#I had issues with the paints as is already

[joezworld]

Christmas Story

Merry Christmas you guys.

Christmas Day

Morning broke over one of the most subdued Christmases Tidmouth sheds had ever seen. 

For most of the engines, it had started early: 

Gordon had vanished before the sun, taking some morning train - which one it was, nobody was quite sure; the limited-service Christmas day timetable was a baffling mystery that only became clear on the day of.

Edward, who woke at five-thirty in the morning out of habit, had elected to leave the shed while silence still reigned. Whichever train Gordon didn’t take, he did. 

James and Delta woke together as twilight began to dapple the sky, and slipped out of the shed with a bare minimum of noise or fuss. Where they went off to was anyone’s guess. Oliver, who missed their departure despite being awake, could only guess. They’d said something about the harbour?

That left just the three Westerners in the room. Oliver was the only one awake, and he regarded the scene with worried eyes. Bear and Duck hadn’t exchanged two words since Bear’s new “paint” had been applied, and he did not want to be around to hear what they said. Shortly before seven thirty, an inspector groused his way in, looking for an engine willing to run a P-Way service down the Little Western to finish up the various issues with the line, and Oliver jumped at the chance.

That left just two… 

-

Bear awoke to the morning sun finally making an appearance. The shed appeared to be empty, but… 

There was a quiet clatter to one side, and he lazily looked over to see Duck’s crew staring at each other in accusation while an oil can rolled on the ground. 

Bear didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything he particularly wanted to say. 

“Um.” Unfortunately, Duck did. “Bear. About…”

“Duck.” Bear cut him off. “I understand your… position right now, or at least I think I do, but I don’t want to talk to you right now.” He sighed deeply. “Or perhaps for a while. Maybe you should try this again later.”

There was a quiet sniffle from the tank engine, who then departed with a minimum of noise or fuss. 

Bear didn’t feel a bit of bother about how he made his fellow engine feel, and that bothered him more than anything else. 

-

Eventually, a crew came for him. It was pushing ten in the morning, and he set off with a strange working: an empty coaching stock move all the way to Kirk Ronan. 

“There’s a guaranteed connection with the ferry from France,” his driver explained. “Usually there’s another train, but not today.”

“Damned Christmas timetable…” 

“You know,” the man continued. “It’s strange. Gordon was supposed to take this train, but he insisted on having you take it. Couldn’t begin to imagine why.”

Bear rolled his eyes. “It’s easy work. This is probably his idea of a Christmas present.”

“Who knows?”

-

Bear didn’t put any more thought into it, and brought the train into Kirk Ronan right on schedule.

The ferry, a big red and white one named Chartres, was already there, moored tightly to the dock, and absolutely festooned with lights and decorations. «Joyeux Noël, mon petit ami!» She boomed. “It is a time of joy and happiness, no? Where are all the decorations?”

Bear looked around; the ferry terminal was quite drab - he remembered hearing something about the snow being worse along the coast. Maybe they couldn’t decorate. “They must be saving them for next year!” he said, trying to seem upbeat. 

The ferry made a noise of assent, and then any chance for further conversation was lost as a flood of passengers made their way down the boarding ramps and into the coaches. Soon afterwards, the train departed back the way it came, express service to Tidmouth station. The ferry heralded their departure with an earth-shaking foghorn blast, and then they were into the distance. 

There were almost no other trains on the line, and Bear had plenty of time to think. Goodness me. It really is Christmas, isn’t it? I made it through the month, and all it cost me was one friend, most of my sanity, and my identity. 

He laughed bitterly to himself. This is a terrible Christmas. 

As he went further down the line, another thought came to him. I can’t believe I let them use this paint on me. I thought blue was too much? This itches!

-

The train arrived at Tidmouth a few minutes ahead of schedule, just as the clocks struck noon, and Bear was surprised to see that there was a “restricting-diverge” signal ahead of him. “They’re sending us around the loop?” 

“The loop”, a section of line that Gordon had famously been mis-routed down once (James still needles him about it, once in a great while), was not actually a single line, but was rather a series of feeder tracks that connected the various dockside industries with the harbour itself, as well as the big station. In the early 1900s, some bright spark (probably Sir Topham Hatt, although the Dry family had significant involvement in the development of Tidmouth’s dockyards) had realized that making a full “loop” to connect both sides of the big station to the docks may be beneficial, and so many of the lightly built industrial spurs were connected into a rambling branch line that snaked through Tidmouth’s waterfront before ducking underneath the high street in a cutting, eventually meeting the Little Western just outside the station’s “rear”. Doing this added almost fifteen minutes to a journey, and so it was restricted to only the most dire of emergencies (or if you really irked the signalman). 

As Bear trundled over, under, around, and through Tidmouth, he had the distinct feeling that he was being played with. There weren’t any signals out of order, he wondered. Why am I going this way?

He got his answer soon enough, as he eventually entered the station through the Little Western’s platforms, gliding to a stop about three-quarters of the way down the platform. 

To his confusion, he was not the only engine there:

Duck and Oliver were face-to-face on the platform to his left, and each looked like they’d rather be anywhere else. 

Gordon was parked directly in front, with a worryingly inscrutable grin on his face. 

Toby was parked next to Gordon, and looked like he was only now understanding what was going on. 

In the background, Truro had been pushed just inside the station’s glass canopy, clearly so that he could hear what was going on. Amusingly, he also wasn’t meant to interrupt whatever was going to occur, as there was a red-and-white checkered tablecloth shoved into his mouth to gag him. Even better, nobody had bothered to set or splint his nose at any point. It looked like it really hurt. Shame about that. 

Alongside the porters and other staff meeting the train, there were several members of the station staff lining the platform, each in their “dress” uniforms, complete with shined shoes and buttons. 

Finally, and perhaps most concerningly, the… Yugoslav-Mexican band that the Fat Controller had sourced was tuning their instruments on the platform next to Gordon. 

-

“Do I even want to know?” he asked Gordon as the passengers poured out of the train. 

“Just go along with it,” Toby said, looking resigned to whatever was about to happen. 

“Brother Toby,” Gordon chided. “Is that really the tone you wish to take in front of the initiates?”

“Gordon,” Toby began. “You are treading upon a line that I didn’t even know existed three minutes ago. Get on with it.”

“In due time…” Gordon said beatifically. “Once we have privacy.”

And so they waited for another ten minutes while the passengers departed. Everybody except Gordon felt increasingly awkward as time stretched on, but eventually the last stragglers had made their way to the waiting room doors. Once they swung shut with a solid click that could be heard four platforms away, Gordon cleared his throat. “Let us begin.” 

Bizarrely, the stationmaster then stepped forward. He was dressed up even more than the other station staff, and was wearing white tie, complete with a top hat. He was holding a pad of paper in his hands - while they’d been waiting, Bear had seen a glimpse of it, and it looked like it was some sort of speech-  oh no.

“OYEZ! OYEZ! OYEZ!” The stationmaster bellowed at the top of his voice, scaring everyone except Gordon and the band. “WE NOW CALL TO ORDER THIS EMERGENCY SESSION OF THE EXCEPTIONAL AND MOST RESPECTABLE GRAND OLD ORDER OF THE LONDON AND NORTH EASTERN RAILWAY!”

“The what.” Someone said. It might have been Bear.

“TO START THIS SESSION, WE TURN TO THE HONORABLE MEMBER FROM THE GREAT NORTHERN RAILWAY, WHO HAS BEEN GRANTED POWERS PLENIPOTENTIARY DUE TO THE EXCEPTIONAL CIRCUMSTANCES!” 

“Granted what.”

“From where.”

Gordon had the audacity to look like something normal was occurring. “Thank you, sir,” he said with remarkable aplomb. “Ordinarily, these sessions would begin with a great deal more pomp and circumstance, however in light of yesterday’s events, I have elected to set those aside in order to get down to business.” 

He looked around the station, ignoring the absolutely baffled looks being sent his direction. “Since the year nineteen hundred and twenty three, the Grand Old Order of the London and North Eastern has claimed, in due time, every locomotive who has ever rolled out of one of our most esteemed workshops. Under the banner of the North Eastern, and our numerous predecessor railways, countless deeds of mechanical excellence have been performed. Mountains have been moved, cities have been evacuated, and nature herself has been tamed by our steel and metal, brick and stone.” 

He paused his stentorian address for a second, again surveying the increasing bafflement, before continuing. “To serve under our flag was to commit yourself to greatness, in one form or another. And for the last sixty-one years, this has been enough; we have recognized greatness, and greatness has come unto us.”

“However!” he exclaimed with great drama. “Recent events have forced a change in our calculus. Before this day, we have only ever accepted locomotives from our own workshops into our ranks - our own kind. Before today, that was seen as sufficient. No more!” 

He again surveyed the room, and Bear got the distinct feeling that Gordon wasn’t actually looking at faces at all. He tried to follow the gaze and found it lingering on the ‘GREAT WESTERN” insignia on Duck and Oliver’s sides, and the Western Region crest on his own, just visible under the paint.

He began to get an inkling of where this was going…

Gordon continued. “We had never felt the need to expand our own ranks before this day, because we had committed an act of hubris. We had assumed, like children, that all other railways within this great nation behaved in the same way as us! That they recognized greatness within their own ranks just as we did in our own.” 

His face turned serious. “This was an error. One that we shall never make again.”

Behind him, behind all of them, City of Truro’s eyebrows began to knit together. Clearly Bear was not the only one thinking along these lines. Something was mumbled against the gag. 

The next few sentences felt shouted, despite Gordon never raising his voice. “Over the month of December nineteen eighty-four, it has become known to us that City of Truro, the so-called “Greatest of all Westerners”, and the de facto leader of their kind, is nothing but a duplicitous charlatan! A murderous brute, who uses subterfuge and dirty tactics in ways not seen since modernization some twenty years past! He is no better than the worst examples of diesel-kind!”

There was a muffled shout from behind Gordon. It was ignored. 

Gordon continued. “But lo! He is the public and private face of the Great Western! One hundred fifty years of history, resting squarely upon his deceptive and ill-tempered buffers! Truly he is the worst of us, and is unfit to lead his clan.”

There was yet another muffled noise. Truro might actually be biting on the tablecloth now. 

“However, we are not in the position to make decisions for another railway, let alone one as ancient and prestigious as the Great Western.” Gordon intoned. Bear didn’t like the sparkle developing in the blue engine’s eyes. That could only mean trouble. “But, we can make amends in our own way!” 

Bear’s train of thought screamed into the station, brake-blocks smoking. Oh he is going to, isn’t he?

“HONOR GUARD,” roared the stationmaster. “PRE-SENT!” 

Someone had actually gone to the trouble of painting a coal shovel gold. Truro sounded like he was going to eat the tablecloth. 

Then the band started playing. It was, after a moment of harmonizing, a very jaunty version of Pomp and Circumstance. 

Bear was actually going to go insane. 

He’s going to do it. He’s going to induct me into the damned LNER like it’s going to make things better. 

The porter carrying the shovel turned on his heel and marched over to Duck and Oliver, marching like this was a drill exercise at a military academy. All three Western engines blinked. 

“Now,” Gordon said. “With the aforementioned facts now known, I, as the most honorable member from the Great Northern Railway, do hereby nominate Oliver to be enjoined with our ranks, and formally inducted into the Grand Old Order of the London and North Eastern. Brother Toby, as the Right Honorable Member from the Great Eastern Railway, will you second this motion?”

“Gordon, I-”

“Will you second this motion?”

A sigh. “Yes, I will second this motion. As the… righteous and honorable member from the GER.”

“Thank you, Brother Toby. The motion has been seconded!”

“Gordon, I-”

“Thank you.”

Gordon turned his attention to the “honor guard”, who dropped to one knee next to Oliver’s buffers, and laid the shovel gently across the nearest one. 

Bear momentarily managed to tear his eyes away from the spectacle, finding Toby in the sea of insanity. Is this happening? He mouthed. 

Yes, this is actually happening. Came the response. 

“Oliver!” Gordon boomed, snapping Bear’s gaze back to the insanity occurring in front of him. “Your years of loyalty and honorable service have not gone un-noticed! For too long you have labored away without reward, without the fruits of your own labours. For your tireless service to your railway, your own kind, and to yourself, you shall be honored. Do you Consent to be joined to the Order of the London and North Eastern? Do you Swear to follow and uphold their Ways, ahead of all others?”

Oliver looked absolutely dumbstruck. “Uhh… I, uh….”

“Say yes or we’ll never be done with it!” Toby hissed. 

“Uh- YES!” Oliver squeaked, suddenly realizing that he wasn’t in a position to say no. “Yes I do!”

Gordon looked immensely pleased with himself. “Then I dub thee ‘Brother Oliver’, and formally induct you into the Order. Welcome.” 

Oliver looked overwhelmed, a feeling that Bear mirrored, especially once the “honor guard” stood and marched over to Duck with precise marching steps that wouldn’t have been out of place in a military drill. 

Duck looked… well he looked almost vacant, staring off into the middle distance as events happened around him. It took little intuition to figure out where he was looking: there, in the middle distance, was City of Truro, furiously raging behind the tablecloth. 

The shovel was laid on Duck’s buffer, and the whole process began again. Gordon began an even longer and more pompous sounding prattle about Duck’s service at Paddington, how he’d dispatched Diesel, and how he’d managed the Little Western in the years since. There wasn’t a mention of how he’d acted during the last month, but even the most uncharitable part of Bear’s mind couldn’t really square a month’s worth of inaction against a half-century’s worth of work. 

There is no way I can be agreeing with Gordon on this. The big diesel thought to himself. He’s insane. He’s trying to… show up Truro by ‘adopting’ us. 

Gordon had launched into an identical spiel about “Consenting”, but Duck had barely let him get the word out before saying “Yes.” in a quiet but undeniably firm manner. 

Gordon managed to keep his surprise contained to an upward quirk of his eyebrows, but everyone else, Bear included, were thoroughly shocked. 

What? I would’ve thought that he wouldn’t… couldn’t… I mean, it’s the Great Western, that’s his life!

Duck didn’t take his eyes off of Truro the entire time. The forcefully silenced engine was turning a worrying shade of purple.

Bear had a sudden moment of understanding. But it’s his life… as defined by Truro. 

He doesn’t want this anymore than I do. Truro isn’t god. He’s not Brunel. 

But he is the Great Western. 

He looked at Truro, who was again trying to eat or spit out the tablecloth. A group of porters carrying a ladder, a shunter's pole, and some amount of canvas were approaching him menacingly. 

And if that’s the Great Western. 

He looked at Gordon, who was finishing Duck’s “induction” with a mix of surprise, seriousness, and well-earned pomposity. And that’s the LNER…  

Then… Maybe…

The “honor guard” turned to face him.

Gordon’s speech was shorter than his praise of Duck, but longer than Oliver’s. “Bear! Your continued service to this railway has not gone un-noticed! For over twenty years you have taken on every job asked of you with a dignity, grace, and competence that has made you not only a sterling member of this railway, but of your class as a whole. It would be my honor to induct you into the Grand Old Order of the London and North Eastern Railway!  Do you Consent to be joined to the Order? Do you Swear to follow and uphold their Ways, ahead of all others?”

In for a penny, in for a pound.

“Yes, I do.”

----

Later that night

“I’m sorry,” Edward stared in a rare moment of bafflement. “The Grand Old Order of the what?” 

“There’s no such thing.” James said firmly. “Do you think that he’d talk about anything else if there was?”

"I’m well aware of that," Edward said, still deeply confused. "The Southern and LMS had elite, secret brotherhoods, that's well known. I'd never heard anything about the LNER, and if Gordon hasn’t said anything before now…”

BoCo smiled faintly. "There might not have been one before last night," he said, "but if Gordon says there is one, then I think it exists now."

"That's rubbish," scoffed Delta. "How can you have an LNER order with Gordon, Duck, Oliver, Bear, and Toby? That’s over fifty percent Great Western."

"If Gordon's started it, every Eastern engine still around will hear and want to be in on it by the end of the month."

"Well, maybe so."

"Blimey.” James said, looking suddenly pensive.” This is going to be a whole thing, isn't it?"

“Oh yes,” Edward agreed. “In fact, I’d say that there’s a decent chance he’ll try to induct us next, so everyone be on your guard if you care about your old allegiances, or at least the appearance of them. 

Bear listened to them with a raised eyebrow. “What do you mean? I thought he was trying to get back at Truro?”

The other engines looked at him funny. 

“What?”

“Did you not get it?” Delta asked, in a tone that implied that she wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. “This isn’t about Truro, this is about Gordon.” 

“What do you mean?”

The other engines looked at each other. 

“Bear,” Edward began. “Gordon doesn’t care about Truro in that way. I can’t say his exact reasoning for letting him witness the whole event, but I daresay it wasn’t anything more than kicking an engine when he’s already down. That ceremony, on the other wheel… wasn’t about Truro at all.”

“Then what was it about?” 

“You!” several voices said at once. The other engines looked at each other, before James of all engines spoke up. 

“Bear, Gordon’s an idiot, but he’s our idiot. And he thinks, because he’s an idiot, that he can only care about someone if they’re…” he searched for the right word. 

“Related?” BoCo said after a second. 

“Not the word I was looking for but close enough.” James continued. “He doesn’t think he’s allowed to care about you unless you’re… related to him, somehow. Or at least that it’s not proper. Stupid Londoner nonsense if you ask me, but he tries to care anyways, which means that when someone like you gets bossed around and treated like yesterday’s ashes by the… what’s the word?”

“Embodiment?”

“Yep that’s it - the embodiment of your railway, he doesn’t think he can help because… “well that’s a Great Western issue”.” James could not imitate Gordon at all but he did it anyway. “And so when he has to do something - and trust me somebody was going to have to do something about that berk - he’s going to get…”

“Inventive?” 

James glared at Edward, Delta, and BoCo. “Would you three like to say it?”

“No, I think you’re doing a fine job.”

“Nope.”

“You’ve got it under control.”

James sighed deeply, and opened his mouth to say something more, but was cut off by Bear. “So, wait. Gordon did all that because he… cares about me? Us?” 

“If you must know,” Gordon’s voice rang out as he backed into the shed in a flurry of smoke and snowflakes. “I did it because you would otherwise be forever yoked to that infantile and childish railway and its monstrous figurehead. By “staking a claim” in you, for lack of a better phrase, you are once and forevermore freed of any association with that brutish monstrosity.”

“And the fact that you now have a guilt-free reason to be nice to him is just a perk, hm?” Delta said smugly. 

“Delta,” Gordon said as he was turned on the turntable. “If you would like for me to have a ‘guilt free reason’ to be nice to you, all you have to do is ask. 

“I like my heritage.” She said, all too quickly. “Really!” 

Gordon laughed regally, and backed into the stall between Bear and Edward. “Yes, I’m sure. The offer will stand, however.”

His crew hopped down and began cleaning out his ashpan. Bear took the momentary clatter to whisper to Gordon. “You really didn’t have to do that, you know. I could’ve handled it.”

“I did have to, actually.” Gordon said just as quietly. “There is a time for passivity, and a time for action. The instant he laid buffer on you, the time for action was upon us.”

He said it so firmly, so utterly final, that Bear’s response died in his throat. Gordon looked at him for a second, before turning his attention to the other engines. 

Bear sat there for a while, absorbing his words. My god. They do care about me.

[protect-namine]

it's interesting that yingdu E1 is gonna be the episode that really tells you if you like S1 story structure more, or S2 story structure more.

I thought yingdu would be more like S2 but I'm actually pleasantly surprised it starts more like S1? and I already knew this about myself but I really loved the episodic, slice of life nature of the first half of S1 (and the chibi shorts). I loved S2 and all, but the first time I fell in love with link click it was because of the day-to-day kind of issues they face before they started playing mind games with other people who have abilities like them. and I think I wouldn't have enjoyed S2 or even the back half of S1 if the show didn't start with episodic, low stakes cases. of course, I think they'll probably mix both storytelling styles this special season.

but idk, I really missed that vibe. shiguangling being domestic is sweet. I did like the cosplay story more than vivian's story, though I think them trying to set up the scammer parallel to lu guang was funny. I think cheng xiaoshi shines a lot in these kinds of moments because he's very empathetic even with the little things. lu guang is the one dealing with a lot of big picture stuff (time and death itself) but cheng xiaoshi? he just wants to set up a photography studio and maybe help a couple of people out when he can. play basketball. find a cosplayer to return her paintings. help their student council president to not get scammed.

he's just a little guy! look at him! he thrives in low stakes situations!! give him milk tea and he's happy 🤗

I think the most surprising details in this episode were:

lu guang is in the anime club :o

lu guang kept a detailed notebook of the past?? damn. I feel like he spent one timeline just memorizing and noting down events, down to the last minute.

"your eyes remind me of two people I knew" holy shit. time traveler parents possibly true. what if cheng xiaoshi's parents are lost to the time stream? like, they faced the consequences lu guang said you'd face if you stayed more than 12 hours into a picture (notably though, lu guang doesn't seem? to have this issue when he dives? or I guess past 12 hours you get "stuck" in the past and aren't able to come back to your "present")

what is up with cheng xiaoshi always wanting lu guang to be his partner "for life" asdfghjkl. my guy. you're so sweet

lu guang moves into the photo studio during their university years and bridon happens right after. and he's wearing cheng xiaoshi's summer clothes...

cheng xiaoshi did not clap when he activated his powers with the bridon picture (his hands were holding the envelope and the picture). which is... weird? how did that happen? also he went there as himself which means this picture was... not taken by a photographer? because otherwise he should've possessed someone like normal

finally: lu guang didn't have a watch in the beginning. idk why I always thought he had a watch. anyway, I think we can use the placement of his watch as a signifier of which timeline we're in

no watch: original timeline. when lu guang dives back here, I guess he buys a watch afterwards

watch on the left hand: either the og timeline (after he buys a watch) or the first time he dives? the timeline with cheng xiaoshi's first death? the style of the bedroom makes me think this happened in the first time they go to bridon (which isn't necessarily the same timeline we're seeing in the donghua right now).

edit: actually, scratch that. now I think this might have been lu guang's bedroom lol. the date is 4/12 which is the day cheng xiaoshi reads the 👌 text from lu guang about playing basketball again

it's also consistent with the flashback to cheng xiaoshi's death in S2E1 — watch is on the left hand.

watch on the right hand: S2 finale dive / yingdu E1 dive. which means vein showing up in the photo studio happened sometime during our "current" timeline.

lu guang keeps his watch on his right hand during S1 and S2 as well (catguang in the chibi shorts also has a watch on his right... paw).

there's probably other details I missed but anyway. welcome back link click!! I'm already one square away from getting a bingo in my yingdu bingo card lmao

[himluv]

A Song for Believing

As promised, here is the next chapter of my Rookanis fic, Say My Name (Say it Twice). This is one of my favorites so far, so I hope you love it as much as I do!

Lucanis couldn’t sleep. An interesting feeling, considering he was usually trying to avoid unconsciousness. But tonight he felt restless, and the thought of sitting up all night in the pantry with just his demon and the itch behind his eyes seemed unbearable. So, he took a walk. 

It was never dark at the Lighthouse, which was unsettling at best and irritating at worst. After the Ossuary, he’d appreciated the unwavering daylight, but he did miss nights in Treviso. If the endless daylight bothered anyone else, they didn’t let it show. Dinner had been hours ago, and all the others were asleep. The Lighthouse was quiet, and the walk would be peaceful if not for Spite following along, narrating everything he smelled. 

Pipe smoke. And wisps. Feathers and oak. And… corruption? The demon gagged as the passed Davrin’s quarters. 

Lucanis smirked. It seemed even Spite took issue with the Grey Warden. 

Benevolence, Spite growled as they walked by the Caretaker’s workshop, even though it stood empty. So kind. So caring. So. GOOD! Bah!

They kept walking, Spite bounding ahead to avoid any of the Caretaker’s goodness tainting him. 

Cheese and sunshine. Green leaves, tender as hearts.

Lucanis wasn’t sure if that was poetic or threatening. Perhaps both. 

Old magic. Old. Knowledge! The eighth. The last. Spite looked back at Lucanis. Dangerous.

He already disliked the Archive spirit Bellara kept in her room, but now Lucanis would give it an extra wide berth. And maybe check on Bellara more often. 

Inside the library, Lucanis had one foot on the stairs, intending to do a loop around the top level of the room, when Spite flashed into being beside one of the round doors on the main floor. He hadn’t explored much of the Lighthouse, instead keeping to his space or occasionally Bellara’s or Neve’s. Meaning he had no idea where that door led.

Rook! Spite crowed. Campfire and berries. Can smell. Can. Hear!?

Spite was very good at noticing Rook’s presence – Lucanis would have believed she was behind the door even if he hadn’t heard faint music coming from within. 

Want. To see. Rook! Spite said. Want. To. LISTEN!

They shouldn’t. After what happened the last time they were alone together, Lucanis wasn’t sure he wanted to face her again on his own. 

Embarrassed? Spite inhaled. Afraid. But wants!

Lucanis sighed. The demon was right, he was very intrigued by the sound lilting through the door. The notes were stilted, exploratory, as if the person playing was figuring out the tune as they went.

Rook!

Lucanis took a step closer, and the door rolled away into the wall, revealing a room covered in murals. In the center of the room stood a piano, where Rook sat with her back to the door. She looked over her shoulder with a wince, which quickly turned to surprise as she saw him. And then, a little smile. 

“I thought you might be Emmrich coming to tell me to go to bed,” she said. 

Spite rushed into the room, sniffing at everything. Smells like paint and sadness, he said. Love found. Then denied. The sweetest regret.

Lucanis stepped further into the room, allowing the door to close behind him. “It is late,” he said.

“And yet, here you are.” She turned back to the keys, placing her fingers carefully.

“I nev–”

“–Never sleep,” she said. “I know.”

Lucanis didn’t miss the strange mix of fondness and bitterness in her voice. So… that almost-kiss had cost him something after all. 

“What is this place?” He asked. He walked to the nearest chair and sat beneath a mural of wolves flanking a sword topped with a giant eye.

Rook looked around the room, then shrugged. “I’ve been calling it the music room.” Again, she returned to the keys, her fingers searching out certain notes with care. She didn’t look at him. 

Lucanis frowned, but kept his voice soft when he spoke. He didn’t blame her for keeping him at arm’s length. “You’re upset with me.”

She sighed and shook her head. “I’m not upset,” she said.

Spite lifted his head from the crate of cheese he was sniffing. Rook. Lies?

“I’m just…” she frowned down at her hands. “Confused.”

His heart sank at the dejected tone of her voice. It was there because of him. It was his fault, and he had no way to make it better. There was nothing he could say to erase all the near-misses between them. All he could give her was the truth. 

“As am I.”

Her head snapped up to look at him, but she said nothing. It seemed she was done filling in his gaps. 

Lucanis took a deep breath and clenched his fists to keep from fidgeting. “There are… things I need to deal with before I can…” he shook his head. He still couldn’t bring himself to say it. To admit out loud just how much he cared for her. 

She frowned, her brow furrowed over those crystal grace eyes. “You know, Lucanis, you talk a lot about your work.” There was a new frustration in her voice. “About what you need to do. But I still don’t know what you want.”

Want. ROOK! Spite said from across the room.

‘Want’ might be an understatement at this point. And it was still such a foreign concept to him, to want something – someone – for himself. Lucanis had a lifetime of little desires, overshadowed by the demands of his House. His family. These few months in the Lighthouse had opened him up to a new world of desire he’d never once imagined. 

He wanted to stay here, with the people he was slowly coming to think of as a new kind of family. He wanted to cook, to feed these people, and know they were cared for. That they would never know hunger. 

But more than anything, he wanted Rook. In any and every way possible. He wanted to sate her every desire – be it found in a café, or on a dinner table, or in her bed. He wanted to sleep in her arms and wake to her smiles. He wanted that easy rhythm they’d had in the kitchen, a peaceful echo of the way they moved on the battlefield. He wanted to see how that rhythm weaved its way into every day of their lives. 

His pulse thundered and his throat felt tight, but this was a different kind of panic. It wasn’t the frigid cinch of the Ossuary. It was fire and warmth, suffused through every inch of him. He swallowed against the feeling of his heart beating in his throat, and met Rook’s gaze. 

Mierda, she could stare down a dragon. He was pinned by her eyes, and he knew she wouldn’t let him go until he answered her.

“Rook, if I could…” he swallowed again, tried again. “I want…” But how did he say this? How could he, when nothing had changed from the other night? He was still a mess of a man, and she still deserved better. 

He shook his head. “Forgive me,” he said. “I’m not certain what I wish to say.”

Liar, Spite hissed. 

Rook closed her eyes, and though he knew she tried to conceal it, for once he read the disappointment on her face loud and clear. 

“For now,” he said, his voice faltering. He stopped, looked down at his feet and blinked back the emotion that had threatened to overflow. “For now, will you play for me?”

They looked at each other for a long moment. He watched as disappointment turned to sadness in her eyes. He watched them shimmer in the pale light of the Fade that streamed through the windows. And then she rolled them and cleared her throat as she looked back at the piano keys. 

“I’m not actually any good, you know.” There was that teasing tone to her voice again, and he saw a smirk twist the corner of her mouth.

That tone? Her smirk? They told him that, somehow, impossibly, she understood. She understood what he wanted to say, and understood that he couldn’t. Not yet. They told him that it was okay. That she would wait for him to find his way to her. 

Lucanis sat back, crossing his arms over his chest and closing his eyes. He didn’t want her to see the fresh wave of emotion gathering there. “I’ll be the judge of that,” he said, once he knew his voice would be steady.

She snorted at that, but a moment later sound filled the room. The air around him felt warmer with each keystroke, as if the notes carried all the warmth she held for him. The song cradled him, just as he imagined her arms would, and before the song was through Lucanis was asleep.

Warm, sad little notes. Like slices of a heart. Campfire and berries. Salt and coffee. Close. So. CLOSE. But, still so far. 

“He wants. You!” We want Rook. Make Rook. Happy! 

“I know, Spite.”

“Wants to talk. To touch. To taste!” 

“… I know. But you shouldn’t tell me those things.”

“Why not?”

“Because, those are Lucanis’s private thoughts.”

Grrrrrrr. “He won’t say! Too afraid.”

“He will. When he’s ready.”

“How do you know?”

“I guess I don’t, really. But I believe in him. He’ll figure this out.”

“Rook. So good. Kind. Always helps, like Benevolence… but determined, too.”

“More like stubborn.”

“Stubborn! YES! Stubborn is gooooood.”

Rook laughed… Made. Rook. LAUGH?!

“You know, Spite. I asked Lucanis what he wanted–”

“–Wants. YOU.”

“Yeah… I, uh… I got that. But, what do you want?”

“I want. OUT.”

“I know, and we’re trying.”

“No. Lucanis is not. Does not listen.”

“Well, I’m trying. We’ll figure this out.”

“Rook is stubborn. And Rook helps?”

“Yes.”

“Hmmmm.” Want to believe. Rook. Always helps.

“Do you want me to keep playing?”

“… yes.”

“If I do, will you let Lucanis sleep?”

“Ugh. Yes.”

Rook plays, sweet and soft. Notes shimmer. Like eyes when they see each other. A song for believing. 

Lucanis woke with a blanket draped over his torso. The music room was empty, with no hint that anyone had played an instrument there in years. For a sleep-addled moment, he almost convinced himself that his conversation with Rook had been a dream. But he was warm, covered by a blanket he had no memory of, and with no hint of a chill in his spine. Spite hadn’t possessed him while he slept.

Rook asked me. Let you. Sleep.

Lucanis sat up with a groan. “And you listened?”

Spite gave a dignified sniff from where he sat at the piano. Rook listens. So I listen. To Rook.

“How considerate of you.”

Spite snarled at that, but said nothing more. He busied himself trying to press the keys, though the instrument made no sound.

Lucanis rubbed at his face, marveling at how good he felt after a full night’s sleep. He’d have to thank her for whatever she’d said to the demon. And maybe see if she could do it again. He stood and folded the blanket, leaving it on the seat of the chair. He hoped he’d have cause to use it again. That maybe, if he was very lucky, she would play for him again. 

Things were far from perfect between them. In fact, they were more fragile than ever. And yet… Lucanis couldn’t help feeling oddly hopeful as he stepped out into the library. Just as he couldn’t banish the lilting echo of a piano that played over in his mind. 

He would figure this out. He would deal with his family and this demon, and then he would tell Rook exactly how he felt. And then, finally, there would be peace. For the first time, he believed it with his whole heart. 

[empthy1]

paper cranes |∿⋆.˚| tashi duncan x reader

kiera writes another tashi duncan fic with too much character study. fork found in kitchen. 1k words.

People always wanted a view into THE DUNCANATOR. They hungered to peel back those layers, cradle her soul in their greedy hands. It was the same with reporters, with classmates, with friends-of-friends. What's she really like?

Even as she shied from those questions, painting a mural of a encouraging, sweet family, an unrelenting drive, and a yellow brick road to fifty grand slams—they wanted it. They wanted the raw, unfiltered pain. They wanted to hear faults, issues of bitchiness and a diva-like disposition that just... never came.

So, when her knee snapped—that painful sound, the pooling blood, her unfiltered cries—pity and sorrow, well wishes and soft handling quickly made way for the harshness. The unrelenting chug of the media knew no stopping, of course. There's only so much time they could milk the sympathy.

What's next for THE DUNCANATOR? The article sat, mockingly, in front of your eyes. It's not an online snub you can flee from, or a newspaper you're passing by. The glossy sheen of the pages taunts you, right in your face.

Could this cashier go any slower. Really. You had no problem with old people getting work at grocery stores—you'd heard it gave them good purpose, motivation. Just when there's a sloth-like geriatric with shaky hands bagging your groceries, and you have to stare into Tashi's pained expression, raw and unfiltered as the first time you saw it—

Well. Anyone would be a slight bit irritated.

She'd taken up paper folding of all things (origami, she'd repeatedly corrected you) after her injury. Cranes filled her windowsill, some smaller and made of specialty paper, others folded from her notebook in a particularly boring class.

Her fingers were made for it—slim and delicate, precise with every fold and strong enough to hold the form. Yet, it's quite the shift. She was fierce on the court, taking up so much space her opponents suffocated. Now, she's small on her bed, curled in her corner of the dorm room and hunched over the paper.

When you walk in from the grocery store, she startles briefly. She was halfway through another crane, and you'd paid it no mind—only dropping the bags and sinking to empty them.

Looking back on it, you'd caught the slightest peek of her swooping handwriting, half-exposed by the undone fold.

Tashi came to see you practice, just once. She was bundled in her Stanford sweater, protected against the cool autumn air. Her gaze was unusually tense. She never looked at you like that. Even across from you, during the last match of a tournament you'd both fought your ass off to get to, you'd managed to make her smile with every particularly good backhand.

When your last practice match was done, she'd already disappeared. But, sat on your bag, was a folded crane.

You took it, inspecting the medium-sized thing. It was just white paper. Nothing special, except that it was made by her hands. You hold it just long enough that a droplet of sweat drips from your hairline, wetting the paper.

Cursing briefly, your attention focuses in on the spot. But when you look closer you see the faint impression of black, swirling handwriting. Hers.

Unfolding it, you're greeted with unexpectedly honest words.

Tashi wasn't an emotions person, you'd learned. Discussions were shut down, even after something as distressing as her accident. Especially about her accident. Her words only got sharper the further you pushed. This note, however?

I'm so sad angry. Why can you play if I can't? We were supposed to do this together. This was all supposed to be ours.

Your finger runs over the writing, intercut with folds. You tuck it back into a more simple, smaller rectangle using the creases and tuck it delicately into your bag, continuing on like your world wasn't turning on its head.

You found these notes occasionally. Things Tashi had never said before were now spilling into your consciousness and filling your eyes.

Some were nicer. Simpler.

You look pretty today.

Thank you for helping me with physio.

I love you.

You got that one more than you'd ever admit. You kept those tucked neatly in your desk drawer. The small cranes fit nicely, packed tightly.

Other days she was depressed, almost resentful.

Why do you get to continue on without me

Please please get Art to stop looking at me like that I can barely handle you

Your backhand is getting worse

Well, that one was just one of Tashi's normal comments. Still, after her injury and how you'd seen her fold in on herself, it carried a sharpened twitch of resentment. Her t's and l's were slashes rather than their previously girlish curl. At least she was communicating, and you hadn't been thrown out of your dorm room like a cheating husband.

She always left them when you weren't looking. You'd find them tucked in your schoolbag, or shoved in your tennis bag. Gently laid on your pillow or thrown over your desk.

You were getting rather sick of it. You felt juvenile. Passing notes with Tashi and hiding your laughter was sweet in class. But here, dealing with the emotionally shifting writing? It was irritating.

Plopping down on her bed while she was folding was a crime. That was her zen, where she was emotionally sound—feelings sinking into her writing and the paper. But you do it anyway, and press close.

"I love you too, Tashi." You murmur against her shoulder, watching as her hands pause and tense. Her tendons peek from her tawny skin. "And I'm not leaving you."

Even when the magazines moved on. When her classmates had forgotten and your teammates had stopped talking about her in hushed tones.

She turns to bury in your hair, nose pressing greedily. The crane crinkles in her tight hand, before dropping to the floor. She brings those now-gentler fingers to thread to the back of your neck.

She doesn't say anything. But you knew she wasn't a talker. She just breathes you in and sinks like waterlogged paper.

[rendoa-blog]

Aphra! (IMV!Dust)

First time drawing one of Icarus's little guys!

Up first, Aphra having a breakdown!

And it's painted!

(Og Dusttale by ask-dusttale, even if this is majorly fanonized lol)

[airoarts]

luxray :3 redraw of a redraw. 2024/2019/2014 in order.

id in alt and below cut

[ID 1: digital painting of the Pokemon Luxray. It is lion-like, standing proudly on a high cliff with its mouth open and emitting electricity. Its tail and yellow markings are glowing. In the background is a dramatic scene of a stormy Sinnoh region, with lightning striking the tallest peak, Mt. Coronet. Wetlands and a pine forest are also visible. The image is dramatically lit to emphasize the lightning as well as the glows on Luxray.

ID 2: An older painting depicting the same scene. Luxray is roaring, with no lightning coming out of its mouth. The background is less complex with the lightning striking nonspecific mountains.

ID 3: An even older painting depicting the same scene. Luxray's anatomy is wonky and it is not roaring. The background is less complex than the previous image with no specific target for the lightning.

End IDs]

[revvywevvy]

hi guys im still alive lol. havent been drawing too too much lately (depressions a bitch xd) but i do have a few things yay yippee!!!! i ended up doing a style study of sorts a few months ago (i dated em so yk when theyre from) and ive been trying to make this my new style bc i really like it (with some hiccups but hey. arts hard lol) so heres some pyrrlinas :-] (yes ik its a redraw (and u may have to zoom a little bc the croppings kinda. yeah.))

[irregularjohnnywiggins]

Really funny how More Fun Comics #73 introduced two of DC's most popular superheroes, both of whom had wildly different Golden Age origins than any other origin since, and yet both origins are on completely different axis of 'would be cool if they were an Elseworld story someday'.

To whit, Aquaman's Golden Age origin sees his father as an undersea explorer who discovers the ruin of Atlantis, and uses their advanced technology to grant his infant son the ability to breathe underwater and communicate with sea-life. I'd be really interested in a modern take on this idea - I did see a fanart a few years back that reimagined Golden Age Aquaman as a tech hero, old-school divers suit and all, and hell it would even be cool to have an Aquaman story not focused on Atlantis, but instead on Aquaman as Protector of the Seas.

On the other hand, Golden Age Oliver Queen is a white guy who has... ahem, ""gathered"" a huge collection of Native American* artifacts and cultural relics, which he keeps for himself and used to train himself in archery and the like, before all of the artifacts are destroyed when criminals burn his house down. Oliver seeks out a secret, long-lost Native American* city and runs into Roy Harper when his plane crashes. Roy has been on the island the city is buried under for years, with his only companion being Quoag, his Native American* ""manservant"" who talks like every racist Asian caricature from the Golden Age because I guess the writers were too used to writing WWII propaganda to be creative in their racism. Anyway, thieves show up, Quoag dies and is immediately forgotten, they force in some really painful references to Green Arrow and Speedy (like, if you thought the reasoning for Speedy's name in Arrow being 'Oliver's sister does drugs' was painfully forced...) and eventually Oliver and Roy find the Native American* city, which is made out of solid gold because... reasons. Rather than tell anyone about it, Oliver and Roy decide to dismantle the city, sell it brick by brick, and use the money to become wealthy, and also fund their superhero exploits because apparently they decided that was a good idea.

If DC ever brings back Golden Age Oliver Queen under any circumstances and the story doesn't end with Modern Ollie and Roy teaming up to shank him and redistribute his wealth, I'm going to kill someone.

*I say 'Native American' knowing that it's incredibly broad, but the comic doesn't offer a specific group. It also... doesn't call them Native Americans, which I'm pretty sure you can guess.

[eachuisge-cc]

I have finally fixed the satyr dicks properly and, I believe, solved the penis glitch mystery. apparently you have to clone Exactly the WW body part you are making, or something goes screwy. so far, as long as I've done that, nothing has broken. which means I can finally do more sizes and the fem frame version of this thing.

[mrfoox]

.... OK I really hope I can keep this dude ♥

[pepprs]

also (this is it i promise) this is why i am so INSANELY excited to have my own room soon. like omg. it is definitely not perfect bc it’s at home and there’s a breaker box in it and you can hear footsteps really loud through the ceiling and also again *it’s at home* when i really need to not be living at home. but the quality of life improvement i am about to have is actually INSANE. i will be able to have a space far away from everyone else where i can sing without bothering anyone and play piano and decorate it (mostly) to my liking and have a desk and draw and paint and do whatever. finally!!!!!!!! that is going to fix me!!!!!

[deathbyworm]

I fucked up the tendons in the wrist so I've been trying to do stuff with my non dominant hand. anyway today I tried painted an aubergine

even though it's kinda shitty this was the most fun I've had painting in a long long time and I think it's because I genuinely wasn't expecting or even hoping for it to be any good, would highly recommend a shitty non-dominant painting day for literally everyone ever

[the-busy-ghost]

Constantly forget that the ceiling and windows are lower in the upstairs room, and think I finally know what people over six feet feel like

[criminalamnesia]

Simon x Reader whose already work with TF 141 for a pretty long time. And one day, there's a traitor around the base, leaking their information. All of the proof are leading to reader but reader always deny it! And they interrogated reader, and reader always deny it! And he's (with other 141 members, of course, but it mostly him) do their torture methods to get information out of reader. They keep doing it until someday, the real traitor finally captured!

And make the reader traumatized, pls. Like, she would have trust issues, trauma, and others. She wouldn't forgive them, tho.

ooooo the angst. had to sit on this one for a few days before I wrote something, but here goes nothing.

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

when you blink open your eyes, the room is dimly lit. it’s silent save for the sounds of your labored breathing.

you must’ve passed out. one second johnny— a man you’d known for years—was slicing into your skin with a knife. the next, you’re staring into an empty room.

your hands jerk up involuntarily. still bound. the rope holding them to the arms of the chair have rubbed them raw. the skin is bright red and bloody. it makes you grit your teeth.

you look down at your lap, taking inventory of the parts of your body you can see. large gashes break up the fabric of your tac pants. the blood surrounding the deep wounds is dry and crusty.

one of the cuts looks like it’s getting infected. you swear you can see bone.

you’d taken this kind of suffering before. been capture by enemies, held and tortured and pushed to the brink of death. this was different. this was being done by your team. men you’d bled with. cried with. laughed with.

one you’d even slept with. the same one you loved. the one you called yours.

the door to the room swung open, hitting the wall with a metal thud. your head slowly lifts, eyes squinting to see him. by his stature, you know it’s simon.

he doesn’t bother shutting the door behind him. instead, he walks towards you slowly. as he comes closer, can make out his eyes in the sea of dark paint he smears around them. the same paint you’d helped him apply a time or two.

“back for more?” you say, and it’s meant to sound sarcastic, but all it sounds like is pitiful. your voice cracks, and pain seeps into your tone.

the first rule they’d taught you about scenarios like this was to never let the enemy know it’s working. never let them know that they’re hurting you— that they’re slowly wearing down your defenses.

well, you’d just broken that rule, and you hadn’t even meant to.

you didn’t know how long you’d been tied up, subjected to torture by men you had once called your family. all because a fucking liar whispered your name into their ears. all because they fucking believed it.

apparently the years meant nothing to them. to him, least of all, considering he’d done more damage to you than the rest of them.

simon comes to a stop in front of you. his hands are empty by his sides, but that’s not reassuring. there’s a table full of weapons off to the side. he would have his pick of the litter.

“ready to talk yet?” he says, and his voice is gruff. his tone is hollow. he’s speaking to you the same way he’d spoken to countless enemies. it makes you sick.

“fuck you, simon,” you spit out.

the betrayal of john, gaz, and johnny had hurt. but simon’s betrayal? that was enough to almost put you in the ground.

you’d stopped pleading with them the second they tied you to the chair. now, you were angry. furious. rage filled your veins, and if you weren’t beaten to all hell, you’d find a way out of these fucking restraints and strangle the man in front of you to death.

the man you loved. you’d thought you meant something to him, but apparently not— because who tortures someone they love?

“if you talk,” he ignores your outburst. “it’ll be easier. quick.”

“fuck. you.” you enunciate the words, your jaw impossibly tight as you grit your teeth. “im not the fucking rat.”

“all the evidence,” he starts as he disappears from your vision. you know he’s going to pick his weapon of the hour. you force yourself not to shudder.

“points to you.”

“take that bullshit evidence and shove it up your ass, riley,” you seethe, ropes pulling taut as you lean forward in the chair.

he’s back in your line of sight now, brandishing a large knife.

“you’re only making it harder on yourself, love,” he tuts, and then he’s swinging the knife down, right onto one of your fingers.

you scream as the blade cuts right through skin and bone. your teeth dig into your lip, drawing blood as you refuse to give him more of a reaction. it fucking hurts, but you’ll be damned if you let yourself cry.

“feel like talking now?” he asks, watching as half of your left pinky finger falls to the floor.

“or should we take off another?”

you look up at him, hoping he can see the hatred in your eyes as you speak your next words. “you could take the fucking hand off and I’d still have nothing to tell you.”

“let’s see how true that is then, eh?” he replies, and raises the knife again. he’s about to swing, when someone comes running into the room.

“ghost!”

it’s johnny. he’s obviously winded as he stops beside simon, dropping his hands to his knees as he struggles for breath.

“what, mactavish? im busy.”

“they’re—” he gasps. “they’re not— the— rat.” he says between breaths.

the room goes impossibly still. so quiet you swear you could hear the men’s heartbeats (or maybe that pounding in your ears was your own).

“you sure?” simon’s voice is softer as he lowers the knife and turns to johnny. the younger man nods, his eyes trained on you. you can see the regret in them, the sorrow.

“it’s fucking shepard.”

it’s not funny, but at the news, you burst into laughter. the men stare at you in confusion, but you can’t stop.

you’re laughing so hard you’re crying, and they’re just standing there.

“are you alrigh’?” johnny’s asking as he moves towards you. he’s fully recovered his breath now, and he drops to a crouch to be eye level with you.

you don’t answer— you can’t. you keep laughing. distantly, you hear the knife simon was holding clatter to the ground. can just make out the sound of more footsteps out in the hallway, coming towards the room.

you pass out.

when you wake up again, you’re in the infirmary. your eyes open slowly, adjusting to the bright fluorescent lights.

“easy, love,” a voice to your right drawls.

your eyes are fully open now. you look down at yourself, noticing the lack of bindings. noticing the iv taped to your arm, the stitched cuts, the black and blue bruises, the missing fingernails and missing finger.

the person sitting next to you clears his throat. that’s when you look up and meet the eyes of your captain.

your captain. the man who was supposed to lead you, to keep you safe. what a fucking joke. he’d started the damn witch hunt.

“how d’you feel?” he asks, his words soft, like he’s trying not to scare off a timid animal.

you stare at him for a beat. then two. then you’re moving, pulling the iv from your arm and shakily pushing yourself up in the bed. price is telling you to stop, reaching out to push you back down, but you slap at his hands.

“get the fuck off me!” you shout, and that takes him aback. he stops, frozen, as he watches you shift in the bed. you throw your legs over the side of it and prepare yourself to stand.

“you really shouldn’t—” he begins after he’s regained his senses, but you pay him no mind. you place your feet on the ground and start to stand. your legs wobble, almost give out, but you’re able to stand. barely.

“shut up,” you growl, stumbling forward and towards the exit. he’s moving to cut you off, and you slide him a gaze that’s sharper than a knife. “and leave me the fuck alone.”

he halts again. he seems almost scared of you— but that can’t be right. even on your best days, he would still beat you in hand-to-hand combat.

he’s not scared of your threats or your frail body. he’s scared of what he’s done to you.

just then, johnny and gaz come through the infirmary doors.

“cap, y’alright? we heard yellin’—” johnny begins, but his mouth snaps shut at the sight of you out of bed.

you’re heaving from your spot next to the bed. your legs are shaking violently, threatening to give out any second. you feel nauseous and numb.

“let’s get you back into bed,” gaz says, and he starts towards you, but you stop him as your gaze snaps to his.

“don’t come any fucking closer. any of you.”

“bonnie,” johnny murmurs. he sounds miserable, but you don’t care. don’t give a fuck about how any of them feel.

“don’t. im leaving,” you grunt out, moving a foot forward slowly. you’d be damned if you fell in front of them.

“you can’t, love. you’re in no shape to be walking.” john says, and you snarl.

“and whose fault is that?”

the men stay silent as they watch you slowly shuffle towards the foot of the bed. you’re bracing yourself to walk on your own when simon walks in.

“get back in bed,” his tone is blunt. you ignore him.

you remove your hand from the bed, move to take a step forward without support, and you begin to crumple to the floor.

simon moves forward, quick as a cat, and catches you. he lifts you into his arms bridal style, and you’re screaming hysterically. your limbs are flailing the best they can in such a battered state. you’re in fight-or-flight mode, your body betraying your desire to put up a steely front.

your palms slap against simon’s upper body and his masked face. he gives no reaction. he doesn’t say anything. the others are watching the exchange silently. the room is buzzing with tension.

“get off me!” you screech, landing a slap to simon’s cheek. “let me— let me go! let me go!” you’re gasping for breath, tears streaming down your cheeks. you’re panicking. your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of your chest.

“put me down! get— get— off me! stop—” you sob.

the doctor rushes into the room then, yelling at the men for allowing you out of bed. you can’t make out what she’s saying over the rush of blood in your ears. you feel light-headed. you can’t breathe.

“put them down, now!” the doctor yells at simon. “they’re having a panic attack— I thought I told you four to stay away from them? they’re too vulnerable right now—” the doctor is chastising them as simon places you back in the bed.

spots are dancing in your vision. you don’t even feel it when the doctor sticks another needle into your arm. the words being exchanged above your head are muffled. it’s like you’re underwater.

john’s face comes into view, then johnny’s, then gaz’s. as your eyes start to close, you notice the only face you don’t see again is simon’s.

when you wake up again, it’s been two weeks.

the doctor had put you into a medically induced coma to allow your more serious wounds time to heal, without risking another episode. unbeknownst to you, the members of your team had stayed by your bedside almost the entire time— minus simon. he hadn’t come within ten feet of the infirmary since the day of your panic attack.

there’s fresh flowers on the bedside table. a steady beeping of the heart monitor. a fuzzy feeling in your head.

it feels like a dream, all of it does. none of it feels real as you settle into your body again. but then the hurt starts, and you remember the truth.

your family betrayed you. your lover betrayed you. they locked you up and tortured you. they didn’t believe you.

when the doctor came to your side to check your iv, she smiled.

“how’re you feeling?”

you look up at her, and it takes a moment for you to speak.

“don’t,” you begin. your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. “don’t let them…in here. don’t…wanna see them.”

the doctor nods in understanding, and she doesn’t say anything else to you. she turns and walks out of the room.

the door clicks shut behind her. she lets out a sigh before turning around to face the three men.

“they don’t want to see you.” she tells them, and their expressions drop. they don’t protest, and like wounded puppies, they walk off.

no one else comes to check on you for a few hours.

you’re in and out of consciousness— can’t tell what’s real and what’s a dream. flashes of your torture come back to you. flashes of a smile. of a scarred face. of hands on your hips and—

you crack your eyes open, and the room is dark. the only light is the blinking of some of the machines. it illuminates the room enough to allow you to see a large, dark figure slip from the room. the door clicks shut so quietly it’s almost imperceptible.

that’s when you notice fresh flowers on the bedside table.

your eyes start to droop once more, and you chalk up whatever you just saw to a dream, while simon exhales heavily on the other side of the infirmary door.

————————————————

authors note:

I hope this alright! it’s one in the morning (and I’m half asleep writing this) so I apologize for the errors that are most likely present, and the sense this most likely lacks. I feel like I could write a whole book about this idea, but im cutting myself off to sleep lol.

thank you for the ask, I hope I did your idea justice. 🫶

[gallusrostromegalus]

The Van Has Officially Declared It Spooky Season

---

I've got my parent's van for the week and it seems determined to establish my status as The Local Cryptid by terrorizing an innocent 7-11 clerk.

...I might need to back up a bit.

My mother is an eminently sensible woman who knows herself well, and when The Plauge hit, she knew she'd need some sort of mentally and physically engaging craft project to keep herself from going insane and massacring the local zoning and water management boards (even if they have it coming). So she and Dad acquired a utility van and converted it into a camper van because while they love camping, they're past the age where their joints and immune systems will tolerate sleeping on the cold ground in a nylon tent.

They did a terrific job of it and my mom taught herself woodworking and carpentry and now the van has it's own cabinets, fold-away dining table, and removable queen-sized bed with memory foam mattress. My Dad was already a computer engineer, but he learned the dark magics of automotive software and electronics to install after-market backup cameras, a media player that would take a terabyte hard drive and a solar-powered battery and outlet so they could wake up and just turn on the kettle and griddle for breakfast without having to exit the van into a cold morning on an empty stomach.

Truly, the height of Camping Luxury.

My parents are both in their mid-seventies and my primary life goal is to be at least half as cool and hale as they are when I get old.

Anyway, they take it out at least a dozen times a year and it works fabulously, but, being as I am on good terms with my parents and also finishing the process of moving house, I've been borrowing it to move large and cumbersome objects that will not fit in the back of my equally lovely but minuscule Honda hatchback.

It's a Great Van. Very easy and comfortable to drive. Stunningly good MPG for it's size. The best cruise control I've ever had in a car.

It's just also. Quirky. Mischievous, even.

---

If this van has a fault its that it bears the unfortunate affliction that all lightly used white utility vans have in that the combination of an utter lack of branding features and the large dent/scrape I accidentally put on it while trying to escape a Denny's last Thanksgiving means that this vehicle is one addition of a Badly Spray-Painted "FREE CANDY" on the side away from being the sort of vehicle you see in an edgy horror movie.

It's got the same issue that Doberman Dogs have where they look like the sort of creature that likes to snack on toddler's faces whilst actually having personalities made of marshmallow fluff. This vehicle is unnecessarily menacing and I think nothing short of an airbrushed Epic Van Wizard will correct this. People see this van pull up and lean over and squint suspiciously at me when the driver's side door opens, and then look moderately confused when, instead of Charles Manson, a small, potato-shaped creature with neon purple hair and a statistically unlikely assortment of dogs emerges.

My own two dogs, Herschel the Hanukkah Goblin/Corgi and Charleston Chew The Taco Dumpster Dog, Do Not Like The Van. Even with the bed in it, they have a tendency to slide and roll around in the back, and both WILL chew through dog saftey belts or other attempts to secure them in there.

On the other hand, my house mate's dog, an exceptionally tall standard poodle whom we lovingly call "The Creature", loves the Van because SHE wears her doggy seat-belt with only mild complaining and gets to sit up in the passenger seat like A People.

Also like A People, The Creature likes to stand and walk around on her hind legs. It doesn't hurt her and it's entirely voluntary, but every so often I will feel a hand on my arm and instead of my husband or friend, it's a canine that's taller than I am on her hind legs who wants to stare at my face with soulful, concerned eyes. The Creature's favorite thing is that she is exactly the right height for me to hold her arm in Genteel Fashion and walk around the pet food or hardware store with her like I'm a count escorting a debutante around a royal ball.

---

As it stands, I am set to inherit this vehicle whenever my Honda gives up the ghost, and I fully intend to paint an Epic Van Wizard on it when that time comes.

The other peculiarity of The Van is that while Dad did manage to successfully install all his after-market electronics, not all the electronics get along. Sometimes, they fight for Dominance. The Terabyte Music Player and the Backup Camera have a particularly contentious relationship, and turning on the music has about a 25% chance of turning on the backup camera as well, and turning on the Backup Camera is equally likely to turn on the music.

Firthermore, The Van has a favorite song.

I am not kidding that Dad filled an entire terabyte hard drive with music and the software to sort it via the radio controls, but of all the Early Boomer Dad Rock (Kingston Trio over The Eagles) and Irish Folk and Symphonies and the entire discography of Weird Al Yankovic, The Van's favorite song- The one it picks to play as victory music every time it beats the Backup Camera at their weird electronic game of rock-paper-scissors -is The Liberty Bell March by John Phillip Sousa.

You all know this song already.

...but in case you've forgotten the tune:

Yeah.

The Van's favorite song is the goddamn Monty Python's Flying Circus Theme Music.

It does not play this song at a normal volume.

Every time I turn on the Backup Camera and it manages to turn the music player on as well, The Van insists on absolutely blasting this nonsense on at the maximum volume it's physically capable of producing, which I know is loud enough to be heard from the Denver International Airport's Pickup zone when they Van decided to start playing it from the economy lot about half a mile away.

Perhaps it's The Van's way of honoring the aesthetic sensibilities and sonic enthusiasm of Mr. Sousa.

...I can't help but wonder if the purpose of an Epic Van Wizard is to control this sort of faerie-like malarkey, and channel these chaotic energies into things like Spell of Don't Break Down In Nevada or Enchantment Of Always Have Good Parking.

---

So last Friday the 13th, I get a call from my friend and housemate, at said airport.

It's roughly 11PM at night, and I have already retired for the evening. I am in the exact minimum of clothing required to be a decent housemate and not scandalize the neighbors should I happen to walk by a window. My feet are up. There is a cat in my lap and fictional British people murdering each other in highly inventive fashion on the tv. -But my friend has returned from her friend's wedding,and either American or United Airlines has managed to lose her luggage, including, among other valuable possessions, the keys to her car. ...So she cannot just drive home as originally planned.

There are, as luck would have it, her spare set of keys not eight feet from me.

Being a good and decent person, I agree to bring the spare keys to her so she may get home before daybreak and not spend a semester's worth of tuition on an uber across the greater Denver traffic jam.

Being also that she Loves Activities, and it's her mom we're going to pick up, I elect to take along The Creature.

I am primarily focused on remembering how to get to the airport and not leaving my friend's spare keys on the counter, so I throw on a pair of flip-flops, step outside, remember that it's AUTUMN and my minimal evening attire is not sufficient thermal protection, step back in, grab the first coat in the closet I lay hands on, pull it on, check that I have her keys again and leave.

The trip to the airport is largely unremarkable, save that it becomes necessary for me to put on sunglasses to drive, despite it being nearly the witching hour and almost entirely darker than the inside of a cow.

It's necessary because this blissful darkness of night is violently punctured by a startling number of cars that seem to have installed miniaturized but no less powerful lighthouse bulbs in where their headlights ought to go so the oncoming traffic and sports cars that insist on tailgating me in the slow lane alike illuminate the road and my mirrors with the kind of radiance I'd normally associate with the arrival of a Seraphim.

I arrive at the distant highly discounted airport car lot where my housemate is waiting, deeply apologetic. It's nothing. I say. Once I see that your car starts up, I'm gonna go to that 7-11 across the way that I parked in front of, get a slurpee or something and I'll see you at home.

While she is retrieving her vehicle (an equally eccentric but much more stately Subaru that is old enough to be elected to congress) I rifle through the loose change in the glove box and discover that I have exactly $6.66 in small bills and coins. The Subaru, continuing it's long voyage into vehicular immortality, immediately starts up.

Upon her return, we all remember that my friend had all her camping gear in the backseat of the car and there is no room for The Creature to ride home with her parent, so I again assure her it's nothing, and will just take The Creature into the 7-11 with me. She is trained as a service animal and needs the practice after the plague.

I wave my friend off and turn to enter the 7-11.

I promptly trip over the jutting back bumper of The Van and fall, cartoonishly, face-first onto the sidewalk.

Fortunately, I have a lot of practice falling on my face, and have learned not to throw my hands out but instead cover my face, so my unexpected self-inflicted attempted curb-stomping lightly scrapes my hairline and nothing else -my sunglasses even stay in place- and I get up and resume my quest for a slurpee.

It's well known that the airport is a lawless place, and the 7-11 across from the discounted airport parking at the stroke of midnight is no exception.

I know it's the stroke of Midnight because there's one of those Audubon society bird-call clocks that makes bird noises, and my arrival is heralded by the twittering call of a Summer Tanager. I am almost charmed enough by the unusual choice of chronological device to excuse the exorbitant Airport-adjacent mark-up of Slurpee prices. I stand at the machine for some time, trying to decide on a size for the price and guess what the fuck "Blue Lighting Blast" is supposed to taste like.

The Creature is being Very Polite but is somewhat agitated, I assume because she *just* saw her mother for the first time in three days and then she LEFT with no explanation, so The Creature is on her hind legs, staring woefully into my eyes, asking to be escorted around the 7-11. Even though that's not what she's not supposed to be doing, there's nobody else in here, so I let her hang off my arm and discuss various Slurpee Flavor options with her.

We eventually decide on an experiment in which I try a Small Blue Lightning Blast, and discover it tastes a bit like licking a nintendo cartridge but in a pleasantly satisfying way.

I go up to pay and realize something is amiss.

The Cashier is a young man staring at me with wide eyes, one had over the register and the other wrapped up in his rosary.

I look down at myself.

In my haste to reunite my friend with her spare keys and service animal, I had left the house in the following accoutrements:

Flip Flops. Not matching. It's below freezing outside. That last part is not particularly odd footwear for the weather in for Colorado, but it's an important detail for the rest of the ensemble.

Assorted scrapes, bruises, cuts and welts on my arms and legs that come with doing outdoor work and living in a house with three dogs and a fully-clawed cat that all want to be in my lap all the time. It's cold out, so vasoconstriction has pulled the blood away from my skin, a trait that served my ancestors well during the last Ice Age, but leaves me with pale skin to contrast the various wounds and I look like a corpse that fell out of the back of a pickup truck.

The black Bootyshorts with "CRYPTID" painted in bright red gothic font across my ass, that @theshitpostcalligrapher gave me for my wedding present.

A peculiar but extremely comfortable garment that straddles the line between "Lacy Camisole" and "Industrial-Strength Sports Bra" like the Ever Given straddling the Suez Canal. It is also Bright Red. with black accents.

The Jacket I had grabbed out of the closet, which is in fact, a black Velour Dinner Jacket.

The Tokyo-Ghoul inspired reusable anti-covid mask a friend made me with the set of Coyote Teeth.

My sunglasses, which are shaped like a Halloween Bat. The lenses are the wings and the body is the nose bridge. It is ALSO bright red.

A Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle that I have been audibly affectionately calling "Dear Creature" who is hanging off my arm like she's my Prom Date.

The Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle is ALSO dressed up in a black Dog Sweater that has white bones printed on it to look like its an X-ray jacket showing off her skeleton.

I look like I am taking my Very Fancy Werewolf Girlfriend to a particularly casual Dinner Party for Vampires, but the thing that's really selling it and probably alarming the kid the most is the fun accessory I acquired in the parking lot not five minutes earlier:

The "Small Scrape At my Hairline" is actually a painless but PROFUSELY bleeding head wound that I had somehow entirely failed to notice covering my face, neck, decolletage and magnificent cleavage with blood like a Tarantino Film Extra.

This does explain why The Creature has been delicately trying to use her bodyweight to push me down onto the floor for the last ten minutes. So I don't injure myself while we wait for the paramedics she hoped this kid called to arrive, you see.

The Creature has such a High and Naive Opinion of humanity.

I decide this social situation is already fucked, and the only way out is through, and with haste, before I start dripping on the floor.

"Hi there!" I say cheerfully, to indicate this is a visually alarming but not terribly serious situation. "Just a Small Slurpee!"

The Cashier has entered the relevant code into the register before I finish the sentence. His gaze flicks off me just long enough to look at the total, and he grips his Rosary harder.

$6.66

"Oh cool! I have exact change!" I say, taking the money out of my as-yet-unsanguined pocket without looking and slap it down on the counter. "You have a good night and be safe out there!" I wave, leaving.

I get in The Van, mortified, buckle The Creature up, and as I make to leave, I have to put it in reverse, which automatically turns on the backup Camera.

It also turns on the music player.

I make eye contact with the cashier as the dulcet tones of John Phillip Sousa boom from the van hard enough to make the windshield and the windows of the 7-11 rattle for the nine-and-a-half seconds I have to wait to be able to turn the volume back down. Not knowing what else to to, I give him a thumbs up, and leave.

Anyway, now I know what my Future Van Wizard has got to be dressed like, and what their familiar is.

---

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[ssorenz]

LET’S HAVE THE SEX TALK, AY ⭑ .ᐟ

syn ⊹. in which teaching your 150y/o curse boyfriend the ways of the human life (and pleasure) goes surprisingly smooth.

cont ⊹. choso kamo x fem! reader, virgin!choso, oral (giving and receiving), premature ejac, afab!reader, NSFW CONTENT minors dni!!! wc: 1k

a/n⊹. virgin choso save me virgin choso 🙏 i wanted to post this since its been sitting in the drafts for so long omg

“baby, somethin- something’s wrong wit’ me. . .”

the half-curse invokes from your bedroom, his anxious timbre making you rush hurriedly down the hall—only to find him sat on the edge of your shared bed, blushing profusely with a small throw pillow covering his crotch.

ohhh.

you and choso had been together for about 6 months now, yet the two of you never had any sexual encounters, due to the fact that you wanted him to become more adjusted to human life before trying anything. but now with this certain issue at bay, you decided it was finally time.

you took a deep breath before recollecting yourself, taking a cushiony seat next to him, and explained to your boyfriend that what he was experiencing was utterly normal and nothing to be ashamed of.

"jus' make it stop, please. ."

oh, he doesn’t have to tell you twice.

and before you know it, you’re gravitating yourself lower, closer and closer towards his obviously growing erection. even through his pajama pants you can see how big he is. and you sure as hell weren’t wrong.

your lips form a perfect ‘o’ shape once he’s completely out of his boxers. an angry red mushroomed tip that’s practically dripping already— crystalline beads of pre down to his hefty pale base thats accented with a vein or two. and to think this was here the whole time…

“i-is something wrong?” choso inquires, a hint of worry in his tone. shifting your gaze upward, you could see his averted gaze and beet red cheeks from sheer embarrassment. you giggled softly, he was so cute when he was flustered.

“nuh uh, everything’s perfect. now, im going to do something, n’ you tell me if it feels good or not. okay?”

he swallows, before nodding eagerly in agreement, still averting his eyes from your figure below. lolling your tongue out, you licked a long warm stripe from the base to that oh-so sensitive tip of his. a poorly stifled moan could be heard from above as choso’s clawing at the downed sheets behind him, instantly stiffening up from this foreign euphoria.

"f-feels s’good," and he’s gasping out between breaths, eyes fluttering shut out of pure ecstasy. you smile around his cock, lips instinctively wrap around his sensitive head— giving small kitten licks before gradually taking more of him into your mouth. choso's hips begin to jerk up involuntarily as you begin stroking him with your tongue, the heat of your mouth making him twitch inside. a delicate hand of his finds its way entangled inside of your hair, holding you in place as if he’s beginning to lose himself completely, giving in to the bliss.

choso's resounding moans become more and more frequent as you work your way down, taking more of him into your mouth with each pass. his hips beginning to thrust upwards, meeting the rhythm of your bobbing head.

he dares to open his eyes— and that was his biggest mistake.

seeing you on your knees, eyes virtually glowing with pure lust in this low lighting, gazing up at him ever so tenderly yet seductively. taking him down your throat with little to no effort, god it was enough to make him-

“sh-shiitt!” and ropes of his warm essence are rudely painting the back of your throat as he’s spasming in your mouth, cum trickling down onto your tongue when he pulls out. his breathing is still uneven, chest rising and falling rapidly as he’s trying to recover while you’re sitting pretty with a coy grin plastered on your face. “how was that, cho? did it fee—”

“w-wanna try it on you… please?”

and now the roles are reversed, your legs hooked over his shoulders as he’s kneeling infront of your bare cunny.

he leans in, warm breath tickling against your inner thighs, nervously dangling his tongue out before swiftly flicking it just on your clitoris, causing you to groan.

and that first taste has him hooked. he latches himself onto the bud of your clit, similarly to how you did moments prior. it’s barely been seconds and he’s delved nose-deep into your wetness. he wasn’t all that sure about what he was doing, but telling from the way you were so vocal, mantras of his name echoing throughout his ears, he was doing a damn good job.

there was that feeling yet again— that strain in his boxers as his crotch pooled with a familiar warmth. he looked down and sure enough, there was again a strained tent pitched in his pants.

and his body's moving faster than his mind, his hand’s already snaked down to his boxers, palming himself through the cottony fabric. muffled guttural groans evading through parted lips as he’s drinking up your candily sweet juices, all while his hand’s wrapped around his stiffened length. trying so hard to replicate the sensation of your warm, wet mouth that was just present moments ago.

hips stuttering in sync with his rhythms, as your hand is engulfed in his ravenated strands, broken cacophonous moans of his name string from your mouth as your grinding along the heat of his tongue—leaving your pussy drooling, glassy slick dripping down the man's coated chin.

"haah—ch-cho, doin' so good..." your praise only riles him up even more, his pace picking up, becoming more and more lost in a daze. tongue darting in and out of your cunt with quick precision, teasing every sensitive spot it managed to find.

you feel your stomach tightening, the creeping sensation of your climax approaching ever so hurriedly. and it hits you like a crashing wave as one final thrust from choso’s tongue puts you right over the edge, body shuddering as it washes over you.

he can’t hold back much longer either as his cock is aching. and with a few last frantic, sloppy jerks, he finally pulls away from your cunt as loads of his cum spill into his boxers.

gasping for air himself, he looks up at you through strands of his sweaty hair before proposing the question that makes even your worn-out expression morph into something much more fitting— shocked, if you will.

“c-can we go again?”

ssorenz™ 2024, do not repost, translate or copy.