#sorry that half of these are distressed animals but what can I say

[fish-bowl-2]

Edd Moodboard consisting exclusively of images saved on my phone.

[peachesofteal]

Hey just wanted to say I love your writing!!! Somehow it fills me with a sense of contentment I haven't experienced before, maybe it's because I see so much of myself in darling from dead disco and I'm loving all the au drabbles too.

Can we please get a glimpse into what happened when darling saw them at the grocery store. Did she bolt the first chance she got? She's probably still heartbroken and emotionally exhausted but does she miss them? How is she managing motherhood by herself? Does she think Soap and Ghost tracked her down? Sorry for asking so many questions my mind is racing 💗

Hi love! Thank you so much for all your support, you're truly too kind. 🩵🩵 I'm so glad you're enjoying all these crazy little stories, it's definitely a treat to dive into.

Warnings-tags: 18+ Mature themes. Takes place after this.

It doesn't happen, quite like you thought it would.

You had expected to feel fear, when you saw them again. Expected to feel the nerves, the anxiety, the twisting in your gut when you finally laid eyes on them. You imagined those feelings would shift into anger, as they always do, the tidal wave of your rage's strength pulling you under, just as it did the night you left, nearly two years ago.

You're surprised when it's none of those things. You're surprised when it's... sadness instead. A profound sense of loss, the swell of it so strong it nearly knocks you off balance, while it brings tears to your eyes.

Your mouth hangs open in shock for what feels like too long, seconds turning into eons while you cradle the baby's head, brain sputtering while you try to process. They've done it. They've found you.

They're going to take her.

Except... they don't look like they're looking for you. They look they're just out, doing their shopping. They look like they're just... having a normal day.

And they look just as shocked to see you as you are to see them.

Bee gurgles in your arms, a happy song, and you bounce her instinctively, while you break your eyes away to look past them, at the other end of the aisle, and the towards the door. You should leave. The thought primes your muscles, preparing you to flee, when Simon's voice rings out over the dim grocery store music.

"Don't run. Please. Please, darling. Don't run." You hesitate, unwilling to leave the grocery cart, unwilling to try to run through the store, and stand frozen, rooted to the linoleum like you've grown there.

It's like Bee can sense the shift in your mood, can smell your distress, because her happy trill stops, and her face scrunches up like she's confused, before she starts to cry.

"Shhh, baby. It's okay." you hum, trying to rub her back to calm her, while your brain trips over itself trying to go a mile a minute. Run. Don't. Be calm. Panic. Scream. Cry. Run into their arms. Don't be crazy. Don't let them take her.

They're stepping closer now, easing up the aisle towards you, and you shake your head at them as a no. No. Don't come any farther. I don't trust you. Johnny tries to wipe his cheek inconspicuously, while Simon's got his hands out like he thinks he's about to catch a wild animal.

Maybe he is.

"Stop." you half yell it, the word bubbling up your throat and out like a barb, and it halts them in their tracks.

"Darling, please." Johnny croaks, his eyes locked on yours.

"Stop!" you say again, and step backwards once. Bee fusses, and Simon watches her. "I won't let you." you hiss, and Johnny's brow furrows in confusion, while Simon regards you slack jawed.

"Let us what?" He asks and you nearly laugh, except in the moment you realize your breathing is more shallow than normal, lungs tight and fighting your brain for air.

"Take her. I wo-won't." Johnny's face shifts into something crestfallen, something broken, and he makes a strangled sound. Like he wants to speak, but can't. It hurts you, wounds something deep, something you've buried, and for a fleeting moment, you want to comfort him. Want to reach out, and touch him. Only just to feel him again. Simon doesn't anything at all, just stares at you in shocked silence, his hands shaking.

"Darling, we would never-" Would never? Would never?! He seems to realize, what he's saying, and stops himself... before taking a deep breath and continuing. "We know you don't trust us. But-"

"No. That's enough." You take another step backwards. He doesn't stop.

"Please, we can at least try to help with-"

"I don't need your help." You spit, and try not to look at your trolley. It's full of Bee's food, puréed, organic foods and brightly colored snack packs, while your own is a smattering collection of bruised produce and discount rack canned goods. "We're fine." you double down, but your voice cracks with the weight of the emotions that you're staving off, and Johnny looks heartbroken. "I'm fine. I'm doing it on my own. I've been doing it, on my own."

"I know." Simon's voice is soft, gentle, the gravel pitch smoothed into something velvety, just for you. It tugs at you, stabs and twists, nips at your heart, while you try to build your defenses to keep it out.

"I don't need either of you. We don't. I'm taking care of her. And she's great, she's perfect." It's not a lie. She is perfect. An angel. Your inquisitive, sweet, beautiful baby. Your little piece of perfection. You do everything for her, sacrifice everything, for her. She's your world, and your her's.

But being someone's world who needs you to survive is hard. It's really, really fucking hard. And doing it on your own is even harder. No one understands, what it's like, and you feel so weak, so stupid, so beat down every day that sometimes, it's too easy to close your eyes in the bathtub. It's too easy, to feel like you did after she was born, alone in your tiny flat, with a screaming newborn, and no one to help you. No one to call. It's too easy to wish for terrible things, especially when you know she would be taken care of. When you know her dads would keep her safe.

"She's beautiful, love." Johnny says, jolting you from your thoughts, and you can't help but nod in agreement.

"You've done so well." Simon murmurs and you slam your eyes shut. Don't. Don't listen to them.

"T-thank you." It comes out as a cry, tears you can't hold off anymore, and they both step closer, close enough that they're maybe two arms lengths away from where you stand. "No!" you croak, and Johnny covers his face with a palm, while Simon's face twists like he's in pain.

Seconds pass, and Bee still fusses in your arms, her body wriggling in your grasp, while Johnny takes long, deep breaths.

"Are you taking care of yourself?" he asks you softly, after he rubs his eyes. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Li...like I said. We're fine." You choke it out, and Simon shakes his head. Like he knows. Of course he does. They can see right through you. You have to get out of here. "We should go."

"No, wait." Simon tries to step closer, but Johnny grabs his wrist.

"At least, let us buy your groceries." Johnny tries, but you shake your head.

"No."

"Darling, please. Please." Simon latches onto your trolley, making it immobile in his grip, and you shake your head back and forth.

"She needs to go down for her nap." You grit out. You can feel your own tears on your cheeks, and you try to ignore it, try to ignore everything except for your mission. Escape.

"Can we... get your phone number, at least?" He tries.

"That's not a good idea." I have you blocked on everything so not sure what purpose it would serve, either.

"You still have ours, right? In case you need anything?" Johnny asks gently, and you nod.

"You can call us, any time. Day or night." Simon rushes out, like he's a bit frantic, stumbling over the words. He releases the trolley finally, and you pull it away immediately. "For anything. We'll be there." Bee cries, screams, lungs screeching and you pat her back.

"Okay, thanks." You don't say anything else before you turn, swinging around and beelining for check out, all while trying to remember to breathe and soothe your crying baby.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck.

[hwanghyunjinenthusiast]

What're friends for?

AN: As a fellow weeb, bringing up Soobin and hentai was only a matter of time. This is just crack tbh. Also, this is just me once again pushing the Boobs enthusiast! Soobin and Sub! Soobin agendas. (Also also, I was tipsy while editing this so, hopefully it's some level of coherent 💀)

Synopsis: A night that was supposed to be spent watching anime with your best friend takes a sharp turn when he accidentally forgets to close his hentai tab.

Heads up: Choi Soobin x Fem! Reader, mostly pwp, friends to friends who fuck, crack, mentions of hentai, Dom! Reader, Sub! Soobin, dirty talk, Reader thinks Soobin is cute and calls him cute a lot, handjob, oral sex (m. receiving), Reader has boobs big enough to give Soobin a titjob, titjob and Soobin cums on Reader's face and tiddies.

Word count: 2353

I will block you if you are a minor and/or have no easily visible indication of your age on your blog if you interact with me in any way.

"Hurry up!" you yell, making yourself comfortable on Soobin's bed as you wait for him to return from the kitchen with drinks.

"I'm coming, I'm coming. It's not like My Hero is going to go anywhere," he retorts when he finally returns with two glasses and a bottle of soda, shutting the door behind him.

"Yeah but, we barely get to spend time together in person and I don't want to waste it," you respond, moving over a little so he can comfortably settle beside you.

"True but, you don't need to yell," he says, rolling his eyes at you and grabbing his remote to switch on his TV.

Any response you have dies on your tongue when loud moans assault your ears. You're startled when you turn to see hentai playing on Soobin's screen. A pretty graphic scene of the male protagonist getting a titfuck from a woman with a...generous bust plays out on the screen, obscene sounds emitting from both of them.

Soobin fumbles with the remote, rushing to turn the TV off as quickly as he can. Silence rings out throughout his bedroom.

"Don't," is all he manages to choke out, his face speedrunning its way into scarlet territory.

"Hey, you have nothing to be embarrassed about. A lot of people watch porn," you say sincerely.

Soobin makes a noise that's a combination of embarrassment, frustration and distress. He refuses to look in your direction, choosing instead to stare holes into his bedroom door. Looking for all the world that he hopes the earth underneath him would open and swallow him whole.

"Seems like I was right about you being a boob guy atleast," you say jokingly, trying to ease the tension in the air.

He turns to face you so fast you're half surprised he doesn't snap his neck. "Who- how- why are you talking about what I prefer?" He asks, and his voice cracks halfway through.

"Soobin, relax, none of this is that big of a deal," you shrug, "You're not exactly... subtle when you take peaks at my boobs. Also, I just think you have boob guy energy. Can't really explain it beyond that."

You've never seen Soobin look like he's wished for death more than right now.

"I'm sorry for staring at your- um- it's inappropriate and really disrespectful-"

"Don't worry about it. I'm not offended. I'm pretty flattered, actually," you respond with a wave of your hand.

He looks stunned then, "Wha-what? You're not offended? Wait, you're flattered? Why?"

"Who doesn't feel flattered when someone thinks they're attractive?" You ask with a laugh, "Really, this doesn't have to be a big deal, Soobin."

"You're not the one whose porn habit was just exposed," he fires back but, it's difficult to take him seriously with that cute flush still colouring his cheeks.

"I don't mind sharing if you're really that curious,"

"You're really annoying, you know that?"

"Yet you think I'm attractive so, what does that say about you?"

Soobin looks like he's 5 seconds away from yelling.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," you soothe with minimal laughter this time around. Giving his arm a comforting squeeze. He says nothing after that, and the two of settle into a tense silence. However, you've always been too curious and talkative for your own good.

"Have you ever tried it?"

"Tried what?" He asks with his face scrunched up cutely in confusion.

"What they were doing in the hentai. Have you ever gotten a titjob?" You ask, genuinely curious.

The strangled noise he let's out starts to make you consider that maybe you are taking this a little too far.

"No," he mumbles out, dragging his hand across his face and pointedly looking at anything in his room that isn't you.

"Would you like to?"

"What?" Soobin's wide, startled eyes meeting yours. As though he's not entirely sure he heard you correctly.

"Would you like one? I wouldn't mind," you say sincerely. You've always thought your best friend was attractive and, clearly, he thinks you're attractive too. The circumstances couldn't be more perfect if you tried.

Soobin just stares at you for a long minute. His lips parted, and eyes wide.

"Are you... serious?"

"Yeah. I know I tease and joke a lot but, I wouldn't have offered if I wasn't serious,"

"You don't have to do this out of some misplaced sense of pity or whatever. I'll survive being embarrassed,"

"I'm not. I really want to. You can obviously say no. I'd never hold it against you, but I'm not offering out of pity. Not in the slightest,"

Soobin seems to still not believe this is all real, but he doesn't look quite as skeptical, and he's looking at you now, so that's a start.

"Okay," he says so softly that you almost miss it. Anticipation courses through you when his words do finally register. You shuffle closer to him then. Feeling a bit of pride when his blush darkens and his hands nervously toy with his sheets.

"Is it okay if I kiss you?"

"Yes," the already breathy quality of his voice makes your insides squirm. It's cute how he jumps slightly when your hand rests dangerously high on his thigh. You don't give him much time to think about it, though, because soon your lips are against his.

The moan he let's out goes straight to pussy. A dull ache already settling in as you try your best not to push him down and straddle his lap. You can't help the uptick of your lips when you feel him shudder as your tongue teases his mouth. He's just so fucking cute.

"You can touch me, you know," you tell him when you trail kisses along his jaw. Your hand moving further up his thigh as you shift closer to him.

"I did-didn't want to ma-make you uncomfortable," he stutters out, hands hovering nervously over you. "Soobin, you're going to be fucking my tits. It's completely fine to touch me," and to prove your point, you grab one of his gigantic hands and press it to one of your breasts.

Choosing not to wear a bra today definitely worked out for you. He seems to take initiative from there. Tentatively squeezing and letting a breathless 'fuck' as he takes in how soft you are.

Before you can utter more teasing remarks, his other hands weaves its way into your hair, and he meets your lips in a frenzied kiss. You moan against his pillowy lips when his thumb brushes over your nipple through your shirt. That just seems to egg him on more. Groaning into you when he gives you a particularly harsh squeeze.

For your part, your hands toy with the waistband of his sweats. Smiling when you feel his abdomen tense and jump with ever brush of your fingertips.

"Y/n," he whines, hips jerking towards you. "Yes?" You pull back and ask coyly, the ache between your thighs worsening as you take in how dishevelled he already looks.

"You're playing with me," he says with a pout and god, you want to ruin him. However, you push down the thought. You don't want to scare him off so soon.

"Playing with you? How?" You ask, titling your head in faux confusion.

"You're teas-teasing me. I want you t-to touch me," he rushes out so quickly you nearly miss his words. When you register what he says, your walls clench hard. You're a little surprised he said it so directly. Maybe he's becoming desperate. Cute.

"I am touching you, Soobin," you don't fail to notice the way he shudders when you say his name.

"You know what I mean,"

"I don't. You have to be specific,"

For a brief moment, you think he isn't going to respond. Maybe too embarrassed to tell you what he wants exactly.

"I want you to touch my cock," he whispers and, you pounce.

You don't give him a moment to comprehend what's happening. Kissing him fiercely as your hand snakes its way down his sweats and boxers. You both moan into each other at the contact. Fuck, he's much bigger than you fantasised about. Hot and incredibly hard in your palm.

"You're already so hard," you tease as you dot kisses along his jaw and, barely stroke him. The copious amounts of the pre-cum he's leaked out making for an easy glide nonetheless. Briefly, you wonder if he'd let you sit on it and ride him to your heart's content. Another time maybe.

"Yeah, for you," he moans, eyes fluttering shut and hips jolting against your hand to get as much friction as he can. It's not fair in the slightest how good he looks like this. His words certainly don't help either.

Impatiently, you tug his boxers and sweats down, and the sight of him flushed an appealing red makes you clench hard.

"Is it okay if I suck you off? Going in dry wouldn't be...pleasant," you ask, watching him for any signs of hesitance. However, you're met with the opposite. A throaty groan falling from his plush lips and his cock twitching against his stomach. This man really might just be the death of you.

"Yeah, it's okay," he mumbles, avoiding your gaze as the blush in his cheeks darken.

"You're so fucking cute," you breathe, kissing his neck and stroking him less leisurely this time around. His moans and the jerky, shallow thrusts of his hips into your hand make you grin against his skin and, your insides squirm.

"Shut up," he retorts but, it's severely undercut by how fucked out he already sounds. His hands gripping the sheets harshly.

"Oh?" You ask with faux innocence, stilling your hand around the base of his cock. Biting back a giggle when he whines and tries to fuck your hand for any sort of friction.

"Fu-fuck, fine. I'm so-sorry. I'm sorry, okay?" He grits out.

"Good boy," you say with a grin that's likely a tad too smug. Giving his jaw one more kiss, you ease yourself onto his floor. Honestly, you're impressed you're being so composed about all of this. Your breath stuttering in your lungs when you're eye level with his ridiculously appealing cock.

Soobin feels himself throb when your soft breaths hit him. It's made worse when he sees your tongue lick your lips and the look in your eyes. You look like you want to devour him.

The sharp gasp he let's out when you take your first lick of him goes straight to your clit. Ruined panties sticking to you uncomfortably as you familiarise yourself with the slightly salty taste that is all Soobin. His hips instinctively buck into you when you finally decide to stop toying with the poor man and, see how far you can take him.

"Fuc-fuck, sorry," he groans, eyes shut tightly as he tries his best to reign in his reactions. Such a cutie. You'd tell him so if your mouth wasn't filled with his dick. A mixture of your saliva and his pre-cum slipping past your lips and down your chin. Your hand stroking what you can't fit in your mouth and making sure he's thoroughly coated.

However, as much as you'd happily make him cum down your throat and keep sucking him off until he cries, tonight isn't about that.

His eyes are frantic and glassy when they meet yours. He looks so genuinely offended that you stop sucking him off that it almost makes you laugh. "Why?" Is all his foggy brain can seem to supply and you really want to kiss him.

Instead of answering him with words, you tug off your shirt and Soobin doesn't seem so upset anymore. Fiery eyes take in your breasts and committing them to memory. You don't fail to notice his cock twitching against his stomach, a fresh drop of pre-cum leaking out of him. God, he's just so easy.

"Still complaining?" You can't help but, tease. However, any response he would've given you dies on his tongue when you cup your breasts and envelope his slick cock in them.

The moan that flies from his lips is so wanton and broken that you can practically feel yourself soaking through your shorts. His eyes are shut as he tries his best not to fuck up into your ridiculously soft tits. Such a good boy.

You notice his large hands grip his sheets even more fiercely than before when you start to move. Allowing him to get accustomed to the glide of his cock between the valley of your breasts.

"Fe-Feels so good," he stutters out, weakly bucking into your touch. You've never felt more aroused in your entire life. He's so sensitive and responsive. You're sure you could have him cumming within minutes.

You bite back a grin when he gasps as you lick and suck at the head of his cock that pokes out. Looking up at him through fluttering lashes with his tip in your mouth and the rest of him nestled comfortably between your unfairly soft tits. His pre-cum and your saliva smearing your breasts.

You knew it wouldn't take much but, it still startles you when Soobin cums. He babbles out apologies as his hips jolt against you. His warm, thick cum landing on your tongue, face and breasts before you can even fully comprehend what just happened.

His cum isn't unpleasant. A little salty and you swallow it as he cock begins to soften between your breasts. You give him an apologetic look when he shudders as you slowly remove him from between your breasts. Looking around for anything to clean yourself up with.

"Fuck, again I'm so sorry," he apologises reaching into his bedside table for a few tissues, "here you go. I didn't mean to...make a mess."

Those words really shouldn't affect you as much as they do. At this point, you're sure even your shorts are ruined.

"It's okay. Honestly, it was really hot seeing you fall apart like that,"

The embarrassed, strained groan he gives you makes you smile harder than perhaps strictly necessary. He really is just so easy.

[jayjj7]

chapter 7. helping (half written)

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a/n: thank you for 300 followers omg❤️

hanni and haerin arrive at the vet that you work out in a panic not knowing what’s wrong with haerins cat, kitty. haerin is holding kitty close to her chest like one would hold an infant. kitty had been throwing up regularly for the past week but after some medication you prescribed her it stopped, though it was a very small amount because you just suspected kitty just had a stomach ache. hanni, still panicked, was calmer than haerin; she still thinks kitty is fine and just needed more medication.

as they both walk in they are greeted by a lady sitting down peacefully on one of the waiting chairs, 7 vacant leashes in hand. hanni and haerin look around, confused as to why no one is at the reception. but because this was like a second home to the both of them because of how often they’ve visited you on your breaks, they weren’t patient.

“hello?” haerin tries to draw your attention towards her.

“y/n! kitty needs help!” hanni shouts leaning over the counter hoping to make her voice heard.

haerin slightly slaps hannis arm, offended.

“ow!”

“don’t say that, kitty is okay” haerin scolds while petting kitty’s head in comfort.

hearing your name being called after ryo and tae arrived to help with the dogs felt like a call from heaven. an excuse to leave you explain to the boys, “okay dani is coming with the gloves, i’ll be right back to help you all” you jog out of the room. you recognized hannis voice but you assumed it was nothing important and it was just another time she stopped by to say hi.

as you jog to the reception you bump into danielle, throwing you off balance towards the wall, which she quickly holds you by both arms so you don’t fall.

“oh my god i’m sorry!” danielle stares at you, hoping to not irritate you.

“it’s fine, go help the boys with the dogs” you don’t even hold eye contact with her as you leave her grasp and make your way to the front.

“hey what’s going on?” you ask slightly out of breath.

“kitty won’t stop throwing up and i ran out of the medicine you gave her!” haerin looks at kitty while explaining to make sure her cat isn’t distressed.

“oh uh okay,” you’re kind of shocked by this as you thought the medicine given to kitty would stop the sickness.

“here, ill take her into the back and run a few tests but that’ll be a $50 copay” you wince, feeling bad charging your dear friend.

“yeah okay here” haerin doesn’t hesitate as she hands you kitty before inserting her card to pay.

in the inspection room you start off by getting kitty some water and writing down any observations. you decided to place some food for her to eat and see any reactions she may have. after serving the food, all kitty does is sit there and stare at you instead of approaching the food. this happens for several minutes. no matter what you do, she won’t eat.

“maybe dani knows what to do?”

you leave the room to find dani washing the dogs with the boys.

“dani can you come here for a second?”

danielle mouths a ‘thank you’ as she takes her hairnet and gloves off before throwing them away after leaving the room.

as you both arrive to the room where kitty was left, you explain the situation to her. danielle hums in confusion as she listens while kitty is cuddling up to her.

“mmm..? how about this?” she walks over to a cabinet and pulls out a can all the way in from the back before opening said can. danielle picks up kitty in her arms and holds the different kind of food to her while she speaks sweetly to kitty, trying to convince her to eat the food.

confused and somewhat annoyed, you cross your arms thinking that danielle won’t be of any help until kitty eats the food with no concerning reactions.

danielle looks at you and smiles.

“maybe kitty doesn’t like the food her owner gives her, i mean she’s not throwing up. she’s almost finished the food!” danielle laughs as kitty continues eating. you can tell danielle loves her job and every animal she treats. it’s heartwarming seeing her care for animals and the smile on her face after she’s found a solution to a problem.

“she’s also over due for a shot so we should take care of that” she says in a more serious tone while handing kitty over to you after kitty had ate all her food.

you’ve been through this process before: hold the animal in a comfortable yet secure position so that it’s not only hard for them to leave your grasp but also comfortable enough for them to relax. all while someone else injects the medication into the animal. simple enough.

“okay ready? one two three” danielle whispers as she inserts and injects the needle into kitty…or so she thought.

“wow did you even give it to her? it’s almost like she didn’t fee-woah” your amusement was cut short as you feel the medicine being poured into you. your hand was under kitty’s stomach so it was hidden, danielle must’ve not seen your hand and injected the medicine into you instead of kitty.

“oh my god y/n!”

in a slump, tired, and exhausted manner, you hand over kitty back to haerin. “turns out she doesn’t like the…food…you give her” your voice is almost a whisper as you talk with noticeable pauses in between words.

“what? kitty!” haerin takes her cat back in disbelief.

“i told you it was nothing” hanni groans and she holds haerins shoulder.

you lean on the counter with your head facing down and hold up a thumbs up. “she was…due for her shots so we…gave her it-to her” you stumble.

“thank you y/n! see you later!” haerin thanks as she walks out with hanni, both of them waving to you.

taglist : [ @modanisgf @greenniee @milfcr @idkwhatim-doinghere101 @nimxie @urwyf3 @flolio @imahallucination11 @pandafuriosa60 @kaypanaq @nnewjeansstuff ] taglist is open !! comment to be added !

[headspace-hotel]

3 questions:

1. How do you carry the heavy burden of having so many correct beliefs plus the rare combination of motivation and the right approach to making the world a better place? 2. Does your back hurt?

3. What do you think about David Pearce's utopian idea that a sufficiently technologically advanced future society could and should one day abolish (or at least minimize) suffering, partly by redesigning the biosphere and its inhabitants to be kinder and gentler to each other? IMO that could involve bioengineering predation out of existence.

Sorry if I already asked you about this. You seem very smart and seem to know a lot about ecology so I want to know your thoughts

1. Half the work is fighting very hard against starting to believe this very thing (that I have correcter beliefs than many other people). I hope my posts inspire y'all to read things that are not posts.

2. Not really.

3. The term you're looking for is "life on Earth goes extinct."

But, okay, I've seen this sentiment before, and it is—not that you are, just that the idea is— a naive and arrogant approach to ethics in nature

I don't think it's wrong to change the biosphere. That's what life DOES. It evolves.

But "ending suffering" is an impossible goal because we don't, and in some ways can't, understand suffering scientifically. Suffering is an internal state that is defined only by the perceiver's experience of it. We still do not know the ins and outs of how physical pain works in humans, let alone spicy, obscure emotions like Existential Angst.

People who are concerned with the problem of suffering in nature focus on predation and pain in the animal kingdom—understandable if you have thought about it for under five minutes, but hopelessly incomplete and arbitrary if you consider that a creature's ability to feel and perceive is not determined by how humanlike it is.

There is no reason to think a plant or a mushroom is less capable of "suffering" than a lobster is. Plants and fungi are different; they are not simpler or less advanced or less alive than animals.

The corollary to this is that being marginally more humanlike doesn't mean that a creature "suffers" in the way a human does. When you think about it, living things can perceive "negative" stimuli because the ability to do so helped their ancestors survive. A solitary creature, for instance, wouldn't experience loneliness because being with others of its species isn't really necessary or beneficial for it. It's very likely that a creature that can't change its behavior to accommodate for or help heal an injury, can't experience continuous pain like we can. Does that mean they don't "suffer" as severely as we do? I'm not sure. It's impossible to say. I'm sure we all experience the world profoundly—I'm sure the perception of light by a bryozoan colony and the subsequent growth toward the light and feasting on algae "feels" as potent and spiritual as any of my complicated chordate emotions.

Long story short, stimuli like pain were adapted as responses that help a creature survive by avoiding things that are injurious to its survival. To eliminate suffering, you'd have to invent creatures that don't want to be alive, which would die out and be replaced by creatures that do.

Inventing creatures that don't want to be alive somehow sounds way more fucked up than anything that already exists.

But, hi, we are social creatures. Our survival instincts are overwhelmingly oriented toward seeking safety with other humans. PTSD is a disorder of social misplacement; it develops when the communities we live in don't properly acknowledge and care for our hurt after a distressing experience. We evolved to be able to communicate pain and distress to other humans, which means being aware of our own suffering, and that others can suffer, which explains why we are having this conversation, because wanting to relieve other creatures' suffering is a quality of our species.

I get tags on my posts sometimes referencing how nature is a brutal suffering machine—often when I'm talking about plant cognition and awareness—and it's troubling because that's not the takeaway I want people to have at all.

Because first of all, a healthy ecosystem working "as intended" does a lot to minimize suffering. People see predation as this violent and brutal thing, but for a deer, death by festering injury or starvation or parasite overload related to overcrowding or even old age is a lot more nasty and painful.

A biosphere without predators is unavoidably worse. The buffer on prey populations that predators provide creates optimal conditions for prey, because otherwise, the animals just reproduce to the point where the population can't increase any more because the animals are too sick/starving.

Predation ensures a deer with a horribly mangled broken leg will get picked off instead of limping around for months in pain (something i actually witnessed!). It's not evil. It just is.

If you really wanted to eliminate suffering, you would have to eliminate being alive, and to be completely honest, that is probably not possible. We could not render the Earth completely empty of even single celled organisms if we dumped every toxic chemical into the atmosphere and bombed ourselves with every nuclear weapon. We would still have tough bastards like Deinococcus radiodurans around, and those guys would probably eventually evolve into organisms with the capability to experience pain all over again.

Abiogenesis may be a bitch but life, once it exists, is a Pandora's box that can't be unopened. The first thing to be alive also invented death, and there's no way around that. The monkey-typewriter-room of molecules that let you understand that you exist are going to write out "WOW, THIS FUCKING SUCKS" every once in a while.

When you think about it, the ecosystem as it naturally evolved probably is one of the most low-suffering possible ecosystems, assuming that things that can be considered "suffering" evolved as survival mechanisms, and unnecessary mechanisms for suffering would be eliminated over time due to the detriment they are to survival.

Living things develop survival mechanisms, and this means the ability to distinguish good and bad stimuli. Can't get around that.

Even with the existence of predation and parasitism as important modes of survival, such overtly ""antagonistic"" relationships in nature aren't even dominant. A staggering portion of the biosphere is engaged by necessity in mutualism—most plants form mycorrhizal symbioses and flowering plants are also symbiotically joined to pollinators, not to mention that plants need each other to thrive.

You can view this positively (plants have friends!) or negatively (plants can get lonely...)

[gabessquishytum]

Hob is over 600 hundred years old, he’s got a ton of trauma that he never knew how to deal with until he learns about something in the early 2000’s…. Age regression. Hob didn’t have a childhood in the traditional sense so the idea of going to back to a childlike mind set fascinated him, but now he can’t exactly control when it happens. Whenever he gets stressed out his mind instantly goes to it, which had caused some problems especially after his stranger, Dream came back into his life. Hob had to pretend, hide his stuffed ducky and paci whenever Dream came over. He had to control his mind if anything vaguely distressing came up. This of course became an even BIGGER problem once him and Dream got together, they started sleeping in the same bed (well Hob slept anyway) and his ducky hadn’t seen the light in many weeks. Everything was going great until Dream asks a question. “Hob dear…are you pregnant?” Dream asks one day laying his head in Hob’s lap as the bigger man was reading a book. All this got was a book dropped on his face. “Oh dream I’m so sorry are you alright? You just um startled me with the question,” Dream of course was fine no mere mortal book could pose any threat to him, although under the cover of darkness he would admit his nose hurt a little.

“I am perfectly fine, Hob Gadling. But you have not answered my question.”

“Dream…I don’t know how to tell you this but I don’t exactly have the parts to get pregnant.”

“hmm,” Dream pondered, “how strange” he said laying back in Hob’s lap.

“wait wait wait hang on..why you’d think i was pregnant?”

“you dream of nurseries, baby bottles, stuffed animals…I don’t mean to look into your dreams but when we were in such close proximity it just happened I’m very sorry for invading your privacy,”

“was it a duck?” “Pardon?”

“the stuffed animal was it a duck?” Dream only nods in response.

it takes Hob a few more weeks to actually tell Dream what that meant. His Dreams had become more frequent and Dream was learning things but he wasn’t sure how to apply them. This was of course until Hob was mid panic attack and Dream somehow knew the duck was in the closet. “Hob…hob look at me,”

he looks up from his position on the floor barely able to breathe.

“I found a friend who really wants to talk to you,” Dream pulls out the duck from behind him and Hob immediately snatches it, seeming to calm down immensely. Dream didn’t ask questions that night, only comforted Hob, that however does not stop him from asking questions later. “You are not with child,”

Hob chuckles stirring his soup. “I know that love,”

“You are the child,”

Hob drops his spoon, he wants to run he wants his ducky, but he has to stay strong and deny everything.

“I am 600 years old I’m less of a child than your average person,”

Dream walks over to him and cradles Hob’s face in his hand.

“Hob…darling.”

He can’t look at Dream, he can’t.

“I’m not going to judge you, I merely wish to help you,”

Hob sighs and tells Dream everything. it’s a slow process after that, Hob formally introduces Dream to Ducky and shows him the pacifier after that, those being his only two items, Dream intended to change that. And after a few weeks a…dynamic began to emerge. And a year and a half later this is where our story unfolds.

Hob had a bad day, dream can sense it a dark cloud had entered the New Inn and it was quickly coming up the stairs, Dream wasn’t quite sure if Hob needed his other moniker today he would wait until the other man told him. Hob taught a lesson on the 1600’s because of his class schedule he technically taught it three times, he hated his unit on the 1600’s but someone had to do it. He was dropping fast he had to get upstairs, everyone knew not to speak to Mr. Gadling when he got in a bad mood because he usually didn’t talk back and looked like he didn’t understand what you were saying.

When he gets up there, the doors unlocked. Dream knows, little Hob has such trouble with locks. He opens the door and there stands Dream with a look of such openness and sympathy Hob knows he definitely knows. “D-d-da daddy,” Hob manages to choke out crying. Oh he definitely needed Dream’s other D moniker today. Dream swoops Hob into a hug, after so much time he was a professional at this. He holds Hob’s face in his hands. “Tell me what you need little one,”

“h-hungry”

Dream knew, he had known Hob was doing lectures on the 1600’s he would feel his hunger more acutely. He had prepared for this. He holds him close, petting his hair. “oh my poor baby is hungry, that just won’t do, why don’t we get dressed for a night in, and Daddy will get your bottle off the stove, how’s that little one?” Hob only nods, letting Dream hold his hand and lead him to the bedroom. Getting dress for a night in meant Hob’s little pajamas made of the softest and most comfortable Dreamstuff of course. Soon Dream heard the ding of the stove as he was settling Hob in bed. “Now my darling boy, you stay right here while Daddy goes and gets your bottle,” Hob looks hesitantly off to the side. “What’s wrong, hob?” “D-ducky,”

that’s what Dream had forgot! He summoned Ducky from his corner in the closet and handed him to Hob.

“Ducky!” Hob was delighted and held on to his bird companion close

Dream chuckled and went to fetch Hob his bottle. When he returned it seemed as if Hob was animatedly telling Ducky about his day, it was mostly baby babble that Dream didn’t understand, but Ducky could, Ducky always understood. Dream quietly knocked on the door so as to not startle Hob.

“Hobbit, Daddy’s got your bottle,” 

Hob looked up and squealed in delight at Dream’s presence or at the presence of food, Dream wasn’t sure, it didn’t matter anyhow all that mattered was that Hob was happy.

Dream came up to Hob’s side of the bed.

“Dweam!” 

“Yes Hob Dream is here,”

He goes to hand Hob the bottle but strangely Hob only looks at it. 

“Oh, is someone really little? Can Daddy hop into bed with you?”

Hob nods and Dream slides into next to him. 

“Do you want me to feed you?”

Hob nodded eagerly, he must have been very young to be almost nonverbal.

Dream maneuvered the both of them until Hob was in Dream’s lap. 

He held the bottle up and Hob drank down almost greedily.

“Slow down little one you don’t want to upset your tummy, my, my, someone was hungry, wasn’t he?” 

Dream fed Hob and rocked him back and forth as he cuddled Ducky.

“You’re my good, brave little boy. You did so well today. Now it’s time for daddy to take care of you,” 

Once Hob had finished his bottle Dream fed him some sugar coated strawberries to get some solid food in him. 

“Full”

“Oh good boy, thank you for telling Daddy.”

Dream put away the strawberries and rubbed Hob’s little tummy.

Sometimes when Hob was little Dream would park him in front of the tv, this was usually on the weekends when Hob regressed more to decompress than anything else. Little Hob was obsessed with cartoons, he’d sit for hours unmoving fascinated by the moving pictures, Dream started diapering him after one too many accidents. But Hob didn’t need that right now. Right now he needed his Daddy. 

“Alright baby boy, do you want daddy to tell you a story?”

After that he had fallen asleep in Dream’s arms. 

Although there are pit falls when this happens…

—————————

The next morning…. 

Dream was in the kitchen preparing some tea waiting for Hob to wake up, he never woke up regressed so this was bound to be entertaining. 

“Aw fuck I did it again, we’re really in it now, Ducky,” he could hear Hob mutter from the bedroom.

“Dream,” he called from the bedroom.

“Yes darling?”

“I uh… wet…my ……protection,”

Dream chuckled, he always did.

“Do you need Daddy’s help?” Dream teased. 

“What! No no I got it I’ll just do it myself, I’m a grown man thank you very much,”

Dream chuckled and headed for the bedroom, he never in fact did it himself.

-🦎

So I have little to no experience with writing age regression BUT I'm absolutely fascinated and delighted by the concept! And let me tell you, age regression + Hob made me absolutely melt. I feel like I could really get into what an amazing way this would be for him to cope with immortality (because while it is a gift, it causes significant strain on him) but mostly I just want to appreciate how cute this is!!! Hob and Ducky melted my heart, he's such a sweet boy and I'm so glad Dream will be taking good care of him from now on!! The whole thing about him being extra hungry when he's little just made my whole chest clench up - give that baby his bottle!!!!!

Also love fully grown Hob at the end and how they're teasing each other, loving each other, accepting each other. No real embarrassment, because Hob knows that he's loved and cared for! Plus him still talking to Ducky absolutely cracked me up.

I would definitely love to see more of this kind of thing in the dreamling-sphere! Thank you so much for sharing this adorable little ficlet.

[maple-keenes]

couldn't reply without subordinate clauses

>> READ IT ON AO3 HERE

summary: Kakyoin needs help with his English, and who better to help him than someone like Jotaro, who’s been speaking it his whole life? It’s the perfect solution. …but someone really should have warned Kakyoin about how much time he’d have to spend looking at Jotaro’s mouth, ‘cause he’s not sure how much more of this he can take. (or: kakyoin and jotaro learn to use their words.) - notes: disclaimer: i don’t speak japanese, which is why you will notice that none of this fic is actually in japanese. all references to japanese grammar and phonology are correct to the best of my knowledge but i recognize that there may be mistakes. however, i DO know a lot about teaching english as a second language and if my advisor somehow finds this, sorry for misrepresenting the field but in my defense this is anime fanfiction dedicated not only to the jojo crew (@thesmalbox and @drawbucket) as per usual but ALSO to @pechebeche for just sort of coincidentally getting into jojo at the same time as me and always being down to scream about jotakak and/or phonetics with me. all three a’y’all are awesome.  title is from the collection’s “spark of hope”, which does remind me of jotaro but mostly i just like the silly pun.

Kakyoin Noriaki helped kill a homicidal vampire when he was seventeen years old with nothing but a bunch of tentacles, but looking at the table in front of him, covered in various indecipherable sheets of paper, he thinks that might have been easier than this. 

He fucking hates English. 

Kakyoin is, objectively, pretty intelligent, if you ignore the multiple massive lapses in judgment that have led to him a) being half-blind in both eyes, b) being maybe a little bit in love with the guy who by extension is the reason he’s half-blind in both eyes, and c) following said guy to America for college because he just does that now, apparently. Something about Jotaro makes him incredibly, impressively stupid. Stupid enough to follow him across Southeast Asia, and now, stupid enough to try and teach himself a new language because they’re so horribly codependent now that the idea of Jotaro moving to America and Kakyoin not going was ridiculous. Ridiculous enough that Kakyoin was able to ignore the fact that he barely speaks English when making the decision.

And oh, he’s regretting it now. Not enough to not go, of course, but enough that he’s given up on the actual learning bit and is now glaring daggers at the worksheets spread out in front of him, all in an easy-to-read font for his convenience. 

He’s been in the public library for two hours, hiding in a secluded corner because he doesn’t need everyone to hear him talking to himself. He’s still trying to figure out what the fuck a progressive is and why there’s six different kinds of them when someone slides into the seat beside him and asks, “You still doing homework?” 

His only response is a muffled groan from where his head is buried in his hands, which is thankfully met by a small huff of laughter from the boy beside him. “Yeah, kinda figured. Couldn’t find you at your place, so I thought you might be hanging out here.” 

Kakyoin removes his head from his hands and offers Jotaro a pained look. “I’m fucking dying, Jotaro.” 

“You’re being dramatic.” 

“I am not .”

Jotaro ignores that and continues to be unsympathetic to Kakyoin’s clear emotional distress. “Are you doing your English homework?” he asks, picking up one of the papers nearest to him.

Kakyoin gestures vaguely at the mess in front of him. “No, I’m doing my taxes.” 

He makes a half-hearted noise of acknowledgment as he skims over the worksheet in his hand. “You got this wrong,” Jotaro says, pointing at an answer Kakyoin had written down about halfway down the paper. “It should be ‘have taken’.”

“Why ?”

“Because ‘had taken’ means it happened in the past.” Jotaro makes a mark on Kakyoin’s paper with a nearby pen. 

“Isn’t that what ‘have taken’ means?” he asks helplessly. 

“Yes. Well, sort of. It can be used for the past, but--”

“Then what’s the difference?” Kakyoin interrupts, his voice coming out as more of a petulant whine. Oh, if Dio could see him now. The boy so willing to sacrifice himself for the greater good, standing brave against insurmountable odds, undone by fucking verb tenses. How the mighty have fallen.

Jotaro stares at him, and he can’t tell if the blank expression is because Kakyoin’s missing something monumentally obvious here or because he also has no fucking clue what the difference is. “...One of them uses ‘have’ and the other uses ‘had’.” 

Great. The second one, then.

Jotaro manages to dodge out of the way of the kick Kakyoin aims at his shin under the table, but he doesn’t manage to escape the smack to his shoulder immediately after. They’re both laughing, though. Thankfully.

(Kakyoin can’t get enough of Jotaro’s laugh. It was so rare when they were traveling, reserved only for the in-betweens in dingy hostels when no one else was listening. Something that a precious few people are allowed to hear. To be one of them is a privilege he will never take for granted.)

“I’m done with that,” Kakyoin declares, pushing that part of his homework away from him. He smiles at Jotaro hopefully. “Practice with me? I need to work on actually speaking out loud.”

"What do you want me to say?” Jotaro asks, and isn’t that a question. 

“Just ask me about my day or something.” He figures this is safe territory, both because of his traitorous heart, which has started to speed up in his chest for what is truly no discernible reason, and his limited English experience. “Don't talk too fast though.”

“Alright.” Jotaro thinks for a moment, then says, "I'm just gonna ask you about yourself. That work?"

Kakyoin nods, and the other boy clears his throat and asks in English, “How old are you?”

“I am…” he trails off, struggling to remember the number. “Ten-eight--no, eighteen years. Old. I am eighteen years old,” he repeats, more confidently the second time. “How old are you?”

Jotaro stifles a laugh behind his hand as Kakyoin speaks, and he frowns. “What?” he asks, switching back to Japanese. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, no, it’s just. Your accent. It’s cute,” Jotaro says, and oh, he’s going to be thinking about that for months now. He has a way of offhandedly saying things that lodge themselves in Kakyoin’s brain and refuse to leave until he’s properly overanalyzed every part of them, and Jotaro calling his accent cute is--he doesn’t even know where to start with that. “Here, let me ask you something else. Where are you from?”

That one he knows for sure. “I am from Japan,” Kakyoin says in English, “What about you?” 

“I’m from Japan, but my mom’s from America,” he answers. “It’s pronounced ‘am’ and ‘Japan’, by the way.”

Kakyoin narrows his eyes at Jotaro. “That’s what I said.” 

“No, you said it like ‘Japan’. It should be ‘Japan’. ”

“Jotaro, I promise you that you just said the same thing twice.” 

He groans, hand going to tug his hat down over his face. “No, look. Watch me say it.” He repeats the words again, exaggerating the vowels. This should be exceptionally easy for Kakyoin because it’s basically just Jotaro giving him permission to stare at his mouth (a thing that he does all the time anyway) but he just can’t seem to make out the difference Jotaro’s talking about. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s half-blind, maybe it’s his unfamiliarity with the language, but even when Jotaro says it both ways again to try and demonstrate he cannot figure out why what he said was wrong. He says as much to Jotaro, who pinches the bridge of his nose and says, “Just try and do it the way I’m saying it. I am from Japan.” 

“I am from Japan,” he repeats, and Jotaro sighs. “I’m trying, I promise! They just sound the same to me.” 

“No, it’s--” Jotaro cuts himself off, looking frustrated. “Just--ugh. This is going to sound super weird, but it might be easier if you touched me while I said it.” 

Kakyoin has to physically restrain himself from saying yeah, sounds good immediately with no questions asked. He shoves that instinct down as deep as it will go and asks, “What do you mean?” 

“Like. My face.” He touches his own, as if to say, like this, and yep. Yeah. Kakyoin does know what a face is, thank you, Jotaro. “You’re not moving your mouth right on some of the words. It might be easier if you just, like, felt me do it so that you could copy it.” 

That’s not the worst idea. “Like this?” he says, reaching up and bracketing Jotaro’s mouth between his forefinger and thumb, letting the rest of his fingers rest gently against his chin. Jotaro nods. It must look ridiculous from an outside perspective, but it feels so intimate and personal that Kakyoin is pretty sure he’s going to die. What a lame way to go out, he thinks. Fifty days in the desert fending off stand users and vampires and my own damn feelings are what’s gonna kill me. He hopes they lie in his obituary. Heroically sacrificing himself to save the world is much cooler than dying ‘cause he’s too fucking gay to maintain any sort of physical contact with the guy he likes. 

“I’m gonna say something and I want you to try and repeat it moving your mouth the same way I am.” Jotaro’s eyes have not left Kakyoin’s this entire time and he really, really hopes his face isn’t as red as it feels right now. At least he can chalk it up to the slightly awkward situation if he gets called out on it. “That make sense?” 

His mouth is so fucking dry, which is. Great. He’s literally just touching his face. Not even in a romantic way. Just super platonic, educational face touching. “Yeah. I understand.”

“Cool. My name is Jotaro Kujo,” he says in English, “I am eighteen years old, and I am from Japan.” Kakyoin is now not only watching Jotaro’s impeccable��jawline, he’s feeling it work under his fingers, and wait, he was supposed to be paying attention to the formation of the words. Fuck. 

“My name is Kakyoin Noriaki, I am eighteen years old, and I am from Japan,” he repeats, trying to shape the words the same way he can feel Jotaro doing. “Right?” 

“Right,” he confirms, and Kakyoin can feel his little half-smile at the same time he sees it appear. “You’re actually Noriaki Kakyoin in English, though. You would put your given name first.” Kakyoin nods. Maybe he should be taking notes, but that would mean not looking at Jotaro for any given amount of time and he doesn’t know how well he can manage that right now. “English says that you ‘are’ eighteen like we do, though,” Jotaro continues, “which is nice. Some languages say you ‘have’ eighteen years.”

Kakyoin furrows his brow, confused. “Why would you say you have eighteen years?”

Jotaro just shrugs. “Apparently that’s how you say it in French. Polnareff told me.” He glances down at Kakyoin’s hand where it’s still touching his face. “You can, uh. You can stop now.”

He yanks his hand back like Jotaro’s burned him. “Sorry! I wasn’t thinking.” 

“Don’t apologize.”

“...sorry?”

Jotaro huffs, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. “It’s fine. You did better that time, though. English has some weird vowels so I can’t blame you for not getting them right away.”

“I just don’t understand how you know all of this stuff,” he laments, slumping onto the table in front of him. “It’s really hard.” 

“I learned it when I was a kid,” Jotaro explains. “It makes it a lot easier to pick up on the rules and stuff when you don’t have another language in the way.” 

“But still,” Kakyoin protests, “you just get it. You’re so fucking smart, it’s not fair. Leave something for the rest of us.” He picks up a nearby pencil and waves it around as he gestures at the papers scattered across the table in front of them. “It’s your fault I’m doing all of this anyway.”

His brow creases and he looks genuinely confused, which leaves Kakyoin at a loss because he really thought that was obvious. “How is it my fault?” 

“You’re the one who wants to go to college in America!” 

“...you don’t?”

He hesitates for a moment, weighing the pros and cons of being completely honest here or downplaying the reality of it, which is that if Jotaro had decided he wanted to go to college in fucking Antarctica, Kakyoin would have started shopping for winter clothes immediately. It’s not that he isn’t interested in going to school in the United States--the school he ended up applying to is a really good one, only a 30-minute train ride from where Jotaro is going to study marine biology, and offers classes for what they call English Language Learner students so he won’t be so overwhelmed by the amount of English he has to learn. It’s a dream come true for Kakyoin that he would have never, ever thought to pursue without Jotaro declaring that he was going to America for school, but he’s not going reluctantly. Nor is he just going for Jotaro; it’s a fantastic school and he’s happy that he’s getting this opportunity. 

But the two of them, there’s something tying them together. They were each other’s first best friend, the first person who really saw the other for who they were, all of who they were, from their stands to every broken piece of them that shattered off in the desert. Jotaro and Kakyoin have seen each other through so, so much that no one else will ever be able to understand. He can’t lose that, not to an enemy stand user and certainly not to anything as easy to overcome as distance. 

“Originally, I only wanted to go because you wanted to go, but it’s a good opportunity anyway,” Kakyoin says honestly. “I wouldn’t have considered it if you hadn’t brought it up first, but I really am looking forward to it now. Even if it’ll be difficult.” 

“You’re going because of me.” Jotaro looks lost, confused. He’s staring at Kakyoin as if he’s just now seeing him--like he’s just put the pieces of him together and something’s finally, finally making sense. “You’re learning English because of me. You--you went to Egypt for me.” 

“Alright, that wasn’t entirely for you, I do actually care about the world enough to want to make sure it doesn’t get taken over,” he huffs. “There was a bit of revenge in there, too. But yeah, I’m going to America because you are. You’re important to me, Jotaro. I’d follow you anywhere.” 

Kakyoin really didn’t think this was as earth-shattering of a revelation as Jotaro seems to have taken it as. He thought it was pretty fucking obvious, all things considered. It must have been. He’s never been subtle about the fact that he likes Jotaro. But Jotaro is still staring at him as if this information is news to him; as if he’s just now realizing that Kakyoin doesn’t just stick around because he’s the only stand user his age around, and oh. Wait. Jotaro totally thought that, didn’t he.

“Jotaro,” Kakyoin says, then stops before he goes any further. He doesn’t know what he wants to say next. If he wants to tell the truth, say you were the first person who ever looked at me and saw me for who I was; if he wants to tell him I think I’ve been in love with you since I woke up in your house and you told me you were going to kill Dio. He settles for something a little less dramatic. “You know you’re my best friend, right?”

“I didn’t.” Jotaro’s voice is quiet, slightly pained. “I thought you just sort of. Tolerated me.”

“Tolerated you?” he repeats, incredulous. “No. I like you, Jotaro. I really fucking like you. You’re the only person who gets me.”

He inclines his head, hiding his face behind the brim of his hat. “I like you too, for what it’s worth. You’re amazing.” 

Kakyoin is grateful that the two of them aren’t making eye contact right now because he feels like everything he isn’t saying is obvious across his face right now; like his eyes and the curve of his nose and the furious blush that paints his cheeks are all screaming I love you because he can’t seem to articulate it. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says, painfully, brutally honest. “Of course I’d follow you to America. Learn English for you. Anything.”

“That’s probably not healthy,” Jotaro mutters and Kakyoin laughs. “But I get it. I think I’d do the same for you.”

“What a pair we make. Couple of codependent bastards.” He sighs, finally looking back down at the homework in front of him. “Well, now that we’ve cleared that up, I should probably get back to--”

“Noriaki,” Jotaro interrupts, and isn’t that something. He almost never uses Kakyoin’s given name. Nobody does, really, except his parents. He’s always preferred his family name. But, hearing Jotaro say it… he could get used to Noriaki, if it sounds like that every time. “You’re important to me too. I know I’m not the best at showing it, but all the stuff you said, about feeling like I’m the only person who gets you, that’s how I feel about you too. Really.”

He bites his lip, trying to keep himself from blurting out something he can’t take back. His skin is crawling with it, face on fire and hands wringing in his lap as if every part of his body is trying to signal to Jotaro what Kakyoin can’t seem to say out loud. 

But something about Jotaro makes Kakyoin incredibly, impressively stupid, and so after a few moments of awkward silence the warm, buzzing feeling coursing through his veins can’t stay down any longer and he says, voice just barely above a whisper, “I’m really fucking in love with you, Jotaro. And it’s fine if you don’t feel the same way, but I thought, you know, on the topic of feelings and whatnot…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but there’s not much more to say, anyway. What else could he add? He’s fairly certain he’s not going to get the shit kicked out of him for it, not after a conversation on the school rooftop about expectations and did you know in America half of the states have decriminalized homosexuality, said much less casually than he originally intended. “You’re just--I said it already, but you’re the only person who understands me, and I think maybe it started in Singapore when we had to share a hotel room and I realized, like, wow, he’s really attractive. And that wasn’t me being, like, in love with you or anything, but it was the beginning of the end, and now--”

“You’re rambling,” Jotaro cuts him off gently, his hand going to cup the underside of Kakyoin’s chin and tilting his face up towards him; his thumb and forefinger are bracketing his mouth just like Kakyoin had done earlier. This is a thousand times more intimate than that, though, he realizes, as Jotaro runs his thumb along Kakyoin’s jaw. “Stop me if you’re not okay with this,” he says, and before he has a chance to ask what this is, exactly, Jotaro’s mouth is on his. It’s nothing world-ending, just a chaste press of lips, but it reignites that electricity that had been running through his body earlier regardless. Kakyoin thinks he might be melting a little bit. 

It’s over almost as soon as it starts, but Kakyoin still feels breathless and giddy. From that. He’s so fucked. He is so fucked. “So, that means…” he prompts. 

Jotaro laughs, and it’s just as wonderful of a sound as it is every time, made only better for the rarity of it. “It means I’m in love with you too. The hell did you think I meant?” 

“I don’t know!” He buries his still-red face in his hands. “Maybe you were being nice and just trying to give me what I wanted.” 

“Trust me when I say everything I want to do with you is entirely selfish,” Jotaro says, and the stark honesty in his voice startles Kakyoin a bit. “I want everything with you, Noriaki. Every moment of your time.”

“What was that about not being good with words?” he asks weakly. “You can have it. All of it. Everything. Just so long as you give me something in return.” 

He smiles, and. Damn. Kakyoin’s gone. Done for. He’d do anything for this boy. He is Jotaro’s, head to toe, every part of him. He’s been Jotaro’s for so much longer than either of them were fully conscious of, and if he thinks about it, really thinks about it--Jotaro’s probably been his for just as long. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”

[pixies-and-poets]

Music of the Night - Chapter Six

This part is pretty long, and also a bit time-skippy, but I had to do both or else I could easily get caught up writing this fanfic for the rest of my life. But now I can safely say that the next chapter will be the last. Thanks to everyone who's come on this terrible journey with me!

Slight emetophobia warning, and body horror as usual.

Chapter One - In Sleep He Sang to Me

Chapter Two - Do I Dream Again?

Chapter Three - Our Strange Duet

Chapter Four - To Glance Behind

Chapter Five - Those Who Have Seen Your Face

Chapter Six - Where Night is Blind

Woodrow had made it about halfway back to Palletteville, his mumbled cascade of words seeming to hang in the air and follow him like his own cloud, when another voice cut them short.

“Warden!!” came the urgent hiss. He stopped in his tracks and turned around to find Dryad, her eyes wide and panicked.

The poet blinked for a moment, shaking his head, trying to come out of his poetic reverie and back to reality. “Yes?” he said finally.

“What in the name of all stars is going on?” She spoke rapidly, getting close to his face and inspecting him. “Are you alright? Is the Phantom alright? I heard that awful screaming from clear across the forest! I was just heading to the cabin as fast as I could, but saw you here on my way…”

“Ah,” said the warden, scratching at the back of one paw with the other, nervously. “Yes, Phantom is alright, for now. But…” and so, he went ahead and told her about his efforts with the mask.

Dryad listened to his story in concern, her ears drooping slightly. When he had finished, she nodded. “I see. For a moment I thought you- well, I thought maybe he was reacting to Sweetlopek’s fashion sense…” but her attempt at a joke fell flat, as Woodrow seemed too crushed for levity, and merely twitched the corner of his mouth into a failed half-smile.

“Well, anyway,” said Dryad, waving her paw. “Thank you for telling me. But listen- you mustn’t try that again. We can’t have him screeching to shake all the leaves in the woods. You might attract the minions of Cursa… including… you know.”

Woodrow’s eyes widened. “Oh- Dryad, do you think-”

“I think it’s fine for now,” said the forest spirit. “As for our main concern, he’s been keeping his territory elsewhere the past few days, in deeper and darker parts of the forest. I’ve been using my magic as best I can to lure and keep him there. Still, I will guard this area for a while.”

“Thank you,” said the warden. “I’m sorry for the trouble.” Then he suddenly clasped his hands together. “But oh, Dryad- what’s to be done? About Tom? Do you have any ideas?”

Dryad blinked, recalling that just yesterday Woodrow had claimed to not have the closeness with his patient for such names as Tom. But she only remarked upon it internally.

“Hmm,” she said, frowning. “All I can say is, I don’t think that mask is really the source of his troubles. If you almost had it off, and the darkmess was still being produced, then… the problem is probably internal, I’m afraid. It would be good to remove it, of course, but perhaps we had better concentrate on curing his poisoning first. If we get rid of the darkmess, that thing will likely fall off on its own.”

Woodrow nodded sadly. “I’m not in any hurry to try again,” he said. “But… alas! We still seem so far from finding a cure, for those overtaken by the dreadful substance.”

Dryad shrugged. “It’s hard for me to look into things, when I’m busy protecting the animals and the trees, but I’m doing my best. As are the people of your village. Have you heard from any of the other wardens about any breakthroughs lately?”

The poet shook his head. “Our best bet was Terra Flora, and- they’ve still been silent for about a week. Ever since Bea disappeared… last I heard, Alkementor was too distressed to work, and we’ve lost contact since then.”

“Poor Bea,” said Dryad, her ears drooping once more. Meanwhile, a thought crossed Woodrow’s mind- he wondered if Phantom had heard of her recent disappearance. After all, the two of them… well, he wondered if it would be appropriate to even bring it up. Would it distress him? Would he feel guilty that he had never made amends with her? He had best not broach the subject, when he was already in such a delicate state…

“What about Barrendale Mesa?” asked the nature spirit. “They’re still holding strong out there, right?”

“Indeed, I think so,” said the warden. “But Momma and her crew have been working on ways to purify darkmess from the environment. Medical cures aren’t really their expertise.”

“Well, when there is a breakthrough… whether it’s on this planet, or if we get some kind of shipment from elsewhere…” she looked the warden firmly in the eyes, “remember that the first doses will be given to those who need it most. And those from Palette Prime take priority. They are your people, and this planet is your ward. Don’t you lose sight of that.”

Woodrow closed his eyes for a moment, and nodded.

“And especially… you know who we must concentrate on first. Not only for his own sake, but for the sake of the entire planet he’s been menacing.”

“Of course,” said the warden quietly, opening his eyes again.

And, after a few more moments of discussion and brief goodbyes, the two were parted.

—

Three days and three nights came to pass. In that time, Dryad kept busy - guiding and protecting and caring for animals, laying spells, attempting to protect and restore the trees and other plants where she could, and much more. She heard no more screams ring out across the forest, and in fact was so caught up in her business that she never ventured back by the little cabin. She had no contact with Woodrow, and barely with any other rabbid at all, and assumed things must be going well enough.

As for the people of Paletteville, it took them a little while to notice, but it soon spread throughout the population that something was wrong with the warden. He was even more reclusive than normal, and looked even sadder and more tired on the rare occasions he was seen. It had been the habit of some townsfolk to visit his home and ask for advice; he was respected enough in that regard to have been elected to his position, after all. But in these days, they found he was hardly ever at home, or not answering the door if he was. In fact, as time passed, he seemed to never be there at all. Knocks at his door went unanswered, and no one knew where he had gone.

What’s more, they began to notice the cloud over his house growing thinner and smaller - until one day it was gone completely.

That cloud, of course, was intimately connected with him. With his soul, his curse, his destiny. This was more than a bad omen, to the people of Palette Prime. It was proof.

“He’s gone,” the villagers murmured amongst themselves. “Somethin’ got ‘im.”

“Ya think he was tryin’ to tame the Beast?”

“Maybe. Prob'ly wrote him a poem to try and talk some sense into him.”

“That poor pathetic soul, bless ‘im. He wouldn’t give up on his best friend if he was actively tearin’ the warden apart.”

And so the assumption spread that the warden had met an unfortunate fate, which was- they all admitted- bound to happen eventually. At any rate, it was decided that search parties would soon be sent out to find his body, and give him a proper burial if they could.

“Near the moon. That would be appropriate,” one villager had said, and everyone agreed.

He was the Plague of Palette Prime, the great harbinger of disaster, and on top of that a terrible poet, or so his planet-mates thought.

But he was also their warden, and a good man. And he deserved the respect in death that the Fates had not given him in life.

—

That man was very much alive. And he was good. And any good person who has made a promise in earnest passion, and then failed to keep that promise despite their absolute best efforts, would understand the pain that encroached upon his soul from all sides.

After trying to pull of the mask, Woodrow spent the day checking up on various things in town, using the computer in the post office to send out more fruitless messages to the other planets, and - in his spare moments - scrawling mad snippets of poetry in the journal that he had retrieved from the cabin.

But in the afternoon of that day, he decided it best to check back on Phantom, and the moment he entered the door, found that the ghost’s own assurances of being fine, of being safe, had been proven false.

He lay on the bed, his eye closed, breathing hard. A large amount of darkmess had leaked out from his porous ectoplasm, forming a puddle on the bed, a smaller version of the state in which Woodrow had first found him. The puddle dripped over the edges and corners of the bed, and the ghost seemed to be fused to it now. One of the poetry books lay splayed open on its bent pages on the ground, where he had clearly dropped it- his paw drooping over the bed as his chest shook in a pained sleep.

“Tom!” cried the poet, then clapped his paws over his mouth, remembering Dryad’s warning about making too much noise. He rushed over and stroked the ghost’s hair, then kneeled down, picked up the limp paw that was hanging off the bed, and rubbed it. “Tom- my dear- wake up…”

Indeed, the ghost’s eye opened, then closed again, then opened once more and slowly rolled over to look at his companion. He smiled, warmly but clearly in pain. “Ah… there you are," he said, between heavy gasps. "I’m sorry… you have to see me like this again. Oh! Don’t cry, mi tesoro…”

Woodrow and his eyes, of course, ignored this command. “Tom, I’m the one who should apologize. I should have stayed…”

“Nonsense!” said the Phantom, still weak, but gradually gaining some energy at the other’s presence. “What could you have done? I feared my ailment would reassert itself… that this is a problem we could only stave off temporarily… I just… hoped it might take a little longer.”

“Oh, what am I to do-” said the warden in panic, standing up once more, still holding his darling’s hand with one of his own, and raising the other to his head. “I can’t… all of the soap on the planet can’t clean this…”

Phantom kept smiling, and let his eye close. “Mon chéri, you mustn’t work yourself up like this. If this is how it is to be, then… so be it. Let me lie in it. It will happen, no matter what you do. I just have to keep fighting it from the inside, and hopefully I will win, and then I can be free…”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” cried the other, leaning over and stroking his hair again, and his ears. “Come now. I can’t give up so easily, I can’t… I…” he trailed off, as a thought began to creep up from the back of his mind. He was considering how to best dispel a puddle of darkmess, and it suddenly occurred to him that his own home was blessedly free of it, and perhaps he could move Phantom there- but no, there was a reason for that, and wouldn’t it be easier if…

“Jinx!” he said in excitement, looking at his cloud. “Your rain… can it…” 

The cloud gave a little bob, and took position above Phantom. It began to rain over Phantom’s stomach, over the bed. And indeed- it didn’t dissolve the black sludge, but it did push it away; washing it off, so it slid down like oil being repelled by water, over the sides of the bed and onto the floor. Jinx then moved towards the glob, pushing it towards the door - which Woodrow had left open in his shock - and out onto the ground outside.

Phantom sat his upper body up, and watched the process with speechless amazement. “Well,” he said as Jinx herded the darkmess out of the door. “I never would have guessed!"

Woodrow smiled, blushing, but genuinely very happy and relieved. “Wonderful, isn't it? I know water and rain don't normally wash away darkmess by themselves, but... there is something special about my own little storm, here. My theory is that two manifestations of misfortune repel each other, like the similar poles of a magnet."

"Impressive indeed," said the singer with a nod. "But- next time ask me permission before raining on me. It was cold! I should have liked to brace myself. Although, I suppose it WAS energizing...”

Woodrow blushed even deeper, but still smiled. "Apologies. And my apologies too, that you must now lay on a damp bed, but surely it’s better than the alternative.”

“Certamente!” said the ghost. “I hardly mind it at all.”

“Now,” said Woodrow, tapping his foot in deep thought- looking around at the bed and the trail of water on the cabin’s floor, and at Jinx, who was quite depleted again. “Jinx - would you be able to keep watch over Tom, when I’m not here?”

The little cloud, barely visible, was coming back over to Woodrow, but stopped short. Then, after a moment, it shook itself back and forth, and swirled around the poet’s head.

“Yes, I know you want to keep watch over me. But… he needs you more than I do, right now.”

The little cloud roiled turbulently, and probably would have thundered in agitation, but was too rained out to have the ability. Instead she just positioned herself around Woodrow’s ears, where she felt like a light mist.

“Alright, alright, let’s compromise. Can you… convince some of the rest of you to come over? From my home? A little piece of the big cloud can split itself off and come here, how is that?”

The cloud sprang in front of Woodrow’s face again, then bobbed up and down enthusiastically. It then zoomed off in the direction of the warden’s house. Woodrow smiled, and sank down into the chair next to Phantom’s bedside.

“Oh, Tristan,” said the ghost. “You are as clever and creative as you are kind. Truly I am lucky that you of all people found me, my portafortuna.”

And so it was that Jinx soon came back, with a chunk of larger cloud behind her, which took up residence above the cabin, ready to rain down through the holes in the roof when Phantom next went through another burst of darkmess production. And the two rabbids talked for hours, of art and poetry, and imagined themselves in all the romantic spots of a healthy Palette Prime, and spun hypothetical tales of what they would do in better days. All seemed well in the world that evening, when Woodrow lay devoted kisses on his companion’s palm and wrist and the back of his hand, and on his forehead and the tips of his ears, before bidding him farewell.

….But the next morning when he returned, he peered into the cabin to see things much as before, as Phantom had produced more darkness during the night than the poor cloud could produce water to keep up with. And so, filled with determined and anxious adrenaline, and stepping around the goo that now puddled all over the floor to be with his patient, Woodrow ordered Jinx to come back with even more of the cloud.

And at the same time, he decided then and there that he must stay with Phantom full-time, only leaving when absolutely necessary, and to sleep elsewhere in safety.

Thus it went for the next couple of days. And this is where, despite Woodrow’s greatest efforts, he began to falter in the promise he had so passionately made.

The reader need not hear every moment of the chronicle, and indeed Phantom would probably be embarrassed that people were getting even part of it. Suffice to say, that in the coming days, the endless wellspring of darkness inside him started to work harder than ever. He would suddenly ooze out through his porous underside; sometimes he would suddenly, in the midst of softly talking with his dear companion, choke and cough and vomit out a burst of it down his face and chest; and sometimes it seeped out anew, all over his face, from under the edges of his mask.

Ever more of the cloud came, until its entire volume was there: part of it settling above the roof and part of it inside the cabin, forming a stormy ceiling, raining as much as it could, washing and pushing the darkmess out and away. But the cloud needed to rest at times, to gather more moisture from the environment… and the sludge kept coming back. Half the time Woodrow sat there, soaked and shivering, the skin of his paws and ears slightly wrinkled and blue, shadows underneath his wild eyes, as the rain fell on both of them, and he did not seem to care at all for his own health. He had propped his own umbrella up, resting on the bed and against the wall, so that it covered and protected Phantom’s head and chest, keeping that part of him dry. Whenever it was needed, Woodrow reached over with a rag and soap and tenderly wiped off any new ooze that was leaking from under the accursed mask.

The warden lost track of all things besides Phantom. He no longer knew or cared what time of day it was, or how many days had passed. When the fatigue became unbearable, he dragged himself back home, set his alarm for a few hours of sleep, and then came back. All other duties and responsibilities to his planet ceased to cross his mind. He brought back his full store of darkmess-battling soap… every citizen had been given a certain amount, and as warden, he had been given extra, to ration out in case of emergencies. This was an emergency.

Eventually, Woodrow tired of going all the way back to his house on the outskirts of Paletteville to rest; and what’s more, it was a waste of time. Time he should be spending at Phantom’s side. He realized there was a much closer spot, halfway… and thus he found himself, dizzy and half-awake, at Sweetlopek’s door once again. He hadn’t even locked it after his last visit to retrieve the clothes, but nothing seemed to have been disturbed since Dryad left. Everyone on the planet had enough respect - or perhaps fear - to leave it alone.

And yet there was Woodrow, crashing himself onto the familiar couch where he had fallen asleep many a time after an evening spent with his friend, when he was too tired to make it home after a night of wine and games and talking. Now the place was silent, and their laughter rang out no more. Before Woodrow fell asleep in his exhaustion, his eyes fell on a framed picture on the table near the couch. It was the woodsman and the Dryad together on their planet’s famous bridge, hugging each other and smiling in lovestruck glee. He had never noticed this picture before, and indeed, it must have been new… there was only a small window of time in which it could have been taken.

He looked away from it in grief and closed his eyes. Would any couple on this planet ever experience that happiness again? Would any in the entire galaxy?

And he was soon asleep.

—

It was the fourth day since Phantom’s arrival, and dusk was gathering. Dryad was making her way across the forest, floating as fast as she could. As exhausted as she was from her recent efforts, this could not wait. Rumors had reached her, from rabbids she had seen in the woods: the warden was dead. His cloud was gone. But she knew better, for she had heard from the animals that the cloud had merely taken up new residence above a certain tiny shack in the woods. At any rate, she could no longer trust that things were alright with Woodrow and Phantom. If Woodrow had been isolating himself so much that people thought he had perished… well, she could only hope that indeed he had not fallen into a permanent sleep, entwined in the darkmess that seeped from the man he was trying to save.

Before long she heard the sound of rain in the distance, and indeed came upon a cabin with a dark halo of raincloud, dripping down onto its roof and directly into its structure. And, to her horror, from under the door and all around the edges of the cabin, was a thick moat of darkmess. She floated above it towards a window and peered inside, with no small amount of dread.

The scene that met her eyes was so upsetting that she gasped softly, and needed a moment to comprehend what she was looking at.

The warden sat on his chair - both it and him soaking wet - his knees pulled up to his chest, and he was shivering; heedless of his own self-destruction, as the rain poured down onto him and the Phantom alike (albeit the latter at least partially protected by an umbrella). After a moment of observation, Dryad understood what the plan here was… the rain was washing the darkmess away from Phantom, although even now, more oozed out from his stomach as if it were an overfilled, dripping sponge, and the water from above washed it to the floor and then towards the doorway or the walls. Indeed, there was not much of the stuff around the two rabbids inside, but still, they both looked barely alive. The poet was soaking wet, possibly suffering from hypothermia, and the Phantom’s eyes were closed, his skin pale.

Dryad was about to enter the room on a rescue mission, when suddenly the ghost stirred.

“Tristan,” he said, in a low, raspy whisper. “Oh- I can… barely speak. I think… I will lose my voice again soon. It- hurts….”

The warden moved, showing his first real sign of life since Dryad had been observing him. He leaned forward, putting his wet paw on the side of the Phantom’s face. “Ssshh,” he said. “Don’t talk then.”

The ghost shook his head. “I don’t… want to lose it again. Tristan… I want… I want you to read me your poems. Can you do that for me?”

“Darling, you know I can’t,” the other said, with a sad smile. “We can’t risk it. Any bit of bad luck could… could… well… let’s keep your luck as good as possible, right now.”

This was clearly a private moment, and thus Dryad floated off to the side of the window, so as not to gaze upon them - and so they would not see her, as well.

“It’s a lost cause,” wheezed the Phantom. “Look at me, mon cœur. I am dying. And I want to hear your poetry from your own lips before I do.”

“No, Tom, no…” Dryad couldn’t see his face, but could hear the tears in his voice. “You can’t give up like that… you have to hold on, until we find a cure…”

“You have to give up on saving me,” said the other. “Look… you are destroying yourself, portafortuna… give me your words, your precious words, my love, and let me rest…”

“But I promised, Tom, I promised I would save you… don’t talk like that, darling, I-”

“I think soon I shall not talk at all,” he said. “In fact, I-” he coughed, and gagged. “I, Tristan, I- GHH- love-”

At the sounds of Phantom’s distress, Dryad had peeked back in again, just in case. As his voice cut off, his jaw snapped shut, and he motioned to his throat, to his mouth. He could open it no more.

Woodrow leaned his weary head onto the ghost’s chest and lay there, his soaking arms draped over the other in defeat, his body shaking. “No, Tom, your voice…” he was sobbing. “Don’t… don’t leave me without it… don’t leave me… my sunshine… don’t leave me…”

Dryad couldn’t take this scene anymore. She came in, right through the window, which lacked any glass. To Phantom’s astonishment, she went over to the warden and pulled him up. He barely reacted, flopping around like a sopping ragdoll.

“Woodrow!!” she cried, shaking him. “Woodrow! Listen- he’s right, you know. You’re destroying yourself, and you won’t do any good to ANYONE that way.”

Phantom, for all his weakness and surprise, nodded and pointed to her in agreement.

“I don’t care anymore,” he said. “Let me be destroyed, then. What does it matter? I can’t save anyone…”

“Woodrow, go rest,” the nature spirit commanded, the rain now falling on her own leafy head. “Go dry yourself off, and warm yourself up, and get a GOOD night’s sleep. I’ll watch over Phantom.”

The warden stood up weakly, his eyes barely focusing on anything. “But what if he gets worse,” he said, barely audible. “What if I’m not here when he… if he…”

“If he gets worse, I’ll come get you,” said the Dryad.

Woodrow swallowed, then nodded, with no feeling. “I’ll be at Sweetlopek’s house.”

Dryad gave him a look of indignance, but then took a deep breath, and decided now was not the time to argue about it. “You’re right,” she said. “That’s closer. Alright. You go there.”

“Mmm,” said the warden, swaying on his feet, and Dryad was mildly concerned he wouldn’t make it.

“Do you want me to accompany you?” she asked.

“I’ll be fine,” he mumbled. “Stay with Tom. Watch him for me. Please.”

Then he turned back to the bed, met Phantom’s eyes, and gently took some strands of his messy hair into his paw… then let it fall.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said tenderly, then turned and left, followed by one small fragment of Jinx, as ever.

He dragged his feet through the leafy bed of the forest, winding as if drunk around puddles of darkmess and fallen trees.

But he did make it to Sweetlopek’s home. He had locked it again last time, and so he reached into one of the inner pockets of his wet coat, and took out a keyring. With fumbling and shaking hands, he managed to eventually get the right key into the lock. But just as he was turning it, he sensed the presence of… something. Something big. As he froze, his eyes blankly staring at the door, he heard a loud THUD and the crunch of countless leaves behind him.

He turned. There in the twilight was a massive figure, a shadow blocking out the trees and the sky behind it. It was a rabbid… mostly… wearing the shredded remains of a flannel shirt. He was huge, and bestial, with claws, and fangs, and wild and shaggy facial hair in which sticks and leaves and gobs of darkmess were jumbled. His entire lower body was covered in darkmess as well, with a line of it running across his chest and back, forming a strap on which a massive axe was mounted behind him. Not to mention the darkmess on top of his head, onto which was welded a perpetually distressed-looking beaver.

The creature’s eyes glowed yellow as he stood there, hunched over, almost on all fours, and he sniffed at the warden and snarled. But Woodrow was too done with everything to be truly shocked, or afraid.

Most of the other rabbids had taken to calling him the Beast. Woodrow was one of the few who still believed it most respectful to use his name. That maybe, buried deep inside, there was someone who would still recognize it.

The warden blinked slowly. “Good evening, Sweetlopek.”

[montywithchildhoodtrauma]

Incorrect quotes because... I have no clue at this point.

Sun: Foxy, I think we have a problem. Foxy: What, the fire? Sun: No, the- wait, what fire? Foxy: Oh forget about it, this sounds more interesting.

Ruin: Any questions? Sun: Uh, yeah, WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT? Ruin: Uh, a plan, duh… Moon: Sun, chill, I know it’s weird, but Ruin has a point. Sun: Sun: THAT WAS LITERALLY A PONY DOODLE WITH A HAT!!

Lunar, texting Monty: Any plans for tonight? Monty: No. Lunar: Loser.

Sun: Okay, how do I look? Be honest. Foxy: There’s no critic more honest than Monty! Monty: Bad.

Castor: We’ll find another route, it’s not safe for amateur adventurers. Pollux: That sounds like a challenge. Castor: I have to stress, that is not a challenge. Pollux: …Is exactly what you say to dissuade the weak of heart from accepting the challenge. Well, challenge accepted! Castor: There is no challenge!

Lunar: Are you busy? Solar: Yes. Lunar: Cool, listen to this…

Monty: When I was your age- Ruin, mocking Monty: When I was your height. Monty: Monty: Listen here you little shit-

Gemini: Sorry I can’t be emotionally vulnerable with you it’d ruin the mystery.

Solar: Hey. Sun: pissed off You… complete …ASS, Solar! You show up here after WEEKS, and you say “hey”?!

Solar: I give up. I am so tired. Ruin: Get the emergency supply! Moon: carries Lunar and places them in front of Solar. Lunar: smiles Solar: AND I AM BACK BABY, LET’S GOOO

Sun: I know this isn’t going to end well and I don’t care. So don’t you try and stop me, Solar! Solar: I wasn’t stopping you. I was asking if you had a spare camera so I can record this.

Solar: Present your best argument for eating bacon. Monty: If animals don’t want to be eaten, then why are they made of food?

Castor: Do you know the best way to respond to disagreement? Lunar: With tears? Castor: No. Lunar: tears up

Ruin: So I can either do something dumb that could very well get me injured or I can listen to Solar and not do the thing, Ruin: Well there’s a clear right answer here. Ruin: proceeds to throw five packs of mentos into a barrel full of diet coke

Castor: But seriously, what is the real plan here that has to do with not fucking around? Lunar: There is no plan that does not involve fucking around. But we will make sure all of our fucking around will be applied in a constructive direction.

Cop: You ran a red light. Monty: So did you, hypocrite. Cop: I was following you. Monty: That was dumb, I'm a terrible driver. Cop: Get out.

Castor: I’ve only had Lunar for a day and a half but if anything happened to them I would kill everyone in this room and then myself.

Lunar: You’re drunk. Solar: Correction: drinking. Present tense. Grammar, Lunar.

Ruin: Do you have a self-care routine? Monty: "Keep going bitch" said to myself in different accents.

Monty: Working sucks. Monty: I want to be a malewife where my only responsibilities are being sexy and cute.

Solar: So what’s for dinner? Ruin: I can’t tell you, it’s a soup-prise! Solar: … Solar: Is it soup? Ruin: I soup-pose it could be! winks Solar: Please, enough with the soup puns! Ruin: Wow, you’re soup-per mean. Solar: STOP! one hour later Solar: It’s fucking tacos?!?!?!

Something crashes Earth: Shoot- Monty: running into the room in a panic WHAT FELL?! Castor: walking by the room calmly What died?

Moon: I called you like ten times! Why didn’t you pick up? Ruin: remembers dancing to the ringtone Ruin: I didn’t hear it.

Foxy: The waiter at Olive Garden has been grating my cheese for 6 hours now, waiting for me to say when. Customers are screaming. Three people have died. Foxy: I will not yield.

Lunar, to someone that angered them: Holds two middle fingers Castor: Can’t say I’m surprised… Solar: Yeah, flip em off, Lunar! Pollux, confused: Holds one middle finger Castor and Solar, both very distressed: NOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Castor: hi. Solar: Leave before there is a terrible misunderstanding with my foot and your ass.

Pollux: Standing next to sunflowers always makes me feel weak like ‘look at this fucking flower. This flower is taller than I am. This flower is winning and I’m losing.’ Sun: Wow, you are not ready to hear about trees.

[thepaintedlady00]

can i request reader having cats and morpheus interacting with them? like he's so sweet and caring but he's kinda jealous of them ( and maybe an apparition of lord meowpheus ... 👀👀)

Oh absolutely!!! 😂😂😂 Dream is a cat. He doesn't want your full attention unless someone else is getting it, human or animal. And he is NOT above turning into a cuter cat to get it! 🤣

(Requests are officially closed until the next Request Week! Thank you all for participating! 🥰)

You had a thing for taking in animals that needed a home. Your kind heart and just pure love of all creatures made it difficult for you to turn away such innocent and cute little faces. It was something that Dream of the Endless found absolutely amazing about you. He'd seen the worst of humanity, particularly in his century locked away by Roderick Burgess, and stumbling upon you he figured this kindness of yours was little more than a ploy to gain the favor of your fellow humans. That's why he followed you through your dreams and watched you from afar weeks before he even spoke to you. And in that time he learned that it was, in fact, not a ploy or ruse... you were simply that kind.

Call it what you will, manipulative, desperate, what have you, but Dream instructed Matthew to pretend to be injured on a sidewalk you frequently walked down. He'd not known truly what he hoped to gain from this act, but you'd found the poor raven and immediately taken him into your home. Dream watched you carefully look over the bird in search of an injury and he thought for a moment when you'd find none you'd simple toss him out the window and that would be that, but you surprised him. You spent hours researching what ravens needed to eat and what kind of environment they flourish in as to make your new guest comfortable while you searched for a potential owner.

Matthew would repeatedly claim that this was the best week and a half of his life. You pampered him, as you did all of the animals in your care and Matthew loved every moment of it. Dream, however, took the first opportunity to appear in your home and demand you return his raven. This did not go as well as he'd thought. You were terrified, justly, of the man that had somehow managed to break into your apartment with no sound and no use of doors or windows. The dog you'd rescued a few months prior was far less terrified and far more angry at this strangers threatening demeanor. After an hour of absolute chaos, barking, hisses and birds cawing, you finally were able to regain control of the house and demanded, "Who the hell are you?"

Dream opened his mouth to say something, but Matthew spoke first. "Sorry, lady, my boss can be kind of a dick."

Your eyes widened as you looked down at the raven, pure shock etched into your face as silence filled the room. "Did you just... Can you..."

"Talk?" Matthew finished. "Yeah."

"I'm going insane," you said, holding your head in your hands. "Everyone said having this many animals and no boyfriend would drive me to insanity but I didn't think they'd be right! Oh my god."

Dream felt a tiny bit guilty for causing such distress and with a well timed glare from his raven he sighed. "You are not insane."

"Says the figment of my imagination that I've clearly imagined into my house."

He reached forward and gently touched your arm. "I am quite real."

It did little to convince you, but eventually you'd been open to hearing his explanation. Obviously you didn't just take his word for it and so he took you to The Dreaming, physically, while you were awake, which came as a shock to... well... everyone. After that things happened rather quickly, not that either of you would complain. Dream and you were an odd couple, but you both enjoyed the oddities between you. He'd sometimes bring you stray animals in need of care and you'd in turn offer him anything he wanted, which was usually simply your time. Though the Dream Lord would never openly admit such a vulnerable thing, he enjoyed being the center of your attention and enjoyed spending as much time with you as he could.

On days, like this one, where your attention was much harder to capture Dream found himself jealous of the creatures you fussed over. Most of them were cats, usually aloof creatures but with you they all constantly craved attention. Now, Dream loved cats, loved most animals in general as they were far better than humans, but he loved you and your undivided attention more. That was what was on his mind when he'd changed into his cat form and leapt onto your table, shoving the other cats out of the way with his much larger form and plopping himself down in front of you, expectantly waiting. You didn't disappoint.

Immediately you giggled and began running your long fingers through his silky fur, using your blunt nails to scratch behind his ears and beneath his chin. It was divine. "Where did you come from?"

He purred, discreetly shoving another cat away from you. "Dream, is this cat yours or am I just imaging this?" A long silent pause as you looked around the room for him. "Dream?"

For a moment he considered letting you search for him for a bit, but decided to be merciful when he saw your slight concern. He leapt from the table and changed back to his regular form, looking down at you as your mouth fell open. "I did not mean to worry you. And I suppose the answer to your question is yes, the cat is mine... in a sense."

"YOU CAN TURN INTO A CAT?!" You shrieked, nearly jumping into his arms to examine his hair and face, as if you'd find feline features all of a sudden.

He chuckled and held you. "Yes, I can. I can change into a great many things."

"Why didn't you tell me before? This is amazing! I have so many questions!"

Dream silenced you with a kiss and gently nuzzled your noses against each other. "Later. For now, I just want you."

His voice never ceased to make you blush. "Well, you have me Dream of the Endless."

[lepurcinus]

You guys may be tired of seeing me say the same thing all the time, but what the heck, WD is basically the second main topic of this blog.

I really can't stand to see the tag and find people always talking about the movie as the main medium, ignoring the existence of the original book and referring to other adaptations as "remakes" or similar (I saw someone referring to the Graphic Novel as "Novelization" as if it was adapting the movie lmao).

And maybe it wouldn't bother me if it wasn't the same movie that gave this story that reputation of being about "bloody bunnies". I read an analysis someone did a while back that I strongly agree with. Saying how the movie preferred to go for the basics of horror by adapting the scary/gory scenes concentrating on pure shock instead of trying to go deeper into why those moments are distressing to the characters. While it's true that explaining something with words is not the same as seeing it directly represented, the animated format at least gives more depth to the characters. For example, something this person mentioned is that the scene of Fiver falling in anguish during Efrafa's attack does not give the same feeling as in the book. In the book the scene is really scary because of how Fiver to talk nonsense and not to mention how he manages to practically traumatize several soldiers to the point of making them run away and/or surrender to him.

While in the movie you only have a rabbit in a state of epilepsy emitting strange moans that manage to half disconcert a couple of soldiers only for them to immediately ignore the issue and go on with their own thing.

Or the famous dog chase scene where the angst and tension on the part of the rabbits in charge of guiding him is left aside to concentrate on animating the massacre of soldiers in detail.

It may also have to do with the practical lack of personality and background of most of the characters except Bigwig, Hazel and Fiver (and with these two I still have my doubts). Woundwort has no backstory so here he's just a bad, wild rabbit only because yes, for example.

They always come out with this "bloody bunnies killing each other" thing when, ok. It's true that in the book the rabbits seem to have the option to kill as something relatively normal, at the same time in the novel it's shown how it's not really the first thing they think of when faced with a threat. Usually before thinking about killing (except for particularly aggressive rabbits) they always go to dialogue. More aside most deaths of one rabbit to another, if not incidental/provoked by a third party (ahem, the fox, the wire, the dog, the train), are executed by a rabbit seen as "bad" and not something that is particularly praised.

Does it sound like I hate the movie? Not really, I appreciate it even with everything. But I do hate that the vision it gave to this story was not the best. You can justify to me in a hundred ways why the movie is fine the way it is or that you like it, but I'm sorry, my opinion on this is going to remain the same.

By the way, if you want to read the analysis I mentioned above here it is.

It explains the whole thing much better than I ever could:

https://ravingsanity.wordpress.com/2015/02/14/a-series-of-uncorrelated-events-watership-down-and-how-it-relates-to-adaptation-theory/

[fatesresonance]

6/13/22, archived from Twitter A/B/O with minor NSFW mention, as usual Luckae - omega Kaeya, alpha Diluc, lots of scenting

―――

Lck (also fits with klc if dynamics are switched) with omega kae going into heat

Except during his heat for the first many cycles, he's deathly afraid Diluc is going to leave. Abandon him. It's happened once and he's convinced the rug will be pulled from beneath him again

He clings to Diluc with a death grip, and he shakes, so distressed that it's physically nauseating for them both.

Diluc doesn't know how to soothe him at first. He's caught by surprise - the once confident and untouchable Kaeya decimated in the wake of his heat.

He curls Kaeya so close in the middle of their nest, grip just as tight as Kaeya's clinging to him, and whispers. He tries to solve it logically - talk it out - but Kaeya's mind is stuck in… scared animal mode. It's mush, and he's terrified and can't think beyond it.

Kaeya's eye is so big looking up at him. His body shakes like a leaf despite the raging fever on his skin and all the nesting blankets around them.

Diluc's heart breaks. None of this is normal, and he doesn't know how to make Kaeya feel better. How much of a useless alpha can he be?

It's a long couple of days. Kaeya is only calm when he's sleeping or in the midst of conflicted orgasm. Sleep doesn't come easy.

He panics whenever Diluc needs to get up for the bathroom or getting their food/drink. He panics whenever Diluc shifts the slightest bit.

"Kaeya, my love, shhh… I promise I'll be back," Diluc hushes, petting through a delirious and whimpering Kaeya's hair. "If I let you go any longer without water, you'll get sick."

"D--Don't! Don't leave me, alpha, please," Kaeya begs.

His nails dig into Diluc's skin and eye alight with fear and tears. Diluc's heart shatters.

"I'm not leaving you." Diluc kisses Kaeya's forehead ever so gently, rubbing his sides and back. His insides twist and he wants to cry at how miserable his omega is.

"That's--" Kaeya sniffles, and hiccups through all his words, "that's what you said-- years ago 'n you left and I was alone and no one wanted me and I-- I can't--"

The more he spoke, the more hysterical he became.

"An'-- An' tha's what y'said yesterday 'n--"

Diluc really does think he's going to cry at the end of all this. There's nothing but pain in Kaeya's voice and guilt radiates through him suffocatingly.

"Kaeya, sweetie, I'm--" Diluc swallows thickly and buries his face into Kaeya's hair. "I'm so sorry."

Is that all he can say? That he's sorry?

"Yesterday I took a shower, and I came back to you."

Kaeya had slipped beneath the covers and curled up, disturbingly like an animal giving up on life when faced with a predator. When Diluc didn't come back immediately, he was convinced that Diluc had left him for good.

It took an hour and a half to bring Kaeya down from that.

"What if I brought you with me?" Diluc asks after a long moment to breathe. "I carry you downstairs with me."

Kaeya latches onto that and agrees.

Diluc ends up bringing Kaeya everywhere with him from that point forward.

When Kaeya's heat ends, the daze he was caught in fades and he's… Strangely the same.

He's out of it, tired, and sore, but in the next day or two, he's right back to normal.

Diluc intends to talk to Kaeya about what happened, but the omega dodges the question.

Until it's too close to Kaeya's next heat and Diluc catches him in the midst of nesting in his bed.

"Kaeya," he sighs, closing the door, "we need to talk."

"About what?" Kaeya asks, pressing a pillow into place. He's skittish again as his heat creeps closer. Diluc needs to be careful.

"Your heat."

Kaeya stills. He tenses warily. "What about it?"

Diluc frowns. "It worries me. I don't know if you remember, but you were… Petrified the entire time." He watches Kaeya carefully, noting how his shoulders sink. "Would barely eat or sleep, and I could barely mate you."

Not that Diluc is thinking of himself, but an omega begs to be bred in heat.

Kaeya was so paralyzed he could hardly do that. Diluc feels like an awful alpha not being able to even satisfy his omega in that way.

Kaeya works his jaw, gripping a blanket tight in his fingers. He refuses to look at him. "I'm sorry my heat was so unenjoyable."

Diluc blinks, dumbfounded.

"Unenjoyable?" he repeats. "Kae, that's not--" He rubs a hand over his face. "That's not why I'm here."

Kaeya keeps his head down. "What is there to talk about, Diluc?"

"Plenty. You were--" Diluc bites the inside of his lips. "You were so scared."

Kaeya swallows.

Diluc doesn't want to ask the question on his tongue. He doesn't want to know the answer and the consequences that came with it; they're trying so hard to mend things and it's worked so far, but if he's the reason their relationship crashes and burns…

"Are you scared of me?"

Kaeya's head snaps up, eye wide. "No! Not… Not normally."

Not normally. Something inside Diluc wilts. Kaeya has every right to be cautious, Diluc has no business being upset.

"Then what can I do?" He's practically begging. "It's cruel to let you suffer convinced I'm going to leave." He approaches Kaeya and grabs his hands, holding them to his chest. "I love you, Kaeya. I meant it when… When I said I'd do everything possible to mend this."

Kaeya's eye stays wide, twinkling. Surprised, maybe, or wordless.

There's so much unsaid between them it hurts - even the good things, of how they're so enamored with each other. Thoughts kept out of reach, locked in safety until… Until when? Neither of them know.

Kaeya's next heat is rough again.

Diluc, from experience, brings Kaeya everywhere with him straight off the bat. He brought more clothes over for the nest to surround his omega, stockpiles food and water in the bedroom, and nocks Kaeya into the orgasmic delirium sooner than fear's. There's only so much someone can focus on when their alpha is between their legs, eating them out like his life depended on it.

Still, the fear inevitably settles in and Kaeya is back to laying on top of Diluc, as if it will weigh him down and keep him there.

"Alpha, alpha," he whispers shakily, wrapped completely around his mate.

Diluc never thought such a long and lanky man could ever feel as small as he does now.

"I'm here, love, I'm here," he croons, placing a hand on the back of Kaeya's head and guides him to the crook of his neck. There, Diluc puffs a dizzying amount of calming pheromones.

"And I'm never leaving you. You're mine, mine, mine. My beautiful, lovely omega."

Over the coming cycles, Diluc learns one thing that makes or breaks Kaeya's heat.

Scenting.

It's a natural part of their dynamics, to scent, but Diluc finds that he has to scent /everything/ possible in order to keep Kaeya calm.

Two days before Kaeya's heat is supposed to show, Diluc slips into Kaeya's apartment.

It's how it usually is - on the cleaner side and a mix of their scents.

Diluc first grabs the throw pillow on the couch and rubs his cheek against it until he can only smell himself.

He goes to the armrests and rubs the insides of his wrists, and the edges of the walls, the tables, lamps. When he makes it inside of the bedroom, not one item is spared.

Pillows, blankets, bedframe, nightstand, dresser, window-- hell, even the trinkets on the shelves.

Diluc is vaguely nauseated smelling so much of himself in one place. But he got the job done, and if it lets his mate enjoy a /proper/ heat, then so be it.

The next day he does it again, and the day that Kaeya falls into heat, he drenches the nest in pheromones.

That is the single greatest heat Diluc's ever seen Kaeya have. The realization and joy bubbles in Diluc so hard he actually does start to tear up, and a purring-- oh so /loudly/ purring, and he wouldn't have it any other way-- Kaeya rolls on top of him, asking what's wrong.

Kaeya is warm, and so are his cheeks, rosy and happy and that /smile./ Gods, Barbatos above, that smile is the brightest thing Diluc has ever known.

Kaeya's hazed and out of it, but the alpha's scent surrounding him like a barrier comforts him.

Diluc liberally applies more as the hours go on.

Kaeya sleeps less, and enjoys getting bred more, and even /begs/ for it more. He's dripping full of Diluc's cum, trilling so happily about being pupped.

When Kaeya naps on Diluc's chest, Diluc swells with a kind of warmth he cannot describe. He lets relieved tears out. A weight has been lifted off of both of their shoulders, and all Diluc wants to do is worship his mate.

Make him happy. Make him feel /safe./

“How are you feeling?" Diluc asks Kaeya once he's waking up, rumbling deep purrs to his omega.

"Mmm…" Kaeya buries his face into Diluc's neck and takes a deep, slow breath. "Warm… Comfy… Safe." He angles his head and whispers, "Pup me, alpha?"

Diluc's heart leaps.

[blorbologist]

Cat’s Cradle - Chapter 9

Ch 1 … Ch 8

[Hey y’all!! A heads up - in this chapter there’s the aftermath of a car strike.

The animal survives and will experience a full recovery, but if this is distressing to you, you can jump to the vet office at “Mr. de Rolo?”. The AU resumes its more fluffy nature after this brief two-chapter dip into trauma for Percy and the animal - I promise you no animals die in this fic.]

Percy’s going over his schematics one more time before casting when the doorbell rings. 

Frowning, he double checks on the kittens - sleeping soundly after their last feed - before turning down the hall. Time enough for two more rings. It better not be a delivery, or -

“Hey - oy! You’re one of Scanlan’s buddies,” says the short woman at the door. Percy has to wrack his brain to put a name to the face - mostly because he sees a lot of his friend in the eyes and broad mouth. Kaylie - Scanlan’s daughter. He hadn’t known she lived close by. 

Percy opens his mouth to greet her, but Kaylie immediately sobers, stuffing her hands in her pockets. “Well, this sucks. Do you have a cat?”

He furrows his brows. “In an auxiliary capacity, you could say. Why?”

Kaylie sighs more heavily than someone her size should. “Right. So.” She runs a hand over her face. “Fuck, just - come with me? I think - I think it got hit by a car.”

Percy’s stomach drops. He does not think to put on his jacket or shoes, striding out after her in his shop slippers. The puddles soak through them before he’s halfway to the lot, before he sees the shape Kaylie points out. Carefully pulled to the side of the road. 

“Fuck,” Percy breathes, when he can. The exhale hurts because he’s running and he needs that air, but fuck, fuck, fuck - 

It’s Curio. 

“Bastard hit her, stopped and kept on goin’-” he thinks it’s Kaylie huffing behind him. Distant.

The gravel chews at his knees through his pants as he kneels. Percy hesitates to touch her, hands shaky and hovering closer than they've ever been. 

Curio purrs - a desperate attempt at self-soothing. The damp head lifts, blue eyes blown wide and whiskers trembling. Her face is black, but for the rust brown on one cheek.

She looks almost as he remembers, but the hints of what lays hidden on her other flank. One hind leg has an angle fit only for wrought metal. The weeds are red in spots, space between the rocks shiny with worse than rain.

Her chest heaves - stuttering and uneven and huge for her little body. She's so small - not skinny, just small. Lanky in the limbs. No more than a kitten herself, he realizes. 

“You poor dear,” Percy rasps. On a hunch, he tries, “Tsk tsk tsk.”

Her purring picks up its pace.

“Help me get her to my truck - we’ll use my jacket.” It’s bitterly cold - half soaked, laying on the side of the road for gods know how long, the poor cat has likely had it worse. Kaylie hovers, saying something about finding the address of the nearest vet.

Curio damn near screams when Percy touches her back to move her. He flinches, hard. His hand comes away rust red. “I’m sorry - be brave, please be brave.”

The rain lapping at his eyes and cheeks make it difficult to see what he's doing as he eases her onto the makeshift stretcher.

He'll manage. He's seen worse. 

(It stopped raining hours ago.)

--

“Mr. de Rolo?”

It’s forty-eight minutes after he’d handed Curio off to a vet when someone takes him aside. Or tries to - Percy can’t quite stop pacing, and flinches away from the hand on his shoulder to continue his trek. Back and forth through his personal hell. 

The too-clean scent of the emergency vet is not helping. 

He can’t make a call. He can’t make another phone call. Not like last time. Gods, not like last time.

“She should make it,” she says first, no-nonsense. Percy half expects it to fly in one ear, out the other - instead it rattles around almost painfully sharp, splintering into a tension headache. “It seems the car grazed her back end.” She crosses her arms, giving up on offering comfort when Percy keeps pacing. “A lot of what you saw was road burn. Looked worse than it was, though it’s unclear if they can save her leg.”

“Good - good.” Percy finally stops when he feels he needs to, to have enough breath for a response. He can guess why they might have sent someone to talk to him, and this is - this is good, good, better. “Don’t worry about the cost - whatever it takes, just do whatever it takes to save her.”

The woman - she has curly hair, resisting the bun it’s pulled into - nods, letting out a sigh he was not supposed to hear. She hands him a sheet of paper - initial cost analysis, his eyes glaze over familiar expenses in new context. “This is the best we can estimate so far, though with surgery-”

“I know,” says Percy. 

Another nod. “Thank you, sir. We did want to make sure you are capable of bottlefeeding her litter while she recovers. A crash course can be offered, no charge, but the sutures will be delicate, and -”

“Wait.” Percy lifts a hand. The headache is almost twisting, digging in deeper, interlocking with buried hurts to churn and curl. A storm, or turning cogs. “We have her kittens - she’s a stray, she had abandoned them in my workshop. I’ve been feeding them for a week and a half, now.”

Furrowed eyebrows are never a good sign. 

“Are you sure?” The technician, or vet, or intern, or whoever this person in white smelling of blood and antiseptic (mortician, mortician, mortician) presses. Presses, like fingers into the wounds. 

Because she says: “There are clear signs she’s nursing at least one kitten. Dirty areola, missing belly fur.”

“Fuck,” Percy breathes. 

--

He calls Vex outside the emergency vet, as far as he can get from the clinical white and buzzing lights and everything he had meant to leave behind. Under a tree, with the gasoline stench of cars masking the worst of what clings to his clothes. There was wherewithal to leave his credit card, just to assure them he was still here, he wasn’t running, please don’t stop working on her, please don’t think he abandoned her.

Ringtone is different. Sights are different. Smells are different. Percy takes off his glasses and rubs at his eyes - everything itches with unshed, panicky tears.

“Hi, Vex,” he says, before she can even breathe a hello. “I’m sorry - I know you’re at work-”

“Percy.” Somehow the firmness is soothing. Grounding. “Percy - what’s wrong?”

“At the emergency vet, on Cloudtop Av.” Her inhale makes him spin - she must think the kittens, clear up quick - “Curio was hit by a car. They think she had another kitten, hidden somewhere.”

“Darling, breathe.” Vex’s voice drifts away for a moment - hard to be certain if it’s a trick or her moving the phone away for a moment. “Breathe with me, alright Percy?”

“Time is-”

“Not that desperate, not yet.” And, because she knows him so well: “You won’t think clearly like this, Percy. Just try it, for me, alright?”

He tries.

He’s no good at it.

He gets very good at it.

In, hold to Vex’s silence, exhale long and low with her. A cycle that repeats until it’s the only thing turning, not his head or the world and there’s some semblance of control over him. The shaking won’t stop. That’s fine, it rarely does. Just gets worse, like now.

“I’ll handle it,” Vex says. “You stay there - I don’t want you driving like this, Percy. When did you last feed the little ones?”

He counts. “Hour and a half, two hours ago.”

The shifting of cloth and hair speaks for her nod. “Alright, alright - not perfect, but doable. I’ll be by to pick up your spare key soon, darling. The kittens will be okay. Focus on Curio, and yourself.”

“But the -”

“Kittens,” Vex repeats, with emphasis. She grows quiet, though the phone tattles on the racket around her - a door slamming, things being shoved into a purse, her shoes on laminate. “I’ll find her.”

[mjwiththefangs]

Trickery & Daggers - Chapter 3

In which a snake is dealt with, and a nice night around the bonfire is had. Also on AO3 Masterlist Word count: 2292 Warnings: Violence, animal death

--

Morgana is still pondering over Ethel, tapping her chin in thought, as she begins to leave with Astarion. He clicks his tongue in annoyance and she turns to him inquisitively.

“Something back at her home, she says.” He snaps haughtily “hopefully we can control the damn thing.”

“Control it? Astarion, we need to get rid of it.” 

His mouth opens with some clever retort ready, but he’s cut off by yelling nearby, and Morgana’s head jerks in the direction of the commotion.

“You let my daughter go right now!”

Morgana is already rushing over before she can think about it and arrives just as a Druid transforms into a bear with a mighty roar.

 Tensions are running high and Morgana’s efforts to diffuse and find out what’s happening are met with immediate hostility.

 They’ve taken a child.

Her fingers are starting to tingle with Eldritch energy, when another Druid whispers into one’s ear and then they’re looking at her.

“Archdruid Kagha would like to speak to you.”

And then they allow her through, blinking and dumbfounded.

“Hm, seems there’s someone else in charge while that Halsin is away.” that silken and sharp voice is by her ear again, startling her.

Too stealthy for his own good!

 She didn’t expect him to accompany her, though she’s not sure what drove her to rush over either. But there is a fear sitting heavy in her chest, foreboding and urging her to find the girl.

 She feels a tingling sensation brush against her magic, fleetingly caressing against the edges of her soul, and knows her patron is watching. She glances back to Astarion; disinterested and irritated at best, but his intense ruby eyes are dangerous. She swallows. She nods discreetly, meaningfully, towards the distressed tieflings and understanding- well, and exasperation- cross the elf’s face.

 Good.

They hurry towards where Kagha waits for them.

.

“Please, I-I’m sorry! Sorry!”

Morgana’s body burns, thrumming with anticipation, the cries too painfully familiar to her own, oh so many a year ago now, and she storms down the stairs towards the girl's frightened pleas. Her anger is white hot fury in her veins when she spots the viper, poised and threatening, its fangs dripping with venom, hissing at the panicked child.

“Careful, Devil, Teela is restless.” A tall woman sneers. Her eyes are cruel and cold and accusative.

A man holds up his hands, desperately trying to placate her, reasoning that they recovered an idol of apparent importance, “Please, Kagha, she’s just-“

“Just a what, Rath?” She lashes at him, vicious spite lacing her words, “a thief?” She spits.

So that’s Kagha. She's the one in charge, acting as archdruid for the grove.

The one who wanted to speak with them.

Morgana can’t care less. Fuck this.

She snaps. “She’s just a fucking child!”

 Astarion eyes her with sudden interest, lifting a fine brow and flexes his hands, itching to use his daggers.

 He watches Morgana intensely- he's in no mind to pay any attention to the heated argument occuring between the parties, gods no- Her entire countenance shifts; furious ashen eyes appear alight with faerie fire and her hair almost ignites, its hue shifting to a brighter purple than before, almost magenta where it burns at the ends, leaving none of the usual dark colour visible. Magical, alluring, dangerous energy crackles and swirls around her fingers.

 And as he looks at her in this moment, he realises something.

 He knows what she is: A Warlock.

 Not just any Warlock, either, the typical sort to have sold their soul to a devil, no. She made her pact with an Archfae.

 Morgana will be a powerful ally indeed.

 He's not the only one who's attention she commands, though. Kagha pales in the face of the little half-human’s wrath.

 No one is watching the snake.

 He sees it then, rearing its head back, ready to strike-

 Morgana notices it too late.

 She reaches out, desperate, then-

 Thunk!

 And suddenly blood splatters across the worn oak surface.

 Kagha shrieks. The girl collapses to the floor. Alive. Scrambling backwards on her hands. Morgana is already grabbing her shoulder and dragging her towards her, stepping forward and placing herself between the girl and the druids.

 What in the hells just happened?

 The snake is dead.

 A blade pierces its neck and pins the corpse, still warm, dripping blood and venom, to the table.

 Wait a minute- She recognises that blade.

 The pale Elf beside her is unable to hide the sly satisfied smirk that dances across his gleeful face.

 Ok. So she can work with this. She can handle this.

 Her rage and magic stutters and her hair dims to a soft, otherworldly glow.

 Still standing in front of the girl, Morgana raises her hand,

 “Release the girl into my care, and I’ll see that no further wrongs are committed.” She implores.

 Umberlee’s tits, she’s not sure she’s ever been so nervous, but she has to remain calm, she has to control this situation as best she can to avoid spilling any further blood.

 Kagha seethes silently.

 But, to everyone’s surprise, she jerks her chin in the direction of the stairs.

 “Get her out of my sight.”

.

“...So, Kagha asked you to escort the druids out of the grove?” Wyll asks her that night as they all gather around the campfire.

 Morgana sighs and takes a long gulp from her bottle of Ashaba Dusk.

 The flat liquid burns her throat and she scrunches her nose up in distaste.

“She did.” She hums.

 For their second night, things seem a bit less tense. Of course, the imposing problem of their tadpoles still lingers, yet they seem to have a cautious optimism in light of no changes.

 Gale glances up from where he tends the cooking pot, a helpful mage hand chopping vegetables beside him.

 “She did threaten that child.” He says gravely, “It was good you and Astarion stepped in when you did.”

 The Elf briefly looks up at the mention of his name, in the middle of polishing his daggers.

When did he get the other one back? Morgana wonders.

 He catches her staring and smirks. 

 Oh damn him, she thinks as her cheeks flush. Clearly, the alcohol is muddling her senses. She clears her throat.

 “Arabella and her parents were certainly grateful. I don't think she’ll be doing anything like that again.”

 “What about that healer, Nettie, was it?” Shadowheart chimes in, on the opposite side of the fire. “Did you find her?”

 Astarion barks a laugh and simultaneously Morgana groans.

 Their campmates exchange quizzical glances.

 “Well…” Morgana starts uneasily.

 “Please! That little healer almost poisoned her.” Astarion huffs, gesturing wildly with his dagger in hand. He pauses for a moment to examine it thoughtfully. “She did say something useful, though. Their old leader, that Halsin, he was studying the parasites.”

 He stows his blade. It catches the firelight as he does, and Morgana can't help but notice an unusual sheen to the metal. Odd.

“Halsin went with those adventurers, didn’t he? The ones who lead the goblins to the grove. Maybe it's worth our time to scope out the goblin camp and track him down.” She suggests, and Shadowheart hums in agreement.

 Lae’zel scoffs, her patience and bias bleeding through.

“Our first priority should be finding a creche- we already know where my kin were last seen, that should be where we ‘scope out’.” 

 “Now, now! We haven’t turned yet, Lae’zel, and we have no symptoms at all to speak of. Why, by all accounts, we should have fevers, greying skin and be suffering hallucinations by now!” Gale speaks animatedly, articulating his words enthusiastically with varying hand gestures as he does.

 Morgana’s lip quirks. He isn’t wrong, and is likely the only one who understands their condition as well as their Githyanki companion. Well, he’s almost as knowledgeable anyway, years of study surely could not compare to an entire culture's experience in battling these illithids.

 At least he’s enthusiastic. 

 Lae’zel scowls, but says nothing, other than muttering something in her native tongue and folds her arms, conceding to Gale’s point.

“So that’s settled then? We go find that goblin camp and see if we can find Halsin?” Morgana asks the group, inadvertently raising her bottle as she speaks..

 It seems to be a habit that is catching- this gesturing malarkey.

“They did describe him as ‘a bear of an elf’” Astarion chuckles, “I think I would rather like to see that.”

 Shadowheart hums her agreement, taking a drink from her own bottle of wine.

 Wyll clears his throat, looking somewhat sheepish when all heads turn to him and he swirls the drink in his goblet.

“If I may; I still need to find my mark, preferably before my skull splits into tentacles.”

How the man remains so composed regarding the tadpoles, Morgana does not know. But she grins at him all the same, amusement fizzing through the alcoholic haze, and pushes her hair out of her face.

 “Of course, oh famed Blade of Frontiers- We’ll go track down your Karlach come the ‘morrow” She declares, bending with a dramatic flair where she sits, holding out her arms performatively, and her drink sloshes in the bottle. “Shall be my greatest honour to hunt a devil with such a renowned hunter of monsters!"

The immediate silence is enough to sober her up with mortifying embarrassment. That is, until Shadowheart snorts in amusement, Astarion giggles and Wyll barks a laugh, and jumps to his feet, pounding his fist over his heart.

 “Then by my blade, it shall be done!” He says heartily and bows with much more elegance and grace than she’d have expected of him.

“Here, here!” Gale chimes, smiling as they laugh, raising a ladle and shaking his head, “And if our chivalrous hero would kindly return to his seat, I believe dinner is about ready!”

 After they have eaten, having enjoyed pleasant conversation and agreed to tackle Wyll’s quest come dawn, they all begin to retire to their tents, yet Astarion lingers.

 Morgana is acutely aware of him. The flames flicker and dance, contained in the pit and surrounded by stones. Her eyes are unfocused, watching. In truth, she’s paying attention to the Elf. He reminds her of a stray cat, in a way. Lurking, just nearby, staring when he wants something. A small giggle slips from her at the thought.

 Of course, she’s still a little buzzed from drinking this evening. They had actually gotten to know each other a little better, mostly listening to Wyll sharing some stories from his adventures between drinks, until words began to slur and their cleric burst into fits of giggles. Astarion seems to be the only one unaffected. Well, perhaps aside from Lae'Zel, but she only had one drink really, while she didn't particularly participate, she didn't retire and sat with them all through the evening chatter. But Astarion easily had an entire bottle to himself, if not more, and somehow he's still graceful and ethereal and far too charming. She suspects, him being an elf, that he’s the eldest here, and so, she reasons, he can probably hold his liquor. Perhaps that’s why he’s volunteered to keep watch again. She purses her lips in thought. Without moving, she calls to him.

“Astarion?”

“Yes, darling?”

 She cranes her neck to look up at him at the sound of his voice.

Why does he have to look so handsome in the firelight?

“Do you… Not like sleep, or something?” She blurts.

He looks halfway between amused and annoyed.

“I’m an elf.” He says, matter-of-factly.

She stares.

“I can see that. The pointy ears give it away.” She points at them.

This time he laughs, once.

“I only need 4 hours to rest.”

Huh. Ok. Yeah, that makes sense. She’s nodding to herself and he chuckles again. Maybe she said that out loud? Perhaps the tadpole has ruined her alcohol tolerance. Or her wits.

“Who’s watching after you, then?” “Certainly not you, darling!” He scoffs. “I imagine our newest recruit might enjoy a night on watch, don't you? Now, I believe you ought to be retiring for the night.”

 Morgana hesitates for a moment. Only a moment.

 If Astarion notices, he doesn't comment on it. Instead, he observes as she rises unsteadily to her feet and shoos her in the direction of her tent.

 Once there, sat upon her bedroll, she pulls the journal from her pack. Her fingers stroke the aged leather cover, trailing over stitching and the embossed pattern depicting a swirling knot-like symbol. How many years has she had this with her?

 How many years has it truly been, she wonders, for she isn't certain herself. She'd picked it up one day, as a child still, not long after forming her pact and-

 She shakes her head. No. She doesn't want to dwell on this, some things are better left in the past. Even so, her hands feel sticky and dirty with the ghost of her past just thinking of it. She remembers how long it took for her hands to stop shaking, how long it took for them to wash clean, to see her own moon-toned skin peeking through again.

 The dagger is still with her. She hasn't parted from it since that day, and as she aged, using it became easier.

 She rubs her hands together, trying to shake off the unpleasant feelings and instead she flips open the book to a new page and begins to fill it.

 Hours later, slumped over her journal, she stirs awake to what she thinks might be the sound of footsteps creeping away.

 But of course Astarion is on watch, and so she thinks nothing of it, rolling over and drifting back to sleep.

[darsynia]

Diminished Seventh (ch 2)

(Stephen Strange/OC, 'mistrust to lovers,' Animate Objects series)

art found here: duttaayon14008 | gif by @natasharomanofv

Summary: Amista Cairn is a pragmatic, hard worker whose job in emergency management has maybe dragged her a little too far from appreciating the fanciful things in life. After being invited into the strangely-dressed man's building, she finds herself the object of a magical umbrella's affections. It would be so easy to dislike its caretaker, Stephen, for his presumptuous attitude and his accusations, but Amy can't help but wish she could coax a genuine smile from the man.

Succeeding might just wreck her, though.

Length: 4,057

Animate Objects | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

I am quite new, and a wee bit shy about tags and asks, but please feel free to send them anyway! Tags: @starryeyes2000, @raith-way, @arrthurpendragon, @sobeautifullyobsessed

A 'diminished seventh' chord creates tension that begs to be resolved.

Chapter Two

Fear stole her voice. Amy expected at any moment to thud against a hard surface, and she just knew it would hurt. The familiar, gutting thought that Martin had also known ahead of time what would happen to him struck her, and she couldn’t fight it, not while she was falling, not while she was afraid. She wondered if it was possible to fall faster than one’s own tears.

Then she was falling past some golden light, slowing down, and ‘landing’ lightly in Stephen’s arms.

Amy’s surprise bred with her fear and produced a smothering sensation that she couldn’t expand her lungs against. 

“I’ve got you,” he said, and he sounded angry, as though she’d been somehow culpable in falling so far in a basement. She arched her back, gasping for air. She half expected him to drop her and scream that she should get out.

As she fought to breathe, Amy thought to herself that of course the only knight in shining armor she inspired would be a suspicious conjurer who created the most beautiful things and seemed to hate the sight of her. He was saying something, but she couldn’t hear, her whole body focused on the task of obtaining air.

There was a sensation of moving swiftly through another golden loop, and then she was laid on something soft, a red fluttering something swooping back and forth in the background. Stephen bent over her, hands moving with gentle precision, lifting her eyelids, checking her pulse in multiple places, and doing various other things she couldn’t discern.

“Settle down, will you?” he said, sounding angry.

“Trying,” she gasped out.

“No, not--” He sighed and sat on the bed beside her legs. He looked down at his feet. “Not you. I can’t see anything wrong; all I can guess is that the slowing spell I used suppressed your respiratory system. I’m truly sorry. It was a short-lived spell and should pass soon.”

The pressure was slowly lifting, allowing more than the faint trickle of life-giving oxygen she’d fought so hard for just moments earlier, but Amy couldn’t bring herself to waste any on speaking.

Stephen lifted his head and made eye contact. “You’re afraid of me.”

She lay still, hands clutching at the comforter beneath them, and thought about shaking her head. Amy wasn’t sure which was true yet, though. Stephen looked unhappy, contrite. She didn’t know him at all; would he look that way if he still believed she was some nebulous sort of enemy? Did that matter, when his… spellcasting, if that’s what it was called, had caused her distress?

He stood up and walked over to the window. All Amy could do was watch him as the weight that filled her chest dissipated agonizingly slowly. She felt a pang. More than once she’d mocked this man, likened him to a costumed wizard, a petty magician, and through it all, he’d maintained his arrogant confidence. It was only when he realized he’d accidentally hurt her that she got a glimpse of something else.

To distract herself and calm down, she traced her gaze along the lines of his back, admiring the way the sun fell on the side of his face, edging the hints of silver in gold. There was no doubt she would have noticed him even in plain clothes, but in those? He was arresting. Somewhere deep down, Amy felt a little thrill: would she earn a smile once she felt better? After everything that had happened, after he still had possession of her locket, the precious piece of her brother that she always carried with her… should she hope for that?

Movement on the other side of the room caught her attention, and Amy turned her head to see the red brocade cap-- Cloak, she corrected herself silently, remembering Stephen’s severity. The garment was hovering in the corner, and impulsively, she lifted her hand toward it. There was a moment of hesitation, and then the Cloak sailed over, hovering a corner over her hand in the oddest sort of caress.

“What did I say?” A voice rumbled from the window. 

“Don’t!” Amy whispered, afraid to look over to him, but the Cloak fluttered back over to its corner before she could stop it.

“How do you feel?” Stephen asked, suddenly at her side, an actual stethoscope extended.

“Baffled,” Amy said, shrinking back.

“I’m a doctor,” Stephen said impatiently, and Amy pulled at the blanket beneath her, dragging at it until she got enough slack to toss over herself as she slid back against the headboard. He frowned down at her. “Life isn’t a role-playing game, where the characters have a limited number of points to spend. I used to be a surgeon, now I’m the Sorcerer Supreme.” A corner of his mouth turned up, and Amy’s traitorous heart skipped. “I might even have points left over.”

“If you do, you screwed up your analogy,” she pointed out. A part of her craved another glimpse of happiness from him. She tried to quash it, but the lightness in her chest didn’t feel wholly related to the release in suffocating pressure. “Surgeon. You did say that.” Amy let her legs slide down from where she’d drawn them up against her chest. “Why aren’t you anymore? Were you looking for a way to cheat death?”

The question was fraught, but the words had already left her lips. Explaining why she wanted to retract them would be more painful than pushing through.

“No,” Stephen said. The word bore more weight than it ought to, she noticed. “I was injured. My hands.” He didn’t hold them up, instead toying with the tubes of the stethoscope absently. He shrugged, and again, she sensed weight there, a great loss bandaged up in shrugs and sarcasm. “I lost that job, needed another one.” 

His hidden sadness made Amy again yearn to see what he looked like pleased, contented, happy, joyful, delighted. She wanted to collect his emotions, mix and match them, be able to conjure them on demand. The strength of it shook her.

While she was reckoning with that, Stephen leaned over and pressed the stethoscope to her chest. Amy seized up, too vulnerable to want him quite so near, not with those thoughts only a breath away.

“I thought you said you were feeling bet--” He cut himself off, pulling his hand and the medical device away. “You are afraid of me.”

“I don’t know how to feel,” Amy said defensively. It was the honest truth, and as such, felt too revealing by half.

“How about next time I bend the floor toward us.”

Their push-pull of humor, understanding, and animosity was back.

Amy shoved herself away, getting up on the other side of the bed. Her shoulder bag was there, likely moved aside in the fuss to keep her breathing. She put it on. “How about there is no next time, and I’ll be taking my locket and my lungs and getting the heck out of this crazy place?”

Before Stephen could respond, the second man she’d seen wearing ‘mystic robes’ showed up in the doorway. “There you are. It grows restless. How long until--” He stopped speaking when he saw Amy. His expression darkened, and he turned to Stephen. “What did you do?”

“Oh, you two will get along great. Single-named people always do. Amy, this is Wong. Wong, this is Amy,” Stephen said in a dry voice, standing.

“What did you do?” Wong demanded.

“She fell in the Mirror Dimension. I arrested it. Carelessly.”

“That’s not true!” She said, coming around the bed (to the floating accompaniment of the Cloak, which didn’t pass Wong’s notice). “He caught me. Cast the spell at the last minute so it wasn’t a hard landing.”

“So instead of portaling you to land on the bed here, he was careless,” Wong stated. “Both of you come. It’s been too long already.” He turned and walked away with Stephen close behind, prompting Amy to follow nervously. She felt unsafe, but that feeling doubled at the thought of being alone.

The Cloak nestled itself onto Stephen’s shoulders as Wong led them down a cheerfully-lit staircase.

“Did you choose the dim one on purpose, earlier?” Amy asked when they reached the bottom and she recognized where she was. Wong didn’t say anything, but he did stop and stare at Stephen for a few seconds.

“In here,” Stephen took over, sweeping past both of them and setting a hand on the handle of a metal door. “For convenience, I think a protection spell might be in order. Wong, if you would?” He shoved the door open after muttering something that flooded the door with golden light, and disappeared inside. The door thudded shut behind him.

“Despite his flair for the dramatic, he’s right. May I cast a protection spell on you?”

Amy almost made a comment about magical consent, but the only thing Stephen cast on her without permission was a spell intended to ease her fall. It wasn’t his fault that landing in his arms took her breath away in the process.

“Yes, thank you,” she said instead.

“I won’t ask what he’s been teaching you, but you haven’t asked why you need a protection spell,” Wong pointed out, turning his back on her to cast the sequence that let them through the metal door.

Amy followed him into what looked like a whole second cellar. The floor was blackened with decades, maybe centuries of grime, the ceiling looped with anachronistic-looking wires for the many bare bulbs that illuminated the space. In the center was a circular depressed area with stands for torches, despite the bright fluorescent light fixture hanging above the middle of it. A glimpse of red told Amy that Stephen was in a far corner of the room, so she quickened her pace to catch up.

That area seemed half storage, half overflow display area. The cellar around them wasn’t divided by walls; instead, it was partitioned by bookcases or stacks of things. Here, the room-like space was created from mostly empty (or seemingly empty? Amy suppressed a shudder) display cases. One of them was glowing and shaking, and Stephen had a shield up and aimed at it.

The umbrella was inside, and she guessed that the reason for the glow was its constant breaching of their containment spell. The sides bulged and glowed every few seconds, as the cursed thing tried to escape.

“That thing where I asked if you were afraid of me? I’m about to make it worse,” Stephen said grimly. Behind her, she heard Wong casting something.

“Is this hazing? Are you two hazing me? I refuse to autograph anything,” Amy said nervously.

Unexpectedly, this earned her a full, actual smile from Stephen. “No autograph. I think holding it for a minute or so will be enough.”

“Wait, holding that? Stephen, ‘Spike’ is too fluffy a nickname for that umbrella. You can see that, right?”

He was already turning the key on the glass top lid and lifting it off. “It likes you. You’ll be fine.”

“And your evidence for this was the fact that it was being a literal ankle biter yesterday, and nearly tripped me?” she retorted-- but as she spoke, the Tsasilli stopped erupting in spikes, unfolding in such a way that its top bulb was lifted out of its display case. It closed up, simultaneously doubling in size, and unfurled again, the energy of which launched it out of the case and onto the floor between Amy and Stephen. She pulled her shoulder bag over against her chest, a fourth-rate shield substitute for their golden energy ones.

“It’s certainly got top notch problem solving skills,” Stephen observed. “Go on, pick it up. You’re what it’s been waiting for, I think.”

“How do you know that? Did you conjure a room-sized piece of paper and let this thing write me a love letter?” she asked, willing herself not to back away from the inert-seeming black parasol.

“Two weeks ago it began acting out. Created havoc down here before we figured out it was the source,” Wong said, walking over to stand opposite the object in question. “The archives list it as one of the most volatile relics. There are records of agitation every few hundred years. It only imprints on women--”

“Stop!” Amy shouted. Even the Tsasilli fluttered a bit, on the floor. She turned and glared at Stephen, fury coating her throat and deepening her voice. “Is this why you invited me into your madhouse? Tell me.”

“It is not. We’d been moving it from room to room to placate it for days. I never dreamed that this would happen.” 

As much as she hated to admit it, there was no deception on his face. She remembered the way he’d looked when she accused him of doing nothing, the way he’d finally shouted that he’d done what he could. There had been a beautiful kind of agony twisting his features, and she could see that softly echoed here. It seemed that there were many hurtful truths in Stephen’s life.

“Believe me,” he spoke again, the rich resonance in his voice sending an unwilling spark of attraction burning through her. “I didn’t want this.”

Of course he doesn’t, she thought to herself. It was Danny all over again. Aloud, she said, “Oh, well! That makes it all fine, then, I guess.”

“Children, please,” Wong intoned. “Handle this situation now, burn each other in effigy later, hmm?” As he spoke, the Tsasilli opened again, changing its pattern from simple black to the same black and white pattern on her blouse.

“All right, I’ll pick it up-- on one condition,” Amy said, wishing she knew how to cast one of Stephen’s shields. “I want my locket back, and when we work out whatever insane custody arrangement keeps this thing from destroying your sanctum, you have to tell me everything!”

“That’s two conditions,” Stephen said.

Amy dug into her bag for her flashlight, clicked it on, and started for the door.

“It’s locked!” his sing-song voice followed her.

She kept walking. As she did, she heard two male voices bickering, their vehemence getting louder and softer in turns. When Amy got to the door, she stood resolutely in front of it, but not before reaching out and trying the handle. It wouldn’t budge, as expected.

For fun, she started counting seconds. It would give her a great opener if she had to argue with Stephen; ‘you made me wait XXX seconds before you finally--’

A soft nudge against her shoulder startled her, and she turned around. It was the Cloak, and it was carrying the Tsasilli of Semiramis.

“Really?” she sighed.

Cloak just undulated a bit.

“I didn’t want to get mixed up in this, you know.”

The Cloak seemed to slump, and in so doing, the troublesome parasol rolled toward her a little bit.

“Oh, fine,” Amy said, and gingerly picked it up. She held it up in front of her face. “You’re not allowed to stab me. You stab me, this whole deal is off, you got that?”

She didn’t know if it was in response to what she said or just in happiness that she’d made contact, but its fabric once again shifted to the black and white houndstooth pattern from her shirt.

“Okay, you want to come and see if we can pick out a display case you like better? I’ll try a few and if you like it, you can change to my shirt pattern again,” Amy said, walking back toward where Wong and Stephen were still conducting a tightly-controlled argument. The Cloak was on her side. It swept up distractingly beside the two men as she snuck around just out of sight, heading for the piled-up display cases. 

Again feeling like she was a prime candidate for an unholy union between a hidden camera show and the very best creatures Ray Harryhausen could create, Amy dutifully held up the ancient parasol relic next to display case after display case, waiting a few seconds each time in case the darned thing needed to think about it.

There were only a few left when Cloak returned, hovering near a large case with nothing piled on it. Amy walked over to it, held the umbrella over it (to… get a good look? She was way out of her depth), and it immediately changed to the black and white checkered houndstooth pattern.

“I don’t suppose you know how to liberate the key?” Amy whispered to the Cloak.

“You see? While you are busy arguing about trust, the very object of your concern is handling the problem!” Wong said in a booming voice. Startled, Amy clutched the relic to her chest, where she felt a strange sensation, like the umbrella was trying to mold itself to her blouse in some way. It was uncomfortable enough that she moved it away, which was difficult for a half second, like tacky, unset glue.

“Spike wants this case,” Amy drawled, hitching a hip against it.

Wong was facing her, with Stephen a few steps behind, and she got to see the look of abject delight on Wong’s face. Amy assumed that his happiness was directly related to the look of abject horror on Stephen’s.

“What are you doing now? Giving it nicknames, communing with it?” Stephen demanded, even as he came over and sullenly unlocked the top of the display case she’d indicated. The small amount of space he left open told her he was wary of the Tsasilli, so she walked over to where he was standing to coax it inside.

“Isn’t this what you wanted? A way to tame it?” she asked, gently setting the top part of the relic into the open space. She waited for spikes to leap out and punish her for her betrayal. Instead, it flickered houndstooth and slid in, leaving her standing an inch away from Stephen, with her hand braced on the case. She didn’t want to move away, but standing so close made her hyper aware of him. As usual, her method of creating distance was snark. “So, it seems you’ve decided to trust me at least as far as you can throw me. There’s an argument to be made that falling off a cliff of your making counts, for that distance.”

“Lock it up and let’s go,” Wong said, but he was smiling.

“That depends on how far you’re willing to fall,” Stephen said quietly. As soon as the words left his lips, his expression shuttered, changing to a brisk, businesslike demeanor as he shooed her away from the case and locked it back up. Both sorcerers were required to cast the containment spell, and Amy walked away as they drew on their mystic abilities. Her feelings about the relic were mixed and confusing, just like her feelings for the master of the sanctum.

She followed both men out into the hallway and up the stairs, continuing past the first floor and into the second, where she suddenly understood the reason they had numerous display cases of all shapes and sizes in storage.

“Are all of these relics?” Amy asked, stunned.

“Relics, valuables, weapons, many things,” Wong said. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to tend to a few of them.” He walked off to the far side of the room, but Amy got the distinct impression that he was engaged in busywork, and that this was the end result of the long ‘discussion’ the two magic users had in the basement.

“I believe this is yours,” Stephen said, lifting a crystalline object off of a silver tray. He gestured with it, and the spell dissipated, revealing her locket.

“Oh, gosh, thank you!” she said, surging forward to take it. As she refastened it around her neck, she saw a flash image of Stephen standing closely behind her and helping with it. The shock of picturing that turned her fingers wooden, and her locket started to fall.

Stephen gestured, catching it in some unseen energy from a distance. Amy could feel the flush of embarrassment and not embarrassment flooding up from her neck, into her cheeks, and onto her ears. She stammered a thank you, clasping the locket as hurriedly as she could. The neckline of her blouse was too tight for her to slip it inside, and there was no power on the planet that would compel her to untie the bow, slide her locket in between her breasts, and tie it back up again. Not in front of this man.

“All right, well,” Amy said, trying to capture some of Stephen’s earlier professional, distant demeanor. “It seems that this interlude may be solved temporarily by my visiting the sanctum regularly, until you can find a way to decouple the relic from me?”

Stephen walked toward her, his head tipped to the side, eyes narrowed. “Decouple? No, I don’t know of any way to do that. Nor am I fully convinced where your loyalties lie. If you are a spy, it would be very convenient to have a standing invitation into the very depths of the sanctum.” He stopped a foot away and lifted his chin, looking down on her with every ounce of the arrogant confidence he’d worn the day before.

Amy willed herself not to find that attractive. Her preoccupation didn’t go unnoticed, but thankfully, he didn’t guess correctly as to its cause.

“What? No protestations of innocence? I suppose it doesn’t matter, now that you’ve bonded with the relic.”

There was a sharp banging sound from across the room. From Stephen’s expression, Amy guessed that Wong was objecting to his approach.

After a short sigh, she was asked, “Tell me, where do you want to be at the end of today?”

Amy searched his face, but Stephen’s expression didn’t hint at the kind of answer he was looking for. “I assume I’m meant to see the trick in your question, but I don’t. I wanted my locket back, and I have that. To the extent to which I’m able, I’d like to ensure Spike doesn’t mess up your sanctum. Beyond that… I’ll be honest with you, Stephen, my priority is my work. We’ve done a lot of good in the past three years, and the position I’ve stepped up into is important to me.”

Stephen didn’t suppress his reaction to her use of the name ‘Spike’ for the Tsasilli. “Affinity to the Mystic Arts is a gift. Imagine if you could spend just a half hour a week using it at work? A few minutes here, ten minutes there-- didn’t you say you facilitated donations? With some of the spells I could teach you, you could move hundreds of pounds with a single gesture.”

“Isn’t that unethical? Aren’t you trying to use my passion for my job to manipulate me into doing what you need me to do? You’d say anything to persuade me to do what you wanted, admit it!” Amy said, shocked. She left unspoken the question of why other practitioners of the Mystic Arts weren’t already using their skills in that way-- because for all she knew, they were. If she had the chance, she certainly wouldn’t do it in the open, where someone might see and misunderstand.

Stephen stalked toward her. “I’m trying not to find a reason to--”

A horrifically loud noise erupted from Wong’s side of the room.

“All right, all right!” Stephen called over. Zeroing back in on her, he said, “How about we start over. You still have the rest of the day off, correct?”

Warily, Amy nodded.

A slow, proud smile grew on Stephen’s face, and she was completely caught up in it. “Can I show you something? Some where, to be specific?”

In her peripheral vision, Amy saw Wong approaching. “Would I be safe from falling, suffocating, or being subjected to amorous possessed objects?”

“Yes,” Stephen said firmly, at the same time that Wong said, “No promises.”

She crossed her arms and glared at Stephen, who spread his hands out in a placating gesture.

“It’s a matter of perspective.”

“Tell me where,” she pushed.

“Kamar Taj,” Stephen said, another enigmatic smile touching his lips. “Visit the home of the Mystic Arts, and then you can make your decision about how to continue.”

Next Chapter...

[steele-soulmate]

Tattooed Wings, CHAPTER 562, Peter Steele & OFC, Soulmate AU

SUMMARY: Mary Claire Bradley meets her soulmate- literally- the famous Peter Steele of metal group Type O Negative. But will obstacles including trauma, stalkers, and toxic family members get in the way of their life?

WARNING: mentions of child rape (nothing graphic) PTSD, milk kink, soft smut, grinding, assault, fingering, hand jobs, blow jobs, 69, P in V sex, blood, noncon rape, violence, death, vandalism, graffiti, attempted kidnapping, break-ins, wild animal attacks, terrorist attack (sabotage) consensual impregnation, bareback, impregnation kink, creampies, terrorist attacks (shootings) hit and run pedestrian accident, precipitous labor, neonatal death, abandoned baby

WORDS: 1171

I giggled as I watched the kids running all over the parking lot behind the stadium, enjoying the trunk or treating event that had been set up the kids of the two football teams, the Kansas City Chiefs and the New York Giants. People- mostly women- kept coming up to Peter and I to ask about the four tiny babies bundled up to his burly chest as the happily napped in peace.

Quadruplets?

What are their names?

I should hope that your husband is helping out around the house!

A thirty year age difference? Oh honey!

And other such borderline nasty, undercutting questions and comments aimed towards me mostly. I felt small and insecure at the pretty words that tried to knock me down.

I came out of the powder room sometime later, drying my hands with a strip of paper.

“Hey.”

I turned my head and smiled at a man, who looked to be two or three years by senior. He had well defined arm muscles and a tanned complexion.

“You’re Mary Claire Bradley, aren’t you?” My hackles raised up when he used my dead last name, and I couldn’t help but eyeball him as I made my way over to my husband, who was talking rather animatedly with some of the men from the two football teams.

“Yes I am, and now if you would excuse me-” I tried to move away from him only to have him step in my way. “Peter.”

Peter was there almost at once, nudging me behind him as he leered at the suddenly cowering man.

“Whoa there now man- take it easy!” the unwanted man tried to placate my clearly irritate husband.

“Who the absolute fuck are you and why the fuck are you causing my wife distress?” he snarled, looking terrifying as he glared at the smaller man.

“Uncle Peter, POTTY MOUTH JAR!” Aria screamed just then as she led the group of Ratajczyk kids and her twin back over to us with treat bags full of candy.

“Sorry, malen'kiy avantyurist,” he chuckled, dropping the bad boy act for a breif moment. “Start up a tab for me and I’ll pay you once we arrive home again, okay?”

“Okay!” she chirped. “Auntie Mary Claire, little girl and Baby Tommy are almost sleepwalking now- can we go home now?”

“Yes sweetheart, let’s leave now,” Peter glowered, shifting the four babies on his chest.

“Daniel! We’re leaving now!” I yelled, summoning my older brother.

“Hey! How was it?” I didn’t want to break the boyish sparkle in his eyes.

“It was great!” I lied, Peter beeping his car open and waiting until the kids had situated themselves before buckling the babies into the car seats.

“Daniel, someone tried to flirt with my woman.” My heart started to speed up at the loud hammering of my heart.

THUD THUMP

THUD THUMP

THUD THUMP

“Jesus,” grumbled my big brother. “Say no more- I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks, Danny boy,” I hummed, wrapping my arms around my six foot five inch tall big brother. “You’re the bestest.”

“I can only try,” he chuckled, taking a step backwards as Peter finished fussing over the kids and closed the back door.

I opened the passenger door and hopped in, clicking my seat belt on and smiling my thanks as he shut the car door for me.

As Peter was pulling away, I saw him stalking back off towards everyone with a fearsome look of murder plastered across his face.

Peter hadn’t driven far when I nodded off into a half-asleep, half-awake state of mine, my neck cricked in an impossibly painful position as I breathed easily, wrapped up snug and warm in my heated blankie.

I was aware of Peter softly singing along to the country music playing from the radio, tapping his hands against the steering wheel as he bopped his head along to the twangy tune.

It seemed like minutes later he was carrying me up to our shared bedroom, saying goodnight to the kids as the straggled in with the babies in arm.

“I’m going to give you a birdbath and dress you for bed, yeah sweetheart?” he murmured, setting me down onto the bed and then dissapearing off into the bathroom, reemerging ten minutes later, having changed into his sleep clothes and carrying a damp washcloth in one hand and my neatly folded pajamas in his other hand.

I woke up a little bit when he had stripped me of my day’s outfit and was running the damped washcloth over my befreckled skin, expelling the day’s grit and dirt in between sweet whiskery kisses.

“I love you-” KISS “I love you-” KISS “I love you-” KISS “I love you-” KISS “I love you-” KISS “I love you-” KISS “I love you-” KISS “I love you-” KISS I smiled exhaustedly as how loving and doting my handsome older husband was towards me.

I love you, my love.

“I know- I just never grow tired of hearing you say that to me,” he preened.

Did you have fun today?

“I did,” he told me, swiping the washcloth over my furry hood. “It felt really nice, throwing the good ol’ pigskin around some.”

It was really nice of Daniel to invite the kids down onto the field.

“Yeah, it sure was, sweetheart.” He lifted my arm up to scrub lightly at my armpit. “It was even nicer of some of the cheerleaders to teach Katie that simple dance.”

Do you think Katie will want to be a cheerleader now?

“No idea sweetheart, no idea,” he chuckled, roling me over onto my front so that he could wash my back.

How’s the album coming along, my love?

Malen'kiy avantyurist, little adventurer, Russian

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