You’re mad … affectionate, today.”

“What you mean?” You questioned, halfhearted, already arcing back in towards his mouth. The wood of the dining chair creaked beneath your combined weight, finished dinner plates catching the overhead light.

“It’s just—“ He took a deep breath, trying to repress the tingles shooting down his spine from your nails along his collarbone. “You been sort of – all over me, innit. All day.”

“It’s a problem, then?” You frowned, your chests still pressed together, and noticing your own face was hot, around your ears and down through to your chest.

“Nah! No! Not at all, I’m just,” You pressed your lips to a spot just under his ear, and then his chin. “I was just sayin. An observation, you know.”

“Well, if you must know, it’s–” Your mind whirred, searching for some explanation beyond ‘I’m kind of obsessed with your lips’ or ‘I might be addicted to kissing you’. “It’s for science. Yeah, it’s all purely empirical. Wanted to know … when the best time to kiss you is– in the morning, afternoon, or night.”

You trailed a line of them along his jaw while you spoke, and felt him shiver.

“For science” he echoed, distracted but thinking back through the events of the day, and your generally nerdy tendencies, and saw how it made sense.

He didn’t, however, answer beyond that, as he was caught up again in the warm slide of your mouth. When he could, he cursed, and let out a shaky breath.

“S’like an experiment, innit.”

“Precisely.”

“So what’s the results?”

“Huh?” You asked, thoughts gone hazy, and bordering on annoyed at the continued gap between your mouth and his.

“The results of your experiment. When’s the best time?”

“Oh, um …” You bit your lip, not wanting to break the heated embrace to find your phone. The answer was simple anyway - all the day’s data pointed to one conclusion. “All the time. It’s always a good time to kiss you.”

Emile laughed, blushing an even darker pink, and sliding his hands up your thighs, “Yeah?”

“Yeah. But what do you think?”

He met your eyes, his baby blues full of amusement, and love, and something more. Then he stood up from the chair, carrying you along with him.

“Think I’ve got an idea for experiment number two.”

[screen-universe-official-thingie]

Plague Doctor Cindy!

Hi, I drew this concept art sheet thing shortly after drawing the Butcher!Aurora art and I took a break after that. Sorry I didn't post this one immediately.

Edit: Some close ups and extra commentary have been added

Rambling below (TW: medical subject matter like diseases and surgery, death, delusions, and cannibalism)

Meta wise, she started out as a mad scientist for the sake of being a mad scientist by listening to Novocaine by Cree-P and GHOST, and Black Box Warrior-OKULTRA by Will Wood. I just imagined Cinderella going too hard or harsh on Lady Tremaine, her patient/ser-worker/co-star, with her research, experiments, and surgeries out of frustration, stress, and madness. Hell, I would not be surprised if she tried lobotomy at some point during her side jig/job as a doctor.

But ever since I listened to Butcher Vanity by Vane and Flavour Foley, Cinderella later grew to be more than just a plain old mad doctor as I revisited her Screen Universe para concept and explore what her deal is. From why exactly did she fall into this path, to her relationships with the characters related or relevant to her story. She became another tragic character. This time, someone who developed an obsession with finding a cure for the prions after it "ate up" her once villain co-worker friend with in-character or canon compliant delusions.

Some close ups

The other state was meant to say production as well, but I'm too lazy to fix the typo now

Cindy with the Bok-su pose is slightly cursed ngl, but it keeps living in my head rent free. The fact that they're both doctors doesn't make it any better ToT

Eldritch Cinderelly (the note says healthy because their true forms's color and brightness changes if they get certain health conditions. In this one, she should have been a bit dimmer and grayer due to the Discontinuation Rot)

Herbs and spices stuffed in the beak like a true plague doctor. Though, Cindy does this for different reasons. Instead of the original reasoning where the herbs will ward off the plague, she does this to replace the smell of burning and rotting flesh with as much fragrance as possible. It also puts her at ease

Stolen Ideas Inspo :>

How it'd look like under her apron/dress thing

Goggles stuff for eye protection

Eyes. Eye eyeballed (eh? eh?) her eye color because I can not find a good proper close up of her face and eyes in the official material and the coloring in the og movie looks a bit inconsistent at times.

Screen shots from the ID server itself again of course

OKULTRA cranking up the mad doctor inspiration (ft. Novocaine starting the whole thing prior to listing to OKULTRA)

I think this one is still pre-butcher vanity arc

meme

Typical Disney para behaviour

more Cinderella angst lore because yes

A shit ton of other paras have not so healthy relationships with their characters at this point. They include, but not limited to some Pokemon characters, and SpongeBob.

Health anxiety go brrrr

This is from when Butcher Vanity arc or obsession hit around. It expanded her lore and everything. It was a game changer for this specific para tbh. I think this is about four months after posting the past Cindy rambles shown in the previous screenshots

Ok, this one is from an ID adjacent server, but I feel like this is still a bit relevant to the whole thing

(Also from the ID adjacent server) Ok, this one is kinda complicated since I mentioned another para who had something to do with a different Disney centered subplot that somehow affected the plot and lore of the entire paracosm. Basically, Snow White helped one of her ser-workers to found a cult and... everything went downhill and batshit insane from there. Ruined or fucked over the entire government and all... you may either dig through my casual account for the answer or ask through the Screen Universe blog about it.

Bonus: A joke relevant to the whole Cinderella x Sleeping Beauty ft. prion plague debacle arc/subplot (I found this god damn image from Pinterest and I captioned it as "Cinderella and Aurora")

TLDR: 1950 Disney princess becomes a mad plague doctor, grows into another tragic para, becomes vegan as a trauma response, loses her villain patient to the plague's delusions, goes off into a deep end after burning said patient, despises cannibals, and turns into their world's equivalent to a veteran in a "has seen the origins of modern day problems and the horrors of war" way but the war is the plague from the distant past.

[nalyra-dreaming]

Love your blog!! hopefully this makes sense⬇️

Do you also find it frustrating that people don’t understand or ignore the interconnectedness of the relationships in iwtv? I keep seeing people say they fear relationships are being shoehorned into season two specifically Lesmand and DM.

But it’s confusing to me that people only want a Loumand season because both characters in that relationship are heavily influenced by their relationships with Lestat. So to me, it’s kind of impossible to understand those characters in the Paris and Dubai timelines without seeing flashbacks and revisiting scenes. Armand’s past deserves to be shown, as it will influence his relationship with Daniel and Louis. Which means that we need flashbacks to DM and Lesmand (even Marius).

Season one is slightly different because Loustat is the relationship which introduces us to the characters. They got the main focus because you don’t want the first season to feel overwhelming showing loads of timelines and relationships to casual viewers. The end of season one introduces us to Loumand and season two will show their story which means Lestat being shown as he’s vital to their past.

Maybe it’s just the hardcore shippers worried about this stuff? I understand people wanting their favourite couples having screen time. I trust Rolin Jones he will do them all justice. I just want to see vampires being absolute freaks in every era no matter what the ship.

I don’t know if I articulated my point properly but I hope you get what I mean.

I think I do :) (And glad you like!)

The thing is... this show is not like the others. In a good way. It's color-conscious, it's not shying away from the difficult stuff, it puts its proverbial fingers into wounds, and it clearly, obviously does not simplify the relationships.

Said it yesterday, but who would've thought we would get this. Honestly.

So... I can understand why that is something that needs to get used to by "casual show only viewers". I get it.

And on top of the show and its approach you have a source material which does not shy away from anything either. Like, Anne Rice was ... something. Definitely not unproblematic, but also fucking fearless.

And the combination of this... dense and vivid source material in combination with this kind of approach?!

It's just something that's not really been on screen before, imho.

Show of the decade, and all that :)

This combination is also why the show may be so hard to grasp for many more casual viewers, or even book readers who have maybe "only" read the first few books. Because the show is not doing only the first few books. It's doing the big arcs. It's putting in hooks, "seeds" as Assad called them iirc, to be taken up later, to come fully into play only much later.

There is a plan behind it all.

And I think that's amazing.

So to come back to the "shipping" - I have ranted about this before^^, but all the "ships" are valid in the VC. That is another thing that sets it apart from other medias and shows I think.

And that is something fandom in general might not be quite "used to" either. Because a ship does not usually need to be canon or valid in the source material to be shipped.

But here?^^

There is no need to fight or defend, or establish or justify.

They just are.

Yes I do find it frustrating at times, especially with the time that has past between seasons... but I also understand it.

It's just not like (in) other shows and that will take getting used to.

I think the show will let them be the "freaks" in every era though, and I think that's very, very beautiful :)))

[perfectpaperbluebirds]

Sicktember #12

Prompt: Old Wives Tale

Fandom/OCs: Science Lovers OCs (Peter and Violet)

Words: 1360

Sicknario inspo: Catching cold after doing something foolhardy from this post and caretaker being sneezed on from this post (both posts by @sickromancer !)

Author’s comments/background: So many characters that I only write for Sicktember, but it’s such a treat to revisit them. I loved Peter and Violet’s first story so much (read it here), and watching them grow up is delightful to me. So here’s another domestic drabble set in the Victorian era. 

~~~***~~~

Peter and Violet were sitting by the pond behind their tiny home, enjoying the late autumn sunset. They were dressed for warmth, since the wind had more than a hint of winter on it, but it was a beautiful, sunny day and they knew they wouldn't have many more of those. The married couple spoke little, enjoying the silence and each other's company. Peter had been staring at the surface of the water contemplatively, when suddenly his eyes lit up. He was on his feet in a moment, crouching at the edge of the pond with rapt stillness, carefully sliding out of his jacket.

"Peter? What is it?" Violet asked, feeling the need to whisper. 

He gestured for her to be silent, his attention fixed on something at the center of the pond. They sat frozen in silence, Violet waiting for some sign as to what was happening, when out of nowhere, Peter dove into the water. The motion was so unexpected that Violet stood with a gasp, rushing to the pond's edge, hands over her mouth, but Peter appeared a moment later, grinning triumphantly with something clenched in his fist. He waded to the bank crowing with pride:

"I found one! The final specimen needed to complete our frog study! We've been looking all summer but none of the lads have even seen this breed and we'd all but given up. It's past the season for them, really. I've no idea what she's doing here now, but she's a winner, big and fat! She'll look tremendous at the exhibition."

"Oh Peter, but your clothes! You're covered in filthy, stinking pond water now. And it's freezing! You're going to catch your death behaving so."

He came fully out of the water, all of him now sopping wet and colored various shades of green and brown. "They're just clothes," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "They'll wash, and so will my skin. Besides, Britain's scientific community will benefit much from our exhibition. I'd say the contribution we're making is worth a few ruined shirts," he said, almost pleadingly, as if begging her to agree with him. 

Violet glared at him, hands on her hips, not so easily swayed. "Just you wait, sir," she said, shaking her head. "You'll sing a different tune when you've caught a beastly cold from acting like a child, and I'll not feel one whit sorry for you. Diving into dirty ponds in October indeed. Why must women be vexed with men?"

Peter was already shivering in the cold air, but he cradled the frog tenderly, being careful not to injure it. “Vi, dearest, you needn't be cross. I want to be excited, and I don’t want to spoil the day by quarreling with you. I'll see to my clothes so it's not a worry on you. And you of all people, with all your training in medicine, should know that I mightn’t get sick just from getting wet. The new research from John Snow and others says that microscopic organisms are the cause of illness, not air and weather. I read you that journal just last week, don't you remember? You see, I'm sure I’ll be just fine. And right now my only wish is that you'd be happy along with me!"

Violet sighed, but a smile twitched the corners of her mouth against her will. He was so sweet and earnest as he spoke, just as he’d been when they first met. “Oh go on, then. I’m pleased you found your precious frog. But come, now, you must get cleaned up. They may be saying that weather doesn’t cause illness, but I’d rather we not tempt fate.”

Peter willingly followed her to the house, but wouldn’t see to himself until he had secured his prize to ensure she would stay well until he was ready to dress her for display. Meanwhile, Violet wouldn’t let him in the door until he had stripped down naked and been doused with a few buckets of water to remove the worst of the slime. As she was helping him disentangle himself from his sodden shirt, he froze. Just as she was about to ask him if he was well, he sneezed harshly, trying to turn away from her, mostly unsuccessfully. His nose was immediately running from the sneeze, but he had nothing to wipe it with other than his filthy shirt. She hastily handed him her own handkerchief, unable to keep a smug look from her face. 

“You’ll say that sneeze was a coincidence, I’m sure, but I’ll not wonder the cold water is already having its way with you, foolish man.”

Peter made an annoyed sound. “It's only the water and slime in my nose. I’m not taking ill. Illness from the cold is an old wive’s tale now. Just you wait and see.”

~~~

Wait she did, and her reward was to see him come down with a beauty of a head cold in two days’ time. He continued to insist the foreign stuff from the pond in his nose made him sick, though, not the cold air and water. Violet kept her opinion to herself, and tried not to be too smug. Anyway, it was hard to be angry when Peter was so happy. His frog and the completion of his collection thrilled him, and he earned the unabashed admiration of his friends for his boldness and quick action. (His clothes and shoes were a loss in the end, but he paid for new from his own pocket with good grace.) The amphibian was a fine specimen to be sure, and everyone was certain she would be the crowning jewel of the exhibition. 

Amidst all the excitement, though, Peter was a sniffling, sneezing, shivering mess and within a week he was unable to leave the house due to how poorly he was feeling. Putting aside her own feelings, Violet gave his cold the best care she could, for Peter's colds turned feverish at the slightest provocation. One night during the worst of it he could hardly draw breath for the clogging congestion in his chest and sinuses (worse than usual even for him, and this she could easily attribute to the pond water), so she drew him a hot bath for his feet and kept him wrapped in quilts as he soaked in the steam to keep the sickly shivers at bay, with a clean stack of handkerchiefs near at hand. He sniffled and sneezed and generally carried on, though she knew he was doing his best not to, so that her heart melted for him, even when he managed to sneeze or nearly sneeze on her almost every time she was near. 

"Thangk you, dearest," he managed as she placed a bowl of stew near at hand. "I'mb sorry to incodvedience you, and I appreciade your care as always." 

His earnest, watering eyes above a pink, runny nose were so endearing that she could only kiss his temple fondly. " 'Tis no trouble, for you're an easier patient than most. I'll not even waste my breath telling you never to do anything so foolhardy in the name of science again, because I know you would do it over a hundred times, given the same circumstance. So I must content myself with helping you take care in the aftermath." 

He gave her a sheepish smile, scrubbing a wrist across his upper lip absently. "You do such an excellent job of idt. I'mb mbost fortunade. 

She had to laugh. "I can hardly listen to you when your voice is so. You're completely pitiful when you've caught cold, my dear. I simply can't bear it." She pressed another kiss to his hair as his lips formed a pout.

"You ndeedn't treadt mbe like a child," he muttered. Yet he let his weight fall against her as she continued to stroke his hair. 

"Perhaps if you didn't go jumping into ponds in your shoes and trousers like a child, I'd be less inclined to do so."

He pulled away from her to glare, but she continued to work her fingers through his hair, smiling to show she was only teasing. He leaned against her once more, mollified. She continued her ministrations to his scalp for a long while until, sick as he was, he fell fast asleep against her.