#(its been like that for at least three years!!)

[enwoso]

the grumpiest day | alessia russo x child!reader x leah williamson

-> based on this request

grumpy masterlist

it all started with a sock.

not even a missing one, not even a particularly dirty one. just a tiny, pink, glittery sock with a unicorn on it, abandoned halfway down the staircase.

and unfortunately for leah, it was the first thing she encountered at 7:36 a.m, barefoot and uncaffeinated.

she stepped on it. slid slightly. nearly died, in her humble opinion. "seriously?" she muttered, flicking it off her foot with the grace of a disgruntled cat. "y/n!"

from the living room, a small but unbothered voice replied, "it's mine! i was gonna pick it up, i swear!"

"really? cause it's lying in wait like a sock-shaped trap!"

there was a pause. then: "you're grumpy."

leah exhaled. "and you're messy." it having been a long two week break for the three of you. you being off school full of energy each day and the footballing season seeing alessia and leah with a few more days off. it had meant there had been a lot of bumping of heads, not even bad — more dramatic and unnecessary really.

upstairs, alessia spat toothpaste into the sink and froze mid-rinse. tilting her head like a dog who heard its favourite squeaky toy. trouble. it had begun. the grump-off and she hadn't even been able to have her morning coffee in peace before it began.

—

by 9:00 a.m, tensions had escalated to cold war levels.

you had refused leah's toast she'd made, 'it's crispy, not toast, it tastes like burnt air!' and then leah had outright banned cartoons 'i am not watchin' bluey again, i'd rather eat the glitter sock that nearly killed me this morning'

alessia, caught between the toddler hurricane and her grumbling girlfriend, tried her best to keep the peace with snacks, deep breathing, and that tight, diplomatic smile she wore during post-match interviews when she wanted to scream.

you sulked in your room with your crayons, scribbling something angrily while muttering, 'mama is not my best friend today.'

leah sulked in the living room, muttering back to waffles, "she's five. why am i arguing with a five-year-old? she's a tiny little dictator."

the only thing louder than the silence was the mutual stubbornness.

—

you both through your own stubbornness forgot about the visitor that was coming over, as ella showed up just after three. man united being down in london for an away game her suitcase in tow, wide smile plastered on her face.

"ello, elloooo!" she sang, letting herself in like she owned the place. "oi, i brought biscuits and northern charm, who wants to be blessed?"

she walked straight into the thickest atmosphere since the 2022 final. "why does it feel like i walked into a funeral?" she asked, pausing mid-kitchen stride as she saw alessia sat at the kitchen table nursing a coffee in her own peace

alessia rubbed her temple standing up to give the manchester girl a hug. "they've fell out."

ella blinked. "who? leah and tiny?" alessia hummed, nodding her head, "over a sock."

ella's mouth dropped open. then she laughed, full and unapologetic. "oh my god, no way. let me guess—leah took it personally and tiny declared war.”

"pretty much, yeah.”

"well least neither of them have over reacted! where are they both now?"

alessia gestured vaguely. "leah's sulking in the living room watching a rom-com. and lovie is drawing pictures of leah with devil horns in her room, i think."

"right well it's intervention time."

—

fifteen minutes later, they were all in the living room. alessia curled up with a mug of tea, while ella had flopped across the armchair with a handful of biscuits and in the middle of the couch sat the two grumps. both of you with shoulders hunched, eyes narrowed and both of you refusing to go first.

ella took charge, like a seasoned camp counselor. "right, you two. this mood is not what being a family is about!"

you sniffled, folding your arms across your chest, well tried to. "mama shouted at me." leah huffed as she let out a sigh of defeat, "ok, i raised my voice a little bit."

"she said my socks were a trap."

"they were! i nearly fell to my death!"

"so dramatic," you muttered, letting you back fall against the back of the couch as ella nearly choked on her biscuit from holding in laughter. alessia shot her a look and mouthed help me.

ella cleared her throat. "okay. leah you need to say sorry."

leah sighed and rubbed her face. "fine. little one, i'm sorry for snapping. i didn't mean to be scary and upset you."

you narrowed your eyes. "and?"

"...and your socks are cute. even if they are a little bit dangerous." you smiled triumphantly.

"and you?" ella asked, turning to the little face as your smile dropped a little bit.

"i'm sorry mama for leaving my sock on the stairs. and for saying you were a monster."

leah raised a brow. "you said that?"

"only to the waffles."

"wow."

alessia stepped in before another spiral happened. "you've both said sorry. now, can we maybe watch a film and just relax like a proper family?"

"I WANNA WATCH FROZEN!" you shouted, bouncing upright with the energy of someone who hadn't spent the entire day pouting.

leah groaned like someone had just asked her to run ten laps  of the football pitch with a hangover. "again? you've seen it like eighty times."

"it's the best movie ever. you'll like it if you just stop being boring."

"why is that always the solution?" leah asked no one in particular as she flopped onto the sofa, close to alessia as she sipped at her mug of tea.

you climbed up beside her, victorious, clutching the remote like a scepter. "cause' you need to let it go, mama."

ella burst out laughing. "okay, no, she wins. that's it. game over."

alessia settled beside leah, tucking her legs underneath her. "you could just sing along, just this once. for the memories."

leah's head fell into her hands as the opening credits started. "i think i would rather watch paint dry."

next to her, you were already swaying to the music, eyes sparkling, mouthing the words like you were in the west end.

ella leaned over to alessia, whispering through laughter, "i'm not saying i told you so, but i am watching the grumpiest defender in england get emotionally bullied into watching frozen by a five-year-old."

leah peeked through her fingers. "i heard that."

you gasped. "auntie ella, you have to be quiet! it's starting!" ella immediately put her hands in the air in defense not wanting to argue her point as alessia chuckled to herself.

"that's you told."

and just like that, as elsa belted her first note, peace (mostly) returned. ella passed alessia a biscuit. "well done, mum. crisis averted."

alessia just smiled, eyes on her little girl and her very reluctant girlfriend, who, by the second chorus, was... maybe humming. just a little as her head rested on alessia's chest.

ella smirked. "told you."

[scarsnfevers]

Fire & Storm

Chapter III of Wolfgang

summary: problems exist to be unraveled. But when a stranger stepped out of the shadows to offer their hand, you sensed—too late—that they carried with them a fire far greater than your own. And somehow, you found yourself drawn to it… willingly, almost hungrily.

genre: werewolf!stray kids x werewolf!reader x werewolf!changbin

chapter word count: 4,4k

chapter warnings: mature language

It had been three weeks since that morning by the lake.

Since the howl that had cut through the silence like a memory uninvited, since the scent in the air had told you something was coming, or perhaps already there. But you hadn’t gone back. Not once. You had turned away, just as you always had. It wasn’t what you wanted.

A pack. Wolves. Alphas and Betas and Omegas, all pressed too close together, their thoughts loud and their emotions louder. Too many scents in too little space. It reminded you of the city, of closed windows and crowded rooms, of breathing in everything that wasn’t yours until you forgot where you ended and others began. You had fled that life with both hands open, desperate to reclaim something that resembled solitude. Perhaps it was your past that made you wary. Or perhaps it was the taste of peace you’d found here in the woods—quiet, sacred, untouched. You didn’t want to give it up. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

You hadn’t thought about them much since then.

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

The sun was dipping low now, casting long shadows across the winding dirt road as your car rolled steadily toward Fox River. The engine hummed beneath you, steady and familiar, as the trees blurred past on either side. The small town sat nestled at the edge of the forest, about eight kilometers from your cabin. It was the only place nearby with anything resembling a store. You liked it well enough. It was quiet. Uncomplicated.

You parked just off the main street, near the old general store with the faded red awning and creaking wooden steps. The bell above the door chimed softly as you stepped inside, the scent of dust and old pine rising to greet you. Shelves lined with canned goods, dry staples, and the occasional local brand of honey or soap greeted your gaze. The woman behind the counter gave you a polite nod, one you returned with a faint smile.

You moved through the aisles with slow, practiced ease—grabbing coffee, oats, dried herbs, rice, and the few vegetables that looked halfway fresh. A carton of milk. A small bag of dog kibble, though you hadn’t had a dog in years. You kept it just in case. Some part of you liked the idea of being prepared. The town had its rhythm, and you moved to it like someone who’d lived here much longer than you had. No one asked questions. No one pried. That was part of the unspoken agreement.

But when you stepped back out into the cooling air, bags in hand, you found a familiar face waiting by the side of the general store.

John.

He offered you a warm, worn smile, the kind that creased the corners of his eyes. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his weathered jacket, his boots dusted with gravel. "Evenin'," he greeted. "Didn’t think I’d see you in town today." You smiled softly. "Running low on a few things. Figured it was time." He nodded, eyes scanning the bags in your hands. "Looks like you’re set for another quiet week, then." "Hopefully," you said.

There was a pause. Comfortable.

"Everything alright up at the cabin?" he asked, head tilting slightly. "Anything need fixing?" You hesitated, shifting the weight of the bags. "Nothing serious. Just… I think something’s off with the boiler. Hot water’s been a little temperamental. Comes and goes." John scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Could be the ignition valve. Or just some old pipes acting up. Want me to come take a look?" You shook your head. "It’s alright. It can wait until tomorrow afternoon. No need to trouble yourself tonight." He looked at you then. Not just looked—saw. A flicker passed across his features, something thoughtful. Knowing. Like he was reading lines between the words you hadn’t spoken.

He knew. Or thought he did. But he said nothing of it.

Just nodded once, slowly. "Alright. I’ll swing by around three tomorrow, then. See if we can’t get it sorted." You offered him a grateful smile. "Thanks, John." He tipped an imaginary hat and turned, his footsteps crunching softly against the gravel as he made his way down the street. You stood for a moment, watching him go. Then you turned back to your car, loaded the bags into the trunk, and climbed behind the wheel.

The drive back felt longer than it had on the way in, the dusk settling heavy around you. The forest was quiet again, its trees tall and ancient in the fading light. But something about the silence felt… deeper now. You didn’t dwell on it. Just kept driving. Back toward the cabin. Back toward solitude. Back toward the peace you had chosen.

For now.

You hadn’t been waiting for him. Not really.

The afternoon had moved slowly, the kind of drowsy quiet that settled into the bones of the forest and stretched its limbs across the floor of your cabin. A low breeze had picked up, slipping through the trees and brushing past the windows, whispering like it carried stories. The kettle had boiled and cooled again. The sun crept steadily across the floorboards, casting long, golden shadows through the kitchen. You’d almost forgotten about the boiler entirely—until the phone rang.

It was an old sound. Sharp and jarring in a house that had known only silence for days. You flinched before you even registered the name on the screen: John. With a breath, you picked up.

“Hey, sorry to bother you,” his voice came through, warm as ever but strained, almost sheepish. “I just—wanted to give you a quick heads up. I won’t be able to make it out today.” You glanced toward the window, toward the trees that swayed gently in the wind. “Oh?” you asked, shifting the phone to your other hand. “That’s okay. Everything alright?” There was a beat of hesitation on the other end. “Yeah. Mostly,” John said, with a rough huff of laughter. “Had a bit of a run-in with a bad landing this morning. Tripped coming down from a survey point near the southern ridge. Arm’s busted pretty good.” Your brows rose. “God, are you alright?” “I’ll live. Got it wrapped and iced. Gonna be in a sling for a while though.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, and you meant it. He was kind—the kind of man who still stopped to help when someone’s groceries spilled in a parking lot. “Is there anything I can do?” “No, no,” he answered quickly. “I just—well, I figured you might still need someone to take a look at that boiler. I can send one of my....son's.., if that’s alright. They’re good with that kind of thing.” You hesitated only a second, fingertips brushing the edge of the counter. “Sure,” you said. “That’s fine. I don’t mind waiting, though. It’s not urgent.” “No trouble,” he said. “One of them’s already out near Fox River. I’ll give him a call. Shouldn’t take him long to swing by.”

Something in his voice wavered again, almost like he was waiting for you to say more. But you didn’t. You only nodded to yourself and said, “Thanks, John. And take care of that arm.” “I will,” he said, and his voice softened. “And… thanks. Talk soon.”

You hung up and stared at your phone for a moment longer than necessary. There was nothing strange about it. People got hurt. People sent others in their place. Still, something sat just beneath the surface of that call—like the moment before a storm, when the air thickens and the leaves turn the wrong way. You felt it in your skin. But you pushed it down. There was no room for paranoia here. Just quiet. And maybe a boiler that hissed more than it should. You moved through the rest of the afternoon with quiet intent, letting the rhythm of small things carry you. A cup of tea. Folding the last of the laundry. You wiped down the counters even though they weren’t dirty. Lit a candle you’d almost forgotten you had, and let the scent of cedar and clove drift into the spaces between your thoughts. You didn’t expect whoever it was to show up early. Or late. Or at all, honestly.

But sometime past four, you caught the sound of tires crunching gravel—slow, deliberate. You paused.

The wind had stilled.

It wasn't the kind of silence that comforted. It wasn't peace. It was the kind of stillness that pressed against your skin like a second weight, heavy and unmoving. As if the forest itself had paused to watch what came next. The air had shifted. You felt it the moment your hand reached for the door handle and your breath snagged in your chest. Something ancient stirred beneath your ribs. A whisper of instinct, not loud enough to hear, but loud enough to feel.

You stepped outside.

The wooden boards of the porch groaned softly beneath your feet, the sound muffled by the thick silence hanging in the trees. The forest beyond your cabin stood utterly still, draped in shadow and bathed in the cool amber light of the lowering sun. The scent of pine hung in the air, earthy and grounding.

And then you saw him.

Leaning casually against the side of a dusty pickup truck, arms folded across his chest, a young man stood watching the cabin. Watching you. He wasn’t tall—not by usual standards—but there was something solid in the way he held himself. Compact strength. Sinewy confidence. His frame was broad, the shape of someone who worked with his hands, who moved often and moved well. But it wasn’t his posture that made you stop.

It was the scent that hit you first—familiar and foreign all at once. Smoke. Not like cigarette smoke or wildfires. No, this was different. Campfire and ash. A hint of birch bark curling in flame, mixed with something warmer… spiced cedar, maybe. And underneath it all, something unmistakably alive. Wolf. Alpha. Your breath caught, shallow in your lungs.

You hadn’t expected this.

You hadn’t expected him.

For weeks you’d avoided every path, every noise, every scent that hinted at pack. You’d come here to disappear—not just from the humans, but from them. Wolves. The structure, the hierarchy, the mess of scent and sound and expectation. You hadn’t come looking for a pack. And yet here he was.

His eyes met yours.

And the world, for just a fraction of a second, forgot to turn.

Your wolf stirred.

Not with aggression, not with fear—but with alertness. Awareness. Something raw and ancient, curling at the base of your spine. You didn’t shift. Didn’t move. But you felt it nonetheless—the way your body responded before your mind could catch up. The young man pushed off the truck and crossed the gravel path toward the porch. His movements were unhurried, fluid in a way that betrayed practice. Graceful. A predator at ease. When he reached the bottom step of the porch, he paused—just long enough for the silence to stretch again.

"Changbin," he said simply, voice deep and smooth, with the faintest rasp of gravel. "John sent me. Something about a boiler?" It took a beat too long for you to respond. The name pulled you back. Your lips parted, air returning to your lungs. "Right. Yes. The boiler," you echoed, before stepping aside and gesturing toward the door. "Come in...By the way, I'm Y/N." He nodded and ascended the steps. You watched him carefully—not because you feared him, but because you didn’t understand him. He moved past you with a nod of thanks, the scent of ash and wolf lingering in the air between you.

Inside, the warmth of the cabin wrapped around your skin like a thick blanket. You’d lit the fire earlier, though the flames had dulled to glowing coals. The young man scanned the room briefly, taking in the details. Not in a nosy way—more like a soldier assessing terrain. You noticed it because you did the same.

You led him to the narrow hallway that wound toward the cellar door. Still, that silence lingered between you. But it wasn’t awkward. It was… charged. As if words would only shatter something too delicate to touch just yet. He took the stairs down into the basement first, and you followed, arms folded, pulse loud in your ears. The cool air of the cellar greeted you like a damp exhale. Shadows clung to the corners, and the single overhead light cast golden pools against the concrete. Changbin crouched beside the boiler, inspecting the pipes and wires with practiced ease. You stayed a few paces behind, unsure whether to speak or let the moment stretch longer.

"So," he said, voice calm as he worked, not looking back, "what brings you out here?" You blinked, caught off guard by the normalcy of the question. "I needed quiet," you said after a moment. "The city got too loud. Too many.... 'people'."

He hummed, like he understood. "It’s quiet out here," he agreed. "But not empty."

You tilted your head slightly. "No. Not empty."

Silence again.

You watched the way his shoulders moved beneath his jacket as he worked. The way his fingers traced the old wiring, firm and sure. The scent of his wolf still hovered in the air, softer now, but no less distinct. It clung to your awareness like static. He glanced back over his shoulder. "Is it just you out here?" You nodded. "Just me." Something flickered in his eyes—curiosity, maybe. A quiet kind of respect. "Takes guts," he murmured. "Being alone with the woods." You offered a faint smile. "I’m used to being alone." He didn’t press. Just nodded once and turned back to the boiler.

The minutes ticked by with the soft clink of metal, the low hiss of a valve turning. You leaned against the wooden beam, fingers tracing the grain absentmindedly. Finally, Changbin stood, wiping his hands on a cloth from his back pocket. He turned to face you, features unreadable for a breath.

"It’s not a quick fix," he said. "Your boiler’s old. Could patch it, but it’ll just break again. Best to replace it." You nodded, already expecting that answer. "That’s fine. I can manage with cold water for now." A faint smirk ghosted across his lips. "High body temp has its perks." You lifted an eyebrow, matching his tone. "So you did know." The man tilted his head, amused. "I could smell it on you from the driveway." You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head lightly. "John never mentioned… that he had wolves working for him." "He doesn’t," Changbin replied. "Not usually. I’m… family." You looked at him more closely now. The dark hair, the sharp eyes, the quiet confidence.

"His son?" A nod. "Unofficially. He took me in when I was young." You absorbed that in silence. Somehow, it made sense. The steadiness. The scent. The eyes that held things too old for his age.

The steps back up from the basement were quieter than before. No words passed between you as you ascended, only the soft creak of the wooden stairs beneath your feet and the faint hum of your thoughts. The tension lingered in the air like static, fragile and unsaid.

At the threshold, Changbin paused. One hand already on the doorframe, his figure half turned toward you, framed by the fading light of the evening. His eyes met yours — steady, calm, but something in them held weight, like he, too, had felt the pull that stirred beneath the surface. “I’ll come by again tomorrow,” he said, his voice low, almost reluctant to break the quiet. “Late afternoon.” You gave a small nod. “Alright.”

There was a heartbeat of stillness. Then, with a last glance, he stepped outside. “Take care,” he murmured.

“Yeah. You too,” you answered, maybe a little too fast — and the moment the screen door clicked shut behind him, you let your breath slip out, sharp and quiet. Your fingers lingered on the doorknob as you stared out into the evening, watching the outline of his truck vanish between the trees. Then, without letting yourself dwell, you closed the door — perhaps a bit too quickly.

Your wolf was pacing beneath your skin.

Overstimulated. Overaware. Overwhelmed.

And for the first time in a long time… not entirely alone.

The truck rumbled down the narrow, winding road, its tires humming against gravel and fallen needles. The forest stretched out around him, silent and shadowed, the last traces of twilight caught between the high branches like secrets left unspoken.

Changbin’s hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary.

Only when the cabin disappeared behind the trees did he exhale — a long, slow breath that deflated his chest and loosened something behind his ribs. The quiet he’d worn like armor in her presence crumbled at the edges, the controlled composure slipping free now that he was alone in the hush of the truck’s cab.

And still, her scent lingered.

Wildflowers. A storm — soft, but gathering — somewhere in the heart of summer. And lilac.

Not the sharp kind that clung too sweetly to the air, but one that was worn into the skin, like memory. Like a name never said aloud. It filled his lungs even now, even as the night pressed in around him, and it was maddening in a way he hadn’t expected. Maddening because it was unmistakable. Not just wolf. Not just stranger. But her.

He ran one hand through his hair, raking it back from his forehead, knuckles grazing the edge of his jaw. It had been hard. Hard to stand there in that house, beneath the low ceilings and the hush of the trees curling close to the walls, and pretend not to feel the way the air had shifted the moment she’d opened the door. To pretend he didn’t feel the answering pull — old as instinct, sharp as hunger — low in his chest. He could still see her eyes, the quiet caution in them, the silence stretched too tight between every word she’d spoken. But also something else.

That flicker.

Recognition.

He understood why she had come here. To disappear. To breathe without the pressure of too many minds crowding her own. He didn’t know what had driven her into these woods — not yet — but he knew that look in her eyes. The kind of quiet you only found after something inside you had burned down to embers.

And still…She’d looked at him. Really looked. And his wolf had gone so still inside him he thought for a moment it had stopped breathing.

The road leveled out ahead, and he turned onto the wider stretch that led back toward the forest station. The windows were down, the crisp night air tugging at his shirt, and somewhere in the distance, a hawk called — high and lonesome. He didn’t know what the hell he was going to tell John. He didn’t even know what he’d say to her tomorrow. But the part of him that was wolf — the part that had barely stirred for months — was awake now. Watching. Waiting. And wanting.

His jaw clenched. He shifted gears. The truck picked up speed.

By the time the familiar outline of the cabin came into view, warm lights glowing behind curtains and the low sound of laughter echoing from inside, Changbin felt like he’d aged a year on the drive back. He pulled into the gravel lot, the headlights sweeping across the porch where someone had left boots by the steps. The engine groaned to a stop.

He sat there for a moment, unmoving. Letting the weight of the woods settle over him. Letting her scent — finally — fade into memory. Then he opened the door and stepped out into the night.

The scent of rosemary and charred onions greeted Changbin as soon as he stepped inside. The air was warm, thick with the promise of food and the kind of domestic noise that came from too many bodies moving in practiced rhythm.

From the kitchen, Maria’s voice floated in soft Spanish, quick and affectionate as she instructed Felix on how to slice something thinly, not murder it, as she put it. Hyunjin laughed under his breath. Jeongin muttered a protest, clearly the one who’d earned the reprimand. The floor creaked beneath Changbin’s boots, but no one turned — not until he passed the archway into the living room.

John looked up first, shifting carefully in the armchair where his injured arm rested in a black sling. The television was on, some wildlife documentary playing on mute, but the soundless narration couldn’t hold their attention now. Chan sat cross-legged on the couch, a hand loosely cradling a mug of coffee he hadn’t touched. Jisung was slouched beside him, a throw blanket bunched at his hip, his head turning as if drawn by static in the air. Not one of them said a word. But they could smell it.

Her.

The sharp, instinctive awareness of another wolf. Female. Powerful. Present.

John blinked, unaware of the subtle shift in the room, and smiled faintly as he gestured Changbin over. “You made it back fast.” Changbin nodded once and stepped farther inside, ignoring the way Jisung’s eyes practically glowed with unspoken questions. “She still having issues with the boiler?” John asked, flexing his good hand around a mug that had long gone cold. Changbin met Chan’s gaze briefly — quick, silent — before answering. “It’s shot. She’ll need a full replacement.” “Damn.” John leaned back with a quiet exhale. “You think you can take care of it?” “Yeah.” Changbin’s voice was steady, low. “I’ll head over again tomorrow. Late afternoon.”

A soft “oye, te escuché” came from the kitchen as Mary called for her husband. John sighed with a chuckle, then slowly pushed himself to standing. “Duty calls.” As he passed through the doorway, the room shifted.

The moment he was out of earshot, Jisung sat forward, tension crackling like static between his shoulders. “Okay,” he said, eyes wide, voice hushed but sharp. “You were in her cabin?”

Changbin didn’t answer.

“What was it like?” Jisung pressed on, leaning in. “Did she— I mean, what did she smell like?” His grin was sharp, teasing. “Wait—don't lie—was it like, ‘oh no, we might’ve just—’” “Jisung,” Chan said quietly.

The tone was enough.

Jisung stopped mid-word, mouth still open, eyes snapping to Chan like a scolded pup. Chan didn’t look angry — not exactly. Just steady. Grounded. A silent, firm enough. Changbin smirked despite himself, gaze dropping to the floor for half a second. The echo of her still lingered in his chest. That scent, the silence between them, the way the air had shifted the second their eyes had met. He didn’t answer Jisung’s question.

He didn’t need to.

Footsteps behind him stirred the air. Soft, nearly weightless, like a breeze catching leaves. Minho entered the room without a word, his presence so quiet it was almost ghostlike. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely over his chest, eyes shadowed and unreadable. “I might need help tomorrow,” Changbin said without turning around. His voice was steady, but it carried the edge of something that hadn’t been there earlier.

Chan looked up from where he sat, a hand draped casually over the armrest of the old couch. His expression was calm, but his eyes missed nothing. He nodded once, slow. “Alright.” “I’ll come,” Jisung volunteered instantly, almost too quickly. There was eagerness in his tone, but also curiosity, hunger—for answers, for involvement. “I can handle it.” Chan turned his gaze toward Jisung, his demeanor cooling. “No, you can’t.”

“What?” Jisung looked between them, his tone halfway between a protest and a plea. “I’m not a pup anymore.” “You’re not,” Chan agreed evenly. “But you’re still too green as an Alpha. You don’t walk into something like this unless you know how to hold your center.” Jisung bristled but didn’t argue. He knew better than to push when Chan used that voice—the one that quieted rooms. Chan’s eyes moved past Changbin then, landing on the silent figure in the doorway. The weight of his gaze shifted the energy in the room. Changbin turned his head slightly, glancing over his shoulder.

Minho was watching them, or perhaps just watching him. The older wolf gave no outward sign of emotion, but the air around him was heavy, still. His arms remained crossed, body unmoving, but his eyes met Changbin’s with that unspoken understanding only those like them shared. A moment passed, stretched out like a taut wire. Then Minho gave a single, slow nod.

Jisung groaned aloud. “Seriously? You always get to go.” “Because he doesn’t talk shit in front of other wolfs,” Changbin said without missing a beat. Jisung opened his mouth to protest, but Chan’s gaze flicked to him, sharp and warning. The younger wolf clamped his mouth shut and sank back into his seat with a grumble. Changbin let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly in amusement. But it didn’t reach his eyes. Not fully. The scent was still there. Lingering. Threaded into the fibers of his jacket, his skin, his memory.

“Tomorrow afternoon?” Minho asked, his voice low and quiet. Changbin nodded. “Yeah.” “Good,” The other wolf murmured. His tone was less about the boiler and more about the unspoken truths hanging between them all. The fire snapped in the hearth, loud in the pause that followed. They didn’t need words. Not really.

The scent on Changbin was loud enough.

masterlist | prologue | chapter I | chapter II

🐺 taglist; @shoganaiiii, @h0rnyp0t, @maddy24207, @ihrtlix, @alisonyus, @poody1608, @asweetblueberry2, @thatgirlangelb, @rougegenshin, @vampkittenb82, @braveangel777, @dark-moon-light02, @softchannie, @miniverse-zen

[bestanimal]

Round 3 - Reptilia - Eurypygiformes

(Sources - 1, 2)

Our next group is the unique order, Eurypygiformes, which is composed of two living species within two families: Rhynochetidae (“Kagu”) and Eurypygidae (“Sunbittern”).

The Kagu (Rhynochetos jubatus) (image 1 and gif below) is a crested, long-legged, bluish-grey bird endemic to the dense mountain forests of New Caledonia, restricted to the main island of Grande Terre. Its beak has “nasal corns”, structures covering its nostrils, a unique feature not shared with any other bird. It is nearly flightless, and spends all its time on or near the ground. Its bright red legs are long and strong, enabling the bird to travel long distances on foot and run quickly. Its crest is used to display to other Kagu, and is barely noticeable when at rest. Its wings are also used for display. The Kagu is exclusively carnivorous, feeding on a variety of animals, with annelid worms, snails, and lizards being favorites. Their hunting technique is to stand motionless on the ground or from an elevated perch, and silently watch for moving prey.

Kagu are territorial, maintaining year-round territories of around 10–28 hectares (25–69 acres). They have a clan-based social organization, with families composed of one breeding female and one to three breeding males. Kagu are monogamous breeders, generally forming long-term pair bonds that are maintained for many years. Within the territory the pairs are solitary during the non-breeding season, and may have separate but overlapping foraging areas. A single nesting attempt is made each year, where a simple nest is constructed, which is little more than a heaped pile of leaves. A single, grey, slightly blotched egg is laid. Each parent will incubate the egg for 24 hours, with the changeover occurring around noon each day. After hatching, the offspring may remain in their parents' territory for many years after fledging, sometimes up to six years. Male offspring will help defend the territory of their parents.

The Sunbittern (Eurypyga helias) (image 2) is a wading bird of tropical regions of the Americas, convergent with herons. It has generally subdued coloration, but bright red eyespots on its spread-out wings. These are shown to other sunbitterns in courtship and threat displays, or used to startle potential predators. They have a long, sharp beak which is used to catch a variety of prey, with cockroaches, dragonfly larvae, flies, katydids, water beetles, and moths being favorites. They will also take vertebrate prey like tadpoles, fish, and lizards.

Sunbitterns are generally solitary or found in pairs, especially during the breeding season. During the breeding season they will make flight displays high in the forest canopy. Monogamous pairs form which will stay together for many years. They build an open nest in a tree, and lay two eggs with blotched markings. Both parents incubate the eggs, and the young remain in the nest for several weeks after hatching. Both the Kagu and the Sunbittern have a “broken-wing” display, used to fake an injury and draw the attention of a predator away from their young.

The Eurypygiformes evolved in the Early Eocene.

(source)

Propaganda under the cut:

The social organisation of Kagu has been disrupted in recent years due to attacks by Domestic Dogs. Cases where either a breeding male or female have been killed have led to non-fraternal polyandrous behaviour. Cooperative and unrelated polyandry is rare in birds.

Kagu have only one-third as many red blood cells and three times more hemoglobin per red blood cell than is usual in birds.

Kagu have been observed adopting unrelated chicks.

The Kagu had an important role in the traditional lives of the Kanak tribes of New Caledonia. Among the tribes found in the vicinity of Hienghène in the north of Grande Terre, its name was given to people, its crest was used in the head-dresses of chiefs, and its calls were incorporated into war dances and considered messages to be interpreted by the chiefs. Kanaks in the vicinity of Houaïlou referred to the species as the "ghost of the forest."

The Kagu is endangered, with between 600 and 2,000 remaining. When Europeans first colonized New Caledonia, they considered the Kagu a delicacy, and it was also fashionable in the pet trade. Domestic Cats, Pigs, and Dogs were introduced to the island, further threatening the birds. Rats, also introduced by humans, have a big impact on nestlings, accounting for 55% of nestling losses. Today, the Kagu is the subject of dedicated conservation efforts, and it responds well to breeding in captivity.

Sunbitterns are one of 12 species of birds that have been observed using baits or lures to attract fish to within striking distance. This is a type of tool use and generally seen as an example of high intelligence.

[restlessmaknae]

risk it all // jo

As a werewolf hunter, you knew better than to fall in love with a werewolf, but the last person you expected to be one was your boyfriend, Jo.

➳ Characters: werewolf!Jo x werewolf hunter!female reader/you

➳ Genre: urban fantasy, established relationship, angst with a hopeful ending

➳ Words: 4.5k

➳ Warning: mentions of weapons, wolfsbane, werewolf attack, reader kills a werewolf, bruises, pain, losing parents, period, kissing

➳ A/N: I love &TEAM so much that I wrote my first werewolf story for them (who's surprised though?)!! Also, I loved watching Teen Wolf when I was younger, so most of the lore in this story is based on the show, the rest is made up by me. Everything is explained though, so you can read it even if you have not been crushing on Stiles Stilinski back in the days...

The woods were dense, illuminated only by the moonlight above, painting a path under your feet, taking you further into the trees.

The familiar weight of the silver knives attached to your hips and your ankles made you feel reassured as you held onto your longbow, the tip of the arrow containing just enough wolfsbane to immobilise a werewolf. Your steps were confident yet calculated as you knew the woods like the back of your hand, and even the tiniest noise could not slip your attention.

You heard rustling from behind the nearby trees, and you turned slowly, waiting for more movement, but only the leaves were gently falling to the ground. You didn’t let your guard down though. There had been more and more inexplicable incidents in these woods lately, and though the media thought that the reason was some strange wild animal activity, you knew better than that. The werewolves came out more and more often, and not just during full moon, which meant that you had to fight back even harder.

You were extra cautious though. Before, it was enough if you and one more hunter searched the woods at night, but you doubled and sometimes tripled that number these days. There were other areas to search, and there were other hunter families in the city, so you discussed your plans beforehand to maximise efficiency.

As you turned back, you let your eyes get used to your surroundings once again, taking in every inch, every detail. You had been doing this for so many years now, it felt like second nature to be so hyper-aware of everything.

So when you heard the faint snap of a branch, you immediately turned towards the source, a pair of yellow eyes looking back at you. You couldn’t exactly see the silhouette of the animal, but you knew where to aim the arrow to hit it on spot.

You didn’t even waste time, you pulled the string immediately and aimed, the werewolf jumping out from behind a row of bushes as you sent it flying. However, you knew you had miscalculated the moment it hit the werewolf only in its left paw, not its heart. It was a lot bigger and stronger than you had expected. It wasn’t even just an ordinary werewolf.

It was an Alpha.

“Damnit,” you cursed under your nose as you reached back to the quiver attached to your back to pull out another arrow. Your best chance was to shoot it with at least three to four arrows or your most deadly silver knife containing the highest dose of wolfsbane you had on you to weaken it because Alphas were a lot more difficult to defeat, and it took a bigger dose of wolfsbane to immobilize them.

It attacked in a blink of an eye too, and as you tried to run backwards while aiming, you stumbled in the root of a tree and missed the shot. Your heart was in your throat, your legs burning as you sprinted forward, your hand already reaching for the knife by your thigh. You just took a hold of it when the force from behind pushed you to the ground, squeezing the air out of your lungs. You could feel that your ankle got hit the most, and it felt like thorns tearing through your pants, your skin burning.

Your fingers held onto the cold weapon in your hand even tighter while you gathered enough force to turn onto your back. Before you could swing the knife at the werewolf who was now coming at you with full force, the Alpha was tossed to the side by another one, his silhouette illuminated by the moonlight shining through the trees.

You were so shocked by the sudden appearance of the other werewolf that you didn’t even register that their attention wasn’t on you, so you could escape. That was a mistake because when the Alpha threw the other werewolf onto the ground a few seconds later, it immediately turned back to you. Though your ankle was on fire, you pushed yourself up to standing, but you didn’t manage to get out of the monster’s way in time, so you swung the knife into its chest just as it came at you.

Which meant that its lifeless body ended up falling over you, pinning your legs to the ground.

The sheer force of the Alpha and the pain burning through your body was too much, and though it faintly felt like the weight was lifted off you quite literally, the last thing you saw was a familiar pair of chocolate-brown eyes before darkness overcame you.

You woke to the sound of the kettle whistling, and you needed a few seconds to realise why it was odd.

As soon as you opened your eyes and moved your limbs, the pain came on full force, especially the tingling sensation in your legs. You seethed as you pushed yourself up, only to feel a sharp pain in your back. You fell back to the couch, wincing from the pain.

You heard shuffling sounds from the kitchen, and as your eyes adjusted to the dimly lit living room and the couch you were lying on, the familiarity of the place eased your tensed muscles. Until it didn’t.

“Jo?” You called out, your voice coming out hoarse. You knew that this couldn’t be a dream, the pain was too real for that, but this eerily felt like a nightmare when your boyfriend walked out of the kitchen with a steaming mug in his hands because something in you told you that this wasn’t right.

“I’m here,” he announced with his trademark coy smile, something that made your toes curl under different circumstances. “I’ve made you some camomile tea,” he explained gently as if you had just been crushing over at his place when you were on your period. Your favourite kind of tea, of course.

Everything was so normal, so mundane, the questions got stuck in your throat watching him put the mug on the table in front of the couch and crouching down beside your lying form, eyes wide in concern.

“How are you feeling?” He questioned softly, quietly, but you just blinked at him, confused and scattered until you looked into those deep chocolate-brown eyes. Then, the realisation hit you with full force, and immobilised you as if you had been the one hit with wolfsbane. “I’ve taken care of your leg. They seemed to be thorns from a rose bud. But I didn’t want to examine the rest of your bruises until you woke up,” he explained hurriedly, a tint of pink colouring his cheek at the mention of your other bruises. Judged by the pain, you must have been covered in purple spots from your waist up.

This wasn’t what caught your attention though.

“How did you treat it? You don’t even need a first-aid kit for your bruises.”

“I got the kit after you first came over,” he justified, and something must have reflected in your eyes over his unsaid confession because he immediately looked down, avoiding your eyes.

Werewolves didn’t need first-aid kits. They had accelerated healing abilities, and their cuts and wounds closed and healed within a matter of minutes, hours at max. That’s why you needed wolfsbane, to slow down their healing, so that they couldn’t attack innocent people and animals whilst in their werewolf form. A higher dose of wolfsbane even forced them to turn back to their human form, and the highest… well, it was fatal.

You considered yourself to be a good enough hunter. One that would see the signs, spot the unusual patterns, the supernatural strength or the heightened senses, and one that wouldn’t need saving when out on her werewolf search. It wasn’t enough that Jo was a werewolf, and you had never even considered the possibility of him being one, but he had even saved you back there, something that hurt your pride. Werewolves weren’t supposed to be saving humans, let alone werewolf hunters. They were evil and monstrous, and unwilling to learn how to control themselves. People like your parents paid the price.

“Why did you save me?” You asked without hesitation, and the boy looked up at your question, almost hurt.

“How could I not save you?”

His voice was gentle as always, his features soft as always, his dark eyes shining fondly as always. You had seen him out there in the woods though, and it was the furthest sight from always, and that hurt you the most - that though the person in front of you was so familiar, he seemed so unfamiliar at the very same time.

“You are a werewolf, Jo!” You voiced out, your voice slightly pitched. “And I’m… I’m a werewolf hunter. I despise your kind, I hunt your kind, and I would show no mercy to your kind.”

“I know… but I could see that it was you. I learned how to control my animal side and still keep my humanity,” he explained matter-of-factly, but you both knew how rare it was.

That was the thing though; werewolves could attack even their loved ones if they turned because their werewolf self didn’t remember whom they knew or what those people meant to them. They were animals after all. It supposedly took enormous mental will-power and practice to keep the two in balance even when they transformed, and most of them lacked that control.

However, you had seen with your own two eyes how Jo had gone against that Alpha, and he had done that to save you. There was no use going against his words. On the other hand, he could have also seen how you had swung your knife into the other werewolf’s body, so he could have had every reason to hurt you afterwards or to leave you there.

Yet, he didn’t.

“What were you doing in the woods either way?” You asked him instead of letting the pain of the realisation that he was a werewolf register.

“I was roaming the woods for other werewolves. Me and my pack, we don’t want aggressive ones around here. It’s because of them that there are more incidents and that there are more… werewolf hunters,” he added the last bit belatedly, and you could feel his eyes on you even though you had to look away.

It was all just too much to take in. Not only the events out in the woods but what he was saying. So he could not only control himself but he was also chasing down other werewolves to prevent innocent lives being taken away? Could you really believe that there were werewolves out there who were trying to protect humans? After what happened to your parents, you found it so hard to believe it. Even if Jo had just saved you. Yet, even if you believed him, you found it hard to believe others, that there were others like him.

So despite the burning in your leg and the aching in your upper body, you pushed yourself up from the couch. It didn’t slip your attention that Jo held out his hand to help you, but didn’t dare touch you.

“I need to go.”

“But your leg…” Jo protested as your feet touched the floor and you started limping towards the front door.

“It’s fine.”

“At least, let me give you a ride,” he insisted as he came up behind you with your bag in his hands that you had totally forgotten about.

He must have picked it up when he had saved you and had seen your car parked outside the woods. You had been together for two years, so you had already let him drive your car and vica versa, but you would have never thought that he would use it under such circumstances.

“Jo…” You started, your voice coming out shaky. You found him already staring at you when you turned towards him and looked into his eyes. Your whole body was shaking from the pain, but your heart was in the most pain still. “Right now, I don’t want anything from you. It’s all too much. It’s all too unbelievable, and after how I lost my parents to werewolves, I’m not sure I can trust myself with one.”

Jo opened his mouth to say something, but he closed it without an answer. It took everything in you to not break down in front of him, to not sob in his arms like you did a few times, and to not let him hug you, shielding you from the outside world. You were just as much battling him as yourself, and he would have made it easier if he had not held on.

“I’m sorry,” he said in the end, sincerity oozing off him. You couldn’t tell whether it was because of what you told him about your parents, or because of the whole situation, but you didn’t care. Either way, you had the same answer.

“Yeah, me too,” you retorted, and after grabbing your bag from him and putting on your boots, you slammed the door behind you.

Only then did you allow the first sob to surface.

Jo was your first love.

You closed off your heart after you lost your parents, not long after your 18th birthday. In the beginning, you couldn’t join them for werewolf hunting because they said that you were too young, and they didn’t want you to get hurt. However, when you turned 16, they slowly began to train you, and they let you accompany them a few times if you continued focusing on your studies.

That day, it was a full moon, and you were out with your best friend because she started getting suspicious that you didn’t want to hang out as frequently as before, so you agreed to watch a movie with her. When you came back home at night, your parents still didn’t arrive. You went to take a shower, got changed, and got ready to bed. They had never stayed out too late, and they had usually not gotten seriously hurt, so you had tried your best to fall asleep.

However, you had this gut feeling that something was wrong, and called both of their phones in hopes that they were already in the car, merely forgetting to message you that they were on their way back home. They didn’t pick up.

The next time someone picked up the call, it was a police officer, and he told you that their bodies were found in the woods, supposedly attacked by a wild animal.

You were a wreck, and you spent the whole year trying to pick yourself up. You weren’t sure that you would ever be okay, that you would ever be anything but that shell of a person without a goal, without a future, without a safety net to fall back onto. You pushed everyone away - your best friend, the teachers, the neighbours -, you didn’t need their pity. That only resulted in one thing: that you were so very lonely, so very alone in the end.

Since you were an adult, you didn’t need a guardian, and your parents’ heritance covered your living costs, but you didn’t even dare to dream about going to university upon graduation. That’s how you ended up as a cashier at an arts shop that the nearby art college’s students frequented - one of them being Jo himself.

It started out small though, just helping him find the right coloured paints for one of his projects, but the more he dropped by, the closer you got. He was shy, you could tell, but you were wary of strangers and you didn’t really believe that anyone could love you or for that matter, that you could love anyone after the loss.

You spent the first year of his college years briefly interacting, but when the second year rolled by, he was braver. Still subtle, still gentle about it, but he lingered longer, he asked you about the placement of products he already knew, and he asked you more personal questions when it was just the two of you in the shop.

Now looking back, you realised that his hesitance must have come from a different place, not just his shyness. He was probably weighing the risk of getting close to a human, and though he was the one who constantly took a step closer to you, you were the one who took the final step. On that rainy night after graduation when he told you that his parents didn’t come to his graduation ceremony because he didn’t know them, he grew up in an orphanage, seeing that hurt and longing in his eyes, you asked him to wait for the end of your shift because you wanted to talk to him.

You didn’t know whether he would stay here after graduation or whether he wanted to stay in touch with you, but you told him that you wanted him to. Then, you kissed him.

You knew that by loving him, you were willing to risk that you would lose him one day, but you waited enough time to be sure of your feelings and to open up your heart again.

Ever since then, he was your anchor, and the only person you let get close to you. He knew you better than anyone, and though you hid it from him that you were a werewolf hunter because you didn’t want to get him in trouble, he knew everything else.

Turns out you weren’t the only one keeping a secret.

For that reason, you knew that it wasn’t fair that you held a grudge against him. You did keep it a secret that you were hunting his kind just as well as he hid the fact that he was a werewolf. He had saved you, going against an Alpha to do so, proving you that he had been in control of his emotions. If not that, the colour of his eyes - his human eyes - was another proof. Werewolves’ eyes were usually yellow, but when they were in control of their human side after turning, their real eye colour could also appear. His did, very clearly so.

Not to mention that if he had truly wanted to hurt you, he could have had multiple chances before. Not just during the three years he frequented the shop you worked at, but during the two years you spent together as a couple since then.

Still, you needed time to digest what had happened. You needed time to see things how they were without your emotions clouding your judgement. You needed time to trust him again, and he gave you just that. He didn’t reach out just as you had asked him not to, and you didn’t search for him either.

Two weeks later, on a rainy day, your memories of the day of his graduation (your first kiss) came back, and you found yourself going to his flat. You didn’t know whether he was at home or not, but you still knocked on his door, your heart in your throat. He still opened the door like he always did, but instead of a relaxed expression and a following coy smile, you were met with concerned eyes and a tensed jaw.

“Y/N…”

The way your name rolled off his tongue was uncertain at best, but you couldn’t blame him. After what you had said to him and how you had left him, you weren’t surprised that he had his doubts as to why you would come to him.

“I’m sorry, I know it might be sudden, but I’ve been thinking a lot. Can we talk now?” You poured the words onto him in one go, but he answered without hesitation.

“Yes, sure. Come in!” He beckoned and opened the door wider, stepping sideways, so you could walk into his flat.

You had walked into his place multiple times before, but your heart had never been as heavy as now. Your body was yearning to get close to him, to touch him, to listen to his heartbeat while he was listening to yours, but your heart was not ready to give in.

Instead, you took a seat on the worn-out couch, every single limb tense, your legs ready to bolt any time. Deep down, you knew that you should not fear him; if he had really wanted to, he could have hurt you many times before, including the last time in the woods. By saving you, he had even risked his identity to be exposed, but it seemed that you were more important to him than the secret he had been keeping.

Jo sat down beside you on the couch, but he didn’t sit as close as he usually did. It pained you as much as it reassured you. He gave you space and time to pull yourself together as always.

“So…” You cleared your throat after an awkward minute or so. “I haven’t been totally honest with you, and I’m sorry about that. I guess the reason for that was the same reason you didn’t tell me that you were a werewolf,” you mused out loud, your hands getting sweaty in your lap. You watched your fingers fiddle with the material of your hoodie, absent-mindedly or obsessively, you couldn’t tell.

You heard Jo take a deep breath beside you, probably preparing himself for the rest of your monologue, and that just made things even harder. He should have been angry with you, absolutely furious, frustrated, but he was just sitting there in all his calm and concerned state, waiting for you to say what was on your mind. As he always did.

You averted your eyes from your fingers to his face, and though you were itching to cup his cheeks, you held yourself back. It didn’t mean that your heart didn’t do a little somersault when you saw a speck of hope flicking in his eyes.

“However, you mean so much to me, and you saved me and proved to me last time that you can control your animal side, so I want to give us another chance. But I also want us to be transparent with each other before we do that,” you told him straight-forwardly, your heart in your throat as you were waiting for his reaction.

His shoulders visibly slumped at ease, and he unclenched his jaw. The way he looked at you was so earnest, so sincere, he looked at you like he could get the stars from the sky for you. It was this kind of pure, unconditional love that made you go back to him, and when he continued, you knew that you made the right choice.

“I would also like to start over with you. I will be honest with you and tell you what you want to know. Ask away,” he offered immediately, and you told him that he could also ask you what he wanted to know. It was only natural that it went both ways.

You asked him first: about his parents and what happened to them. He told you that he was a pure-breed, meaning that both of his parents had probably been werewolves because he had never been bitten, but he had started showing signs of lycanthropy right around puberty. That’s when he had first started running away from the orphanage he had grown up in. He had been so confused and so scared as to why this had been happening to him, and he had often gone out into the woods unknowingly.

That’s how Yudai had found him, and had taken him into his own pack. He had seen himself in the young boy, and had started teaching him about his abilities and his expected werewolf growth during puberty. In a way, Jo felt like Yudai and his pack had raised him as they had been the only ones he could have leaned on. They had also been the ones who had encouraged him to apply for college because they had seen his artwork, and thought that he was talented. So they had helped him find options for scholarships for underprivileged kids like him, and with the money he made from working part-time during his high school years, he had managed to secure a spot at the arts college you had worked nearby.

You could feel that it was difficult for him to speak about his past, and you couldn’t blame him. It was just as difficult for you to tell him about your parents, how they had taught you to hunt werewolves and spot unusual lycanthropy signs in people, and how you had lost them. Somewhere along the way, he reached out to hold your hand, and you let him.

You had never talked about your parents to anyone to such an extent, and you reckoned that he had never told anyone about his past like that, except the pack he belonged to. Though you wished he could have been anyone but a werewolf, you wanted to believe that werewolves weren’t all the same just like how there were werewolf hunters who played God instead of staying in their lane.

So you asked the question that seemed to surprise Jo the most once you were both over your monologues:

“Will you introduce them to me? Your friends… your pack?” You raised an eyebrow tentatively, testing how much he would let you in. After all, a werewolf’s pack was really like a family. They would fight for each other, they would die for each other. You weren’t sure how it was in their human form, but you guessed that it was the same.

“Yes. If you want, I will,” Jo responded immediately, and gently squeezed your hand. You looked at your hand in his, the way he held it so steadily, so lovingly, as he always did. Then, you looked up at him, into his chocolate-brown eyes, the ones you loved getting lost in, the ones that you loved gazing at. You saw the way his lips curled, how they deepened at the edges, and made his dimples appear.

You saw all the coy smiles you exchanged before, all the movie nights you snuggled up to him, the way he looked at you when you called him your boyfriend publicly, how you childishly fought over tubes of ice cream, how you cried on his shoulder when the anniversary of your parents’ death came, how he made you camomile tea whenever you were on your period or you were sick, how he liked holding your hand but was shy about it, and how soft-spoken he was. And in that moment, you knew that you would work it out, and though you would both need time to fully trust the other with such a different yet important part of your life, you were willing to risk it.

For him, you would risk it all.

A/N: Hope you enjoyed this story of mine! Let me know what you think!

Click here for my &TEAM masterlist!

If you want to read more stories of mine, let it be for &TEAM or for other artists, consider signing up for my taglist here. 🥰

Header taken from the 'Deer Hunter' MV.

Hope you have a lovely day/night! Take care! ❤️

[jujusunflower]

Yall I’ve been seeing so many angel numbers lately, yes I know it doesn’t mean they will make me shift because I’m the one blablaba… BUT! I asked the multiverse as I said in another blog that if I was on the right track, that I will be shifting this year and so on.

Already saw a blog of an amazing blogger that made a lot of sense to me and the tittle was legit “you’re on the right track” something like that.

So let me tell you the three numbers that I noticed and thought of looking it up. Only one tho that I just had it in mind for some reason and knew I had to look it up.

2332 : The heavens are trying to tell you that you're on the right path. "Everything is going well. This is the time to be bold and take action. It's a helping hand from the Universe to carry out your plans."

1551 : often a sign that positive changes are on the horizon. These changes could manifest in various areas of your life-your career, relationships, or personal endeavors. Your angels are encouraging you to be optimistic and trust that the changes ahead will bring new opportunities for success and happiness.

And last but not least 1991 :it gives off an aura of harmony, peace and balance. It's a number that represents a force for equalisation in areas surrounding itself, and is a equalizing presence for the world when the number makes a prominent appearance Its primary essence, which is decidedly balanced - expresses a soul searching and harmonious feeling to it.

Bonus one because doing this blog it was 00h00 so i searched it up and here’s what it says !

0000 : It symbolizes the whole, unity, the source from which everything comes and to which everything returns. It is the number of infinity, eternity, and the creative void. When 000 appears on your spiritual path, it is a reminder of your connection with the Universe, with all that is, has been, and will be.

WAIT I JUST REALISED SMTH ! I listened to this subliminal three times today that lasted 22minutes so in total I listened to it like an hour and some minutes !! I also listened right after the last one a subliminal to let go of my “blockage” and accept the next subliminal I’ll listen and I really felt like I was being more confident and I wasn’t doubting it you know? I was accepting it. So this subliminal was to go in that void state. So I meditated for 12 minutes approximately today and I’ll go to sleep and just wake up being in the void!

So yeah I just realised what the 0000 number said and the way it relates to that void is insane. I’m DEFINITELY taking this as a sign it’s actually insane wow.

[mariacallous]

There was once a time when a performance career in New York progressed with, if not security, at least a path. An emerging playwright, director, or choreographer could hone their craft in a subsidized rehearsal space, apply for a residency somewhere in or near the city, or join a lab devoted to original works. Getting a single peer-reviewed grant, even a tiny one, would lead to others—each award conferring further legitimacy, bringing the artist to the attention of venues and large foundations. Money permitted more complex organizational structures, like companies and collectives, to form. In the happiest cases, a company could establish long-term funding relationships and receive predictable year-in, year-out operating support, thus becoming an institution, which could, in turn, offer its own new-work labs and programs. The cycle continued—or, at least, it did.

In the past half decade, whole strata of this intricate New York support system have been smashed. First, there was a drip-drip-drip of crisis: as costs everywhere rose, city, state, and federal monies faded away once COVID-era bailout efforts came to an end. According to a forthcoming study by the service organization A.R.T./New York, post-pandemic audiences for nonprofit theatre remain down eleven per cent, and, just in the year from 2022 to 2023, corporate giving dipped eighty per cent. Consequently, we’ve lost directing labs, nearby retreat centers for theatre and dance, and support spaces dedicated to new writing. There has been less ferment, less activity, less art. Already, financially strapped venues are producing far fewer shows—according to the Times, in the past five years, the number of Off Broadway productions eligible for the Lucille Lortel Awards has dropped by half.

And then, when the need seemed greatest, several private philanthropic foundations pulled out the rug. Three of the largest arts funders in the United States—the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation, the Doris Duke Foundation, and the Ford Foundation—stopped supporting many components of the arts infrastructure in New York that they helped create. Their reasons were various, but the upshot was the same: extreme turbulence, which has affected organizations big and small. There were deep program and operational budget cuts at the Public Theatre, for instance, and Playwrights Horizons, where such critically acclaimed productions as Michael R. Jackson’s “Strange Loop” and David Adjmi’s “Stereophonic” premièred, lost underwriting for new play commissioning, as well as general operating support. The tiny rooms where such shows develop got hit, too. “It seemed like everybody lost their subsidized rehearsal space funding from Mellon at the same time,” Risa Shoup, a co-executive director from A.R.T./New York, told me.

Mellon and Duke overhauled their giving goals in accidental lockstep, with many of their changes hitting simultaneously in 2024. Longtime observers of the granting scene describe Ford’s lessening interest in connecting with performing arts organizations in New York—“I find them to be inaccessible in terms of having a conversation in terms of cultivation,” one New York program head told me—though this characterization has been contested by the foundation itself. Despite the timing, these shifts and defundings were not inspired by the incoming Trump Administration; they were set in motion, in some cases, years beforehand—it’s only a coincidence that they amplify the Administration’s fund-pulling chaos. I have heard these three foundations described as ecologies unto themselves. The pivoting of just one from its historical patterns of giving would be seismic; the pivot of all three at once has been cataclysmic.

One major consequence has been that several service organizations and granting initiatives—technically regranters, intermediaries who disburse monies from umbrella donors—have been forced to shut down or to retire grant programs. In late 2024, the National Dance Project and the National Theatre Project announced that Mellon was “concluding their decades-long funding arc” and the organizations, in their current form, would end. The MAP Fund, which in the past fifteen years or so was largely sponsored by Mellon and Duke, was, until recently, one of the country’s longest-serving regranters. In the years since its founding in 1988, MAP, originally called the Multi-Arts Production Fund, assembled panels to read tens of thousands of open-call applications, leading to the support of around twenty-five hundred artists and ensembles—including Suzan-Lori Parks, Adrienne Kennedy, and Anna Deavere Smith. With its regranting function zeroed out by both of its key donors so close together, this vital support system is no more. (MAP still nominally exists, though it has been reduced to its last surviving program, a coaching and peer-gathering initiative.)

Those fifteen years of collaboration did not protect MAP. In fact, longevity seems to have become a liability. For twelve years, the Lower Manhattan Cultural Council operated a dance residency called Extended Life that provided basic-income stipends to mid-career choreographers and was directly funded by Mellon. In 2024, L.M.C.C. lost around two million dollars after Mellon chose not to renew its grant, and Extended Life, too, was forced to close.

Organizations did have warning. In 2023, Duke told around two dozen of its longtime beneficiaries—including MAP, Creative Capital, Theatre Communications Group, National Institute for Directing & Ensemble Creation, and the National Association of Latino Arts and Cultures—that it would begin “sunsetting” its support throughout the next few years. The defunding in December still came as a shock, however, since many were still hoping for some reprieve. “Grantees were basically cut off at the knees,” as one operative at a smaller foundation put it.

“Since the nonprofit theatre movement solidified in the nineteen-fifties, we have faced government shifting, but not this kind of foundation retrenchment,” Niegel Smith, the artistic director of the Flea theatre (which continues to be funded by Mellon), told me. “When I entered the field, the sense was that you could work and prove yourself and then your company would win enduring support from the pool of foundations. That’s no longer the case.”

In the U.S., private philanthropic foundations—which are required to disburse five per cent of their net investment assets each year—have not only long provided the scaffolding of the arts system but have also been a bulwark against politicization. During the so-called culture wars of the nineteen-nineties, right-wing politicians such as Jesse Helms led a campaign to insert morality clauses into the funding guidelines for the National Endowment for the Arts (N.E.A.); he hoped to ban “homoeroticism,” for instance. While Helms’s specific language did not survive the ensuing lawsuits, the controversy permanently weakened the N.E.A., and its budget—which has never kept pace with inflation—has been used as a political football ever since. For decades, private foundations stepped into the resulting funding gap.

As devastating as recent philanthropic shifts have been, the funding changes of the past few years reflect, in many cases, an attempt on the foundations’ part to create greater equity. In 2017, a much-read study by the Helicon Collaborative, an arts-and-culture consultancy, showed that fifty-eight per cent of all contributed income was going to only two per cent of arts organizations, indicating a hoarding of resources by a few. Under Ford’s current head, Darren Walker, the foundation has seemingly addressed this imbalance, and, in Walker’s words, focussed its “efforts to address the societal drivers of inequality.” An artistic director told me that a Ford program officer was direct about that pivot, and its ramifications: “They said, ‘We’re looking at our impact across the nation, and New York is no longer a priority.’ ” (Ford points out the Foundation has doubled its performance-arts giving since 2018 in New York City. “Support for the arts has long been important to the Ford Foundation and that has not changed,” a spokesperson for Ford wrote. “Our grantmaking strategies operate under a long term cycle, with a focus on smaller groups and networks that lack access to philanthropic resources. These principles will continue to guide our work moving forward.”)

Such a rationale can be hard to argue with. And it’s not just the private foundations. Con Edison, after being a mainstay donor to the arts in New York, announced in late 2023 that it would be “re-aligning” its mission to combat climate change and advance social justice. These are both admirable goals. But creativity without the prerequisite of social efficacy was once touted by these same funders as being crucial to the common good. Certain benefits of the arts (like better community health outcomes) take decades to manifest, while others (like beauty and collective expression) remain stubbornly unquantifiable.

Tommy Kriegsmann, the co-producer of the Under the Radar festival, sees two reasons for the funding rug pull. “From a generational standpoint, we’re seeing a change in arts leadership,” he said. There has been tremendous turnover after decades of stasis, with new artistic directors at theatres including Second Stage, Performance Space New York, Lincoln Center, and Signature. But Kriegsmann may also be referring to the fact that key program staff at Mellon and both Duke’s president and C.E.O., Sam Gill, and Duke’s arts program director, Ashley Ferro-Murray, are relatively new. Kriegsmann acknowledged that “programs like the National Theatre Project, the National Dance Project, that have been around for fifteen or twenty years or more, are coming to a natural end.” Kriegsmann is not sanguine about the destruction, but he also sees the need for innovation. “So—while it’s vile and frightening, it does feel extremely necessary for us to be reënvisioning these programs and structures.” (Under the Radar got a million-dollar grant from Mellon this year, to help with succession planning.)

Mellon’s performing-arts spending nationally has actually risen from thirty-eight to seventy-two million dollars in the past seven years, and it is not abandoning New York. Rather, the foundation seems to be making changes to its giving in two ways: first, a stronger interest in allocating big sums to a comparably small group of individuals—what program officer Stephanie Ybarra has described publicly as “giving an inch wide, but a mile deep”—and second, a shift in its grantee pool toward organizations that haven’t been awarded before. For instance, Randi Berry, the executive director of the microgranting service provider IndieSpace, noted in an e-mail to me that “Mellon hadn’t funded us for the first decade + of our existence but IS in fact funding us now and is our biggest funder.” Still, by cutting loose such on-the-ground intermediaries as MAP, their award-giving will no longer be as decentralized, and some grants will rely on personal invitations. (The national network of regranters and their readers were many; the entire arts and culture staff at Mellon is only sixteen people.) “In recent years we have worked to serve the field even more fully and broadly,” Mellon’s arts and culture program director Deana Haggag, who took the role in January, said. “This has meant, since 2019, nearly doubling the number of grantees and the grantmaking dollars in the performing arts sector, focusing on those who had never received foundation support.”

Duke’s pivot, on the other hand, reflects a wholesale shift in the foundation’s chosen mission in the arts. Maurine Knighton, the chief program officer at Duke, told me that the public response to the funding changes seems inaccurate to her. “The main thing that sticks out to me is the notion that we are reducing or somehow eliminating our arts funding, which is just completely untrue,” she told me. She said that the quantity of available money has stayed the same—around fifty million dollars in giving per year—but the targets have changed. While Duke continues to award six individual artists’ grants (five hundred and fifty thousand dollars each), other monies that once underwrote a host of service and development initiatives will now focus on two major areas: advocacy for artists-as-workers (they plan to announce some programs, but could not yet share details) and new technologies, “not only for distributing creative work but also for producing it,” she said. “We see this as an essential way to future-proof contemporary dance,” Knighton said. She emphasized that Duke had always insisted on the impermanence of any support. “The notion that if you fund something for, you know, a period of time, you are then obligated to fund it forever, really isn’t a reasonable idea,” she said.

There seems to be a widespread distaste among philanthropies for grantees developing dependence on their support. “Indefinite funding is never philanthropy’s promise and should not be the expectation,” a spokesman for Mellon said. Foundations, contra the term, are not necessarily prioritizing stability, even now. The Playwrights Horizons artistic director Adam Greenfield told me that crucial “general operating” support funds have gotten harder to find as funders begin to favor project-specific grants. He thinks that the rise of invitation-only grant applications can “inadvertently privilege personal relationships.” He added, “If the arts are, as I believe, a tool of democracy and a powerful safeguard against oppression, then in this moment—considering the intersecting strains we’re facing (inflation, corporatization, federal cuts)—the stakes of arts funding couldn’t be higher.”

Private foundations are largely beholden only to themselves, and so, at any time, they could turn all these taps back on. But will they? It doesn’t seem likely. The Trump Administration has added yet more volatility to the situation. Earlier this year, in response to executive orders 14173 and 14168, the N.E.A. issued new compliance language, asserting that “the applicant will not operate any programs promoting ‘diversity, equity, and inclusion’ ” and that “federal funds shall not be used to promote gender ideology”—an echo of Helms’s not-so-long-ago efforts. Court injunctions and legal actions have momentarily left those directives up in the air, but federal funds now seem particularly precarious. Executive order 14173, in particular, takes aim at “foundations with assets of 500 million dollars or more,” threatening “civil compliance investigations” of the same type that have been levelled against institutions of higher education.

Attacks on granting foundations have already begun. Creative Capital, a twenty-five-year-old granting organization that describes itself as “the gold standard in artist support,” is now facing a public complaint from the activist lawyer Edward Blum’s American Alliance for Equal Rights asking the I.R.S. to “examine racial practices” at the organization.

The chance to create stability may have passed. Nonprofit foundations, especially those that prioritize climate and diversity, have been bracing themselves against rumors of a further slate of executive orders that might target their tax-exempt status. The Council on Foundations, a membership organization for philanthropies, published a statement of public solidarity, which as of this writing has some five hundred signatories, announcing a field-wide resistance against any attempt to limit their “freedom to direct our resources to a wide variety of important services, issues, and places.” The Times reported that, on April 22nd, a White House official said, “There are no such orders that are being drafted or considered at this time.” That may be true today. But we are clearly on rapidly shifting ground. Uncertainty, it turns out, is a terrible thing, and it can prevent even the well-intentioned from doing good. 

[pad-wubbo]

SPLATOON MEGA CRACKPOT THEORY: AGENT 8 NEVER EXISTED BEFORE OCTO EXPANSION AND TARTAR IS THEIR MOTHER

No, seriously. I was just looking at a picture of Octo Expansion's character select.

Eight is floating around, naked, in a vat of sanitized ink. The ink conveniently obscures their little octopus genitals, but why are they floating in a vat of sanitized ink?

(For best results, listen to Who Am I? from Final Fantasy VII while reading this post https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sfRNQleP2bw)

We know from the level Belly Phase that being submerged in sanitized ink, like any other foreign liquid, splats an Octoling to death by inundating and bursting their body.

We know from the level Fake Plastic Station and many levels after it that a regular Octoling being newly sanitized only involves the use of an IV drip, not submerging the whole body in ink.

I therefore deduce that Eight must be floating in sanitized ink because they're about to be printed, born from it.

What other evidence do I have? Well, it's the mem cakes.

The mem cakes you win for completing tests in Octo Expansion are apparently Agent 8's memories.

Agent 8; however, was supposedly in the Octarian Army before joining Kamabo Co.

The Octarian Army are trapped underground. That's why they steal Zapfish in the first place. Agent 8 has never visited the surface world, yet they have memories of the Inkopolis shopkeepers anyway.

This means at least some of Agent 8's memories are not their own. In turn, "Agent 8" is the composite of multiple minds in one body.

The only way to reconcile Agent 8 having memories of the Octarian Army and the surface world is that Agent 8's narrative of having had a single, consistent life is false and they are an amalgamate.

There were Octolings at one point with these memories separately, they got blended into their raw ink form and fused into Eight.

Also, recall that Seita Inoue interview from 2018. He says Agent 8 is designed to be "around 14" physically. The Octoling soldiers have to be at least 14 years old to assume their adult/human forms.

Agent 8, meanwhile remembers watching Agent 3 fight DJ Octavio two years ago.

If Inoue is not simply mistaken, Agent 8 would have been 12 years old then (a wiggly, goopy, Paul-ish octopus), and they would not be a functional soldier, and thus have no reason to be on Octavio's UFO.

Note this Sunken Scroll, where Marina and some other Octarians are watching Three and Octavio's fighting concert. All of the spectators are soldiers, whether Octolings or single tentacles.

I must conclude, then, that Eight's defining memory of Three that inspired them. their "Inner Agent 3", is somebody else's memory; the memory of a soldier who did watch Agent 3 before at some point between Splatoon 1 and 2, collecting the thangs and blending themselves into goo.

I can only assume that Tartar literally created Agent 8, as the "supreme DNA", the sum of all its blending experiments, the sum of all knowledge, the blueprint for a new world devoid of individuality and thus devoid of conflict.

This is why Tartar is shocked that #10,008 would escape the blender after willingly entering it. Tartar printed out #10,008 specifically for the purpose of solving tests, finding thangs, blending themselves up, inviting more people to blend themselves up until everyone in the world is part of Tartar's sentient mint toothpaste clusterfuck.

As Tartar gave birth to Agent 8, this makes Tartar Agent 8's mother.

The Telephone only attempts to destroy civilisation as we know it in response to Eight escaping - there's no indication that its NILS Statue gambit would occur had Eight not escaped. Probably, it was playing the long game, waiting for people to blend themselves into an amalgam until everyone is soup, but then when its perfect, respectable amalgam, its child, developed of a sense of self and escaped, it decided "screw the world of individuality actually".

If you've played BioShock 2, think of Tartar as a Sofia Lamb figure, and specimen #10,008 as an Eleanor, a People's Daughter, the sum of all past knowledge in one unholy vessel.

I believe this is why the character is only referred to as "Eight" - even after they retrieve their memories, they still don't remember their name, even to Pearl and Marina, their closest friends. Why? It's because they never had a name. They're the composite of anywhere up to ten thousand minds in one body.

In talking of the consciousness of "multiple Octolings mixed together" in this Dev Diary, Marina almost gets the memo. She still asks "could sanitization have also caused Agent 8's memory loss?", she is still under the impression that Agent 8 "lost their memory", rather than coming to my conclusion that Agent 8 was an artificially-constructed being in the first place.

JUST ONE MORE THING...

Kamabo Co. still carries out tests. Commander Tartar is now powerless to destroy Inkopolis or merge everyone's minds into goo or whatever, but the company is very much still active as of Splatoon 3.

In this White Day 2020 artwork,

Agents 8 and 3 are playing with C.Q. Cumber.

Recall that Splatoon takes place in real time, and that all of its promotional artwork is diegetic and therefore canon unless proven otherwise.

This artwork is from 2020, and it portrays Agent 3 (who never participated in Kamabo Co.'s tests) in the Deepsea Metro, playing with C.Q. Cumber, who still wears a Kamabo Co. hat, suggesting that he still works for Kamabo Co. as of 2020 (three years after Octo Expansion).

My other proof for this claim is the presence of Kamabo Co. advertisments outside the Deepsea Metro entrance in Inkopolis Square in Splatoon 3, as of Inkopolis Square's addition to the game in 2024.

The metro entrance is blocked off by Marigold and the Tableturf Battle corner, yet the paper advertisements are still there on the ground.

You might suggest that the advertisements are the same ones that were there in Splatoon 2, but paper left on the ground outside doesn't last seven years.

The Deepsea Metro itself is, as we see in Octo Expansion and in the maps of Lemuria Hub, a regular subway system where people commute to work, as well as the site of a weird octopus-Aperture Science facility.

The advertisements, are specifically for Kamabo Co., not for the Deepsea Metro itself.

The fact that Agent 8 willingly returns to the Deepsea Metro in the White Day 2020 artwork suggests that they have some kind of emotional attachment to it, like Marina does to the Octarian domes.

This would make sense if, rather than just a place where Eight was held captive and forced to solve tests for a few hours then escape, the Deepsea Metro was Eight's actual birthplace.

I hope, if nothing else, this post made you think.

On a slightly related note, I got 83% marks on my course assignment about the deep sea and its organisms, including those that gather around hydrothermal vents, cold seeps, and whale falls.

[dizzybizz]

KAEYA BIRTHDAY ??? ?? i love you mr alberich sir i love you oh so so so much.

uh dialogue for this one but more legible under the cut (and a messy ragbros page)

Klee: Kaeya! Come down here! Kaeya: Oh? heh. What is it, Spark Knight?

Klee: Happy Birthday! It is today? Right? I even double-checked with Albedo and everything but I don't know... Klee: It's a Calla Lily! You like those, right? Kaeya: I certainly do! Thank y- Klee: Oh. Klee: OK OK OK- Kaeya: Hm? Klee: Kaeya you have to promise to not tell Master Jean about this one! Kaeya: You can count on me to keep my lips sealed.

Klee: OK! Close your eyes- eye- and hold out your hands! Kaeya: Mhm! Klee: OK! You can open them! TA-DA~!

Klee: I made a bomb for you! It even has an eyepatch! He can look after you when I'm somewhere else. Take good care of him! Oh yeah- He explodes if you- Kaeya?

Kaeya: Thank you Klee! Thank you very much! Klee: You're VERY welcome Kaeya!

a lil ragbros too.... kaeya and his red siblings amirite (bursts into tears).. also i am so obsessed with chibi diluc saying "bring em in..."

[ganondoodle]

(Original art) Xaror, any pronouns, species (?), age (?)

short summary about them; they act as both an antagonist and an ally since they are only really interested in what they want or whats fun to them, they are immortal and call themselves 'death itself' since they have a special connection to souls (being the only one able to communicate with them) and the ability to seperate souls from their bodies in such a way that nothing can harm the soul afterwards their main goal is to .. bother and disturb the 'celestials'*, which they hate, as much as they can, breaking into their palace, freeing prisoners, destroying research, destroying the place, and most importantly, making as many souls unusable to them as possible-

they dont want to destroy the celestials though, they cant fight them anyway and this game of doing 'good' only with the goal of annoying them is their most treasured activity, so Xaror doesnt intend to stop them from killing or hurting anyone, only from harvesting what they are actually after (though Xaror doesnt actually care as little as they think they do about people, and has a soft spot for demons)

most of their appearance is later into the story; Zaphira (the empress) had been in coma and the medical facility she was treated in was destroyed by Shargon (orange eyed demon who acts as her bodyguard for the first part) in an attempt to save her from her estranged relatives taking over her country after they heard of her decline in health, she is believed dead but washes up on the shore of the mountain Xaror resides at years later (it has a reason, too much to write here) and they slowly nurse her back to health, the reason they give for it is that they found their first encounter very fun, thats all (is it?)

(more lore under the cut bc this is already so long .. im trying to keep it short q-q ......... this is stuff i have been working on since i was a kid so uh, some things might be cheesy but i cant change them anymore ..)

just to get some basics out of the way; theres three worlds, the celestials palace, human world and demon world, each are their own planet connected via different gateways

*celestials (possibly not final name, loosely based on angels) are the last remaining "survivors" of their planets demise, when their world died the most powerful among them cannibalized the weaker to sustain themselves until there were only less than 10 left, who each turned into different beings from it and dont resemble their own people much anymore, they built a palace from what was left on their world that protects them from space as its atmosphere collapsed shortly after- however they still needed something to live off; they discover the human world and are delighted to find rather short lived people with powerful souls, the best kind of sustenance for them (now), they aim to herd them like cattle, but a problem arose when it turned out another world has long been in contact with the human world; demons

demons are semi immortal creatures that act as protectors for their world, protection they extended, more or less secretely, to the human world ensuring them a long and secure life- the celestials need them to die at their whim though (demons are few in numbers, hard to kill and rarely have offspring, not an ideal target); as they worked out a plan on how to get rid of demons one of the celestials, Xanthriel (time) grew somewhat fond of people as they spent alot of time in the human world to observe and research them; in the end turning on their own completely, but losing the fight against Uriel (knowledge)

Xanthriel was supposed to be executed for their betrayal, but it doesnt work, instead they are splintered into many parts after a lot of struggle, most body, memory and most strength is one part (ending up as motionless forever bleeding corpse kept locked up in the palace), the rest is some time later gathered together and reforms as a seperate, weak mockery of them, they embody Xanthriels emotion- Xaror, without memory, strangely cut to pieces (hence all the missing limbs and broken halo) but driven by an unstoppable desire to disturb the celestials (they live seperate long enough to each become their own person, at some point Xaror discovers Xanthriels body after all and they merge back together, though as they are now two, Xanthriel only takes over once directly after merging, stays silent for a long time and lets Xaror be themselves, only later revealing that they are there at all .. hiding perhaps- i rarely have specific ideas for voices, but Xanthriels is like, like coarse rocks being violently rubbed against each other, less voice more noise)

(also, the celestials use Xanthriels blood from the day of their execution to create a plague that nearly wipes out all demons, only the youngest of them survived, effectively robbing them of everything, culture, history, knowledge etc- as demons rarely have children, like a complete restart of their society, they disappeared from the human world, and over time being largely forgotten as actually existing- the celestials wanted them all gone however, so they kept kidnapping them to try and find somethign that would work similarly against the young ones too (and then in general, bc the only usable blood of Xanthriel was from the day of their fall, and that has long since been used up) one of the young ones was Shargon, he was the only one still alive from his group

(also, the celestials use Xanthriels blood from the day of their execution to create a plague that nearly wipes out all demons, only the youngest of them survived, effectively robbing them of everything, culture, history, knowledge etc- as demons rarely have children, like a complete restart of their society, they disappeared from the human world, and over time being largely forgotten as actually existing- the celestials wanted them all gone however, so they kept kidnapping them to try and find somethign that would work similarly against the young ones too (and then in general, bc the only usable blood of Xanthriel was from the day of their fall, and that has long since been used up) one of the young ones was Shargon, he was the only one still alive from his group (he wasnt the strongest or special, he was jsut the last in the row and always got the lowest dosage) when Xaror found them in yet another break in into the palace and got him back to the demon world .. where he was promptly blamed for the others that were taken and treated like a pretender/fake/spy bc what he got put through changed his eye color (something that demons cannot change in any form) to one that does not exist among 'real' demons (orange ... notice the inner color of Xarors broken halo? :) ), some even suggesting killing him, but none of them were brave enough to do it (they were all kids still) .. except Eadrya (the big blue-ish one, largely regarded as the strongest demon alive) but Shargon managed to escape, and since then lived largely in isolation- this is part of why he is so hated, and why he starts to spend so much time in the human world after rediscovering the pathway there)

[captocie]

i've just seen another post asking what the gender neutral or nonbinary word is for "sir" or "ma'am" and i'd like to put forth "em" as a solution.

"sir" comes from sire, "ma'am" comes from "madam." "em" then, comes from "eminence" as in "will that be all your eminence?" or "will that be all em?"

it's short and quick to say, like both sir and ma'am, and it's gender neutral and stems from a word denoting nobility like both sir and ma'am

[bestanimal]

Round 3 - Reptilia - Procellariiformes

(Sources - 1, 2, 3, 4)

Our next order of birds are the Procellariiformes, collectively called “tubenoses.” They are comprised of the living families Procellariidae (“petrels” and “shearwaters”), Diomedeidae (“albatrosses”), Hydrobatidae (“northern storm petrels”), and Oceanitidae (“austral storm petrels”).

Procellariiformes live almost exclusively on the open ocean. Their nostrils are enclosed in one or two tubes on their straight, deeply-grooved bills with hooked tips. Procellariiformes that nest in burrows have a strong sense of smell, being able to detect dimethyl sulfide released from plankton in the ocean. This strong sense of smell helps to locate patchily distributed prey at sea and may also help locate their nests within nesting colonies. Their wings are long and narrow. Their feet are webbed, and the hind toe is undeveloped or non-existent. Procellariiforms drink seawater, so they have an enlarged nasal gland at the base of the bill, above the eyes, which removes salt from their system and forms a 5 percent saline solution that drips out of the nostrils, or is forcibly ejected in some petrels. Many are long-distance migrants. They live in every ocean and sea, from Greenland to Antarctica, but are most diverse around New Zealand. Procellariiformes are for the most part exclusively marine foragers; the only exception to this rule are the two species of giant petrel, which regularly feed on carrion or other seabirds while on land. The diet of most species is dominated by fish, squid, krill, and other marine zooplankton. They obtain food by snatching prey while swimming on the surface, snatching prey from the wing, or diving down under the water to pursue prey.

Procellariiforms are colonial, mostly nesting on remote, predator-free islands. Larger species nest on the surface, while most smaller species nest in natural cavities and burrows. They exhibit strong philopatry, returning to their natal colony to breed and returning to the same nesting site over many years. Procellariiforms are monogamous and form long-term pair bonds that are formed over several years and may last for the life of the pair. A single egg is laid per nesting attempt, and usually a single nesting attempt is made per year, although the larger albatrosses may only nest once every two years. Both parents participate in incubation and chick rearing. Incubation times are long compared to other birds, as are fledging periods. Once a chick has fledged there is no further parental care.

Procellariiforms emerged in the Eocene, with some possible Late Cretaceous records. They are most closely related to penguins, having diverged from them about 60 million years ago.

Propaganda under the cut:

The Sooty Shearwater (Ardenna grisea) has the second longest measured annual migration of any bird, flying from its breeding grounds in New Zealand and Chile to the North Pacific off Japan, Alaska, and California, an annual round trip of 64,000 km (40,000 mi).

Some individual Snowy Albatrosses (Diomedea exulans), also called Wandering Albatrosses, are known to circumnavigate the Southern Ocean three times in one year, covering more than 120,000 km (75,000 mi).

Fulmarine Petrels can fight off even large predatory birds with their noxious stomach oil, which they can project some distance. This stomach oil, stored in the proventriculus, is a digestive residue created in the foregut of all tubenoses except the diving petrels, and is used mainly for storage of energy-rich food during their long flights. The oil is also fed to their young.

The Light-mantled Albatross (Phoebetria palpebrata) has been recorded diving to 12 m (39 ft) underwater, and the Short-tailed Shearwater (Ardenna tenuirostris) diving to 70 m (230 ft)!

Albatrosses have featured in poetry in the form of Samuel Taylor Coleridge's famous 1798 poem The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, which in turn gave rise to the usage of albatross as a metaphor for a psychological burden, as the Mariner felt extreme guilt for the albatross he had killed. More generally, albatrosses were believed to be good omens, and to kill one would bring bad luck. There are also instances of petrels in culture; there are sailors' legends regarding the storm petrels, which are considered to warn of oncoming storms. In general, petrels were considered to be "soul birds", representing the souls of drowned sailors, and it was considered unlucky to touch them.

The oldest living wild bird is Wisdom, a female Laysan Albatross (Phoebastria immutabilis). She is estimated to have hatched in 1951, making her 73 or 74 years old. First tagged in 1956 at Midway Atoll by the United States Geological Survey (USGS), she was still incubating eggs as late as 2024. Biologists estimate that Wisdom has laid some 30–40 eggs in her lifetime and that she has at least 30–36 chicks. She and her chick survived the 2011 Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami that killed an estimated 2,000 adult Laysan and Black-footed Albatrosses and an estimated 110,000 chicks at the Refuge. The 2011 chick went on to have a chick of her own, making Wisdom a grandmother. Her newest chick hatched on January 30, 2025.

Procellariiformes are amongst the most severely threatened taxa worldwide, with threats varying from species to species. There are less than 200 Magenta Petrels (Pterodroma magentae) breeding on the Chatham Islands, only 130 to 160 Zino's Petrels (Pterodroma madeira) and only 170 Amsterdam Albatrosses (Diomedea amsterdamensis). The Guadalupe Storm Petrel (Hydrobates macrodactylus), which bred only on Guadalupe Island off Baja California, Mexico, is presumed extinct after the introduction of Domestic Cats to the island decimated the population during the late 19th century. The Fiji Petrel (Pseudobulweria macgillivrayi) has been rarely seen since its discovery, and is inferred to have a small population of less than 50, if it is not extinct. The Bermuda Petrel (Pterodroma cahow) was thought to be extinct for 300 years, until the dramatic rediscovery in 1951 of eighteen nesting pairs made it a "Lazarus species".

The principal threat to the albatrosses and larger species of procellariids is long-line fishing. Bait set on hooks is attractive to foraging birds and many are hooked by the lines as they are set. As many as 100,000 albatrosses are hooked and drown each year on tuna lines set out by long-line fisheries. Invasive species introduced to the remote breeding colonies threaten all types of procellariiform. Most albatross and petrel species are clumsy on land and unable to defend themselves from mammals such as rats, Domestic Cats, and Domestic Pigs. Other threats include the ingestion of plastic flotsam. Once swallowed, plastic can cause a general decline in the fitness of the bird, or in some cases lodge in the gut and cause a blockage, leading to death by starvation. Procellariids are also vulnerable to marine pollution, as well as oil spills. Some species which nest high up on large developed islands, are victims of light pollution. Fledging chicks, which would use the night sky to navigate, are attracted to streetlights and may then be unable to reach the sea. As procellariiforms are extremely slow breeders, laying 1 egg (or less) a year, they cannot replace their numbers fast enough once the population begins to decline.

[anachronistic-falsehood]

HOLY SHIT. I THINK TODAY IS LIKE. EXACTLY A YEAR SINCE I STARTED TAKING TESTOSTERONE

[redeemed-wren]

Thought too long about Hermoine daughter of Meneleus and Helen and got sad

[justaz]

me: i hate cliches. theyre so predictable and overdone. i just want something new-

every fic ever: character A confidently/impulsively kisses character B who freezes under their touch causing character A to panic and begin to pull back just as character B remembers themself and kisses back with a passion

me, born to ascend, forced to act casual by societal norms:

[theprincessandthepie]

LOOK AT HERRRRRRR <3333333

[moe-broey]

Would you like some strangely elaborate specific ass headcanons? Of course you do!!!! Also I'm outsourcing a very specific dilemma. But you have to Learn My Methods first. Okay? Okay!!!!

PIERCINGS. AS STORYTELLING DEVICES. GO!!!!

Okay! So what the hell are we looking at and what exactly am I trying to determine, here? Well!!! There's a few different facets to this.

FIRST OF ALL. REALLY REALLY CUTE AND ALWAYS SO FUN TO ME

One, two, three!!! They're a set of three, and they're marked as such by how many sets of piercings they have in their ears. It's such a small detail that happened more by coincidence than intent, but it makes drawing all three of them together feel coherent and again, fun! I also really like the storytelling/contrast of the Askr siblings having golden jewerly, while Moe's is in silver (it does mix silver and gold more broadly -- but I'm talking just the face/ears here!). You get the sense (... in addition to Moe's more scruffy appearance in general), that one is from a more "common" background.

Okay, but what's all that text? STORYTELLING.... 2

Piercings, as a way to indicate connections to other characters, and to imply background information.

First example, it's noted that Bruno has had his in for a long time (... kind of regretting the specificness of "as a kid". That's supposed to have implications, but tbh it may be more fitting for Bruno as a whole to simply have said, "A Long Time"). He wears something modest, maybe a common stone, but still eye-catching. I like to think Alfonse became enamored with it (guys can also do this???), same way he was completely smitten by all of Zacharias. One extremely questionable piercing job courtesy of Zacharias himself and egged on by Sharena (who made a generous donation and/or sacrifice from her own jewelry box) later, it's a miracle he managed to heal them. Equally impressive is how long he managed to hide them as a teenager.

Meanwhile, you see Sharena's example is pretty straightforward! Assigned ear-stabbing at birth. It worked out well, though! Aside from that one time where her piercings mysteriously closed up and they had to be re-done, when she was little. Which could mean nothing. Alls well that ends well! In fact, she liked the look so much she decided to get another set done! Which may or may not come back later...

I will admit, the saddle plugs on Bruno were an impulse decision I made drawing this out (so not a super strong design headcanon, and maybe I could draw it better w more practice tbh, test run ect ect), BUT. MORE IMPORTANTLY. That idea, AND NEXT UP: STORYTELLING... 3.

On top of noting significant connections and providing background information -- here, you have gaining more and/or doing different Things with your piercings, as a way to indicate the passage of time or a change of taste. Woah, that's a lot of text! That's just my autism showing, I'll do you a favor -- with Moe specifically, the biggest takeaway here is:

One, two, three. There are other iderations of Moe of course, plenty of awkward in-between stages. But as I've developed it, I've found that there's like... three really plot relevant parts of its life. One easy to forget, two OH GOD OH FUCK, three that's the guy who lives here now. AWESOME!!!!

OKAY. OKAY. PEONY she has BEEN HERE THIS WHOLE TIME. What's up with that?

So we have background implications/information, we have connections to other characters, and NOW. WE HAVE. Paths that diverge. Sharena, 2. Peony, 1. Plus, a little bit of shape language with those tear drop earrings... on Sharena specifically...... ohghhghhf........

I've always been really indecisive with my Peony designs (for some reason it has been SUCH A STRUGGLE FOR ME), but I do like the simplicity of this one actually. The "Princess Peach core" note about Sharena is more about her color palette, but after writing that I went You know what. Fuck it *gives Peony Princess Peach earrings*. This does feel subject to change, but the idea they could be like water droplets is so cutes... I have really wanted to give Peony earrings with a blue gem though, BECAUSE...

The blue and silver are a nod to this reoccurring detail on Peony! So not only does it tie back to Sharena (IMPORTANT), it also (theoretically.) ties together nicely overall!!

Okay. So. Where does this leave me. Why did I draw all this out? All these little details that exist in my mind, why did I go out of my way to create this elaborate in-depth demonstration? Remember when I said I was gonna outsource some shit?

PROBLEM: I NEVER. EVER. EVEEEERRRRRR KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH LIF'S EARRINGS‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️ AND THE LACK OF DIRECTION IS BECOMING MORE AND MORE GLARING EVERY FUCKING TIME I DRAW HIM‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️

And what prompted all of this. What REALLY made me Think About This. I did another "ehhh Fuck It" with Lif's piercings, where he's sharing a panel with Moe, and

Ooughgughfhghhh...... them having the same earring arrangement.

But then. Then. I got autism brained about it. I can see Bruno having fuck all time to stretch his ears while on some gayass journey (... the. Timelines. Time in between Events. Maybe he wouldn't have full big stretched ears in Book 1. HOWEVER). Inconvenient, maybe, but if he's dedicated to the grind. He can do it. And I mean, have you seen his muscles? Dude CARES about his appearance. Meanwhile Moe ABSOLUTELY had fuck all time to stretch its ears before arriving in Askr. Then I'm thinking about Alfonse. NEVERMIND how much time it takes to stretch your ears, I'm thinking about the Number Rules. I'm thinking about how he's One, the first guy of a set of Three. I'm thinking about the Number Rule, to indicate Time. Why WOULD he have Three? The Number Rule, as Paths Diverging. There's Two of him, not Three. ALSO ASKING MYSELF "Would Alfonse get more piercings???" LIKE NO. BECAUSE. THE. THE RULE OF THREE. THE ONE TWO THREE. WERE YOU EVEN LISTENING‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😫😫😫😫😫

Idk am I just insane. Am I a lost cause. Lif's ears are usually covered up by his long shaggy hair anyway. But really that does just make any time any piercings Would be visible, just. I am just so deeply conflicted torn between Goth Alt Men Hot and THE METHODS‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️ THE STORYTELLING THE METHODS MY DEEPLY INTRICATE RITUALS‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥