#inspired by an old convo in the discord

[mechieonu]

blooper reel

It starts like this:

The fire's roaring. There's smoke everywhere, enough to choke on it. Chance is laid out on the ground, and Mike looks up to see Springtrap dropping the vent cover and striding forward. Immediately, he catches Mike by the shoulders and keeps striding until his back hits the ladder, until the metal rungs ring sharp and painful.

Debris is falling around the both of them, whole layers of ceiling peeling away, plaster dust mingling with the smoke and setting along his shoulders like snowfall. But when he tries to break himself free, all he earns is what'll likely be a bruise on his shoulder to discover later. If there's a later.

Springtrap studies him, leans in close, too close, glowing eyes ticking over his features, and Mike has a terrible, terrible thought forming in the back of his head.

And then:

"Sooo," Mike says conversationally, as Springtrap's expression contorts instantly, "are we gonna kiss, or…?"

The rabbit stares. Mike makes a questioning gesture. And then, frustratedly, Springtrap groans and releases Mike, who's already starting to laugh.

"CUT!"

The set bell rings, the mics lift, the fire stops, and so does the falling ceiling.

"Oh my god." Springtrap tips his head forward onto Mike's shaking shoulder. "EVERY TIME."

"I—"

"EVERY TIME, THIS HAPPENS."

"Oh, come on," Mike laughs into his ash-powdered hand, "you've got to admit it was a little funny."

"No, no, it was," Springtrap agrees, straightening up. He steps aside briefly to allow a set aide to pass. "And that's why I hate it. This happened last time in the saferoom—"

Mike's grin is threatening to crack. "Oh no."

"—and you were trying to cut the cord," Springtrap continues, visibly struggling himself." And you dug through the neck the makeup artists had set up and you said, and I quote: 'Oh my god, it's slime?' in the most wholly affronted tone of voice, and when I said of course it's slime—

"—the mic had ended up too close, and it ended up projecting everything through the whole studio," Mike finishes, gasping. "And everyone heard it, It was on camera! And the look on your face—!"

They stare at each other for the better part of five seconds before dissolving into laughter. Mike doubles over, and Springtrap shakes his head, holding the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

"The point," Springtrap tries to say, after they've both wrangled themselves into composure, "is that you have got to stop making me laugh on set. Now we've got to restart the fire, and—" The set director strides in, carefully patting a little more ash onto Mike's cheek and clothes. "Yes. That."

"Alright," Mike shrugs, but the corners of his lips are still up in a teasing curve. "I'll be sure to ash you next time."

"I hate you," Springtrap says.

"Love you too, man."

[chimugukuru]

Open (Ushi)

"I just love when water goes splash."

[petrichor-edje]

Magical world where blood magic is heavily regulated and/or forbidden - not because it’s considered bad or evil - but because all the mages kept contracting blood-borne pathogens, and for the longest time none of them could figure out why, until some random med student told them.

[elanorpam]

it's been way too long since i last did wildly self-indulgent fanart, so of course i did it for an SVSSS AU that doesn't even have any actual fanfiction written of it yet. but what can i say! it's a compelling scenario! Just check the original post for details!

here's a workplace doodle for his mess of an outfit, too:

Xin Mo is floating behind his back, wrapped in talismans. the collars are meant to be vaguely inspired on a flower bud.

Some notes i came up with for this version, copied straight from a month-old discord convo:

he may have protagonist halo now, but he's for sure not a stallion protagonist. he literally exchanged fates with his favorite person in the world in order to spare them a hellish trial-- that's romantic as fuck!! damn!! this is old CLAMP shoujo and no mistake!!

binghe may no longer be the protag, but he's still a half-heavenly demon. power-wise, heavenly demons can't be topped, and all the remaining heavenly demons are accounted for. so, SQQ can't be a heavenly demon, even in part.

HOWEVER, as a protagonist, there's a factor more important than power! it's the CHUUNI FACTOR. what's more CHUUNI™️ than being part demon?

one option is being part demon and part angel.

how would that even fucking work??????? IDK man, you can either pull from chinese folklore for fairies or heavenly beings or spirits, or you can blame Airplane and go "he accidentally implied the existence of christian elements by means of importing unexamined anime tropes"

Shen Jiu conveniently has a big fat blank on his parentage. We as fans can and have put whatever the hell we wanted there.

SQQ would jump into the abyss still under the impression SJ was a shallow villain. If his trip through the abyss involves recovering SJ's memories somehow, that sure would be fun times, huh?

so he awakens a mysterious ancestry and survives the abyss and takes Xin Mo, but he probably takes longer than Binghe did due to being squishier.

but Xin Mo isn't ACTUALLY his! so he papers it over with sealing talismans, and to battle the temptation to wield it he takes to wearing these longass sleeves. they're probably covered in talismans as well.

guessing Xiu Ya stayed behind to be mooned over by the clown trio in Cang Qiong. let's go full sparkle-sue here and say he's now fighting almost entirely via musical cultivation. i like swan-necked konghou harps so let's go with that, it'll look dope.

why is he barefoot? why WOULDN'T he be, is the question. fragile!! suffering!! dainty!! he's a shrinking flower, tormented by the weight of the One Sword To Rule Them All!!

also for extra pathos, his constant mental struggle against Xin Mo means he can't spare energy to front. it takes constant focus! he's still a bit in his delusional shit, but even when he's going "oh no, binghe is only latched throat-deep onto my dick because he's a good boy who's concerned about me and the danger i could pose by losing control" he'd probably… well, he'd probably say that out loud to anyone who asked. he's in a half-trance, mentally battling the crazy-making sword. lying is too much work.

Wouldn’t resisting Xin Mo’s influence be the mental and spiritual equivalent to training under 400x gravity or something? his wife-beam is going to be off the charts when he puts it down.

also also: who the hell dressed him like that? fucking shang qinghua, of course, after SQQ showed up in the northern palace to punish MBJ for hurting binghe in the conference. did the system explain shit to SQH? on the one hand, extremely funny if it updates him on the role change out of nowhere mid-alliance. on the other hand, extremely funny if he only finds out because Binghe is crying safely in Qing Jing while the scum villain apparently jumped into the abyss.

Here's another link to the original AU post! I've had it open on a tab all this time just so i could point to it when I was done, so make sure to check it out!

[battleangelaelita]

Yet another post-canon Azula plot bunny

This time, with 100% more trans fem energy.

I've actually had this one for a while, and discussed it at length with @jusendork on discord. But due to an unfortunate run-in with malware, and discord support being useless as ever, my account and all the dm convos are lost forever now, so I figured I'd put it up on here so the idea itself does not fall down the memory hole.

So this came as a result of my unfortunate tendency to write right up to the line about trans adjacent characters, but never really go all the way despite being trans fem myself (see every Ranma 1/2 fanfic I have ever written). So this ones for all my sisters out there.

We begin the fic ten years after the ending of ATLA, and we're just going to sidestep the comics. The inciting incident is an attempt on the life of Fire Lord Zuko; the plot fails, but with as of yet no heir, the Fire Lord is in a politically difficult situation.

Wanting to settle this matter discretely, Zuko turns to his old friends to find the whereabouts of his sister, to determine whether she had any part in the plot, and if not, to return her safely to the capital so that there will be a line of succession. Unfortunately for him, he's a bit hard up for people able and willing to help. Ultimately, only Katara, ambassador from the Southern Water Tribe, and Mai are able and willing, no matter how reluctantly.

I've decided to borrow one note from the comics and have Zuko have split with Mai. Whether he is married to someone else for political reasons, I have not decided. The first leg will be told primarily from Katara's point of view as the outsider to the family dynamics. In the search, she's trying to peel back the layers of resentment and secrets. Mai knows more than she let's on.

Azula herself has been living under an assumed name in Ba Sing Se, disappearing into the anonymous mass with the help of a few of the former Dai Li who remained loyal. I've mulled various different trades she may have plied to survive, from organized crime to more reputable trades, but ultimately they are not important. The key is that she's basically been disassociating the past ten years, and the sudden arrival of people from her past dredges up everything she's been trying to forget.

The keystone of all this is that Azula is a trans girl, and it always was a sordid little secret of the royal family. Her father's (selective) affirmation of this was just another part of controlling her. From the moment his 'son' made 'his' first flames when 'his' mother humored 'his' protestations, Ozai saw an opportunity. 'Azulon' the Younger can play at being a girl, but only if she's the best. And she certainly can't go back on filial piety.

The main theme of it will be transmisogyny in all its forms. And I'd hope to do it in such a way that conserves the scenes in the original; events occur as they did in the show proper, but flashbacks are of course in full unreliable narrator. So the changes would be things that recontextualize events, not change them.

This is of course one of those ideas I may not actually get around to, so please don't stop if you're thinking along similar lines or if you got inspiration from this. But I really just had a good hard think about how Azula in fanon gets this sort of degendering; a character commonly perceived as a cis lesbian, and the commonalities lesbians have with trans women in how they're treated for existing outside the bounds of patriarchal norms, treated as violent, predatory, emotionally unstable, and masculinized. So i thought I'd just steer into this skid, and write her as a trans lesbian, because I can. There's few things as subversive as treating a character as having been trans and passing the entire time.

[hostess-of-horror]

I'm having so many ideas and not enough energy to do or finish any of them AAAAAAAAAAAA-

Just so that I don't just wallow in my inability to get off my ass and do this shit, I'm going to type it all down!

1. The Haunted Mansion movie (done right!)

- This one is actually based on a slew of Discord convos between me and AJ (@sneklover). It was mostly just me ranting about how God awful Disney's live action remakes are getting and what I would've done if I were to make the iconic attraction a film or t.v. show.

- I have seen the original live action Haunted Mansion movie with Eddie Murphy but not the newest one, BUT MY POINT STILL STANDS! Both are literally the same thing where the story focuses more on the Foolish Mortals than the Happy Haunts and I do not like that.

- If I were to film a Haunted Mansion movie/show, I would make it an anthology horror movie. Think Tales From The Crypt or Creepshow but with Master Gracey telling the stories behind iconic characters such as the Hatbox Ghost, Constance Hatchaway, the two Dueling Ghosts in the ballroom, etc. At some point towards the end, Master Gracey would then tell his story, of how he inherited the mansion, was cursed as the Ghost Host by the mansion itself, and how he tried in vain to lift the curse.

- I remember telling my mom about my idea and, while she loved it, did say that Disney would not like it because they want to put out a more broad demographic. "They're not catering to us," she said (paraphrased). Which makes sense, I just jokingly mentioned to AJ how Disney wouldn't hire me for stuff like this lmao.

- My Haunted Mansion would be a love letter to the Gothic Horror genre and dark humor. An old Louisiana mansion that's haunted in more ways than one, its owner an unwilling slave on the brink of insanity, and all the tales of death kept within its walls. And these tales are nothing short of harrowing, as well as hilarious!

2. Vincent Price x Self-Insert Fanart

- I love this old man so fucking much I wanna kiss him I wanna dance with him I wanna cuddle with him I wanna slowly drive him into insanity so that I can see him smile lovingly at me I wanna be the harbinger of his downfall and his eternal bride aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa- 🖤🖤🖤😩🙌🥴🥴🥴

- So yeah, pretty much what it says on the tin. I was inspired by the very talented @theboarsbride for the idea and Corman's The Masque of the Red Death, starring the Handsome Devil of Horror himself Vincent Price, and wanted to make an AU.

- Masque AU where Francesca (the main character) does give in to the dark side, but of her own volition, transforming into the Red Death. The Red Death is both a Reaper and a Resurrection - a purveyor of plagues and a damsel turned demon. A Bride in Blood...

- It's basically a sort of rewrite of the original ending and now it's sorta... 🌶️spoicy🌶️ so, um.... yea. smexy monster lady x human stuffs.

- ANYWAYS...!

3. Walt Disney's The Great Mouse OC

- I've been wanting to do something with the GMD fandom for a long while now, and I think a hypothetical OC from an hypothetical sequel fanfic would be a good introduction!

- So, in a nutshell: She's a mad scientist spider who is the new secondary villain of said sequel. She has no name as of yet, but she is mute (either from an injury or is simply nonverbal), extremely passionate about her grotesque experiments, and very, very lonely. Unlike Ratigan, the Greatest Criminal Mind, she is more somewhat spontaneous, preferring the tasks of stitching her family together over anything tactic. In other words, she's the brawns while Ratigan is the brains (and brawns). Her goal in villainy is to build and destroy - to build her long lost family and to destroy all of micedom.

- While she is the one who caused the whole case, the main focus on the story is mainly the ✨tension✨ between Basil and Ratigan. In other words, opening up old wounds... by resurrecting the dead!

- Yup, Sherlock Holmes: Furry Edition is now becoming a Gothic horror story. Heavily inspired by Little Nightmares II, Jack the Ripper, and Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, the sequel is a tale of murder and madness, with a bloodcurdling case and a rivalry that won't stay dead.

- In this fanfic, I interpreted that Ratigan did die in GMD and so that he could be resurrected by my OC in the sequel! I also wanted to have Fidget resurrected but AJ doesn't like to think of her lil guy dead, so... Yeah, Ratigan is the Frankenstein's Monster and Phantom of the Opera of the plot. (POTO because I thought of the sequel's climax being set during an opera)

- Meanwhile, Basil and Dawson are having a Very Bad Time, with Basil constantly being haunted by the professor and Dawson mentally reliving his days at the regiment.

- Disney will never hire me.

[aristocratic-otter]

Apologies, friends! I got overwhelmed this week and ended up falling far behind. I promise I'll get to every one of your posts!

In the meantime, thank you to @thehoneyedhufflepuff, @artsyunderstudy, @cutestkilla, @facewithoutheart, @j-nipper-95, @urban-sith, @palimpsessed, @hushed-chorus, @alleycat0306, @whogaveyoupermission, @sosoapi, @larkral, @theearlgreymage for the tags over the last week.

Tagging (for Wednesday, obvs) and blowing kisses to everyone above, and @annabellelux, @bazzybelle, @bookish-bogwitch, @carryonsimoncarryonbaz, @dragoneggos, @excalisbury, @erzbethluna, @frjsti, @fatalfangirl, @ionlydrinkhotwater, @ivelovedhimthroughworse, @ileadacharmedlife, @ic3-que3n, @johnwgrey, @jbrrring, @krisrix, @letraspal, @messofthejess, @moodandmist, @nausikaaa, @nightimedreamersghost, @otherworldsivelivedin, @onepintobean, @prettylightsbigcity, @raenestee, @twinkle-twinkle-up-above, @upuntil6am, @whatevertheweather, @yellobb-old

Snippets under the cut

From: To Heal a Broken Mind:

 I just hold him, stroking his hair, as he slowly comes back to himself. 

Finally, his eyes open. “Wha’ happened?” he slurs. 

“A seizure,” I say shortly. 

“Why ‘m I on the ground?” 

I don’t want to distress him right now, so I simply say, “it was worse than usual.”

From: Westward Son:

I’m a damned coward. I watched my friends and family arrive and make camp from the dense branches of a weeping willow. I watched them go through their evening routine and, one by one, settle in for the night. And then I stood vigil for the rest of the night. 

I waited until Baz was out of sight this morning before I returned to the wagon train. I couldn’t face both of their reactions at once.

From: Raising Dragons:

Baz is exhausted. He had his exams this last week, and tonight is the first time he’s been able to sleep in our bed in a week, after nodding off over his notes every other day. I’m not even back to work yet. I don’t go back for months, so it is most definitely my turn to take the nighttime wake ups. 

I’ve got to step up. Be a dad. But I don’t know how.

From: Saving Simon Snow (New chapter tonight!):

“Y–you…you want to…do that? With me?” Merlin, I’ve thrown Baz so off his game that he’s actually stuttering. 

“I…” I pause, wondering what the right thing to say here is. I think we probably should have sex, yes, because I don’t trust Baz’s family or any of the other old families not to come up with a way to legally annul this marriage. It’s definitely occurred to me that they could decide to throw me back in prison now, and Baz would survive it just fine, since the conditions of his vow were met when his father had me released the first time.

From: my COBB (it has a name, but the name is a spoiler!):

I’m back at the front gates, and beginning to draw a crowd. 

Some of the newcomers are clearly guards or something, because they’re wearing the same strangely mediaeval looking uniform as the angry guy. But a lot of them are kids. Some as young as ten or eleven, I think. 

Is this a school? Or an orphanage? 

And I got inspired by a convo on the COTTA discord, so here's the bare beginnings of an Age of Sail AU (yes, a fucking seventh WIP) (Soon to be 8 unless I finish one of the nearly done ones first):

He’s standing across from me, frowning fiercely as I take my time thinking through the order he’s just given me. 

“Show me the cargo hold, cabin boy!”

The command, uttered in the perfectly posh and self-assured accent of the SS Watford’s most obnoxious passenger, caught me by surprise. Tyrannus Basilton, or Baz, as I’ve heard his mother calling him, has ignored me for the most part, since we set sail from the port of Southampton. When he’s come across me in his explorations of the ship, he doesn’t say anything, he just stares at me like I’m something particularly foul that he’s just stepped in. 

I hate him. 

From my other mystery project, which I've decided to share the name of today (I don't think it's too spoilery), The Naked Next:

“Well, everything looks right as rain, here,” I say, smiling at her coolly. “In fact, if you were any more perfect, you’d be in biology textbooks.”

“I am in biology textbooks,” she says flatly. “My physiology is unique, after all.” I stare at her, wondering if she’s kidding. Her lips remain a flat line and her eyes are flinty. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. 

[cerealmonster15]

I'm gonna enable you to make that Heartslabyul cafe idea you mentioned

KLFDHSKLFDSJG i have many old doodles and a few mini fic docs laying around but i dont THINK any of them are on tumblr! it was an au my friend and i used to bounce off each other for a long time on discord back in our early twst days and i used to doodle out sooo many of the scenarios we talked about!! it was very loose and silly for funsies but it was basically an au where heartslabyul boys ran a seaside cafe [i cant remember if school was involved, it was a non nrc au but they were maybe in college/university? if that was part of it, it was never really relevant lol]

i ended up rambling a lot trying to remember what i could about it lol so i put it under a readmore:

it was more or less like

riddle managed the cafe

cater/ace/deuce were mostly up front with customer handling

trey was a head baker/chef/whatever

scarabia was also there i think, i believe jamil worked in the kitchen with trey

kalim... was there. i forget what he did LOL he was maybe like... financial sponsor? did his family technically own the place? i truly cant remember ksdfjdskl but he was there, for some reason, with the cafe. i think it initially started as heartslabyul cafe but then we merged scarabia with them for funsies, like i forgot til just now that they also were part of it. we maybe also played with the idea of naga jamil [and kalim??] but i tbh can't remember if that was this au or something im blending together with it in my memory right now lol. if we did, it didnt end up really staying relevant.

diasomnia we later added as like a rival coffeeshop across the street. i dont think they came up too often but i did draw malleus a lot in the au with them lol

the octavinelle boys were also major components because they were merfolk on the docks by the cafe that recently learned to walk and kept appearing at the cafe and pretended to be human while they made it their life's goal to bother everyone in there all the time forever. friend was also showing me mako mermaids around this time so i think there was a lot of inspiration for this au from it [i cant remember which came first tho LOL]

the savanaclaw guys were kind of there, but they were all secret werewolf type people. jack still turned into a wolf i think, but i believe leona and ruggie were also shape shifty people but just into big cats? i looked back in the discord convos and i see i had assigned ruggie to a Savannah Cat, but idr what leona was lol. everyone was keeping their creature forms a secret but i know the fish boys were at least found out at some point.

pomefiore... i think was also mermaids. or at least epel was a secret guppy and vil was a secret betta fish - floyd nicknames obvi lol. i dont remember if the octavinelle guys knew their identity but i think maybe so? vil was still a famous model and i think rook was just some regular[?][as regular as rook can be lol] guy that hung out with them and knew their secret. epel maybe got a part time job at the cafe or maybe he just hung out there a lot lol. epel also bonded with cat ruggie and i think he and deuce bonded with wolf jack [and thought he was just a Big Dog or something] but they didnt know they were jack and ruggie in person form. maybe. something like that.

i don't think ignihyde was there much if at all, like maybe idia was at the rival coffee shop as a customer sometimes bc they were the quieter goth equivalent to planet heartslabyul chaos lol. but also this au was mostly made back when i think book 5 was still being released / the period before book 6 really got started in jpntwst [eng twst wasnt even announced yet] so we didnt know a whole lot about ignihyde and diasomnia at the time / we were new to twst!

and then of course this was centering around a lot of soap opera style relationship drama bc thats just how it goes when my friend and i do funny little aus. it was mostly just us coming up with scenarios via discord messages and i'd draw out a bunch of them or occasionally write a fic here and there about it. i think my friend drew a few too. it was a fun time and i MISS that au. it was all over the place but that's whats fun about having silly teehee times in the dms LOL we are just playing with our barbies and piling ideas on top of each other forever!!!

[thiswasinevitableid]

Flyboy (Indruck)

A birthday comission for the wonderful @bellafarallones2! This was inspired by a convo we had on Discord

Quick content note: since this fill involves vampires, there will be mentions of blood and usage of thralls (but the time it's used during sex is very consensual)

Mothers worry, and his is no exception. She worried over him back in the states, on the boat over, and the day he left for training. 

Still, Duck has to laugh at her latest letter, where she admonishes him not to stay out too late. 

“With the blackouts, goodness knows who could be lurking around corners once night falls.”

It’s not that there haven’t been robberies and worse of civilians hurrying home without lamplight to guide them. But no one would be fool enough to try that on a pack of enlisted men, no matter how drunk they all were. Killing one of England's finest in the middle of the war is a surefire way to have the entire police force chasing you down. Better to stick to old men and working girls just trying to get from here to there. 

Yes sir, there’s safety in numbers. 

Which is why Duck’s confidence wobbles when he looks up from catching his breath and finds no sign of the group he followed to the pub. 

He squints at the street signs, too little light and too much booze in his blood rendering them useless. No reason he can’t pick his way back to the barracks by landmark.

Sixteen blocks of houses that look exactly the same later, he slumps down on an empty bench near a church he could have sworn was the one he passed on his way into town. Christ it’s getting chilly; at least back home it was only the winter that was cold. 

Seconds tick by as he breathes deep to clear his head. What’s waiting for him in his foggy mind isn’t the path home, but a parade of every damn thing he was drinking to forget. 

“Fuck” he whimpers. 

A whisper of movement to his right and then there’s a man who wasn’t there a moment before. He’s sure of it, he would have noticed him if he was. He’s in black from hat to shoe, the only color the red of his round glasses and the white of his smile.

The stranger extends a gloved hand, “Come along, you are not far from home.”

Duck takes it, the touch on his fingers light and the steps of his guide inaudible. In a few short minutes of weaving across the stones, they’re at the edge of the air base, as far as a civilian can go. 

The man steps back, removes his hat with a bow, and then murmurs, “Goodnight, Duck Newton.”

He watches him disappear into the darkness, then jumps out of his skin when Owens taps his arm. 

“There you are. Thought we were gonna have to go out first thing tomorrow and scrape you out of the gutter.”

“You know I ain’t a lightweight.” As they walk towards the barracks he adds, “You ever heard of anyone seeing anything strange around here. Like a ghost or something?”

Owens snorts, “It’s London, Newton. Every corner is supposed to be haunted.”

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------

For two weeks, Duck is more careful when they’re out drinking. He’d rather not get completely fucking lost again, not when there’s no promise they same figure will save his ass a second time. He should know, he’s looked for him every night as the clump of them moves from pub to pub and then stumbles home. 

Tonight he broke his four beer limit; in four days he’s being sent out on his second flight of the war. 

He can stand on his own, barely, when they leave the bar. He could blame Owens for leading the group home too damn fast for him to keep up, but he dawdles, falls more and more behind until they’re out of sight. He toddles along like a carefree bulldog for a bit, then his feet slip on the slick sidewalk and he falls hard onto his ass

A whir overhead. One of their engines, he can tell from the sound. 

Does it count as desertion if he gets so lost he ends up miles from his post?

The back of his neck prickles. Then there’s a soft “tsk” the lamp post. 

“And here I thought you learned your lesson.” It’s the stranger again, as unsurprised as if he’d invited Duck to this deserted street. 

“It’s you.” Duck wants to stand but his legs rebel, and so he stares up at the approaching figure, “The ghost. Are you a ghost? Or am, am I dead? Or going to be? Fuck, are you an omen?” Flashes of the ground roaring to meet him race through his mind and he shrinks away. 

“Nothing of the kind. I'm simply out for a walk and a meal.”  He offers his hand.

Duck takes it, holding much firmer this time, “Then, then lemme buy you dinner. S’a thank you for saving my ass.”

“Helping you home is hardly life or death. And nowhere is open now. You left just before last call, remember? I was about to have a quick bite when I noticed you stepping out, looking for all the world like you were already lost.”

“That ain’t fair” Duck loops their arms together, digging into the molasses that’s now his brain for what he wants to say, “you’re too skinny. Should be eating. And I made you miss dinner. Now you won’t get to eat tonight.”

“Oh I will, I assure you. For now, let’s get you home, my brave flying ace.” The man guides them to a corner, crossing without looking for cars, unbothered by the darkness that makes Duck feel as if the world is closing in on him. He’d give anything to see a light left on by someone so someone they loved could find their way home. 

Red glasses shine and pale, almost silver hair peeks from beneath the brim of a black hat, and the buildings let Duck breathe easier. 

 "I kept looking for you. Couldn't find you." Duck leans their shoulders together, "Was, was hoping you'd find me again, and you did."

"You are hard to ignore." The smile is gentle, almost detached, as if the man is speaking to a dog frightened of a thunderstorm.

"S'like your my guardian angel."

Gloved fingers rest on his right hand, patting it as he softly laughs, "No, little soldier, not quite."

Duck blushes at the sound, hiding his face against a narrow shoulder like a schoolboy who’s love letters were just read aloud to the class, “M’sorry.”

The man stops, “Nono, I was not laughing at you. Your choice of words simply surprised me, which is a rare treat.” His hands settle on Duck’s shoulders, turning him so they’re facing each other, “If I could be your guardian angel, I would.”

It’s happening again. Every thought and fear he pushed away with jokes and drinks and stubborn determination swarms him at once. There’s no guardian angels out there. Not for him, not for anyone. 

“You are afraid.” There’s no judgment in the statement, but with the glasses in place Duck can’t tell what the other man is thinking as the words hang between them.

“Ain’t you?” Before the man can answer he chuckles, “course you ain’t. You’re out here all alone in fancy clothes, built like a beanpole, and you, you, ain’t looked over your shoulder once. So you gotta be brave. Or immoral. No, uh, whatsit, immortal. That’s the one.”

“It is only human to be afraid now and then, let alone when one is in the middle of a war.”

“We’re not s’posed to be scared. We’re soldiers, we’re just supposed to shoot the shit and drink and fuck and make our fuckin peace with dyin’”

“That is an…understandable approach. All the same, perhaps you should not drink quite so much. In your profession you need a sharp eye and a steady hand, neither of which is improved by liquor. Not to mention, I may not always be here to help you home.”

“If I promise to cut back will, will you let me come home with you?”

The question startles them both, the man dropping his hands,“Why would you want that?”

“Because I can’t take another night in the fuckin barracks. Some of the boys are fine but some of ‘em are fucking awful, and everyone is always talkin about how this fella never game back or that plane was shot clean in half and the fact we’re flyin’ in fucking tin cans and most nights I can swing the fuckin gallows humor but, but tonight I just can’t. Please. I know it’s a fuckin odd-ball request but…please.”

The man’s expression is blank for a moment, then painfully tender, before returning to a placid smile, “Alright. My apartment is not far. This way.”

There’s nothing remarkable about the brick building, but when Duck follows his host across the threshold he’s certain he stepped into another country. There are tapestries from Japan, eyes and birds and other strange symbols cast in gold and silver hanging from the ceiling. The curtains blacking out the windows are woven with horses and look like they should be in a museum. When Indrid gestures for him to sit on the black sofa, he sinks halfway into the soft cushions. 

“Would you like some tea? I can make coffee as well if you would prefer.” The man removes his jacket and hat, hanging them on the wall next to several other black pieces of clothing and one bright yellow and pink scarf. 

“Tea’s fine. Is, can I take off my coat?”

“Of course. You are my guest, you should make yourself as comfortable as you like.”

“Thanks uh, uh…fuck, this is embarassin, I don’t even know your name.”

“Indrid Cold” He moves from the stove, taking off his gloves before holding out his hand, “there, now we have formally met.”

“Guess so.” Duck smiles up at him, watches as he returns to the kitchen. He’s not quite as imposing in soft lamplight as he was in a rainy street. Like his decor, he looks like he should be in a museum, or a palace. 

If Duck took him to the woods, anyone who crossed their path would think they’d met something otherworldly. A campsite and a riverbank aren’t the right places for him, they’d say. But Duck would make sure the two of them had a trip fit for a prince, they could swim in the river and see the fireflies…

Fuck. That’s so fucking childish. Fucking get it together, Newton. 

“Are you alright?” Indrid stands before him, cup in either hand, “you look rather…teary.”

“Yeah, yeah, m’peachy,.” He tips his head back to buy time, then gawps at the ceiling, “holy fuck, did you paint that?”

“Mmm? Oh” Indrid follows his gaze to the golden sun and vibrant blue sky, “yes, I did. It was some time ago and I am so used to it I forget it’s there.”

Duck takes the tea-cup as his host sits. He’s expecting fine china, but the mug is sturdy and chipped, green like a pine tree in July. 

“I enjoy artful things to look at, but anything I actually use must be rather, ah, durable. I am a bit of a disaster attractor at times.” Indrid sips his tea as he casually reads Duck’s mind. 

“Me too. Not that it ain’t nice to own neat things but with a life like mine you gotta be ready to move ‘em all or for them to be, uh, be shipped back to your folks.” He clears his throat, “‘sides, what would a fella like me do with fancy stuff anyway?”

“I don’t know, I could see you lounging in finery rather easily” Indrid’s smile is different this time, warm and dangerous as a glass lantern, “Then again, I can picture you rather nicely in a, hmm…..cabin perhaps? Somewhere rugged and wild, like America.”

Duck giggles, “Ain’t all that wild over there these days.”

“Ooooh” Indrid brightens, scooting closer, “so that is where you hail from. I have never been, you must tell me–, oh, no, how silly of me. You need rest, not recite your life story.”

“No, no I, m’fine see? Bright eye’d as all–fuck!” His hand wobbles and sends his tea onto Indrid’s shirt, “fuck, sorry, fuck you’re right I got too fuckin sauced.” As he tries to pat the stain away, his brain tells him something is wrong. The body beneath his hands doesn’t feel like it should.

“You…you’re cold.”

“Yes? Oh, you mean literally. Ah, not to worry, I just tend towards a cooler-” he gasps as Duck runs a hand over his chest.

“No I mean you’re real fuckin cold. Are you feelin’ okay? Were you in that rain to fuckin long?” Duck undoes the buttons on the black shirt, finds no undershirt waiting for him. Just tan skin that hasn’t seen the sun in far too long, “yknow, they taught us that if your buddy gets hypothermia out on a mission you’re supposed to strip naked and get in your bed together.”

Indrid laughs, “I assure you I have no such condition.”

“Still, still oughta get you warm. Bed, where’s bed?” His drunken brain isn’t sure if he’s trying to come on to Indrid, and from the wide eyes behind his glasses, Indrid isn’t certain either. 

“It’s through that doorway.”

Duck pulls him up, feet still refusing to walk with any damn coordination, and finds a lamp with moths on the shade and switches it on. The bedroom is small with a bed that’s distractingly comfy when he sits on it.

Indrid hesitates, not joining him on the blanket. Not wanting to rush him, Duck keeps his big mouth shut and holds Indrid’s hands, messily massaging them.

“You got such gorgeous hands. Like an artist, or a piano player” He stares at his face in Indrid’s glasses, “all of you is gorgeous.”

 “Thank you” Indrid perches on the bed, still holding Duck’s right hand. He turns it over to trace shapeless paths across the palm, “You are very sweet.”

The courage that left him on the street returns as he whispers, “If I kiss you, you won’t tell no one right?”

“You are very tired.” Indrid slips off his glasses, “here, look into my eyes.”

Duck meets them obediently, their brown seeming almost red in the lamplight. He cups Indrid’s cheeks, “See, jus’ like I said. Gorgeous.” 

“Go to sleep, little soldier.”

His eyelids are lead, but still he stays upright,“You’ll, you’ll be here when I wake up?”

“I promise. You are safe here, Duck Newton. You will sleep soundly and dream of pleasant things.”

That’s all he needed to hear. He’s asleep before he even hits the blankets.

—-------------------------------------------------------

Indrid draws a blanket over Duck's chest. Yet another reason to be glad he opted for a real bed instead of the more traditional furniture; you can't lay handsome men down in a coffin.

The ones he sees when he stares too long into certain futures might have been handsome once. Some must have slept soundly in a lovers bed before they took to the wooden one six feet beneath the earth. Others were too young to have even had that. Not for the first time, he wonders which category the human before him belongs to. His haphazard groping suggests experience, but there’s a boyishness to his face that suggests a man who hasn’t yet sampled most of life's pleasures. 

He turns out the light but leaves the door open, in case his flying ace wakes up. His thrall can only put him to sleep, not keep him there.  He turns out the lamp in the living room as well, moves aside the thick curtains to peer out the windows. The city is shadows on shadows. It should be paradise for one such as him, but the climate lately is such that he feels he cannot take his time. Half the reason he follows the flocks of soldiers is because false bravado makes for an easy snack. 

The other half is that he likes the uniforms.

Duck stirs in his sleep. It would be easy to feed from him; Indrid might not even need his thrall to make him forget what happened. But he’s never liked the taste of drunk blood. And he knew the instant Duck turned those big green eyes on him and pleaded to spend the night that he wasn’t going to let anything disturb him. Not even his own hunger. 

He sketches for a while, then stares at the ceiling to follow various futures in hopes of finding one in which he can intervene. When that becomes grim he turns into a rat and slips inside one of the pillows to calm down. 

Dawn is a speck on the horizon when his guest wakes up, groaning and cursing as he holds his forehead, then jumps when he notices Indrid waiting with a glass of water. 

“Good morning. I am afraid my cupboards are rather bare, or I would have awoken you with breakfast.”

Duck takes the cup, “Thanks. Uh. Hope I didn’t make too big a fool of myself last night. Some parts are fuzzier than an unsheared sheep.”

“You were the perfect gentleman.” 

Being eager to put his hands on Indrid counts as good manners in his book. 

“And you are dangerously close to being late and in trouble with your superiors, so I will fetch your shoes and coat so you can depart whenever you are ready.” His stomach growls as he reaches the front door, and he reminds it that unless he risks terrible burns, it will just have to be patient until tonight. 

A creak at the bedroom doorway, “You never answered my question about kissin’.”

“I thought you too drunk to remember asking it. But if you remain curious, I keep my intimate affairs private.”

The human approaches him casually, “Y’know, sometimes if fellas in my unit get real drunk and can’t find a girl they… fool around with each other. Some don’t even bother tryin to find a girl first. Nobody thinks anythin’ of it, at least when they do it that way.”

Indrid sighs, too hungry to be tactful,“There is difference between a drunken tryst and being chosen. I prefer the latter. And before you ask, yes, I do appreciate the male body. Immensely. But only when that body knows who it’s with.”

Duck takes a step back, chagrined,  “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean no offense.”

“I am aware. I am merely making it clear that if all you seek is fumbling in the dark with a warm body, I am not the one to pursue.” He hands the human his coat and shoes, then busies himself putting away last night's dishes (he can’t remember if he washed them but at this moment he does not care). When he turns back, the soldier is at attention by the door.

“Thank you for takin’ care of me last night, that was real kind of you.” He scratches the back of his neck, “I have to get back to base like you said but, uh, can I buy you dinner tonight? As a thank you?”

“You offered that last night as well.”

“Guess I must really mean it, huh.” A playful wink and Indrid is sold faster than an extra ration of sugar. 

“Very well. Meet me at Amnesty Lodge at seven, my brave flying ace.”

—------------------------------------------------------------

Indrid drums his fingers on the scuffed but immaculately clean table, staring out the Lodge window and wondering if Duck will arrive. Maybe the younger man thought better of his hung-over offer of dinner. 

Just as he’s taking stock of the futures to see if it’s worth ordering a drink, the bell dings and he hears Dani say, “Oh, of course, he’s right over here.”

His friend appears with Duck at her side. He’s in his full uniform, including his hat, aiming that beautifully crooked smile Indrid’s way. 

Indrid had forgotten how delightful being smitten can be. 

“I hope you did not get in trouble this morning.” Indrid stands, pulling out Duck’s chair. 

“Nah. Two fellas snuck girls back into the barracks last night so they were too busy reading ‘em the riot act to notice I was a few minutes late.” He thanks Dani as she passes him the menu. Indrid looks at his, even though he knew what he was having before he walked in. 

“Order whatever you like. Barclay is an excellent cook, even in lean times.”

Duck nods, requests shepherd's pie but no beer. Indrid simply tells Dani he’ll have the usual.

“How’d you know I was from the states last night? Was it just the accent?”

“Indeed, though I’ll admit my powers of deduction stop there in terms of determining where you are from.”

“West Virginia. Our farm failed when I was sixteen and we were broker than broke. My dad’s aunt had married some English guy and offered to move us over here. Six years and I ain’t ever been able to shake the accent.”

“I find it rather charming.” Indrid leans forward chin in his hand, “and I am curious as to how a farmboy became a flying ace.”

Duck regales him with the story of his conscription and training until dinner arrives and Duck looks at Indrid’s plate with alarm. 

“It is not as gruesome as it looks; steak tartare on top of aspic.” He leaves out the part where the aspic is just congealed pigs blood.

They chat about their experiences with London nightlife until Duck is nearly done with his pie. Then he fiddles with his fork and murmurs, “You don’t gotta answer if it’s too personal but, uh, how’d you avoid getting dragged into the service along with me?”

“I have a rare disease of the blood. You need not express the alarm you are about to, as it is not fatal. But it renders me unfit for service in the eyes of our leaders. Some days I wish I wore a sign stating that exact thing around my neck; I have been accosted and accused of dodging my duty to king and country more times than I care to recall. It is half the reason I go out only at night.”

“What’s the other half?”

“You are not the only one whose voice marks him unusual; enough traces of my childhood accent remain and remind people of German, though it is from more eastern regions than that. And I…many people find me strange. Eccentric. Unnerving. Which makes them assume I am an enemy.”

Duck stares at his plate, “It ain’t fair. We’re fighting and dying to keep this country safe and to keep some truly evil shit at bay and the whole time folks are still looking for excuses to be cruel to each other right here at home.”

Indrid sets his hand an inch from Duck’s fingers, “Humans have always behaved in such ways. But there are many in the world who are like you, Duck Newton, and that gives me hope.”

As the human blushes, Indrid pulls the money from his wallet and counts it onto the table. Then he offers his arm, “Shall we?”

The soldier links their arms together until they’re outside, at which point he uncouples them but stays close to Indrid’s side.

“I, um, I understand if you don’t want to be with me. I might die a few days from now. Or a few days after that. But you said this morning you’d prefer being chosen to being a drunken hookup, and if you’ll give me the opportunity I’d… really like to choose you.”

Indrid swears his long-stopped heart flutters in his chest. 

“I would be honored.”

Duck doesn’t touch him as they travel to his apartment. He hardly blames him; not everyone has had hundreds of years to reckon with the fact men can desire other men. But it makes the way grabs his coat and drags him through the threshold all the more thrilling. 

The kiss is confident and a bit messy as Duck stumbles backward across the floor and Indrid attempts to steer them clear of furniture. His soldier is tugging at their clothes, as if he intends to have Indrid undressed enough to take against the bedroom door. 

Now there’s a thought. 

When Duck’s back thunks into the wood, Indrid pauses, trailing his fingers over his dark hair and down his now-rumpled jacket, “You young men, so charmingly eager.”

“How, how old are you?”

A brief glance at the future tells him what will sound plausible

“Thirty-three.”

Duck moans so hungrily that Indrid nearly tells him the real number of years between them. The human fumbles the nob while kissing Indrid’s throat, abruptly sending them into the bedroom, at which point he hastily lays back on the blanket.

“I see your true motives now. You found my bed so comfortable you are looking for ways to sleep in it once more.” Indrid teases, shrugging off his coat. 

“Bet it’s comfier with you in it. C’mere.” He opens his arms and Indrid climbs on beside him, practically purring as the human tangles fingers in his hair and presses kisses to his lips. The shape of him beneath his uniform is maddening and if he doesn’t remove it soon Indrid will tear it to shreds. 

Fingers rest on the frame of his glasses, a wordless request to remove them. He nods and Duck slips them free, setting them carefully aside. His fingers trace along Indrid’s face and oh when was the last time someone studied him as if he was art?

“What was that thing you did with your eyes last night? When you took your glasses off and told me to go to sleep?”

Unwilling lie but unable to be honest, he splits the difference, “I, ah,  dabble in hypnosis.  I try not to do it without permission but you were dead on your feet yet very insistent on staying awake.”

Duck drapes an arm over his side, “Could you do it again sometime? It made me feel…peaceful. Safe. Ain’t felt that way since the war started.”

“If you truly wish me to, then it can be arranged. But not tonight. Tonight…” He rolls Duck onto his back and straddles him, “I want you fully aware of all I am doing to you.”

An emotion skitters across the humans face too fast for him to pin it down. 

He leans forward, nuzzling his ear before purring, “Tell me what you like, my brave flying ace.”

“Y'know, just whatever happens.” Duck runs his hands along Indrid’s legs, “When it's two of you in a dark spot in the barracks ain't a lot of time for messin' around. You just do what you do and then it’s done.”

“Well, we are in my lair, where we have all the time in the world. Surely there were things you liked best from your encounters.”

The human shrugs, embarrassed, “Was at least a little drunk for all of ‘em.”

“Ah.” Indrid rolls up his sleeves and begins unbuttoning his shirt, “In that case, I shall make a thorough exploration of just how to make you come apart.”

With enough gesturing and tugging he strips Duck’s torso bare, then coaxes his hips to lift long enough to remove his pants. He leaves the underwear in place for now to help the human feel comfortable, but allows himself a squeeze of his wonderfully ample ass before letting him go.

Kisses seem safest, and so he trails them from Duck’s throat to his chest, bringing one hand up to toy with his nipples as he does. The human arches beneath him and gasps, “sure as fuck don’t do that in the barracks.”

“A shame.” He continues toying with them as he kisses down to his belly and rests his cheek on the dark hair covering it, “I always enjoy it, and it seems you do as well.”

“Uh huh, ohfuck, fuck.” His hips buck as Indrid nips his belly, allowing Indrid to feel his cock hardening against him. Gingerly, he pulls Duck’s underwear down an inch at a time, kissing each patch of skin as it appears and groping his belly whenever he pleases. When Duck’s cock is finally free, Indrid prays at least some of his drunken trysts were complimentary; he’s paid for cocks that weren’t half as lovely as this. 

He licks a slow stripe from root to tip, closing his eyes to savor the feeling on his tongue and ignore how he can scent the blood pumping beneath the skin. It’s not good form to feed from here anyway. 

Duck’s thighs, however….

He wraps a hand around the humans cock, stroking it slowly while he sucks a hickey into the meat of Duck’s left thigh. The human moans, pre-cum dripping from his slit as Indrid makes a second mark beneath the first. 

“Don’t, don't you wanna get right to it?”All confidence is gone from the drawl. 

 “Indrid looks up and cocks his head, “I want to make you go to pieces in my bed, and this seems to be accomplishing that.”

The human says nothing, but his eyes flick from point to point like a trapped bird.

“What's wrong?” Indrid sits up.

“I, how, how can you just do this?” Duck won’t look at him, making it all the harder to tell what he means.

“By inviting a handsome soldier into my bed? Practice? I am not sure–” the answer appears in the future and he clambers  up so they're face to face, “oh dear, my sweet little soldier, I did not realize this was not something you fully accepted about yourself. I am sorry, I did not mean to push-”

“You didn’t, I just, no, fuck, nevermind we can, we can just keep goin, ignore me.” Duck tries for a kiss but Indrid lets it land on his cheek. 

“I will do no such thing. If this is too much, we need not do more. You may even have the bed to yourself once again if you wish.”

Duck grabs him and hugs him close, face hidden in his neck,“How are you so goddamn sweet to me?”

“Because you are very handsome and brave, and I have loved every moment of your company.” He hazards some flirtation, “also you are delicious to nibble on.”

“Seems so. I, uh, I do like biting, I remember one fella who got real into it and I came so fuckin’ fastfuck” he presses closer as Indrid bites his earlobe.

“Well then, shall we stick to that for this evening?”

“Uhhuh, yes, please sugar.”

Indrid smiles at the pet name before biting far harder on Duck’s neck than before. The human clings to him, begging for more as bites and sucks across his chest, keening when he takes a nipple into his mouth and bites down.

It becomes a delicate balance, indulging Duck without biting too hard, and too avoid succumbing to his true nature he concentrates on scraping his teeth on the skin rather than sinking them against it. Duck’s cock grinds insistently against his stomach, and his own is thoroughly enjoying the proceedings. 

He’s happily leaving his mark on Duck’s right side when a strong hand fists in his hair and drags his face level with Duck’s.

“Fuck me.”

“That, that’s a bit of a surprise. Are you sure?”

“In two days I could be a burnt wreck in some field. If I’m gonna die, I wanna do it knowing how your cock feels inside me.”

“As you wish, my flying ace. Wait right here.”

He overturns three drawers in order to find what he needs, Duck giggling at him the whole time.

“It is not wise to mock someone who is about to have you at his mercy.” 

“Who said anything aboutAH, ahgod.” Duck’s eyes snap shut as Indrid works a lubed finger inside him, “fuck, fuck, that’s so good, more, I want another one.”

“Not yet” 

“I can take it.”

“I’m sure you can. But tonight is not about proving how tough you are, my sweet. It is about letting me utterly ruin you with pleasure.” He curves his finger and after a moment Duck moans and claws the blankets. 

“Fuuuuck, fuck that’s so fuckin good with your fingers.”

“Shall I stick to this?”

“Sugar, if you don’t put your cock in me real fuckin soon I’m gonna hold you down and do it myself.”

“And here I thought soldiers understood discipline and patience.”

“Fuck patience!”

Indrid laughs at the desperation in his voice, but takes pity on him and slips on the condom. Not for the first time, he’s glad he’s on the smaller side. His own moan seems breathy and fragile as it floats around the room, Duck so warm around him he’s certain he’ll start to smoke.

“That’s it sugar, fuck, fuck you feel amazing. C’mon, c’mon please” Duck wraps his legs around him, urging him on as he fucks him slow and deep. 

“Mmm, you are the most delicious creature I have ever had  in my bed.” He nips Duck’s throat, dangerously close to drawing blood, “if I had my way, you’d spend your days on my cock and nowhere else.”

All he has to do is touch the head of Ducks’ cock and cum hits his fingers, the human whimpering and moaning as he fucks through it, well past the point of being patient or tender as his orgasm races through him. He nearly cuts his lip on his fang as he moans Duck’s name, but the human doesn’t seem to notice, is too busy clinging to him and twisting from over-sensitivity. 

He manages to pull out, but that’s it. Duck is holding him like he’s certain he’ll disappear. He supposes that may have been true for some of his past partners. If not that night, then on the battlefield or in the sky a day later.

“Do not worry, my sweet one. When you are here, you are safe. And I will not leave you, not for anything in the world.”

A satisfied voice, so fragile in it’s hope that Indrid wants to box it up and keep it on his desk, whispers, “Thanks, sugar.”

—---------------------------------------------------------------

Duck’s reconnaissance mission must be soon. A glance at the future tells Indrid it will happen tomorrow. Duck had to be cagey about his schedule, and so for the last two nights Indrid hasn’t seen him. 

Looking at the futures of soldiers is so convoluted, there are so many deadly, moving pieces at play. He tells himself this is why he does not look to see if Duck will come back. There would be no point. 

Really, it’s that he can’t bear the chance of seeing him die.

Maybe that is a foolish way to feel. It was only two days of interaction and one, wonderful night. . But there were futures that unfurled when Duck looked at him, when Duck held his hand and slept in his bed, glimmers so bright they stung his eyes and made his heart ache for them. He wants, more than anything, to see Duck again. If not for those futures than for the fact he no longer feels adrift when Duck is by his side. 

He walks the city all night to keep his mind off of things, and sleeps as much as he can during the day. In the midst of it all, he decides one thing: if Duck comes back to him, Indrid is going to give him a true hero's welcome. 

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Indrid’s note invited him to celebrate his safe return. Duck would be climbing the steps to his apartment even if it had said, “nothing exciting, I am laid up with the flu.” 

The older man opens the door a moment before Duck knocks, grinning like a crescent moon, “You came.”

“Course I did.” Duck steps inside, tilting his chin up for a kiss the instant the door is shut, “can’t get you outta my mind, sugar. The whole night before I had to fly recon I could only sleep if I was thinking about you beside me.”

“You are quite the charmer.” Indrid offers him a second kiss, then guides him to the table, “come, dinner awaits.”

Who knows where Indrid got the supplies for steak, potatoes, and cake, or how a bottle of real champagne is sitting next to Duck’s glass. Long as he isn’t ripping it from the hands of widows and orphans, Duck can’t bring himself to give a damn about rationing right now.

Indrid eats a far smaller portion, mainly sipping a thick, red wine (“I mix the medication for my condition into it, or else I would offer you some), the two of them discussing his latest painting commission as Duck grows full and tipsy. 

After dinner Indrid turns on his record player and dims the lights. With the curtains blacking out the world, Duck feels as if he’s stumbled into the hideaway of some otherworldly prince. 

When Indrid sits on the couch next to him, Duck drapes an arm around him and teases, “Glad no one bothered you on your walks, since you didn’t have me to protect you.”

“As unpleasant as altercations can be, I can more than handle myself.”

He looks the other man up and down, “You sure about that, beanpole?”

Indrid smirks, “I am stronger than I look”

He pushes Duck onto his back, holding him down by his shoulders. Duck twists and turns, but can’t make him budge. 

“See?” Indrid’s smile glints down at him, beautifully predatory.

“Fuck” he groans, blood heading south as he does.

Indrid, keeping him pinned, cocks his head, “You like this. Hmmm, shall I make my brave flyboy into a kept bird, forever chained by his ankle to my bed?” A giddy laugh, “My, my that brought you to attention.”

“Hell yeah it did. Fuck, ‘Drid, please, please keep me here, don’t let me up just…keep me forever.”

Indrid brushes their noses together, “We both know why I cannot. But I will keep you here for tonight, and every other night I can. That is a start, at least.”

Duck closes his eyes, relaxing into Indrid’s hold, “Yeah, sugar, it is.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------

“Gonna rain soon. You can smell it on the wind.” Duck murmurs from his repose on the park bench. They cannot risk him having his head in Indrid’s lap, and so the top of it bumps the side of his thigh. 

“Then I shall finish up this sketch and we can seek shelter.” Indrid loves drawing the shadows and shapes of the park, even in the twilight. It’s made all the better by Duck’s company. 

“Okay. Whenever you’re ready.” The human replies sleepily. Indrid thralled him earlier this evening, something he only does upon Duck’s request. It renders the human dreamy and relaxed for hours afterwards, and often he wants to lounge at Indrid’s side like a tabby cat (or be fucked like an alley cat in heat). 

He also asks Indrid to thrall him when he knows he’ll be flying out soon. Apparently it helps calm his nerves and steady his hands on the controls. Indrid feels much better knowing he can increase the futures where he comes home, even if it is in a small way. 

“What will you do when the war is over?” He asks this because yesterday Duck despaired at the thought that the war might outlast them both. 

After a moment, the human replies, “Might go back to the states. Always wanted to be a ranger in one of the big national parks we got out there. Now more planes, no more engine noise and crowded rooms. Just me and the trees. And, uh, all the people who are coming to see the trees. What about you?” He opens his eyes, looking up at Indrid with genuine curiosity. 

“I…I am not sure.” He lies. If Duck lives, Indrid will go where he goes. If he does not, Indrid will travel back to his homeland and hope a hundred years of sleep will cure the heartbreak. 

“Well whatever it is, you better come visit me real often. You hear?”

Indrid slips a hand down to stroke his hair, “Loud and clear, my dearest.”

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

One moment, Indrid is standing by the couch, reaching for the lamp. The next he’s spinning through the futures to a field somewhere in France, plane wreckage scattered on all sides. Half-free from the cockpit is a body, struggling to be free but failing, failing and dying, he can see the life draining from him. 

The man looks up as he tries one last time to escape. 

“Duck!”

The shout reverberates through his room, and by the time it’s gone there’s no human figure to be seen, just a bat flapping frantically out the window. 

He flies as fast as he can over dark cities and darker water and then he sees the wreck, sees the field and the body trying to free itself.

When his feet touch the ground, Duck looks up at him; his face is bruised and bloody, and as Indrid drags him clear of the twisted metal his heart sinks to see injury after injury. 

“Indrid?” Duck’s voice is weak and uncertain. 

“It is alright my sweet. I am here, it will be alright.” He searches the futures for confirmation of this and finds none. Duck Newton is going to die in his arms. 

Unless. 

He cradles the human to his chest, Duck’s head lolling and exposing his neck. 

“Forgive me, my love.”

His teeth pierce skin and Duck cries out. When Indrid does not relent the human thrashes in his hold, body too weak to fight him off but brain unwilling to surrender. Indrid has never turned someone before, has never felt a human return to their most animal state in his arms, their only thought to stay alive as death steals through their veins. 

“‘Drid please” Duck is crying now, clinging to his coat, “please it hurts, I don’t wanna die.”

He pulls away, wiping his mouth, “You will not. Not all the way.”

Green eyes go wild and frantic, then glassy as Duck stills in his arms, heartbeat fading away. For an agonizing moment, he fears he did it wrong and may as well drive a stake of metal from the crash into his heart. 

Then Duck gasps, eyes blinking back to life even as his heart remains stopped. 

“Indrid? What, what happened, what did you do?”

The faintest hint of dawn in the eastern sky. 

“I will explain as soon as we are home. Quickly, you need to turn into a bat.”

“What???”

“Like this” he transforms, Duck’s eyes huge when he sees him flapping about.

“I, wh–, how?”

He turns back, “Just picture yourself doing it.”

Duck closes his eyes, concentrating hard. After over a minute of this, there’s a pop and a brown bat wavers across the grass.

“Thank goodness. Just follow me and we can get home.”

Being bats fleeing the sun is not conducive to conversation, so Duck doesn’t make so much as a squeak until they’re safely hidden in Indrid’s apartment. The instant his feet hit the carpet, his arms are crossed and he says, firmly, “Explain. Now.”

The gravity of what he’s done pushes him down onto the couch, “In case it is not obvious, I am a vampire. I can also see the future. Tonight I saw that you were going to be shot down and possibly die. So I came to you, in hopes of saving you and, and if I was too late for that, at least holding you so you did not pass from this world afraid and alone. But once I was there, seeing you, I knew I couldn't watch the life leave your eyes. Turning you was the only way to save you” he hides his face in his hands, “I’m so very sorry.  I know it was selfish of me, and I understand if you hate me now and never want to see me again, I just... I'm sorry.”

In a few steps, Duck is in front of him. Then he’s hauled to his feet and into an embrace. 

“I didn’t think anyone could love me that much.”

Indrid hides his face in Ducks neck, crying with relief, “I do. More than anything in this world.”

“I mean, it’s gonna take some adjustment and it’s weird as all get-out, but being a vampire is a damn sight better than being dead. You know how fuckin scared I was of that. Of rotting in some field before I turn twenty-three.” Duck holds him tighter, “Besides, now I know I got someone to show me the ropes, so to speak.”

Indrid nestles closer, “I’ll teach you all you need to know. I promise.”

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Do I have to attack people for blood?”

“Not these days. Barclay does magnificent things with animal blood, and most butchers can be convinced to sell blood they might have in stock. If things get truly dire you may have to feed from a human, but we don’t have to kill them. We can thrall them and take a little. They don’t remember a thing and it doesn’t put them in any danger.”

“Got it. Uh, can I turn into anything other than a bat?”

“Rats are traditional. Some vampires can be mists. And some turn into wolves but that’s not as favored as it used to be…”

“I see you have been testing your abilities again.” Indrid says to the dark brown wolf in his living room. 

The beast nods, tail wagging slightly. 

“Are you…stuck?”

Another nod, this time with a whine. 

“Dear me. Well, I guess there is nothing for it but to keep trying.” He sits down on the couch to remove his shoes. A huge canine shape hops up to join him, setting his head in Indrid’s lap the instant he straightens up. 

“Oooh, you are very soft.” Indrid pats his head, then settles into scritch it as he picks up his books. A thwup-thwup gradually builds in volume, and he looks up to see Duck’s tail whacking the cushions. 

“Sweetheart,  it does help if you want to turn back.”

The wolf gives him a sheepish look and nuzzles his chest.

“Aww, is my sweet soldier going to be my brave guard dog now?”

Duck barks once and wags his tail all the harder. 

“I don’t mind. You’re just as cute in this form as your other one.”

They settle in for the morning, Indrid reading the scandalous novel about cowboys he bought the night before while petting Duck’s head. When his lover falls asleep, he finally turns back into a man. Indrid smiles to himself and keeps stroking his hair just the same. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Can you still thrall me now that I’m a vampire?”

“I can, though it will take a bit more effort on my part. Vampires are more resistant to it than humans.”

“....Now that I know what it really is, can you use it on me during sex?”

“Ohgoodness” Indrid gasps as Duck cuddles up to him at the counter, “yes, yes I like that idea a great deal.”

“It was real kind of you to invite me up for a drink.” Duck hasn’t put on the remains of his uniform since the crash, but it feels fitting for this scene. 

“My pleasure. I feel it is my duty to show my appreciation to the brave men defending our country.” Indrid is in his fanciest outfit, his suit sporting blood red lining and buttons.

“Fancy wine is a hell of a thank you.” Duck gasps as Indrid nudges him back against the door, cups his chin, and kisses him. It takes all his effort to sound remotely indignant as he stammers, “what the fuck was that?”

“My appreciation.” Indrid grins.

“Fuck off.” Duck tries to push him away but Indrid doesn’t budge. Instead, he lowers his glasses and locks eyes. 

“Hold still.”

The thrall feels different now that he’s a vampire. Less like a distant, unfamiliar melody soothing him to sleep and more the thrum of the radiator in his childhood bedroom, letting him know he’s home, he’s where he belongs, with the person he belongs to. 

“Wh-what did you do to me?”

“Made you obedient. Something I thought soldiers excelled at. No matter, where were we?”

Duck tries to pull away from the kiss and finds he can’t, has no choice but to yield to Indrid’s lips and tongue and tips his head to the side so teeth can scrape down his neck.

“You know, I was going to make this evening all about you. But since you were so ungrateful when offered the affection of one with centuries of experience in carnal matters, there has been a change of plans. Come.”

Duck plants his feet to the ground but they move all the same, following Indrid into the bedroom. Halfway across the floor he manages to resist enough that Indrid turns and comes back to him. 

“See? I ain’t scared of you. I’m a pilot, a soldier, and you’re just some skinny vampire.”

Indrid shakes his head, “silly little human, thinking his plane makes him as formidable as a dark being such as me. Nothing for it but to carry you off to my lair and teach you the error of your ways.”

“Hell yeah” Duck laughs as Indrid lifts him into a bridal carry with ease, “I mean, uh, oh no.”

His boyfriend snickers. When they reach the bedroom, he sets Duck on his feet and orders, “Kneel.”

Duck’s knees drop to the floor. 

“Good boy. Now stay put while I undress.”

It’s cruel for Indrid to strip to his underwear without letting Duck touch him, but he endures it. 

“Open your mouth.” Indrid waits until he obeys (he beats the thrall to it) then pushes his cock between his lips, “oh, oh good boy, nnnf, looks like we will get along just fine.”

Duck whimpers, pretends to pull away when Indrid grabs his hair. The head of his cock bumps the back of his throat and he winces; he wants to be able to take Indrid all the way, but he’s been able to. 

“Relax. I am going to use your throat like a personal toy, and you are going to enjoy it.” His other hand pats Duck’s head, “relax…”

The thrall forces his muscles to loosen, his jaw to go slack, and Indrid pushes past what little resistance remains. Duck groans and nuzzles at his skin, so turned on he’s drooling.

“Mmmm, there we are. This is what you little humans are good for.” Indrid fucks his face with slow, demanding thrusts, laughing any time he squirms, “oh it’s so very charming how you think you can get away.”

He whines and slips a hand down to jerk himself off through his pants.

“Ah ah, none of that. Hands at your sides.”

“Mmmoh!” He growls as the thrall forces him to comply

“Oh do not fuss so. If you swallow it, ohgoodness, swallow it all like a good boy I might just let you cum.” Indrid chuckles to himself, “as if you have the choice to do anything but swallow, oh, oh yes, yes sweet one that’s it, just like that, ahhhnyes,” He forces Duck’s head against him and cums with a pleased cry. Duck obeys, but only just, and spit and cum still seep from his lips as Indrid pulls out.

“Messy little thing. Ah well, messy is as messy does.” Indrid lunges down, pinning him to the floor and cupping his cock through his slacks. When he bites down hard enough on his neck to break the skin, Duck is done for, cumming hard and fast while Indrid coos that he’s such a delightful little morsel. 

They manage to crawl into the bed, scene and thrall dissolving as they do, murmuring “I love yous” back and forth. It’s only when they’re half asleep that he remembers something Indrid said during their game. 

“Wait. Sugar, how old are you?”

[regretful-kishin]

Inspired by some convos in discord, the 4 versions of Silver that constantly rotate in my head and my interpretations on their relationships with each of their respective Giovannis, in order of best to worst

PokeSpe Silver: Despite claims that Team Rocket was not created because of his son's kidnapping, a lot of what they did can be traced to searching for him. We already know that Mewtwo and Deoxys were wanted for their psychic power in order to search but.

Capturing the 3 legendary birds and making the device to unleash the 4th Lugia: They knew it was a large bird Pokémon that did the actual kidnappings. Gio was just missing the last one Ho-oh.

Data on Jirachi: A myth, but the use of wishes could either find Silver or make it so he was never taken.

When engulfed in flames, Gio held Silver up out of harms way.

I'm willing to bet their Viridian home still has plenty of family photos, and a desk covered in police reports, missing papers, and notes on legendary birds. Silver's old room is still as it was before that fateful day.

(We joke that if he'd at least told Sabrina about his missing son, she may have seen him in Blue's memories while tormenting her.)

Tragedy Silver (fan interpretation of Tarnished Gold): Except for teaching that Pokémon were just tools to be used, Gio was a good dad. There for his son when home, and had plenty of hired help when he was off on business. Nothing was to expensive. When he left after Team Rocket's fall to get stronger, Silver ran away on his own journey to either get stronger to bring him home, or have Gio notice his disappearance to bring them both back home. On Silver's return to Viridian, instead of finding his father waiting at home for him, he found a city of death and a tyrant mad with power.

Gameverse Silver: Raised by Gio and Team Rocket. Not a bad childhood, but not exactly a 'childhood.' More of a sheltered life being taught the ideals of Team Rocket, no friends his own age. When Gio and Team Rocket lost to a couple kids (Red and Blue) and decided to leave, Silver got mad and decided to leave too. Prove he can be strong without a team, unlike his father who fell with Team Rocket. Remained a rebellious preteen throughout his own journey before being taught how his old ideas of strength were wrong. Still mad at Gio for sticking to obviously wrong ideals, while Gio is disappointed his son won't join his superior Rainbow Rocket.

Dragon's Den Silver (Own Fanfic): Strict and neglectful. Gio spent more time away on Team Rocket business and the rare bit of League business than home. Tolerated no mistakes and expected Silver to be ready for the day he would inherit Team Rocket from him. Taught harsh lessons, many of which would classify as abuse. When he left after his defeat, Silver still waited home until he was sure his father wasn't coming back. Traveled to get stronger to maybe prove himself enough for Gio to come back home. Found a real father figure in Lance after both realized that the way Gio treated him was very much abusive

[thetruthaboutnolan]

You people really are so easy

In case those who both follow this blog and stalk it don’t know, yes, we went quiet for a while because we were busy. Yes, it was partially because of events but it was mostly due to running an experiment.

Someone asked us how would we know people are so obsessed with Nolan that they openly stalk blogs and discords looking for them or claiming someone is them. Well, we ran that experiment.

Had a few people go out and join groups that were popular or just advertised a lot that fit genres Nolan liked to play in. Told them to use certain face claims and look at this blog and see what they did when running it and what we do now that he gave it to us.

We also had a couple go to a few tea blogs and rpt blogs to send in anons touching on points brought up here. Then went quiet on here knowing this would trigger people. You all did not disappoint.

All in all you got 2 people removed from groups, 3 talked to because they used specific face Cali s, names, and posted saved TikTok videos as character inspiration. Harassed 5 blogs three of which had nothing to do with this experiment just because they brought up some of the same points brought up here. And stalk 4 tea or rpt blogs because an anon brought up a point Nolan made and you think it’s them.

It’s cute, and thank you all for providing more evidence of you 40 year old virgins who are obsessed with a guy you know you’ve been lying about for over a decade. You also gave a large number of discord accounts, blogs and IP addresses to keep recorded. In case didn’t know, Nolan reached out to a lot of these blogs and asked not to be discussed and told if they were so they can get a log of it.

Anyway, currently going through screen shots of convos Nolan has had with people in the past revealing how much you all like to lie about them and how most of if not all your basis for the bullshit we’re straight lies. Just getting confirmation of it’s ok to show them and any redacting we need to do being done since most Nolan saved and has given are not redacted.

[twstsimp]

Ribbon Trio as the Power Puff Girls!

Soooo, I haven't posted a cursed edit in a few days and it's because I was busy cleaning out my entire room with the help of my mom and sister's.

And also mostly because I've been pretty busy with writing, yes I write stuff hallelujah.✨

But back to the point, I have a lot of stuff to write so that's why I haven't made anyway cursed edit for a few days now.

Anyways that's all, enjoy the cursed edit folks.

The Idea was inspired by an old Convo I had with @allimili @leonakingscholarship and I think also with @skzskrt (?), on discord.

[whoacanada]

‘Wishful Thinking‘

Summary: Every NHL champion gets a single brush with ice magic. When Jack takes his first cup with the Falconers, he accidentally undoes the wish that brought him back from the brink of death in 2009, and Bitty becomes hell-bent on lifting the cup himself for a chance to set things right.

A/N: Finally posting some concepts I’ve played around with that aren’t 100% complete massive fics, but still pretty solid, just little things that might be enjoyed. Yet another cup-wish-gone-wrong-au with monkey-paw components. Also inspired by discord convos about canon!Jack meeting an older, veteran NHL!Bitty and having a lot of feelings. Also mentor/father-in-law!Bob trying to help Bitty navigate the NHL. There’s more to this floating around but this is the meat of it

____________

____________

Bob can sense when it happens. A shift of something monumental that he’s only felt on a handful of occasions his entire life. A quick glance across the ice finds a number of the celebrating Falconers looking around curiously, unsure of the sensation; for so many, it’s their first brush with ice magic. A pleasant novelty. The vets, though, they look to each other.

Bob turns and doesn’t have to look far to find his son, one hand clasped around the cup, the other around Eric Bittle’s waist, smiling from ear to ear. Something about the moment is wrong, but Bob can’t quite determine why as he’s overcome with a wave of nausea. The stadium lights are too bright and he blinks hard, face scrunching, trying to force whatever wrongness he’s feeling out of himself.

Someone’s made a wish.

The moment passes. Bob’s vision clears. There, veiled in a shower of blue and gold confetti, is Eric; alone at center ice, face twisted in confusion as he looks around for the man who only moments earlier had been in his arms.

“You take the cup, you get one real wish,” the decades old, bourbon-lacquered voice of his first coach reminds him. “But only the one. Can be something small, like an empty cab in the rain, or it can be something big. World changing, even. The one thing, the most important thing — ”

“No,” Bob breathes. “Please, no.”

“— You never use your wish on another player.”

____________

____________

____________

They don’t know exactly what Jack wished for, but the next time Bitty’s blades touch the ice, it’s as if he’s stepped into the body of a new man. No more slurs. No more targeted chirps. He’s just one of the boys.

He plays. He wins. Then, the offers start to come.

NHL teams looking for fast wingers, team players, leadership material; not one of them mentions diversity, or Eric’s status as the first out NCAA hockey captain. No one cares. No one remembers Jack, and no one cares about Eric.

The best and worst case scenarios rolled into one. If this is the reality Jack unknowingly traded his existence for, Bitty has no choice but to walk through the door his partner opened.

Bitty swallows, trying to force the words out on one of his now nightly calls with the man who would have been his father-in-law in another world, if the shared connection between them hadn’t been interred in a Montréal cemetery almost a decade prior.

“I think . . . I think he wished for acceptance.”

___________

___________

___________

“No one remembers anymore.”

Eric scuffs his skate against this ice, building up a small pile of shavings before scattering them again, focusing on the soft white as if somehow he’ll be able to transport himself bodily to somewhere cool and quiet. Jackson Hole. Banff. Tremblant. Anywhere but here. Anywhen but now.

“Saw Tater last week at a press junket. Blank stares all around. Some days, most days, I wake up and I don’t know how I got here. I can go without thinking of him.”

Weeks. Eric doesn’t say aloud. Months. Those hideous mornings when he wakes up beside a warm body and forgets they aren’t him. They aren’t supposed to be him. Was there ever even a him.

Jack. Eric mouths silently, just to remind himself. His name is Jack.

The details always slip. The universe constantly trying to correct the fallacy of Eric Bittle remembering a man who died before they technically ever met. Faded photographs and corrupted memory cards. Selfies that used to have two people in frame. Vlog posts with cosmic ADR, swapping Jack’s name for someone else’s like a hastily rewritten script. Eventually, even Eric’s memories turn traitor. First times lost to reshoots and post-production magic. Blue eyes are brown. Black hair is blonde. Jack becomes Phillip. Eric’s first love recast. In desperation, he pulls a page from Memento, finds a tattoo parlor and has ‘Jack Laurent Zimmermann’ inked in dark, unmistakable letters on his inner thigh. Adds a cup, the Falconers’ crest, and the date they lost everything. It works well enough until the name fades; there are still days where a hook up will ask why Eric has a championship tattoo for a team he never played with.

Now, all he has is Bob.

“That’s why I’m here.” Bob reminds. “That’s why we talk.”

“But what happens if we don’t.”

Bob’s familiar assurances rumble through the phone. Constant. Refusing to acknowledge the harsh realities of the passing of time. The ever-present doomsday clock moving them both toward disaster — Bob aging, Eric aging out. He’s good, but he isn’t great, and the only offers coming his way are single-season contracts with teams that haven’t sniffed a championship in years. One day very soon, there will be no more chances for Eric to undo what’s been done. No more favors to ask of teammates that have long since forgotten a world where Jack Zimmermann was a college graduate and a rookie MVP. Not just an addict. Not just dead at nineteen.

Eric listens to Bob ramble, asks him to tell him a story, to tell him about the Jack that Eric never really got to know. The Jack he can barely remember. A man that Eric has dedicated his entire life to honoring, to bringing back — from where he cannot fathom — and Bob obliges in a soft tone Eric imagines is not dissimilar from how he must have spoken to his son as a child.

Eric ignores his teammates rushing around him — tossing chirps and gentle insults about his ‘Sugar Daddy’ — and focuses on the accented voice in his ear; grasping desperately at the memory of a man who doesn’t exist. Pretending. Hoping.

__________

__________

Across the ice, Eric sees Kent Parson watching him. When they lock eyes, the aging star glides toward him, under a guise of one amicable captain greeting another. He’s pushing 37, and while the years of competitive play are starting to show, he’s just as viciously handsome as the day they first met. At least, Eric thinks he is. He can’t imagine a life where Kent Parson strolled onto a college campus and played beer pong at a frat party, but there’s a folder of old photos on Eric’s computer. Jack is in none of them, but there’s one of himself and Kent. Smiling.

Eric can’t recall why the image bothers him so much.

Parson used his wish years ago on something that he’s never bothered to share — and Eric’s far too much a gentleman to ask a man who was once a rival what he wasted his golden ticket on — but now, he’s slowing down, and this is supposed to be his farewell season. Going out with a bang, riding the high of his fifth cup win. He’s worked hard, and he deserves to shove the Penguins back down into obscurity for another season. Deserves it far more than Eric, with his selfish, single-mindedness that’s ruined god knows how many careers in the last decade between his own ruthlessness and Bob’s meddling.

Except. . . this is also likely Eric’s last season. His last chance to undo the great tragedy of his life, and Parson knows it.

“How you feeling, Peaches? You ready?”

Eric hates the nickname in the same way he hates when his father calls him ‘Champ’.

Eric fights his own shame because he wants to be honest, say, ‘No, I’m not ready, I’ll never be ready,’ but Eric can’t ask for what he wants, anymore. He wants the Aces to balk on a power play. He wants Parson to flub a pass and throw the game —  he even knows the man would probably do it, too — but Eric needs to come by a win honestly. They learned the hard way in 2022 when Eric hands were wrapped around the cup, wishing, praying, crying, pleading . . .

Clear eyes, full hearts, or some such bullshit.

Cheaters don’t get wishes.

“I can’t remember, anymore,” Eric admits as they square up across the face-off circle, the resigned terror of an inescapable end creeping upon him like the burn of an old injury ignored for far too long. “Kent. Please.” Parson leans down, rests his stick against the ice, and holds Eric’s gaze as if to say, I’m here. Trust me. Just play.

The puck drops.

________

________

________

There’s someone watching him, young, handsome with dark hair and the kind of bright blue eyes that scream ‘notice me’ with all of the biological bluntness of neon plumage and a mating dance. The man weaves through the crowd, unnoticed by Eric’s teammates, and comes close enough that Eric can’t help but assume familiarity. He must be a fan, the way he’s flushed and excitable.

Eric’s drunk enough on the moment that he’s happy to indulge his baser instincts. He also literally can’t remember the last time he brought company home and if there’s ever been a night to get laid, it’s this one.

“Crisse, look at you, Bits.”

The man is caught between being awestruck and simply struck, reaching out to touch Eric’s arm but not quite making contact, like his depth perception is the tiniest bit off. He drops Eric’s old nickname so easily, so earnestly, that for a moment Eric thinks they might already know each other — but that’s impossible. Eric would remember someone so handsome, so very much his type.

“Only my friends call me ‘Bitty’.” Eric cautions, raising his half-empty champagne bottle in a mock toast and flashing his best ‘you’re coming home with me tonight’ smile. “But I’m more than happy to to get acquainted with you, Sugar.”

Eric isn’t usually this forward, this unrestrained. Tonight, it doesn’t matter, he’s celebrating: another championship, the end of a career, a life well lived. It’s to be expected. What isn’t expected is how the man’s relieved smile falters; as if Eric’s unbridled joy is somehow misplaced.

“Bitty? It’s me.”

“And ‘me’ is called . . . ?”

On very few occasions in Eric’s life has he been able to witness true devastation first-hand; and those instances were related to deaths, hockey losses, or blackout morning afters.

“Jack.” The man says softly, face slack with surprise. “It’s. . . Jack. Bitty, you know me.”

“If we’ve met before, I’m sorry,” Eric apologizes, hating to see the kid look so defeated. “I meet so many people — ”

Over Jack’s shoulder, Eric catches sight of Bob Zimmermann and waves, delighting in the way Bob’s face lights up when he catches sight of Eric, practically going supernova when he notices Jack as well, crossing the ice like a man possessed; Bob moves to pull them both into a hug but Eric’s new friend holds up a defensive hand and Bob stops mid-gesture.

It’s extremely apparent something is off, and between the reporters, the confetti, the champagne, and the fans, Eric is missing all of the context clues.

“Just won my last cup,” Eric singsongs, gesturing with the bottle between his mentor and the man Eric would very much like to fuck — who look very similar now that Eric can see them side by side. “Everyone’s super excited, right? Yeah? So, what’s going on. Did someone die?”

“No.” Bob says quickly, eyes flicking between Jack and Eric warily. “No. Not . . . that.”

“Severely injured?”

“. . . Non.”

“Okay, then, we should be celebrating!” Eric throws his arms wide and nearly clocks a passing teammate. “No more party pooping, Bobbert. Speaking, this is my new friend, Jack. Jack, Bob, Bob, Jack. Though, I’m getting the feeling you two might know each other. Or might be . . . related.” Eric gasps and smacks his free palm against his forehead. “Oh my god, the Tremblant retreat? Is that where I know you from? Listen, I was fucked up on pain meds that whole weekend, I am so sorry if we’ve already met.”

Despite Eric’s continued attempts at clarifying their shared mystery past, Jack keeps looking at Bob with that same wounded expression and it’s really killing Eric’s buzz.

“Bob.” Eric redirects. “Help me, here. Cutie’s nervous.”

“Eric, this is my, ah, well,” Bob’s smile is so forced, so tense, it looks more like a grimace. “Well, this is my son, Jack.”

There is only one ‘Jack’ Eric has ever known in relation to Bob Zimmermann, and he is not someone to be mentioned in polite conversation.

“Your son?” Eric echoes slowly. “Your son, Jack.”

Bob realizes what Eric’s tiptoeing around and casts a furtive glance toward the younger man, lifting two fingers to his cheek conspiratorially to imply ‘it’s a long story, not meant for public ears’. Eric knows how to play along.

“Wow, okay, did not expect that, but now that you’re saying it, I can one-hundred-percent tell. You have the same, well, everything.”

Eric takes Jack’s hand for an obligatory shake, not missing the way Jack’s features twist up into something caught between flattery and misery, before staring down his pseudo-mentor.

“My question is this, where have you’ve been hiding him — because how long have I know you, Bobby? Shame.”

“I’ve been . . . away.”

Jack’s tone is weighted with context Eric absolutely does not possess, but can definitely read into. Given the age difference and Alicia’s conspicuous lack of attendance this evening, Jack’s definitely a love child from some 90s Zimmergroupie. Or, original Jack didn’t actually OD and Bob spirited away his kid to keep away the prying eyes of the public; but that wouldn’t explain the age difference or the shared name.

Oh, Bobbert.

“Couldn’t wheel him out too soon,” Bob jokes, but Eric can tell the man’s heart isn’t in it, reinforcing Eric’s suspicion.

“Well, I’m happy you did,” Eric says graciously, trying to smooth over the awkwardness. “He’s very handsome, when he isn’t doing this Eeyore impression.”

“Just like his father,” Bob says reflexively —  defensively —  as Jack goes pink. “Eric, will you excuse us for a moment? Back in five minutes, tops.”

Eric offers a gracious wave, gaze lingering on Jack’s retreating back — and backside, bless — watching Bob rest a firm hand on his son’s neck, gripping tightly to lean in and furiously whisper something. As Eric watches, Jack looks back over his shoulder; it’s not the fond glance of a potential paramour. Regret, maybe? Grief, definitely.

He must be as disappointed to be cock-blocked by his father as Eric is.

Across the ice, Kent Parson has rushed Jack, gathering him into a crushing embrace that the younger man returns easily —  burying his face against Parson’s pads; pulling back only when Parson grabs Jack’s shoulders to push him away, taking a long look at him, holding his face between his hands briefly before pulling Jack back into his arms.

They don’t just look like old friends, it’s a reunion of desperation, like the videos his mother sends of soldiers coming home from war, but before Eric can think better of it, a teammate fists a hand in the collar of Eric’s sweater and pulls — away from Bob’s forlorn love child and forgotten first meetings — and the night goes on.  

Bob doesn’t return. Neither does Jack.

Eric doesn’t even notice.

__________

__________

[master-hekates-ceremonials]

Birthday Greetings

How could anything bad ever happen to you? You make a fool of death with your beauty, And for a moment, I forget to worry...

Today is my 28th birthday, and I want to thank you all for being awesome, talented, and supportive! This blog is almost 2 years old, though I've been in the fandom a little longer, having posted my first photos on my main (re)blog. I've met a lot of wonderful, creative people along the way - photographers, artists, writers, streamers - and your work is always amazing & inspiring! Keep it up! I also appreciate our interactions over here, on Discord, and on Twitch. I'm always up for our chaos lol It's been great fun, and our convos have helped me in improving my photography and in getting through life. I'm forever grateful to you all!

Thank you again - safety and peace, fellow Assassin's Creed fans!

Zark - June 9, 2022

Virtual photographer & Motorsport Director for Scuderia Auditore Ghibli

[astro-teeny-art]

I’ve been super sick lately and I’ve just been playing Undertale and slowly working my way through this drawing.

I love my daughter and her 97 light sources (outfit inspired by a silly discord convo with friends)

BUT ALSO I WAS GOING THROUGH OLD ART AND FOUND THIS SIMILAR DRAWING I DID WHEN I FIRST GOT MY IPAD!!! CHECK OUT THIS GLOW UP

It’s amazing what 2 years of learning how to use Procreate properly, learning how to do effects better, actually learning about colour values, learning how to shade better, figuring out composition and actually working on improving my art can do 👊😔

[tangyyposting]

log day 1

inspired by a discord convo with a friend to post this. me n her were watching old s*mg4 videos from back in 2014 and girl i miss those days,, not that i was a better person or anything in fact i honestly like who i am and the fact i ended up where i am, but i sincerely wish that my current self could be transported back to 2014 so i could properly interact with the 2014 internet. the most online interaction i could get back then was on roblox bc my mom was super strict with me being online, and honestly rewatching those mario vids made me really dive deep into 2014 randomXD culture until like 4 in the morning,, i think the most appealing part about it is that it feels so freeing, weirdly enough. cringe culture really wasnt mainstream from my knowledge and although being random was ‘the thing,’ from my experience, people genuinely liked it, and it was strangely wholesome that way. ppl were also alot easier to interact with bc no media was like super mainstream (so you didnt have to be necessarily ‘in the know’ to start convo) other than creepypastas, and towards the end of the randomXD era, fnaf. but like, info about that stuff was super widespread and ppl made interacting with fnaf and creepypasta media super fun, and they were always at least mentioned in one topic point during conversation. other stuffs i sincerely miss include nyan cat, mlg montage parodies, and rainbows. lots of them, too. too bad ppl got homophobic and dropped rainbows as soon as it became a symbol of pride, lol. anyways, tbh i dont have much to add onto the whole randomXD topic, but i do wanna say that holy carp do i hate the new morbius sweep stuff that’s going down (yes i know i have a morbius pfp shush my friend made it for me). like new wave gen z culture is honestly super similar to the 2014 randomXD culture in alot of ways, but back then ppl were genuine about it, and now we’re actively drowning in layers of irony. i could tolerate it until this point but the morbius memes have become so obnoxious i can no longer take it. i think what i hate about it the most is the fact that ppl arent genuine about it, like theyre ranting and raving (kinda like i’m doing now) about how good a movie it is and i just want to shout out loud in a public space abt how i’m so genuinely angry that ppl arent genuine for their passion about the movie. like please, be genuine with the things you like, and the things you dont. we were so close to reaching that sort of nirvana during the early years of the lockdown but as soon as things started opening up again ppl went right back to cringe culture like oh my godddddddd i am actively melting into primordial sludge just thinking abt it,,,,,,,,,, anyways i think that’s abt it for today, thanks for reading if u got this far. if i have something to add believe me i’ll add it later,,,, anyways have a good day mwah srry for the wall of text 💙💙