#Smooth Stick Insect

[skeltnwrites]

The Shape of Family ‧₊˚❀༉

As a single dad, Steve’s world revolves around school drop-offs, bedtime rituals, and tee-ball practices—and he's struggling to keep up. But you're always there, happily lending a hand when he needs it most. / part one masterlist

part two - at the rec center's fall festival, you and steve finally make plans to hang out 11k

a/n - how did this end up twice as long as the first chapter this was supposed to be a short one!! general warnings/tags here

── .✦

Utah’s pretty this time of year. Fall is in full swing. The maple and cottonwood mellow into rich shades of orange, there is a constant crush of leaves underfoot, and the crisp scent of pine needles mingle with the breeze. Your neighbors go all out to decorate. Pumpkins are for sale on every corner and the apple orchards buzz with families for the harvest. This kind of weather has every brush of sunlight feeling like a hug you didn’t know you needed. 

The rec center hosts an annual fall festival, bringing hayrides, corn mazes, and costume contests. And though you wouldn’t normally volunteer on a Sunday, Steve’s hard to say no to. It’s not like he begged you or anything, a half-shrug and simple “If you want to” was enough convincing. 

You’d volunteer with or without Steve. You have the time and the goodwill and thus it’s a cork on the end of your monotonous work-week. But there’s no denying that Steve makes it a hell of a lot more enjoyable. He’s the sunrise after a long night, guiding you into the days ahead. And yeah, maybe you’re romanticizing too much. Too caught up in the way his tongue sticks out when he’s concentrating or how he mumbles to himself when he forgets you’re near. But working with him is delightful, nonetheless. 

You and Steve are friends now. Well, work friends. You’ve never actually hung out outside of the rec center but there isn’t a Friday that one of you doesn’t mention it while you eat lunch in his office. You’ve learned trivial little things about him, like his favorite brand of pen, the store he buys his groceries from, and how he likes his coffee– hot enough to burn, with as much sugar as he can get away with without attracting strange looks. You ask about Penelope often and he’s very open; eager to rant and rave about the latest details of their lives. She visits every now and then, usually too sick or naughty to be at school. So you’ve come to know her just as much. That she loves Barbies and Salt-N-Pepa and insects but not the furry ones. 

Being in each other’s lives is routine at this point– parking beside his car, leaving sticky notes on his desk, setting your bag in his office. It would be crazy to say you love him, you don’t, obviously, but you feel like you could. And you know you’d be devastated if he left the center. Your shift assignments are arranged so they almost always thread with his.

He’s always hated asking for help, but then you came, puttering into his office with a lovely smile and open arms and suddenly it’s not so bad. He’ll ask for your assistance on more projects than not: your advice, your creative eye, your hands to hang something that he most certainly could do alone. 

Like now, you trail only a few paces behind Steve, cradling a wicker basket full of decorations. He billows a tablecloth over the nearest picnic table, considering your dispute over the best holiday. 

“I dunno, I’m more of a Christmas guy,” Steve shrugs, smoothing out a ripple in the fabric. “The music is just inarguably better. You get to open presents and eat delicious food. Not really a contest in my book.” 

You hum, centering a plastic pumpkin. 

“Penelope is like the queen of Halloween, though.” The corners of his eyes crinkle with mirth. “This morning, she told me she wished she was born on Halloween so she could go trick-or-treating on her birthday.” 

You wear a similar expression, gaze flicking over to Penelope. She’s not far, crouched in a strip of dirt, parting a pile of leaves to search for ladybugs and other creatures. “I bet she’s excited for all that candy.” 

“That’s all she’d eat if I let her. I’ve already scheduled a dentist appointment for her in November– But, I’m just as bad, she gets her sweet tooth from me,” he admits. 

“Figured. The amount of Reese's wrappers I find in your trash.” 

He squeezes your shoulder playfully, not hard enough that you should need to squirm away but you do. “Whatever. Why are you going through my trash anyway, weirdo.” 

You click your tongue, “I wasn’t going through your trash! They are on the top where anyone could see.” 

“Mhmm, whatever you say… dumpster diver.” 

Joan, the youth counselor, whisks over to interrupt with arms full of mason jars before you can retort. Steve smothers his smirk with an answer to her question. Your tongue prods the inside of your cheek to prevent your own. 

It’s like this with Steve, now. Teasing and taunting each other like schoolchildren. A game of tug-of-war, where every knowing glance and light-hearted jab pulls the rope just a little tighter between you. It’s as thrilling as it is nerve-wracking. 

It’s not much later when guests filter into the festival. The earliest glow of sunset mists the courtyard in gold. There’s cider stations and pumpkin carving and a whole bunch of apple bobbers fighting to win a pumpkin pie. Monster Mash bleeds from several speakers lining the trail to the tented area you find yourself in. People dance and laugh and drink. It’s a very successful event for the rec center. 

Steve plops down on the bench across from you, Penelope at his hip. A silent, self-invitation he knows you won’t decline— you enjoy their company more than people-watching. He seems to find you no matter which way you drift, even through a sea of townsfolk. 

A big scoop of chili is spooned from his paper bowl into a second. “Blow on it,” Steve reminds, planting it in front of Penelope. 

She does blow on it, a spray of more spit than air that merits her a shoulder nudge to knock it off. 

Penelope simpers over her steaming food as Steve offers you an apologetic look. Last you saw her, she was waving her way up the stairs to the costume contest. She’s since been bundled up– a tiara traded for a knit beanie and the gown from her dress-up bin crammed underneath a thick sweater and spilling out the hem. 

The string lights bathe their faces in a white glow. It highlights the beauty mark on the slope of Penelope’s cheek, like a half of Steve’s pair in the same spot. It’s not often you get to just enjoy their company. No scrambling about deadlines or standards. It’s a calm you could get used to. But Steve’s always ten steps ahead, already plotting which crew needs the most tending to when he’s finished eating. He’s selfless like that. Your feet ache from running around, but Steve’s probably worse. 

“Penelope, is that what you’re wearing on Halloween?” You ask.

Her chin presses into the neckline of her sweater. “No,” she recalls, mouth full of sauce. “I’m being Dorothy.” 

Steve swipes a napkin across her lips before anything drips. 

“From The Wizard of Oz?” 

“Mhmm,” she grins, popping the spoon out of her mouth. 

“Very cool. Did you get your costume yet?” 

She nods, glancing at Steve, “Daddy made it.” 

Steve’s in his own little world, slurping his belly full of warm food and basking in the second of peace he‘s been given. But he blinks back into reality at your questioning stare, leaning in to hear you over the boisterous laughs of nearby people. 

You try to reel in your surprise, soften your features. “You made her costume?”

“Oh,” he waves a dismissive hand, “I just sewed a shirt to a dress. Nothing fancy.” 

“Still– that’s really cool, Steve.” 

He stirs his food, voice torn with guilt. “I dunno. It’s cheap.” 

“Costumes are better homemade. The ones in the stores are tacky. I bet it looks amazing.” 

Fragments of a smile find his lips, more a peace offering than a true one. 

“I painted my shoes red and I put so much glitter on them so they sparkle,” Penelope adds cheerfully.  

“You did?” 

She nods, shining with pride. 

“It’s been two weeks and I’m still finding glitter everywhere,” Steve comments, more amused than he lets on. He can’t be that mad when they’re little reminders of his favorite person in the world. 

“Are you dressing up?” You ask him. 

He huffs, side-eyeing Penelope. “Yes.” 

A glint forms in her eyes, a sly little smirk beneath. “Daddy is going to be the lion because he’s hairy.”

You laugh and Penelope joins you because Steve has a funny pouty face. 

He rolls his eyes. “Tell ‘em who’s your Toto?” 

“Cinderella!”

“No way!” You match her level of excitement. “Does she have a costume?” 

“No, but I have a basket for her to sit in.” 

You coo, “I bet Cinderella will love that.” 

Steve snorts because he knows you know Cinderella will in fact not love that. 

Cinderella is supposedly the grumpiest animal he’s ever met. She was a quick, unfortunately painful, lesson on boundaries for Penelope– not to pet certain areas or animals as a whole. Steve described her as an old, scraggly thing with a temper flaring unpredictably from one moment to the next. He wasn’t a cat person to begin with, growing up in a house with no animals probably started his revulsion to having fur on his clothes; but at two and a half, Penelope begged to feed the stray on their porch and she just kept coming back. 

Steve wanted a dog when he moved out, if anything at all; but in four years he’s learned more about sacrifice than any speech his parents tried to drill into his head. And Cinderella is practically Penelope’s best friend now. She sets aside birthday money for new cat toys– the crinkly ones are her favorite– and sneaks the cat through her bedroom window from time to time. She even cradles her like a baby, not without protest and the occasional scratch, of course, but Penelope knows the risk. 

“I told her Cinderella probably won’t want to come trick or treating but she can still take a picture with her at home.” 

“I told you she will want to go because there’s candy.” 

“Yes, but I told you cats can’t have candy,” Steve jabs her side lightly. 

Penelope only pouts. “That’s sad. I think she would like candy.” 

“It is,” he agrees, slotting a rogue strand of hair behind her ear. “But it makes them sick, remember? So we can’t share with Cinderella.” 

Her cheek melds with his sleeve, begrudgingly agreeing with a sigh. “Can I get my face painted?” 

Steve traces her line of sight to the ring of kids swarming the face painter. It’s not far. He can see well enough to recognize most of the children. Many are younger than Penelope too. 

But Steve hesitates, “Can you wait until I’m done eating? I’ll go with you.”

“Daddy,” she whines, pinching his arm hair. “You take forever.”

Penelope’s got magical little eyes. You don’t know how Steve ever says no. 

“I can take her,” you offer, stacking trash on your plate. “I’m done anyway.” 

“No, it’s okay.” He deflates with a sigh, curling into his ribs so he can see her face. “You can go by yourself–”

Her frown washes away just as fast as she peels herself off of his arm. 

“But! You have to come straight back when you’re done and you have to stay where I can see you. ‘Kay?” 

“‘Kay!” She beams, nearly tripping on her dress as she swings her legs over the bench and breaks into a run. 

Steve can’t hide the wobble in his smile as hard as he tries to be strong. Most of the hardships he’s faced as a parent are foreign to you, but clearly, this isn’t easy for him. 

“She’ll be fine,” you reassure with a ginger squeeze to his wrist. “We aren’t far if she needs something.” 

He nods, still locked in on Penelope. “I know, I know. I’m trying really hard not to be a helicopter parent as she gets older. It sucks though, feeling like she doesn’t need me anymore.” 

“Steve,” you deadpan, prying his attention back. “That’s… silly. You’re her dad, of course she still needs you. Maybe not all the time or as much but she’ll always need you.” 

“I dunno. I feel like she grows an inch every time I turn around. I never thought I’d say this, but I actually miss when she was in diapers. She’s cute now, but God was she cute then.” He chuckles to himself, eyes swinging from Penelope to you and then back. 

“I believe it,” you grin, admiring his girl. Her cheeks are red from the cold, like two tomatoes framing her lips. She might like to wear your jacket, you consider, but she’s so small, perhaps she’ll overheat from too many layers.

Penelope scrambles into the chair when it’s her turn, talking a mile a minute to the face painter. A funny wave of emotion roves over you. There’s affection and joy and and then something heavier and harder to describe. 

“I’ll have to show you her baby pictures sometime.” You hear the parting of a true smile. “There’s this one– it was her first birthday– I gave her a whole cake and she just demolished it. Had it in her hair and her eyelashes and in between her toes. She was so damn happy.” 

You exhale a happy hum, turning back to Steve. He’s propped on his elbows now, close enough to discern each eyelash from the next. It doesn’t startle you as much as it just scrapes the words right off your tongue. 

He’s reading you, churning, and chasing the right words all in between the blink of an eye. “We should hang out, you know? Like actually– We always talk about it but…” He shakes his head, trailing off. 

He’d let the words be carried with the wind if you wanted. It’s hard to imagine you’d say no, but people have surprised him in worse ways. Just when he thinks he knows someone, truly knows them, they cut him off like he’s no more than a dying branch. The ghosts of past someones and somethings still haunt him. It makes being so forward with you all the more difficult. 

You wear a whimsical sort of grin that you hide behind the brush of your hand, fighting your own flood of emotions. “Yeah– I mean, yeah. When?” 

Excitement flares across his features. “What are you doing on Halloween? You could come trick-or-treating with us?”

“Probably just home handing out candy– but Steve, I don’t want to intrude on Halloween. It sounds really special to Penelope.”

“You wouldn’t! No way, Penelope would be thrilled if you came. She talks about you a lot, you know?” 

“No she doesn’t,” you grin madly into your palm, peering over to her. Her face is dressed in a bright shade of orange now. With her pudgy cheeks, she reminds you of a little pumpkin. 

“She does! Swear it– on my life.” He’s not lying. He can’t hold your eyes when he lies, even about silly things. 

You huff, feeling foolishly giddy. “I don’t have time to get a costume, Steve.” 

“Nonsense. We can find you one. I’ll make it if I have to. The Tin Man and The Scarecrow are still up for grabs.” 

You swallow, washing the sudden dryness from your throat. Why does Steve have to be so damn cute and sweet all at once? “I dunno. Would it be fine if I didn’t dress up?” 

He chuckles dryly. “Penelope won’t have that, I can tell you that much. Plus if I’m going to be tortured into some itchy lion onesie I expect you’ll do the same.” He’s teasing, which is typical for you both, but it’s like you’ve forgotten how. 

“Steve.”

“Come on. If not for me, for Penelope. She’ll love it.” 

“Okay,” you settle. But you aren’t really settling. He could ask you to dress up on any other day of the year and you’d do it. 

Penelope races over– a tabby cat with long whiskers and a pastel pink nose– yelling, “Daddy, look!”

Steve beams at her like he stuck a lightbulb in his mouth, somehow brighter than before. “I see! You look so pretty, princess.” 

“I’m like Cinderella.”

“You are!” He pats her former seat beside him until she sits. 

Her long lashes flutter questioningly. 

“Nell, don’t you think we need, I dunno, like a Tinman or a Scarecrow to go with our costumes on Halloween?” 

She tracks his gaze over to you, adopting your smirk. “Are you coming trick-or-treating with us?” Her voice is uneven and bubbly with anticipation. 

“Do you want me to?” You ask genuinely. 

Penelope’s tongue wriggles in her mouth like she can’t find the proper words to express what she feels. But she nods in this bashful way against Steve’s shoulder that surprises you. 

“Are we being shy now?” Steve remarks, pulling her into his arms effortlessly to peck her hairline. 

“No,” she whines against his sweater, overjoyed to be smothered in love. Dry paint creases with her scrunched face. It’s an adorable sight. You keep wishing you had a camera on you because this is the kind of thing Steve probably puts in his photo albums. 

The moon climbs the sky quickly, draping the party in a silver veil. Many stay for the campfire and the promise of smores. But the later it gets, the crankier kids become for their parents. Penelope’s no exception, whining and clinging to Steve until he agrees to hold her. And he tries to work still, but his arms are starting to burn and stamping hayride tickets isn’t easy one-handed so he makes the hard choice to leave before cleanup. 

He feels awful, apologizing to several of his coworkers on the way out but most are too drunk on cider or too high on festive cheer to care. Besides, he’s paid a salary, doing this out of the kindness of his heart. He has no obligation to be here– you’d reminded him of that multiple times. But the festival does feel empty when they leave, even with half the town still around. 

ᯓ★

Steve lives in a quiet pocket outside of town on a curvy, secluded stretch of road. The directions he’d scrawled out on a receipt weren’t as useful as you’d hoped as one of the street names you were intended to turn on was smudged beyond legibility. But you made it, parked in front of a white house with a similarly white picket fence. Steve’s beamer is idled to your right. It’s strange seeing it somewhere that’s not the rec center. But it’s a familiar comfort between so much new. 

There’s a tire swing knotted to the oak tree in the yard, a collection of painted rocks in the pebble-lined path up to the house, and two carved pumpkins set outside the door, caving in on themselves but not yet rotting. A lot of love is shared here.  

Penelope answers the door when you knock. She’s half dressed– stockings hugging a pair of fleece leggings and a flowy pajama tank top. Her eyes outline your costume and light up with approval. 

You sport a flannel and denim overalls stuffed with prickly straw straight from the local farm, courtesy of Steve. But Penelope ogles your face paint more than anything– a stitched grin and two circles for blush. You hope it’s not scary looking. 

She doesn’t know how to let you inside– she’s not supposed to answer the door after all– so she hangs clumsily off the door handle until you ask, “Can I come in?” 

“Yes,” she teeters out of the way, closing the door behind you with a sweeping grin— the mischievous kind that makes you wonder what she’s up to.

The foyer is situated between the living room and kitchen, both of which are missing Steve. 

“Where’s your dad?” 

“Umm. Cleaning?” 

“Oh. Are you getting ready to go?”

“Yes, but I can’t find my shoes,” she makes a strangled face and shrugs with her entire wingspan.

“Do you want me to help you look?” 

She nods, “I think they’re in my closet.”

Penelope sprints up the stairs easily, leaning over the railing at the top until you hesitantly follow. You hope he won’t mind. You were technically let in. 

It reeks of chemicals upstairs. You stifle a cough and hope it’s Steve, not some science experiment in Penelope’s room. But you don’t worry long. The culprit swings around the corner, juggling several bottles of solutions and sprays. Steve would’ve barreled straight into you had you not thrust your arms out in defense, but still, all his things scatter across the floor. 

“Christ, you scared me.” He kneels, tucking a roll of paper towels against his chest. “Nell, you can’t answer the door without me.” 

“I looked in the window.”

You hand him a sanitizer and shimmy your hat back into place. It’s too big and far too floppy, sagging over your brows no matter how you situate it. Amusement draws his cheeks up as he realizes. You look ready to plop yourself in the middle of someone’s crops and he’s in a tee and jeans you might find him in any other day. His smiley-staring only makes you feel sillier. 

“The straw’s really a nice touch, huh?” Steve teases, picking a sandy stem from your collar with his free hand. He’s got that smirk you so often find on Penelope’s lips. 

You yank the strand from his grasp and poke the column of his throat with it. “I’m definitely more itchy than you’ll be.” 

His fingers encase the entirety of your fist like a shell. They’re knobby and mannish, stout against your own. But there’s a tenderness to his hold as he eases your fist away. You don’t push back, though you contemplate it. He’s never touched you for so long; he’s basically holding your hand. 

“Could’ve been the Tinman,” he says, releasing your fingers at your thigh. 

You suck in, like fuel for a reply, and exhale a breathy, nervous laugh. “And paint my entire body gray? No thanks.” 

He chuckles, eyes darting behind you. “Well, you look great. You like it, Nell?” 

You’d almost forgotten she was there. She’s quiet as a mouse when she wants to be. 

Penelope bobs her head behind you, patiently watching from the doorway to her room. “I have oh-ralls like that.” 

“You do,” Steve confirms, fidgeting with the nozzle on the disinfectant bottle. It reminds you of the smell. 

“You kill someone?” 

He stiffens. “What?” 

You flick the bottle of Windex, serious facade fading. “Smells like you’re trying to cover it up.” 

“Oh! No,” his shoulders soften, “Just a little spring cleaning… in fall.” 

You hum gaily. “I like your house.” 

“You do?” His voice is light, buoyant with relief. “I can give you a tour. A proper one.” 

“I would but I’ve promised a patient little lady I’d help her find her shoes first.”

Penelope beams when you glimpse at her. “I think they’re in my closet,” she shares with Steve. 

“I think so too,” he says, eyeing past her. “What happened to cleaning?” 

“I was but I had to find my costume first.” 

“It’ll be easier to find when your room’s clean.” He sends you a look, “Don’t let her trick you into cleaning for her. She’s sneaky.” Steve whispers the last part, loud and teasing. 

“I’m not sneaky!” 

“Mhmm. I’ll go get ready and then come help you, Nell.” 

“Then trick-or-treat?” 

“Yes,” he starts down the stairs, “Yell if you need me.” 

Penelope tows you into her room by the arm, unphased by the clinking of toys crammed behind the door. Anything in her way gets kicked or shoved aside without a second thought. It’s like her toy chest exploded, a kaleidoscope of pink and purple across the carpet. And no wonder it’s a mess; she starts chucking things out of her closet, adding to the pile spilling out like an avalanche—books, stuffed animals, barbie dolls, baby dolls, and so so many clothes. 

You squeeze by a play tent, scanning the floor. 

“They’re red and sparkly, ‘member?” Penelope calls from behind her closet doors. 

You tip a beanbag over with your foot, “I remember.” 

She babbles to herself as she looks, just like Steve does– little hums and scraps of thought that are hard to catch. It’s a funny thing, to see it translated from one human to another. 

It doesn’t take long to find the shoes, wedged underneath her bed with numerous other things. You go prone against the floor to dig them out and hold them up by the straps. “These it, Pen?” 

She gasps vibrantly. You wish you got up in time to see her face. 

“How did you know they were under there!” She shrieks, snatching them from you. 

“Just had a feeling,” you sit up properly, happily watching her slip the flats on. 

She practically twinkles, clicking her heels together like Dorothy. 

“They look stunning! You painted these?” 

“Yes,” she skips over to her dresser, shuffling through drawer after drawer. Anything folded surely isn’t anymore. 

“You’re a talented artist.” 

“I know. Daddy says.” Penelope yanks out a blue line of fabric. “My dress is so pretty. I’m going to be the prettiest Dorothy for Halloween.” 

“I know you will! You should give your dad a big hug for making such a pretty dress.” 

She buckles into the costume as fast as she can, patting the skirt down with a satisfied grin when it’s on. 

After several compliments and much debate, you’re able to convince her Dorothy would have a clean room. Penelope puts a few things away, but she’s easily distracted. And it’s hard to blame her with so many toys about. So you do most of the cleaning, but you’re happy to. It’ll make Steve happy– lest he finds out it was you– which makes you happy. 

The floor’s mostly cleared when Penelope decides Steve’s taking too long; it’s time for your house tour, with or without him. And when he doesn’t answer her shout it’s decidedly without him. She shows you downstairs first– the living room, the kitchen, the half bath, her favorite hiding spot underneath the stairs. All the while she explains her very detailed and strategic trick-or-treating plan. Staying out until midnight is the priority, she doesn’t seem to care if it’s past her bedtime, and filling several bags with candy is also high on the list. 

“And this is Daddy’s room.” She jerks the door knob several times before yelling, “Daddy!” 

“What?” Steve calls, muffled. 

“Let us in!”

“I can’t hear you– hold on!” 

Steve unlocks the door donning the promised lion onesie and a pair of sneakers. It’s ridiculous how handsome he looks even with a stupid fur collar and tail. 

“Cute,” is all you manage to say. He takes it as teasing, rolling his eyes, though you really mean it. 

“Can you help me? I can’t get my whiskers right.” He taps the cap of an eyeliner pen against his cheek where he’s drawn two lines. 

“Sure.” You take the stick and follow him through his room to the master ensuite. 

“Wait!” Penelope shouts and waves vaguely at the room. “This is Daddy’s room.”

You pause to look it over, jovially commenting, “Wow! Very nice.” 

And it is nice. There’s a rustic set of furniture striped in blue and green accents; paired well with the framed floral prints above his dresser. And the bed’s made, only slightly surprising, topped with a Care Bear’s quilt you assume is Penelope’s. 

In the bathroom, Steve leans against the counter, arms braced behind him on the sink rim. You shuffle in front of his legs, skimming knees accidentally. He has no abhorrence for physical touch, you know that for certain. He’s touchy with not just you, but everyone in the office. An arm around the shoulder, a pat on the back, a gentle squeeze to the arm– he gives these out like candy on Halloween. But even so, touching him isn’t always easy. It’s vulnerable, runs the risk of rejection. 

Steve smiles at you, ever-patient and encouraging when you stall awkwardly. 

“Sorry,” you whisper. Talking any louder feels illegal when he’s so close. You cup his jaw and steady your opposite hand against his cheek, picturing the line how you want it. 

But just when you press into his skin and flick the pen, Penelope slams a drawer shut, startling you enough to flinch. The ink slants all the way behind his ear like a jagged nail. 

You gasp and recoil, “Shit.” 

Penelope gasps twice as loud and Steve crumples into laughter, even more so when he turns to view the damage in the mirror. 

“Oops,” you chuckle nervously, thumbing at the black streak. “This washes off right?” 

“Yeah, don’t worry. I’ve redone it like four times.” 

You douse your finger in water and work the pad across his happy cheek gently. 

He’s watching you. You don’t see, just feel it in the fringe of your peripherals. It’s not like he has many places to look when you’re a hair’s breadth from his nose. But he might as well press a magnifying glass against your face, point out every pore and blemish and hair you're insecure about. 

Your cheeks burn and the beginning prickles of sweat coat your upper lip. You brushed your teeth before you arrived, but how could you forget a mint? And what about an extra layer of deodorant? That wouldn’t have hurt. You glance at Steve anxiously and his eyes jump to Penelope. For once you’re grateful not to keep his attention. 

Penelope digs through his cabinet on a quest to find nothing in particular. 

You pull away to judge your first line as Steve opens his mouth. “Nell, go get your brush and hair ties.” 

The top half of her face pops up over the cupboard door like a puppet. “But I want my hair down.” 

“I still have to brush it. And I thought you wanted the bows?” 

She considers his words– her prior words– brows pinching before she shrugs, “Okay.” The cabinet door thuds against its hinges as it claps shut, and not a second later, Steve’s bedroom door slams as Penelope charges out. 

“You would not believe how often I tell this kid not to slam the doors,” he scoffs, though it’s devoid of any real anger. 

You take his chin again, packing away a grin. You have to focus. “Don’t move,” you prompt. 

He’s relaxed in your hold. Still as a stone, maybe apart from the slight tug of his lips when you resume drawing. 

“Tickles,” he murmurs when you lift the nib. 

You print another three to match the trio on his right. It’s not bad, but you wouldn’t say it’s good. The angles are skewed weird and one’s shorter than the rest. But if he wants them any better, you might not be the best person to ask. 

“How’s that?” You draw back, searching for any smudges. 

He spins, briefly inspecting his reflection before facing you again. “Perfect! Thank you!”

Perfect is definitely a stretch. 

Steve’s a perfectionist. You’ve seen it innumerably in the office. How he’ll spend hours revising something only to ruminate on an insignificant detail after. And with Penelope, every parenting decision is subject to endless second-guessing, as if her health and happiness hinges on the smallest nuances. 

But as much as he’s a perfectionist, Steve would never judge you in the same way he might himself. Your whiskers truly are perfect in his eyes, not for the shape or size, but because you drew them– wonky and all. 

The ink warps around his smile. You study his face under the guise of checking your work. Steve’s a handsome guy. An inviting kind of handsome, with shallow laugh lines and the start of stubble stippled across his jaw.  

“Wait,” you square his shoulders, brushing the nape of his neck to reach for his hood. The lion’s mane is laid gently over the top of his hair. 

“Now it’s perfect.” 

He smirks. “Sexy, huh?”

“Should leave this unzipped a little. The cougars will love that.” 

Steve laughs, harder than you think you’ve ever heard him. It’s so contagious even Penelope joins your hysterics when she returns, though she hasn’t a clue what you’re laughing about. 

“What’s so funny?” Penelope lurches into his legs with a handful of hair things. 

“We just think my costume’s kinda silly. Here, baby.” Steve heaves her onto the counter and props her right in between the sinks. 

Her dress pours over her crossed legs like a layered cake, baby blue and white gingham. Steve really did a great job with the stitching; you can’t even tell it was done by hand. And Penelope hasn’t complained about the fit once so it must be comfortable too. 

“Face forward please,” Steve reminds gently for a third time when Penelope twists her neck to speak. 

Penelope frowns at his reflection. “You’re pulling too tight.”

“Sorry. You have to stop moving though.” 

There’s a mild curve to his lips. He’s not aggravated with her fidgeting, in fact, quite the opposite. Maybe because you’re around, he’s in too good of a mood to spoil with something as trivial as his daughter's hair. But regardless, it’s endearing as it is entertaining to care for Penelope. He loves being a dad, even when it’s frustrating. And you can see the love as he braids her hair– how he cards through knots from the ends up and slowly sections off pieces to tackle one at a time. 

“I’m not moving.” Her chin droops as she scratches the polish from her nails. 

Steve cups her jaw, steering it back up. “You are, monkey.” 

“Monkey?” She chortles, seeking your gaze in the mirror to see if you also find the nickname funny. 

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs, seizing the rubber band from between his teeth. “Monkeys move a lot.” 

“Do they have tails?”

“Mhmm.”

“You have a tail 'cause you’re a lion.” 

Steve hums and bends back, evaluating his performance. “There. You look so gorgeous, Penelope.” 

And he really has done a great job, especially with all her wiggles. Steve takes a lot of pride in styling his hair– much of his confidence derives from it. And he tries to extend that care to Penelope; to teach her how gorgeous she is and that she deserves to be nurtured. 

Penelope shakes her head disapprovingly. “I’m Dorothy now, Dad.” 

“Oh, sorry.” Steve turns toward you instinctually, happy to catch your smile. 

“You look very very pretty, Miss Dorothy,” you correct. 

She slides off the counter, aided by Steve’s hand. “Can we go now?” 

Penelope waits patiently in the foyer for Steve to gather everything needed to leave. This lasts for all of about ten minutes before Penelope is halfway out the front door, too excited to wait any longer. 

“Wait, Nell!” Steve shouts from beside you in the kitchen. 

You’re choosing snacks and filling water bottles. Steve doesn’t really need to pack a bag for Penelope anymore, she’s a year and a half past diapers, but he likes to feel prepared. 

When Penelope doesn’t answer, he meets her on the porch to explain, “I’m almost done. And we still have to take pictures.” 

“I don’t wanna. I’m ready to leave.” 

“Well, we aren’t leaving until I get a picture of Dorothy.” 

She sighs, lugging herself back inside like she’s got bricks for shoes. “What about Cinderella?” 

“Go and look– get the treats.” 

She scrambles into the kitchen, snagging a jar of cat treats from the counter quickly. You shoulder the backpack and follow her out. Steve joins you not long after, two flashlights and several glowsticks in hand. 

“No Cinderella?” Steve asks, unzipping the bag pressed to your back to stock with more things. 

“No,” Penelope pouts, vigorously shaking the jar in the air. “How can I be Dorothy without Toto.” 

He yanks the zipper back up, then pats her head, “Keep calling. Where’s your jacket?”

“I don’t need it.”

“You will. It’s gonna get cold later. When it’s dark.” 

“It’ll mess up my costume. Dorothy doesn’t wear one.” 

“Let's bring it, just in case. I’ll carry it.” 

Steve jogs back inside, coming out this time with a camera around his neck, a jacket over his shoulder, and a plushie in hand. 

“Here,” he sets a blue stuffed dog on Penelope’s lap. “Backup Toto.” 

Penelope glares up at him, insulted. “This isn’t Toto.” 

“I know. But if we wait for Cinderella we might not have time for trick-or-treating. Why don’t we bring the treats? See if she’s started without us?” 

Penelope deflates, stuffing the dog in her wicker basket. 

“Can I take your picture now?”

“Why, Daddy?” 

“So I can remember how beautiful you look tonight.” 

A petulant bow creases her lips as she peers up. Round, sullen eyes connect with his. 

Steve squats in front of her, taking her much smaller free hand in his. “I know you’re sad about Cinderella but she’d still want you to have fun, right? And she might show up later. I just want to get a picture now so I don’t forget.” 

Penelope nods and Steve kisses her forehead, standing and backing up a few paces. 

“Smile, baby. Please?” He blinks at her through the viewfinder. 

She offers a strangled face– more of a toothy open mouth than a smile; not even close to wide enough to round her cheeks or crescent her eyes like the real deal. But it’s funny and just as cute. Steve snaps a photo and the expression drains from her face as fast as the camera’s flash.

You wander behind Steve and her eyes flick to you. You try funny faces first, frowning so deep your jaw aches, pulling the tip of your nose up like a pigs, winking terribly, but none of it works. Your fingers arch into bunny ears behind Steve’s hair and you stick your tongue out at the back of his head, but still, no dice. 

You have a really awful idea. You’re pretty sure you might die of embarrassment. But it’s worth it to get Penelope to smile. 

“Hey, Penelope? Remember when you told me dinosaurs are silly?” 

She nods. 

“Well, I have a really good dinosaur impression. Can I show you?” 

She nods again, equally jaded. 

You take a deep breath and shake your head, mentally preparing yourself and simultaneously erasing Steve from existence for the moment. A feral screech erupts from the back of your throat, the kind of sound you didn’t know for sure you could make. 

Steve buckles in his crouch, barely catching himself on the pavement with his free hand. A chorus of emotions ripple his features. He’s shocked and then amused and finally focused on capturing the picture, but what resonates the most is a fondness for you. 

You cup a hand over your mouth, rendering a string of different noises, inspired by several animals because what the hell does a dinosaur sound like anyway? You haven’t the faintest clue at the moment.   

Penelope fuses her lips together, unbreaking. 

“Come on Nell, I see that smile,” Steve rallies. 

But she doesn’t give up easy. She’s like Steve in that way. 

As a last resort, you press your lips to your mouth, blowing a raspberry and screwing your face in disgust. “Oh my God, Steve! Did you just fart?” 

He gapes at you, then Penelope, tickled and tongue-tied for comebacks. He can’t think straight, not when you’re making a delightful fool out of yourself, on his behalf, especially. As far as he’s concerned, Penelope’s smiling now or at least failing awfully at hiding it. So he takes several photos of her as she unravels into a giggly heap on the driveway. 

Certainly one of them is photo-album-worthy, but you continue your stunts anyway. “Goodness, what did you eat today?” You backpedal a few steps, fanning the surrounding air, partially to hide your own laugh. “Penelope do you smell that?” 

“Ew! Daddy!” 

You aren’t sure if Penelope actually believes you or if she just wants to join the fun but either way, she’s convincing. 

“I didn’t do it!” Steve defends, dropping the camera on its sling and raising his hands in surrender. “I think it was Penelope this whole time.” 

You gasp. “Penelope!” 

“I didn’t!” She cries, shaking her head aggressively. “I promise, I didn’t!” 

“I dunno. The closer I get the more stinky it smells.” Steve slinks up to her with outstretched hands that threaten tickles. 

She screams when he snatches her up, swearing up and down, “I didn’t, Daddy!” 

He’s well-practiced at being the tickle monster; knows every sensitive strip of skin to target. She was doomed from the start. Giggles spill out in jagged layers punctuated with gasps of air. Steve tickles her all the way down the driveway to the car, out of breath himself by the time he sets her on the trunk. 

Penelope deliriously eyes his hands where they rest on the beamer. 

“You ready to go trick-or-treating, Little Miss Dorothy?” You ask. 

She nods, dimples deepening with mirth.

“Here. Will you start it?” Steve fishes his keys out of his pocket and tosses them to you. “Come on, pretty girl.” 

She slides into her car seat happily, bouncing with excitement as he buckles her in. Steve’s told you before it’s not always so easy. 

“I really didn’t fart,” Penelope says. 

He chuckles, sewing a kiss to her cheek, “I know, baby. We’re just kidding.” 

Steve settles into the driver’s seat, depositing the stack of developed polaroids in your lap. You shuffle through as he backs out, flashing him your favorites; the best is one where she’s planted a hand on her hip and is rolling her eyes. You adore this little drama queen more and more every day. 

The drive’s only a few minutes, just to a denser part of the neighborhood to avoid long stretches with no houses. Steve parks against an empty grass lot behind another car. This area’s already bustling with kids which adds to Penelope’s anticipation. 

“Daddy, look– it’s Minnie Mouse!” 

Steve inspects the crowd through the window. “Yeah, you remember when you were Minnie Mouse?” 

“I was?” 

“Mhmm. You had ears and I painted your face. You were little.” He unbuckles, grabbing the backpack stashed at your feet. 

“Oh. Am I still little?” 

He pauses to melt, just to himself and only a bit. It’s too early to be sentimental– a long night of fun awaits. Steve cranes over his seat to see her face. “Yes, you’re still little. But you’re growing a lot. I think you might be as tall as me, one day.” 

“Nooo,” she giggles, waving her foot at him. 

“I dunno,” he sing-songs back, squeezing her shoe before turning back around. 

Steve distributes a handful of glowsticks, shoving a few extra in Penelope’s basket. You guys start down the block as the sun sinks below the treeline, more than enough time to complete Penelope’s plan which she reminds you of. She takes Steve’s hand, then yours, and it strikes you suddenly how much you appear as a family to outsiders. It’s not an unwelcome feeling, just a strange one. 

At the first house, Penelope knocks hard and declares to the elderly woman who answers, “Trick or treat!” She repeats it, insisting with wide eyes that she deserves two pieces of candy for her double effort. And the woman can’t resist her charm, obliging with a handful of pieces. Steve jokes it off, calls her a bargainer, but you gawk at the interaction. 

At the second house, she points to you and Steve, arguing you deserve candy too since you’re both in costume. And it works, scoring you each a piece that ends up in her tote anyway. By the third, you can’t keep a straight face, her antics are hilariously cute and you compliment Steve for raising such a little mastermind. 

You fall into a routine steadily, loafing along the road with Steve while Penelope trots up to each house. 

“Last year she was Snow White and the year before a cat,” Steve explains when you ask. 

“She likes princesses’.” 

“Less so now but yeah. She used to say she wanted to be a princess when she grew up.” 

“Can’t blame her.” You watch her fondly from afar. She picks a piece of candy off the ground and debates before tossing it in with the others. “What does she wanna be now?” 

“Changes all the time. Last it was a detective.” He beckons Penelope over. “Nell, what do you want to be when you grow up?” 

She fiddles with her basket handle. You’ve done two streets and it’s almost full. You're starting to think you’ll have to buy a pillowcase off of someone.

“Umm… Can I be a trick-or-treater?” 

“What!” Steve flips her braid over her shoulder, “That’s just for one day, goofball.” 

“Well… then,” she hums, squinting at the surrounding swarm of characters and creatures. “Maybe a pirate?” 

You and Steve share a look of amusement. You do that a lot now. It’s instinctual. Finding each other's eyes, even in a room full of people it’s easy. Sometimes there’s just too much joy not to share. 

“Daddy, how many houses are left?” 

“There’s quite a few on this street. You tired?” 

“No. Can I see? I want to count.” 

She doesn’t seem tired to you but Steve’s able to read her with the tiniest details. It’s like he’s got superpowers sometimes– dad superpowers. But maybe he’s just guessing, it’s getting closer to bedtime.

Steve boosts her onto his shoulders with a hefty groan about “getting old” which you bicker over because he’s only twenty-six. 

Penelope counts eleven houses, eight with lights on, but buzzes about a particular home illuminated with rainbow LEDs and a giant spider. And it’s even cooler than she described up close, mansion-like, decked out with spotlights and decorations taller than you and Steve combined.

A motionless clown holds a bloody bucket of candy outside. Their decorations are so extravagant, it’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s fake. But you’re pretty sure the clown just blinked and you make sure Steve’s aware of that, not that he was letting Penelope go alone anyway. 

Steve scoops Penelope up before she gets very far up the driveway despite her complaints. 

“I’m not scared, Daddy,” she assures. And there’s nothing that tells you she is– she’s just as cheery and bright-eyed as before. 

“I know, princess.” He rubs her arm, scanning for other statues with the potential to come alive. “I’m kinda scared, though.” 

She tips her head at him, puzzled because it’s always the other way around. But her arms coil around his neck, a loving press of affection that she learned from him. 

And whether he’s actually afraid to be jumpscared or just subconsciously ingraining in her that it’s okay if she is, you aren’t really sure. Probably both, and either way, it warms your insides. 

The clown cocks its head slowly when Penelope reaches in the bowl. 

She cocks her head back, innocently amused. “Trick-or-treat?” 

The clown nods, pushing the bowl toward her. 

Steve sags just a hair but remains very much on high alert. 

You mouth your appreciation— “Thanks.” Thanks for not scaring my coworker-friends-child who I’ve grown really fond of and would hate to see cry. 

“Daddy, can we go in there?” Penelope points to a tunnel opening, fringed with black streamers and flashing lights– some sort of haunted house walk-through that wraps around the home. 

“No, baby. That’s for big kids.” 

She spots a group of teenagers exit the other side, screaming, laughing, and doubling over each other into the grass. 

“I really wanna go– please, I’ll be so brave. I’m not even scared,” she pleads, flashing him a wobbly frown. 

But there’s no expression she could pull right now that would change his mind, not when he hears a chainsaw buzzing inside. She could throw herself on the ground and kick and cry and he’d still refuse. He knows enough kids that have been traumatized by horror-movie-type creatures and characters; he’ll be damned if his daughter becomes one of them. 

Penelope sulks for a few houses but she has loads more candy to collect and decides not to waste her time for too long. 

“Can you hold this?” She thrusts her basket toward Steve. It’s overflowing at this point; you’ve all started cramming candy in your pockets, hoping it’s cold enough outside that nothing melts. Steve’s been beating himself up for three blocks for forgetting the backpack in the car. 

“Sure,” he says, retracting his hand from his pocket.

But before he takes it, you joke, “Better keep an eye on him. He might eat some when you’re not lookin’.”

Penelope studies him for a long moment before shifting the bag toward you. 

“Penelope! You don’t really believe that do you?” He scoffs, breathily laughing.

You cackle as she shrugs and sprints to the next house. 

Steve bumps your shoulder, snaking a hand in the basket to steal a pack of M&Ms off the top. “Blowin’ my whole operation.” 

“Steve,” you scold and bump him back. “Don’t get me in trouble.” 

“She won’t notice.” He waves you off, tearing the wrapper with his teeth. “But if she does I’m saying it was you.” 

You whack his arm, glowing bright as the moon, “Asshole.” 

Penelope doesn’t complain about her feet aching once the whole night and you know they probably do because yours started hurting forever ago. Surely she gets some kid-sized Oscar for that. And Steve being the great dad he is offers to carry her on the way back to the car anyway. 

“Daddy?” 

Steve hums, hoisting her up where she slips. 

“Can we go trick or treating tomorrow?”

He glances at you, confirming you also hear this cuteness. “No, baby. Tomorrow’s not Halloween.”

“I know, but we should still go. I bet lots of people still have candy. Like, leftovers.” She yawns into his shoulder where his fur hood has been tugged down to warm his neck and double as a makeshift pillow. 

“Don’t you have enough candy?”

“No. I need more Reese’s for you.”

“You’re gonna give them to me?”

“Only some. I like them too.” 

“That’s kind of you.” 

Her eyes are half-lidded and struggling, but she’s still awake as Steve stows her into her car seat. She chatters sluggishly to keep herself up and you and Steve entertain it; it’ll make bedtime easier if she doesn’t fall asleep in the car. Perhaps handing her a pack of Smarties was overkill because apparently, it has enough sugar to wire her longer than the five-minute drive home. 

No slower than Steve can lock the front door, Penelope dumps the contents of her bag on the floor. A bouquet of candy wrappers, big and small, enough to last her months if she’s patient. 

“You can have five more pieces tonight.” 

Penelope smirks at Steve before he’s even finished. “Ten?” 

“Six. But you have to brush your teeth for twice as long.” Before she can rebuttal he shakes his head. “Final offer.” 

“Fine,” she huffs, combing through her pile. She sorts them into categories while Steve prepares her bath. It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown is already on– Steve has a bad habit of forgetting to turn the TV off when he leaves– but you find the remote when Penelope asks you to turn the volume up. 

“You can have these,” she announces, pushing a chunk of her goodies toward you. It’s mostly things she doesn’t like: twizzlers and dark chocolate and anything with peanuts. But she did sneak in one of your favorites you’d mentioned earlier that night. She really is a sweetheart. 

“Thank you, Penelope. That’s very nice of you.” 

“These are for Daddy,” she points to a second pile, smacking loudly on the gummy bear she just decapitated. “He loves chocolate but he got a cavity once because he ate too much.” 

“Are you talking about me?” Steve hollers, clambering down the stairs two at a time. 

“No?” Penelope giggles. 

His hands snap to his hips once he treks into the living room. “Alright, it’s bath time then bedtime Miss Dorothy.”

Penelope looks utterly betrayed. She’s only eaten three things and– “It’s not even late yet,” she whines. 

He pretends to check his watch, “It is.” 

It’s not but she can’t tell time yet. 

“Can we watch Oz, Daddy, please? There’s no school tomorrow, ‘member?”

“We watched it last night, peanut. Why don’t we watch a Halloween movie?” 

Peanut, pumpkin, princess, he calls her all sorts of cute things. Is it wrong to wish he called you cute things too? 

“I wanna watch Oz. I’m Dorothy so we have to.” She drags out the last syllable until she runs out of breath. 

Penelope’s over-tired. Delirious and whiny and easily hysterical when she doesn’t get her way. And it’s not that Steve thinks he should give in when she’s like this, he’s just tired too. And you’re here and it’s the weekend so what will one movie really do? He can guarantee she’ll fall asleep during it anyway. 

“Okay. Only if you’re super-duper fast in the bath.”

She shouts and whizzes upstairs. 

Steve diverts his attention to you, “You wanna stay? I can make popcorn.” 

Of course, you’d love to stay, and not just for the promise of popcorn, but you’re afraid if you do, you’ll never want to leave. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He makes a face– a ridiculously lovely one. “Go sit. We’ll be quick.” 

They aren’t quick but there are photo albums on the coffee table that you’re happy to look through in the meantime. You flick through beats of their life like stills of a movie. There are baby photos, school pictures, movie stubs, plane tickets, and several people you don’t know the names of. It’s weird– getting snippets of things about them you had no idea of. You’re filling the gaps as you go. 

Penelope returns first, frolicking her way to the entertainment center in fresh pajamas. She’s on a mission by the looks of it, making a mess of the VHS collection in the cabinet. By the time Steve arrives, most of the films are splayed across the carpet. 

“Oz is already in, silly goose. We watched it yesterday remember?” 

Penelope drops the tape in her hands, “Oh.” 

Steve hunches over her, slotting the films away one by one. She doesn’t help much, but he doesn’t seem to mind. 

Penelope clambers onto the couch beside you and Steve beside her. It’s a long sectional, enough room for several others. But Penelope scoots in right beside you so you're hip to hip. And Steve makes himself comfortable more in the middle cushion than the farthest. 

His onesie has been traded for sweats and his whiskers scrubbed away– though a faded, gray smear crosses his jawline. You consider telling him, or licking your thumb and scratching it away yourself, but it makes you feel less weird to be the only one still in costume so you let it stay. 

“I like these,” you tug the cotton pant leg of Penelope’s outfit. It’s a matching set, frilly and plaid with a black cat stamped to the torso.

She tucks her lower lip away sheepishly and pushes her crown into your shoulder. Her hair's damp, soaking your sleeve cold, but you fawn at the affection more than anything. 

“Did you find that picture? From her first birthday? I think it’s in there.” Steve gestures toward the closed album in your lap with the remote but remains glued to the TV. 

“No, I didn’t finish looking.”

“I wanna see,” Penelope arches over your legs, prying the book open. 

Steve rewinds the film to the start and pauses it so he can look too. 

You thumb the plastic sheet over a recent image of Penelope scrunching her nose at the camera, a riot of stickers across her face. 

“RoRo!” She taps the photo beside it. It’s a haphazard blur, most likely captured by Penelope; you make out the shape of Steve first, then the less angular, slightly shorter person– a woman, RoRo. You think Penelope’s mentioned her before but nothing about the picture rings any bells. 

“Mhmm. That’s Robin. Remember this was at the airport?” 

“Is that when we got pizza?” 

“Yeah!” Steve rubs her arm. “You have a good memory.”  

You turn the page, revealing a set of grainy, blue-tinted photos from the same roll of film. Steve looks young for his age now, but he looked like a baby then. Strangely though when there’s an actual infant in his arms. He was thinner then but even softer in the face. Not unhappy, per se, but maybe missing a lightness he has now.  

“This was on my twenty-third birthday,” he explains. “Look how little you were!”

“Did I eat cake?” 

“No, you were too young, baby.” He chuckles, pointing to another photo. “You tried a banana for the first time in this one.”

“I like bananas.”

“You didn’t used to.” 

Steve and Penelope share slices of their pasts fondly. You study the photos, compare these reflections to the people you find yourself next to. There’s an unexpected pinch in your chest– not getting the chance to know these versions of them, it makes you sad. But it’s a happy sort of sad. You’re grateful to know them now. 

Penelope begs to flip through another album but Steve decides it’ll be too late to finish The Wizard of Oz if they do. His true reluctance stems from how emotional the first one made him– though you’ll pretend not to notice for his sake. 

Steve bets Penelope an extra Reeses that she’ll fall asleep by the time Dorothy meets the scarecrow. It’s unfair, really. You tell Penelope not to pinky promise it but she does. And she loses awfully, yawning within five minutes and startling herself awake within ten. You scoff when Steve starts carding through her hair– her guaranteed snooze switch. It’s evil and you tell him so. So of course, that finishes her off long before Scarecrow makes an appearance; she curls into Steve’s side and digs a heel into yours. Poor girl never stood a chance. 

“She had a lot of fun tonight,” Steve utters. It’s alarming at first, how his voice eclipses the TV like there isn’t a child snoring against his stomach. But she doesn’t stir. He knows she won’t. 

“Did you?” You ask, skating between a whisper and not. 

“Very much. You?” 

“Mhmm. Loads,” you answer without hesitation. It’s possibly the easiest question anyone’s ever asked you. “I think Penelope’s right.”

He quirks an eyebrow against the front of the couch. His cheek is sinking further into the cotton like he might fall asleep. 

“We should go trick-or-treating tomorrow too.” 

His lips wane into a soft smile. If he wasn’t so drained he might laugh too. “What should we be? Penelope has a strict no-repeat costume rule.” 

You hum, scraping your memory for the best costumes you’d seen. There were Power Rangers and Ghostbusters and several Batmen with their Catwomen. But the image of one young family sticks out the most in your mind. A young pair of parents with their son and daughter decked in moody black and white. 

“Addams family?” 

“Who’s who?” 

“She’s Wednesday. Obviously.”

Steve chuckles, accidentally too loud and Penelope twitches against his thigh. He draws her against his chest readily and strokes her spine with the back of his hand. “Obviously,” he whispers. 

“You’re Morticia and I’m Gomez, though.” 

“Oh?”

“Yeah. She’s tall and pretty. Strong jawline, kinda sassy. I think you’ll make it work.” 

You’re flirting. You know you are as soon as you say it. And you don’t mean to, it just happens; the words come intuitively as blinking. Your brain does all sorts of crazy things around Steve. 

“You think I’m pretty?” He’s smiling hard. You can’t tell if he’s serious or not. 

“Pretty sassy, yeah,” you deflect. It’s a safer truth than admitting you do think he’s pretty. 

He rolls his eyes. “My mom says Nell gets her attitude from me. Says it’s payback for how I was as a child.” 

You gawk emphatically. “Were you a bad kid Steve Harrington?”

“I wasn’t bad– just needed attention I think.” 

You hum. It’s a little surprising since you know Steve’s an only child to wealthier parents. You’d pegged him to be spoiled in both money and attention.

“Are you close with your parents?”

He shakes his head, “Not really. Talk every now and then.”

“Sorry.” 

“Don’t be. I came to terms with it a while ago. Even more after she was born.” He skims his lips against Penelope’s head. “I can’t imagine not being in her life. You know, not really knowing her? Not knowing her favorite things or when she’s hurting or what she’s up to every second of the day. I don’t think that’ll ever change.”  

“She’ll be so grateful to have that kind of relationship when she’s older.” 

“Yeah, maybe. Like way older.” His shoulders droop as he sighs, “She already thinks I’m smothering her. Wouldn’t hold my hand yesterday because she’s ‘too big’ she said.” 

“Already?” You laugh.

“I know!” He groans. “I almost cried.” 

“She loves you. Kids just show it in strange ways.” 

“Yeah… She forced me to hold a slug last week.” 

“You held it?” 

“I had to! She was so excited to give it to me.”

“Aww. You’re a good dad.” 

Steve's eyes caper down and his cheeks pinken. “I’m trying to be.” 

Apart from the movie and an occasional sleep sigh from Penelope, silence swallows the room. It’s a comfortable silence; the kind you only get around people you’ve known forever; It feels like you’ve known Steve your entire life. You have to remind yourself it’s only been a few months. Remind yourself this is the first time you’ve ever even hung out. 

You find yourself drifting to the future. A future, with Steve and Penelope. Vacations and school events and hiking trips and movie nights and so much more. It’s silly. It makes your heart want to rip itself from your chest. 

Steve clears his throat. Your fantasy is only partially dissolved. “I’m gonna take her upstairs. Put her to bed.” 

You lean forward and press into your knees, gearing to stand. “Okay. I should get going. It’s late.” 

“Stay for a minute. I’ll walk you out.”

You have no reason to decline but even if you did, you aren’t sure you would be able to. Saying no to Steve is as hard as saying no to Penelope. They have the same puppy-dog eyes– brown and soft as sun-baked clay. That must be it. 

Steve strains to stand with the added weight. He’s strong but Penelope’s four now and having growth spurts like there’s a race to be the tallest kid in school. She clings to him instinctually, slotting her face into his neck like it was sculpted specifically to be her pillow. Her gangly legs sway against his thighs as he slowly climbs the stairs and disappears onto the landing.  

You don’t notice Steve’s return. He’s much quieter than before, taking softer steps and more calculated movements. He doesn’t have the buffer of his body heat to soothe Penelope back to sleep if she wakes. The palm on your shoulder startles you. 

He whispers an apology from behind the couch, voice sweet and buttery as caramel. You let him guide you the short distance to the front door– expecting it to end there– but he presses into a pair of laced sneakers thrown beside the entry table. 

The night’s chill is jolting, even in your coat. It’s easy to forget the months are slipping into winter when Steve’s around. He radiates warmth, not just in sun-kissed skin and honeyed eyes, but in his tone and his touches and every aspect of his spirit. And it bleeds like a fire. Brushes your cheeks like flames and stirs perpetually in your belly like magma. 

He walks you the entire length of his driveway to your car. Probably would’ve opened the door for you if you didn’t beat him to it. 

“Thank you for inviting me Steve,” you say, lingering in the threshold of your open door. 

“Thank you for coming. I’m really happy you came. So is Penelope.” 

“As much as I am looking forward to The Addams Family next year, we should plan something… maybe a little sooner?” 

“Mmm. Let me check my schedule first,” he teases, rapping his fingers against the roof of your car. 

“Whatever, boss-man.”

You still don’t get in. There’s a stretch of silence, not awkward, just a placeholder for when the right words come. And they don’t. Not tonight anyway. You could hug him? Peck his cheek? Pat his back as he might yours? 

You settle for a safe and simple tight-lipped smile. He appreciates it just the same. 

“See you Friday?” He asks. 

“See you then.” 

Steve guides the door closed after you settle in. He waits until your taillights have completely fizzled out in the shadows of his street to stroll back up to his house. 

He thinks of you as he locks the front door and again as he finds your hat on the sectional and a third time as he slips under his sheets. Steve isn’t sure what to do. He feels sick. His heart is hammering and his gut twists itself in knots like it does when he’s afraid. He hasn’t quite figured out what about you is so scary but how can he possibly wait until Friday to find out? 

[obguro]

The Pretty Boy

A KNY x Male Reader —— !?

> warnings; this is part two!!, angst, kinda following the same plot as kny, no happy ending bc i said

> a/n; guh sorry it took me so long i’ve been so busy with work and the hurricane that’s coming to florida

“Big Brother! Wake up!”

A voice was heard, awakening another up. The older male immediately sprung up at the sound of his younger brothers, Tanjiro Kamado, voice.

The (h/c) haired male looked at his younger brother in worry. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” The male rushed up out of his bed that resided in The Butterfly Mansion.

Tanjiro’s face showed his normal smile as he watched his brother rush towards him. “Nope! I just wanted to see if you would like to take a walk with me! It’s nighttime!” Tanjiro beamed at the worried elder, holding back giggles.

Y/N rubbed his face in frustration, grumpy from being woken up in such a loud manner for something not serious. The male nodded towards his brother, before stating. “Yes, let me get presentable.” Tanjiro smiled brightly one last time before walking out of the room, closing the door behind him.

The male yawned and stretched as he walked over to his mirror on the wall. He sighed at his appearance, not a very glam sight. His usual hair that was kept up to be kept out of his face, was now down and sticking up everywhere. His usual clothes that were neat, were now wrinkled and part of his top revealed his shoulder.

The male took a hair tie and proceeded to tie his hair up into his normal style. He then walked over to his closet before pulling out a simple black kimono, slipping it on and smoothed it out before slipping out of the room to meet his brother.

The mentioned male was staring at the stars, while waiting for his brother. The door slid open, revealing the now presentable male. Y/N let out a smile towards the burgundy haired male, holding out his hand for him to take.

Tanjiro happily held the hand of his brother, something they have done since a young age. Tanjiro and Y/N started to discuss different things, including updates on their sister, his missions, etc.

The two walked around the large estate that belonged to the Insect Hashira. “Hey Tanjiro?” The (e/c) eyed male suddenly asked. The other male hummed in response, waiting for the next question.

“Do you think mom would be proud of me right now?” Y/N asked in a soft sad tone, thinking about all the danger his younger siblings have been through since the slaughter. Final Selection. His First Mission. The Spider Family. The Train Mission. The Entertainment District Mission. The Time at The Swordsmith Village.

Tanjiros mouth opened in shock at the question, before melting into a sad smile. “She would very proud of you, big brother.” Y/N looked at him with tears lining his bottom lash line. “But you keep being put in dangers way… and I can do barely anything to keep you safe.”

Tanjiro suddenly punched his shoulder, shocking the soft spoken male. “It’s my job! I’m not weak anymore N/N, I can protect myself now I promise.” Y/N’s eyes widened at his words. He was speechless. Tears started to fall down his face as his face was decorated in a soft smile.

Tanjiro brought the taller male into a tight hug. “I love you, big brother.” Y/N hugged back just as tight, if not tighter. “I love you so much. I’ll always protect you and Nezuko whether you like it or not.”

TIMESKIP — !!

A group of three is seen sitting in the sunlight, all of them beaten up. Many bodies surrounded them, injured, deceased. Those three were Tanjiro Kamado, Nezuko Kamado, and Y/N Kamado.

The three hugged each other as tight as they could, still recovering from the incident that occurred through out the night.

The eldest hugged his younger siblings close to his chest as tight as he could, like they would disappear if he let go. Though, his grip started to weaken as the extreme blood loss started to affect him greatly, since now he was back to being his human self.

The two noticed the weakened grip of their beloved older brother and how his eyes started to look hazy.

“Big brother! What’s wrong?!” Nezuko shouted in worry while more tears began to fall. She knew what was happening. She knew that look. She knew but refused to accept it. Tanjiro also knew what was happening. He couldn’t get any words out as his heart clenched as he realized.

In unison, the younger siblings eyes fell down to the stomach of their brother. Multiple gaping holes. Tanjiro felt like his heart was being ripped out. He knew what those were from.

Tentacles sprouted from the burgundy haired boy as his younger sister tried to hold him back from injuring others. Tanjiro Kamado had been turned into a demon.

Y/N sat up from his position of the floor as he heard his younger sisters yell. His gaze set on his younger siblings that laid a bit away. His heart clenched when he saw his brother.

Oh Tanjiro…

He knew what he had to do. He also knew the consequences.

With little to no hesitation, he ran over to his siblings as he helped restrain his brother. The cries of his younger sister and the sight of his brother hurt more than the tentacles that had pierced through his stomach.

Withstanding the pain, he continued to hold his brother tightly as Kanao had injected him with the medicine. The siblings refused to let go of the boy until they could tell he had turned back into himself.

Y/N grips significantly got weaker and his siblings noticed and immediately laid him down onto his back. The (h/c) haired boy looked up at his siblings with his soft (e/c) eyes. A weak smile spread across his face. His hands weakly went up and rested on the cheeks of his siblings, wiping away their tears.

“Don’t cry.. There was nothing that could’ve stopped this from happening..” Y/N started as he winced at the pain from his movements. “I’ll always be watching over you two..” The younger duo started to let out loud sobs, not ready to say goodbye to their beloved brother.

“Nezuko, Tanjiro.. take care of each other and live your live to the fullest. I love you both.. you’re both my pride and joy..” Y/N voiced out weakly as his eyes started to shut, his arms falling to his sides

“Y/N!” Nezuko and Tanjiro both yelled out, gripping onto his hands that were losing their warmth. The boy didn’t respond.

Y/N Kamado was gone.

[humansbgone]

All work on the ant models is done for now! I decided to wait until staging to start on the crowd system.

Meanwhile, as you can see, work has begun on Sophodra! First, I had to get Rose's new eye system isolated and working for two eyes (double the work!); then, I had to get that merged into Sophodra's rig and working correctly. Mostly just a lot of monotony, and writing Python functions to automate some of the monotony.

With Rose, I was able to just draw the eye directly onto the model. Sophodra, however, is a praying mantis--their eyes stick out beyond the boundaries of their head. If I try drawing her eyes the same way, they shoot off into space. So, she needs this little rotating canvas object to project them onto.

There are also additional things that can go wrong, because Sophodra's eyes are so much bigger, they need to be rounded out more, and everything needs to be working on all sides of the eye. So, now I'm working on that.

After I finally get that working, it should hopefully be smooth (monotonous) sailing working on small fixes to Sophodra's model, and reorganizing and adding additional features to her rig. Possibly, I'll try to give her an automatic walk cycle too. We'll see if it's worth it for only four legs, which each move one at a time, and need coordinated hip movement on top of it.

With any luck, I'll be able to get most of that finished up over the weekend. After that, I might just try to get all the other insect models out of the way. With the new eye system, that could be either very fast or very slow--a pain to set up, but then I can quickly draw any facial features I want and not worry about them being rigged.

Then, all the human and prop work, and then hopefully work can finally begin on staging. Phew, this was a long update. Until next time!

[skyeslittlecorner]

Tails for all! - Kings edition

Other parts: Gehenna | Tartaros | Hades | Avisos | Nilfheim | Abaddon | Paradise Lost

Satan

The most classic tail, simple elegance. Ankle-length, black, with a red arrow at the end, just like his horns.

At the base, it is as thick as the wrist and tapers towards the end.

Identical to the horns to the touch, set won in the lottery.

You'll recognize his emotions more easily by his tail than by his face, he wags it like a cat when he wants to make some noise and lifts it at the base when he's happy.

The end has rounded corners, making it resemble an elongated heart instead of an arrow.

Sensitiveness 8/10. Doesn't like it when someone touches him by surprise.

When he's in a good mood, he gives tail slaps instead of kicks. The nobles are delighted.

It's not sharp at the end, so he'll try to stick it inside you. It's smooth and slippery, an arrow produces milk just like horns, and it fits so good.

Mammon

Big tail for a big man. Long, winding along the ground, golden and scaled. Standard tip without decorations, at least as thick as Mammon's thigh at the base.

His tail and greed gave rise to the legend that dragons collect treasures.

The upper scales look like pure gold, the lower scales are black and resemble obsidian. The entire tail resembles flakes of stones and precious metals.

The scales are bumpy like his horns, but it has no spines or blades.

Surprisingly warm. The scales at the base are very large.

Sensitiveness 5/10. He really enjoys being scratched hard as you leave lighter marks on his scales from the pleasure.

He likes to put his tail in his lap and you on top of him and watch you grind against him while he plays with your ass.

Leviathan

Not much longer than Satan, but covered with scales. They are soft compared to Mammon and shimmer like smoky mirrors. At the base, it is as thick as two cupped hands, shimmering purple and black.

Its ending is unique. On land it has a long, soft fur, but when he approaches water he can wrap a thin layer of skin around it, making it membraneous and resembling and looking like a fin.

Similarly, it has tiny long fins on its sides. They are a bit sharp, so sometimes he hurts himself with them. (Kiss these wounds, he will criticize you but he will love it anyway.)

Due to childhood trauma, he learned to hide his tail, wrapping it under his clothes and only showing the tip. That's why many demons think his tail resembles that of a deer.

Very, very sensitive. 12/10. Proceed with care.

He loves playing with his fins, but of course he won't tell you that.

Just seeing his tail in all its glory is incredibly rare, and being choked with it is the greatest honor. Not even Solomon experienced it.

Beelzebub

rainbow unicorn tail narwhal tail insect abdomen A long tail, similar in thickness to Leviathan's, but does not taper towards the end. Black, with dark green lines on the sides and back.

As befits the Lord of the Flies, his tail resembles a pelecinus polyturator. Composed of segments like a scorpion. Shiny, slippery and very hard. Chitin.

Green stripes are not just decoration. He can pull out the blades from them, and whipping will easily cut off your limb. He can pull out a sting at the tip, each blade producing a paralyzing venom.

His whip is almost a mirror image of his tail, but with golden blades instead of green.

While the rest prefer to wrap their tails around their legs, its natural position is twisted upwards, also like a scorpion. When he feels uncomfortable, he can "blow out" his tail into a swarm of flies that follow him. After all, it is a deadly weapon.

Sensitiveness 2/10. He likes it because it gives him an advantage over you. Until you start scratching his skin at the base. He's all yours on his knees.

If he doesn't pull the stinger out, the tip is rounded and a little bulbous, but you won't notice until he's deep inside you.

Lucifer

Long and thick, almost like a Mammon, phenomenally beautiful, angelic white with golden reflections. Resembles a snake. It splits in 1/3 and has two ends.

If you get close enough to it, you'll see that the base is as red as its horn.

You'd expect it to feel like reptile scales, but it's more like smooth feathers. Soft, but only the top layer. When you press it, you feel that the core is iron-hard.

He has the same scar as on his chest above his tail, only smaller.

Sensitivness 6/10. Unlike others, instead of pleasure, he may suddenly be struck by pain. Take care of him.

That doesn't mean he won't use his tail against you.

He wants to see your tears when you have his penis in your mouth and the tips of his tail in both holes.

[anythinggoesbutme]

Little Brother, Bigger Attitude

Grayson Hawthorne x Lyra Kane

Warnings: Light emotional manipulation (from Kit, in a humorous and protective sibling way), Mild language (sarcastic insults, e.g. “stick up your butt”), Secondhand embarrassment, Family tension themes (mentions of people not staying/abandonment), Food throwing/minor pranks

Synopsis: Grayson Hawthorne finally meets Lyra’s little brother, Kit for the first time, and it’s a meeting filled with nerves, laughter, and quiet moments of unexpected tenderness. As Grayson tries to make a good impression, he discovers that winning over the most important person in Lyra’s life might be the key to winning her heart completely. But it’s not as easy as it seems..

Song: “Walking on Sunshine” — Katrina and the Waves (more for Kit’s vibes)

Word Count: 1,342

Grayson Hawthorne could handle billion-dollar deals. He could outthink cutthroat business rivals. He could navigate the suffocating expectations of his family name without flinching. But standing on the porch of Lyra’s childhood home, hands shoved deep in his pockets to hide how tightly they fisted the inside of his coat, Grayson Hawthorne was afraid.

Lyra gave him that small, knowing smile—the one that melted every defense he had—and reached up to smooth down the front of his shirt like he hadn’t already done it three times in the car. “You’re going to be fine. Kit’s… well. Just be yourself.”

“Right.” His voice came out tight. “Because that’s worked so well before.”

Lyra laughed softly, the sound brushing against him like a breeze in early spring—too brief, too sweet. “Don’t let him get to you.”

“Your brother’s ten.”

“And already more dangerous than all the Hawthornes put together.” She knocked on the door before he could protest, her eyes dancing.

Before Grayson could think of a witty comeback—or an excuse to escape—a blur of motion flung the door open. There stood Kit Kane. Brown hair sticking up like he’d been electrocuted, a T-shirt two sizes too big with a cracked graphic of a video game controller, jeans torn at the knee, and bare feet despite the winter chill. His sharp hazel eyes zeroed in on Grayson like he was some insect under a magnifying glass.

Kit didn’t look at Lyra. Didn’t say hi. He just crossed his arms and tipped his chin up. “So you’re the rich guy.”

Grayson blinked. “Uh—”

“Do you own, like, five yachts or something? Do you swim in piles of money? What’s it like having no soul?”

“Kit!” Lyra hissed, but Grayson felt the corner of his mouth twitch despite himself.

“Kit Kane, don’t be rude.” The voice floated from deeper in the house—warm, amused, lightly scolding. A woman appeared behind Kit, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Lyra’s mother. Grayson remembered Lyra mentioning her name once. Rachel. Rachel Kane. She had the same hazel eyes as her kids, kind where Kit’s were mischievous, and the same brown waves streaked with threads of silver.

Rachel reached over Kit’s head and gently swatted him aside. “Sorry about that. He’s been… eager to meet you.”

“That’s one word for it,” Grayson said, managing to smile.

Rachel laughed. “Come in, both of you. Keith’s in the kitchen—he’s been working on dinner all day.”

Grayson stepped inside, heart still pounding. The house smelled like garlic and rosemary, warm bread, and something sweet baking. It wasn’t like Hawthorne House. It was lived-in. Real. The kind of home Grayson had always told himself he didn’t need.

Kit trailed behind him like a shadow as they moved toward the kitchen, eyes narrowed, studying. Judging.

“Where’d you get that jacket? Is it made of baby seals or something?” Kit’s voice dripped with mockery.

Grayson clenched his jaw. “It’s wool.”

“Oh. So just normal animal cruelty. Cool, cool.”

Lyra groaned. “Kit.”

“No, no, let him get it out of his system,” Grayson muttered, shooting her a look. But Kit wasn’t done.

“So, Mr. Rich Guy, what do you want with my sister? Gonna buy her a castle or something so she can be your princess? Or are you gonna make her sign one of those prenup things so you can dump her later and keep all your gold?”

Grayson stared at him. Kit stared right back, defiant. Grayson felt like he’d been thrown into a high-stakes boardroom meeting where the opponent was a gremlin in a gamer tee.

“Kit,” Rachel said again, voice firmer this time, but Grayson raised a hand.

“It’s fine.” He crouched slightly to Kit’s eye level. “I’m not trying to buy your sister. I’m trying to be worthy of her.”

Kit didn’t flinch. His voice went quiet, but sharper. “No one’s worthy of her. And if you hurt her, I don’t care how tall you are or how much money you have—I’ll ruin your life.”

“Kit Kane!” Rachel sounded genuinely horrified now.

But Grayson… Grayson just smiled, slow and real for the first time since stepping inside. “Good.” He straightened. “You should protect her. That’s what brothers do.”

Kit blinked. The corner of his mouth quirked up, like maybe he hadn’t expected that answer. But the moment passed, and the devil returned to his grin.

“Okay, but seriously—how do you get your hair like that? Is it, like, a rich person thing? Special shampoo made out of unicorn tears?”

“Kit!” Lyra was half-laughing, half-exasperated, cheeks pink with embarrassment.

Before Grayson could respond, another figure emerged from the kitchen. Keith Kane was tall, broad-shouldered, with a dusting of gray in his beard and a relaxed smile that said he’d been listening to this whole exchange. He clapped a hand on Grayson’s shoulder with enough force to make him stumble half a step.

“Welcome to the madhouse. I see you’ve met the welcoming committee.”

Grayson managed a polite smile, though Kit was still circling him like a shark scenting blood. “Thanks for having me.”

Keith chuckled. “Let’s eat before Kit scares you off for good.”

Dinner was chaos. Kit threw barbs like darts—Grayson lost count of the sarcastic questions and dramatic sighs. Every time Grayson tried to answer a question from Keith or Rachel, Kit found a way to interrupt.

“So, Grayson, where’d you go to school?” Keith asked at one point.

“Harvard—”

“Oh, fancy!” Kit leaned dramatically across the table. “Did they teach you how to walk with a stick up your butt or is that natural?”

Lyra choked on her water. Rachel dropped her fork. Keith smothered a grin.

Grayson inhaled slowly. “Kit, if you’d like, I could tutor you in proper stick-walking form.”

Kit’s eyes widened. A beat. Then he grinned. “Okay, okay. You’re not as boring as I thought.”

But the truce was temporary. Kit upped his game—flicking peas at Grayson when no one was looking, slipping a slice of bread onto Grayson’s chair just before he sat back down. Grayson caught himself right before it flattened beneath him.

He turned, deadpan. “Really?”

Kit shrugged, eyes sparkling. “Oops.”

Lyra kicked Kit under the table. Kit yelped.

And somehow, through all of it, Grayson found himself… relaxing. He sparred with billionaires for a living. He could handle a ten-year-old with Jameson’s chaos and Xander’s wit. Barely. But he could.

After dinner, Rachel and Keith disappeared to clean up, leaving Lyra to help Kit with a school project. Grayson hovered, unsure if he should stay or go. Kit was sprawled on the floor with colored pencils and a poster board.

Grayson cleared his throat. “Need help?”

Kit eyed him like he was debating whether to say yes or throw a pencil at him. “You good at drawing?”

“Not really.”

“Then sit down, but don’t touch anything.”

Grayson sat, watching as Kit sketched sloppy rocket ships and aliens. After a while, Kit glanced at him, quieter now.

“Are you gonna marry her?”

The question knocked the air out of him. Grayson swallowed. “I don’t know yet.”

Kit stared at his drawing. “She deserves someone who’s gonna stay.”

“I know.”

Kit didn’t look at him, but his voice was small when he said, “Lots of people don’t.”

Grayson felt something twist in his chest. He reached over, gently—awkwardly—and handed Kit the blue pencil he’d been searching for. “I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

Kit didn’t say anything, but his shoulders relaxed a little. And when Lyra returned, Kit didn’t immediately start plotting Grayson’s destruction again. Not right away, anyway.

As Grayson left that night, Kit stood on the porch, arms crossed, looking like a miniature bodyguard.

“I’ll be watching you,” he warned.

Grayson grinned. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Lyra kissed his cheek as they walked to the car, shaking her head. “I think you passed.”

Grayson glanced back at Kit, who was making dramatic slashing motions across his throat.

“Barely,” he said. But his heart was lighter than it had been in a long time.

[narrans]

The Button-Thread Bond | I | Part One | A Day in the Life

Birdsong. The first beams of sunlight creeped through a canopy of leaves that towered high above. A warm breeze promised a scorching day. The dried creek with only a few small puddles remaining was home to a handful of frogs who stood like gargoyles waiting to surprise unsuspecting prey. Insects leapt and scurried around in the stalks of grass along the dew lined branches and over a deliberate canopy of moss lifted from a nearby rock. 

Nella stretched in her bunk. She didn’t want to get up. Her aching bones and muscles had been overworked and complaining louder with each passing day. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling, but it was a frustrating one. She rolled over onto her back and stared up at the moss canopy she’d created the night before. The roots, minute and fragile, curled like frayed ribbon above her. Their protection and disguise was a saving grace, especially with so many early mornings recently. 

No one’s going to get this thing packed up. If I’m going to get water and something to eat today, I need to get a move on. I’ve already slept in too much. 

Her silent scolding did the trick. She pushed herself up and lifted the plastic snack bag opening that kept her shielded from the elements, careful not to knock the paperclip she used to prop up the opening, and slipped out into the roots that helped form her canopy. She pulled the elastic band from her wrist and held it in her teeth as she wrestled her hair into a braid. It took a moment to fight the tangles and the wiry sprigs that were once silky smooth. The strands alternated more obviously now. Brown-blonde. Gray. Brown-blonde. Brown-blonde. Gray. Gray. 

Brief calisthenics and some stretches shook the last of the sleep from her body as her eyes yearned for the bliss of sleep. She tugged on her pants, threw on a shirt, and slipped her feet into her shoes, lacing them up tight with the thread she’d acquired recently, and rummaged in her pack for some semblance of breakfast. She had some left over maple seeds, a bit of cricket, and a fragment of cracker that had seen better days. 

Can’t go too much longer without getting some more food, and water is starting to get scarce. Probably should head to the lake. 

Moving was usually a worst case scenario, but not for this Borrower. For her, it was life. It was adventure. It was a chore back in the day and even more so now, but Nella wasn’t about to change her ways just because she was feeling a bit achy this morning. She huffed a sigh and began chewing on the dried cricket and stretched as tall as her proud four inches would allow before beginning to pack up her humble campsite. 

She replaced the moss canopy back onto the rock, carrying what little water was nearby to help the moss grow once more, and rolled the snack bag carefully to prevent it from getting holes. A hammock of knotted yarn held up by rusted paper clips came next, the ends carefully bent and covered by the yarn. Bottle caps and foil secured back in her pocket backpack, she harvested the charcoal from the fire she’d set the night before. 

Finally, the journey began. 

She tracked downstream, following closely along the rocks in search of signs of useful life, and continued to chew on the remnants of her dried cricket. The sun continued to bake the air, and not even the trees could provide ample cover from the heat. Still, Nella trekked onward. Her mouse-skin boots pattered softly on the stone, leaving no trace of her existence. Each rustle in the undergrowth had her pause momentarily. Years of training heightened senses living in the outdoors, but it didn’t mean she could ever let her guard down. 

One rustle might be a leaping frog or a cricket who had miscalculated a jump. A harsh bark from above could be a squirrel or a small dog charging through the underbrush coughing up a part of a stick it ingested. A slither. A snap. A gust of wind rustling the leaves high above. Everything meant something, and a judgment call of running or freezing had to be made in an instant. 

Survival was an act of a perfect blend between sheer will and an insane amount of luck. 

As a Borrower, that luck was a necessity. While Nella believed that luck could be made with careful decision making and years of experience, she never left anything to chance. 

Always pack light. 

Err on the side of caution. 

If something is going to go wrong, it is. 

Stick to the Borrower rules no matter what. 

And…

Never ever ever ever get attached. 

Don’t get attached to anything. 

Don’t get attached to anyone. 

Things just worked out better that way. 

It took a minute, but soon the rustle in the undergrowth revealed itself to be nothing more than a simple salamander darting around in the low hanging blades of grass. The miniscule sigh of relief was appreciated as the tension relieved itself in her body, but she couldn’t stop now. As she walked, she attempted to keep an eye out for anything useful that she could manage to bring with her. It was a bold game though. Each thing she added to her pack, the more it would weigh. More weight meant more energy to carry. More energy to carry meant more things she’d need to borrow and harvest to keep herself functional. 

There was a fine balance, and the intensity of the warm weather meant there was a small margin of error. Nella attempted to ignore some of the other borrowings she found along the way that might be useful. A bit of plastic, which she kept. A bottle cap lid, which she left. A soda can, which she left despite the desire to pull off the pull tab for various useful implements. Acorn cap, which she left. Mushroom, which she snagged. Dandelion, which she actually stopped to dig up part of the root and harvest the greens and the flower on the top. 

Nella felt a bit exhausted after her play in the dirt and suddenly debated her decision to sacrifice time and energy for a single dandelion. She glanced at her canteen on the side of her pack and saw she was nearing the end of the water droplets. 

Ration carefully, Nella. You’ve got a little way further, and who knows if it’ll even be there. 

Daring to take a swig from her water canteen, a borrowed oil container that was in the shape of a small fish, she continued down further along the path until she spotted the thing she was looking for. 

The pond. 

Years of venturing created a rough map in her head and, though slightly depleted because of the recent heat wave and lack of rainfall, she still knew where everything should be. Pack wearing a moist sweat spot on her back, she trudged on with her boots feeling heavier with each step as she approached the roots that looked close to the water without being too moist to sink into the mud and get stuck, and just in time.  

The heat was tangible in the air. Each breath seemed to bring in moisture before it was robbed from the body. Nella knew it was a dangerous environment to be working and walking in without significantly more water than she currently possessed, but that was all about to change. The experienced Borrower ducked into the shade of the moist roots and immediately began to feel relief. Again, she took another swig from her canteen. 

I need to either make some more charcoal or be ready to sit and boil what I need and then some. 

She quickly shed her pack and took only a few essentials, primarily her pin and side satchel, and carefully observed the exterior of the pond. The water looked shallow and easily wadable, but that meant the mud and silt would be twice as sicky. Careful around that and can’t fall in. The sound of frogs were all around. Good eating. She inhaled deeply. Normal scents. Not deep enough for critters to be territorial about it, but deep enough to be home to those bug-eyed amphibians. 

The Borrower stepped with precision on the patches of moss and grass as she approached the pond. The subtle sound of squishing underfoot told her more about the ground than could be expressed in words. The sun beat down on small segments of the pond, but this was a matter of survival, not a pleasure trip to someplace pretty. Nella bounced from patch to patch like a skipping stone, mimicking the movement of a frog out of sheer habit in case there were any humans nearby. 

One hop. Two. Bounce. 

There. 

Nella smiled to herself as she leaned against some of the exposed roots that led into the pond and spotted the thing she’d hoped was here. Fish. More specifically, the tiny minnows that were often too small to any human to bother with; but, for a Borrower, it was a magnificent meal as long as the water was clean. 

Nella didn’t bother moving quickly back to her makeshift base. There was too much to do and it was a poor use of energy if she tried to rush. She had enough for the moment, and moving quicker was only going to use more resources. As she’d done so many times before, the Borrower set up her campsite with her hammock in the roots by the water along with her plastic bag bed. She hung her pack on some of the overhanging roots and removed some of her essentials. 

One spear. Three hooks, two makeshift and one true hook. The plastic she’d borrowed from the water. Her water canteen. A metal cap. One match. Used pull tab, which she regretted not borrowing from the previous one she’d found. All the lines she dared to carry with her. 

She began with setting up each of the lines against the roots so she could get to working on catching her some dinner. With a heavy heart, she sacrificed some of her last dried cricket to bait the lines and set to work on getting some more bait, digging in the dirt with her pull tab until, finally, she found what she was looking for. The slimy body of a worm emerged from the ground and began wriggling to free itself as Nella dragged it from the safety of the earth. 

The pang of sadness was momentary as she sliced it up using her makeshift shovel to make more reasonable pieces to bait her lines. Each segment was carefully set to the side so it wouldn’t squirm away before the Borrower set back to her major task - collecting water. 

Taking care with her piece of plastic, she balanced precariously on a low root and dipped water into the metal bottle cap and arranged the area in a precise, methodical way. Space below for the fire. Bottle cap next. Plastic cap above that. Plastic covering on the top in a kind of weighted canopy. It was a trick she’d learned from her mom, who learned it from her grandfather and so on and so forth. It would gather the clean water down below and give her plenty to drink from for the next few days. 

It took a few hours and a few false catches, but finally the Borrower woman managed to snag three decent sized minnows which she descaled, deboned, and began cooking over the water boiling fire she’d set by the water to keep it from spreading. 

The long hours of the afternoon soon gave way to the subtle suffocating heat of the evening, which eventually began to subsite as the fireflies danced in the trees and grass all around. The Borrower woman had long ventured back to her campsite and was enjoying a meal of fish and boiled mushroom as she watched the sun casting longer and darker shadows on the forest she’d called home for years. The sounds of the frogs and crickets intensified, making her more grateful by the moment she’d found an ideal place to sleep for the evening by the roots of the trees. 

Stepping out and stretching tall, she pulled down her hair and shook it out as she inhaled deeply. A trained nose out in the wilderness with a single breath could read the days to come with ease, and Nella had hers honed to a science. Though the mugginess of the air was sweltering, there was the promise of a storm on the horizon. Maybe not in the next two days, but there was undoubtedly going to be a storm in the next few days. A big one. There was a hazy circle around the moon and the humid days meant she needed to prepare and hit the high ground sooner than later. 

She inhaled deeply again, this time picking up something that set the Borrower’s senses on edge. There was something charged in the air that she couldn’t quite place. Not quite lightning. Not quite danger. Change? Unease? Tension that was not her own? 

Whatever it was, Nella wanted no part of it. She’d made it an art to stay clear of anything that didn’t immediately involve her survival. For all she knew, this was some tension involving nearby humans in the park that she knew was nearby. 

She stretched again and retreated to her hammock once more, slipping out of her shoes and hanging them up so they wouldn’t be soiled before slipping into the snack bag and propping open the zipper so the cool breeze could sooth her to sleep. 

All in all, she had found equilibrium. 

It was all she needed.

It was all she wanted. 

What more could there be?

~~~~~^*^*^*^*^~~~~~

Continue | Coming Soon

[bettysupremacy]

I’m begging for anything with Steve and reader having a really early morning or late night swimming session in his pool. Just a cute couple taking advantage of Steve’s huge pool during hot summer. Just like lazy fluff pleaseee. Steve is so summer bf

Steve is my summer bf, and I firmly believe that! Thank you for your request!! ☆

Steve has beaten you in tag three times now. It’s admittedly not something he’s proud of, but it’s also not something he’s going to deny for a fourth round.

“Give me a chance!”

You crack up at the sounds of his boyish giggles getting louder as he advances. Just as breathless as you, he overcomes, prize set determinedly in mind. His hands on you.

His large wet hands grab you triumphantly as he advances, maneuvering you into his arms. “-And he destroys! Again! Is it his brains, his braun, or his beauty?”

He dunks you in the cold water, wiping your wet face sympathetically when he pulls you up.

“This is totally rigged!” He swirls you in his arms. Like a trophy. “How am I supposed to win tag against the captain of the swim team?”

He huffs a laugh, warm air smoothing over your cold face.

“You’re supposed to want me to catch you.” He grins, dropping you like he’ll let you dunk again. You shriek, grabbing his arms.

“Do you know how tag works?”

He laughs, shining brightly at you to make up for the lack of light. “You let me win so I can hold you, baby.”

“That’s not tag.”

His smile doesn’t falter. He nods to the deep end, letting your legs drop back to the rough pool floor. “Let’s go again.”

“I’m tired.” Your wet fingers tangle in his equally as wet hair. He leans into the touch. “Let’s go in.”

Those three words are a blow to Steve’s chest. He never gets you out here alone. It’s always stuffed with whiny teens. He doesn’t mind it, usually, but he’d like moment with his girlfriend where Marco Polo isn’t involved.

“Can’t we stay out longer?” He pouts, “we always have to share the pool.”

“It’s midnight.” You drop your hands into the water, bringing them back up to his neck and smiling as he shivers. “And we’re cold.”

He drops his head into your shoulder.

It’d taken no convincing to get you to come out here when you’d seen his red pool shorts, but keeping you in was another issue. The waters were frigid, and he’d had to push you to get in. Another thing he’s, admittedly, not proud of.

“We can get in tomorrow morning,” Your reasoning whispers in his ear. “We can wake up early.”

“You are not waking up early.” He murmurs in your neck.

You smile. “Probably not.”

He groans, and then it’s quiet. You can hear the cicadas in the woods surrounding his home. It’s a cacophony of insects. The water ripples around you, reflecting the moon.

Slowly, more slowly than you’d like, his lips find home planted on the juncture of your neck, twitching into a smile as you breathe through your nose.

The water sloshes as his hands push you into the pool wall. It’s cold on your skin, tickling your chilly arms.

“Y’so pretty.” He mouths greedily under your jaw.

It’s wet, your hair sticks to the back of your neck, but his hands roam lower and lower, pressing and grabbing needily. You can’t bring yourself to care.

He comes up for air. “Let’s go in.”

“I kinda like it here.” You look down at him.

His swollen lips tease you. Pretty and pink, you want them back on your neck. He knows this, smiling to taunt.

“I like it when I can see you.” His hand slides over your slick belly. You wrap your legs around him.

“You said I was pretty.”

He huffs a laugh. “I don’t need to see you to know that.” His finger pinches the fat of your thigh. “Prettiest girl in the whole world.”

Your stomach flips, a funny smile coming to your warm face. “Carry me.”

His lips are soft as they work their way back to your neck. They leave a trail of spit over your wet skin, you sigh as a breeze flutters past you. Languid with his kisses, he moves back up to your mouth, hovering, hot air warming your kiss bitten lips.

“Gonna need you to wrap your arms around me, honey.”

His hands squeeze your thighs.

[lovlidollie]

Random Feyd HCs?

you said random so prepare yourself 😭 also i went way too far into this, the amount of research i did into the first few hcs alone is insane

feyd has a thing for imported cheeses and wines. giedi prime does not have the correct atmosphere nor natural resources to make soft, delicate cheese. the planet doesn’t have any photosynthetic potential, no room for grazing animals (let alone grass and greenery) and is so polluted that those who come visit are stuck with oxygen concentrators and advanced oxygen masks. almost, if not all food is imported from other planets: slig (a cross between a giant slug and a pig) from tleilax (feyd didn’t like it much, it was too sweet and not game-y enough for him.), milkbugs (arachnids the size of a small hand) and turtlebugs (sweet insects) from harmonthep (he didn’t like either. bugs weird feyd out and he doesn’t like looking at them.), paradan melon and pundi rice from caladan (the melon was just okay, but feyd loved having the rice with gyrak (heavily seasoned meat from zimia) as his post-arena meal.).

now let’s get into the wines. champia from rossak was something he only drank at dinner parties and official meetings. it’s a cloyingly sweet white wine, and bubbly, which feyd thinks is the only thing that makes it bearable. it’s too flowery and heady for him to properly enjoy. feyd has a high alcohol tolerance, but champia has a way of getting everyone wine-drunk quicker than they think. zincal is a very popular wine from caladan, which makes it the most accessible to the harkonnens. it’s a light red wine, clean and woody and cherry-like (cherries are one of feyd’s favourite fruits, he likes the acidity of them and enjoys chewing on the pits.) it’s a basic wine that feyd neither hates nor loves. now casyrack? his absolute favourite. it’s a dry, intense red wine, that needs to be aged. less than 5 years and it tastes thin and harsh and not at all enjoyable. it needs to be drunk before it’s eighth birthday, but feyd prefers it aged seven years exactly. it’s velvety and rich, with a smoky, spicy aftertaste that leaves feyd’s stomach feeling warm and his head pleasantly thrumming. it’s not popular across the known universe, leaving thousands of bottles sitting idly in the atreides family compound. feyd had to pull a lot of ropes to get a steady supply of the smooth wine.

now, cheeses. again, feyd is not a fan of sweet things. he likes his food salty, bitter, sour. thick cottage cheese is a yes from him. not the runny type and it specifically needs to be made from sheep milk. while he doesn’t like arrakis in general, he has a secret fondness for the food. feyd loves aged camel milk cheese. it’s rich and creamy with a clean finish and pairs well with meats. on that note, camel meat is one of his favourites to have. he eats all his meat bloody and basically raw (like.. feyd… it’s basically still alive…), but he likes how fatty the camel meat is, leaving it tender and juicy. he also likes thick cream cheese made with goat milk. feyd stuffs the cheese into dates and then rolls them in spice as a special treat for not killing too many people who pissed him off during the day.

feyd loves dark chocolate. he doesn’t like sweets and only enjoys them on very special occasions, which is why dark chocolate is so perfect for him. it’s hard to source, but when he’s able to get it imported he does not share with a single person. his favourite would be the 99%-100% cocoa bars. it helps make him slightly more manageable and puts him in a better mood.

he hosts the best parties on the planet. they’re exclusive and elusive, and all the harkonnen elite want nothing more but to be invited to a feyd-rautha party. supplies the guests with the best alcohol and food one can get their hands on. he generally sticks with his pets, stroking their skimpy, scantily-clad bodies while he drinks his wine. he doesn’t have many friends, but he has acquaintances that he has to keep up appearances with, so feyd is sure to make his way around and greet (threaten) everyone.

ends up fucking one of his pets over a table at one of his parties and ‘accidentally’ starts an orgy.

elite music taste. only knows bangers. gatekeeps the good stuff though.

has a blood kink and would willingly eat you out on your period if you’ve behaved. in fact i feel like he’d be more inclined to eat you out even if you haven’t been the best, purely because he is bloodlusting and wants to taste iron on his tongue.

on that note, would be into wound-fucking .. 🤷

[the-spam-specialist]

*walks in, sits down and slides a stack of pokemon cards across a table to you.*

So about those… ‘surprise attacks’ Ragatha does to Caine sometimes… how about her striking when the cute lil ringmaster’s hyperfocused on adventure planning? :3c

(I imagine she might get worried seeing him working so hard, sometimes Caine needs to take a break!)

*narrows eyes, grabs the Pokemon cards* Indeed.

......wait these are all energy cards-

Surprise Attack!

Caine was busy planning the next adventure when he was suddenly attacked by a sneaky Ragatha!

Characters: Caine, Ragatha

Word Length: 400-ish

Caine hovered a few feet above the main stage, humming a little tune as he reviewed his notes. Scribbled lines and chaotic diagrams covered the page, all dedicated to understanding his peculiar cast of performers. Pomni wanted puzzles, Gangle desired emotional depth, and Kinger…well, Kinger had requested more insect collections, which Caine was still trying to decipher the meaning of. Jax, as always, had provided the most useless feedback. Just violent stick figures and the word “mayhem.”

Caine hummed thoughtfully, twirling a digital pen between his fingers. He was so engrossed in his work that he didn’t hear the soft padding of footsteps approaching.

“Surprise!”

A whirlwind of red hair and blue fabric descended on him, and suddenly, Caine was caught in a flurry of tickles. Ragatha, with a mischievous glint in her button eye, was relentlessly tickling up and down his sides.

“Ah-ha-ha-ha! Ragatha! Stop it!” Caine shrieked, his usual booming voice cracking mid-laugh. He tried to maintain his levitation, but his control wavered, and he tumbled down to the stage with a soft thump.

Ragatha, surprised, knelt beside him. "Caine! Are you okay?" Her button eye was wide with concern.

Caine pushed himself up, shaking his head rapidly, his usually smooth movements a little jerky. "I'm fine, I'm fine," he huffed, his voice still laced with laughter. "I just...can't fly properly when being tickled. It's detrimental to my concentration!" He threw a mock glare at Ragatha. "And you! You are a menace! When did you learn to be so sneaky? How could you…a-a-attack me in such a way?"

Ragatha giggled, scooping him up and gently squeezing him in a hug. “Sorry, sorry. I couldn’t help myself. Besides, it’s good to see you laugh. You’re just so cute when you’re all giggly!” 

“No, I’m not!” Caine huffed, trying and failing to pout. But his anger wasn’t genuine. He knew this was a playful thing, not meant to hurt him at all. And, well…he didn’t exactly dislike the lighthearted attention or affection. But it was still a little embarrassing. "I just hope no one else saw that."

Ragatha beamed, patting his head, "Don't worry, I'm sure no one noticed."

“Uh…I did,” a sudden voice said. 

The two whipped their heads around to see Gangle standing on the main floor. It looked like she had been passing by and accidentally witnessed everything. Ragatha looked at Caine and gave a nervous chuckle as Caine put his embarrassed-ridden face in his hands and groaned. 

[spire-of-ink]

Canard X

Canard X – Finally it began to crack.

“Close your eyes.”

Lorelei was greeted with the amorphous blackness behind her eyes. She gave a nod.

“Now, breathe.”

She took in a breath of the air on the manse’s balcony. It smelled like leaves, dirt, the faint sunrise’s dew; it smelled like life. She took in another breath, filling her lungs with it, and exhaling it back into the world.

“What do you see?” asked the Witch.

She shook her head gently, in a little confusion. “Nothing.”

“No,” she said, firmly, not unkindly. “Use what’s inside you, not your eyes. Those aren’t good for anything but reading,” she huffed.

“Okay…” The apprentice tried to feel what was inside her, anyway. Her heartbeat; blood, steadily she noticed her blood, flowing down her veins, pulsing in time with her even breaths. She felt the chill of morning air pricking her skin all over, clad in only a nightgown as she was; she felt the sounds of the forest beginning to wake. Birds singing familiar songs in the branches, leaves rustling in the wind, the scattering of small animals beginning to breathe.

Beginning to breathe, just like her. Suddenly she felt the wind blow against her; the wind that rustled the leaves, the wind that carried the birds and their songs. She felt the bugs, and not with her eyes, she saw them in her heart, cicadas crying and being eaten by the same birds, old carcasses dissolving into the trees’ roots, and eggs birthing new insects and birds alike, and the wind that entered their lungs entering hers, and out again. She felt…

“What do you see?” the Witch asked again.

“I see life.” An unbidden tear came from her closed eye. “I see death. Birth. Life again. And it’s in me.”

“It’s all in you,” she said, nodding. “Open your eyes.”

She did, and saw her teacher in her broad-brimmed hat and plain white gown, brown apron. So plain, yet Lorelei now saw so much coursing through her body. Something beyond her youthful face, slim with faint wrinkles and gray eyes.

“This is magic.” The Witch looked away and off the small wooden balcony, out over the chirping woods. “The birdsong and wind, eating and being eaten. Breathing each other in and out, together. This is the motion of magic, and it is the same motion as everything.”

“I see…” Lorelei looked out too, turning over this understanding in her head. “What next?”

“Next is breakfast.” The woman turned and paced off.

“Oh.”

---

Lorelei stepped through the starry rift and back before the terminal she had entered the Nether from. She smoothed-down her skirt as it shut behind her with a glass-tearing sound, and faced forwards, confidently looking to where she sensed Morn was standing, waiting.

The doll gave her a nod in greeting. “Afraid we’d lost you.”

“I imagine people get lost in the Nether all the time,” she said back, sighing out in some relief to be back where she was familiar, material reality.

“Well, Cybil tries not to let ‘em. How was it?”

Lorelei paced closer to the dim-lit corner Morn stood at. “I remember why I’m here. Not how I got here, but,” she said, “Why.”

“Enlighten me,” the Quill shrugged, suit ruffling quietly.

“You’re telling a story.”

“We’re all telling a story,” it said. “You, this one, everyone.”

Lorelei pursed her lips, “Yes, but this is on purpose. This is for someone’s benefit, some purpose you have.”

It hummed, a low clockwork trill from its throat, crossing its arms. “We’re all dancing on someone’s strings, darlin’.”

“Dolls, maybe. Not me. I chose freedom a long time ago, and I’m sticking with it.”

“Well,” it said, running a hand through its pink hair, “We’re not here to stop you. But the way this one sees it, you don’t got much choice. We’re the only ones that can put your memories back together, and if it’s right, it thinks that you don’t got much waiting elsewhere. If it helps,” it shrugged, “It promises We’ve got good reasons for all this.”

“I’m sure you do, but I’m doing this my way. Got it?” She crossed her own arms.

Morn assented with a final shrug. “Got it. Speaking of freedom and choice and all, why don’t you pay a visit to Saiko? Sorry,” it caught itself, “That’d be Cioel.”

“The Quill of Religion,” Lorelei recalled. “I’ve met it. I guess that’d be as good as anything.”

“Right. Well, follow me,” it bowed a bit, gesturing towards another ornate elevator door over some ways behind her.

They started off.

---

Soon the elevator doors were sliding open to reveal a brilliant light; the room was all in front of her, the elevator opening dead-on into it. It looked like a church—high vaulted ceilings, finely-carved pillars raising across the walls, stained glass windows depicting mandalas letting in inexplicable light across the marble space. But it was also some sort of lounge; red couches and futons rimmed it, resting beside tall metal gates to other rooms, at the front some form of grand altar adorned by incense, ancient-looking cases of books, a desk with an ink quill on it and a cushion to kneel on before it.

And above all, a great golden dragon, serpentine and sharp-toothed, watchfully presiding the empty congregation. Before it, Cioel reclined in front of the low writing desk, propped-up on a shoulder comfortably, red kimono spilling out over its small form.

Morn stood behind as Lorelei entered, striding up to the doll and giving a small wave, little smile. “Good to see you again,” she nodded.

“Oh, and you,” it laxly greeted, blue hair bobbing over red eyes as it nodded a few times, giving a languid and sly smile. In its hand was a pipe, and shining azure smoke coiled out of it. It was offered forth. “Smoke?”

“No, I don’t really touch it,” she said, and looked around for a place to sit; she found it in a cushion beside the dais of the altar, kneeling down on it.

Amber-red clock-spinning eyes alighted on her as the doll turned to face, still reclined. “What brings you by Our humble Cathedral, O dear seeker?” It sounded nigh-teasing.

“Well,” she said, blinking. “I guess the fact that I’m being made a story of.”

“Oh? This one thought you’d be flattered,” it tittered, a mechanical noise.

“I don’t like having things done to me without my knowing,” she pursed.

“Do you think you ever have a choice?” Cio took in smoke and let it blow out, coming dull from its porcelain lips.

“I didn’t, once,” she said, “But I walked away to make sure I did.”

It watched her, unblinking. “And did you make that choice?”

“If not me, then who could’ve?”

“Perhaps the one writing you,” it smiled slyly, eerily. “Maybe Us. Maybe God.”

“If there is a God, I don’t want any part of his stories. Besides, I’m not a character.”

“What is a character, then, mm?”

“It’s… Well, it’s a fictional idea. It’s not someone that exists.”

“But a program in a computer can?” it asked, smoking again, letting it out. “As you’ve just met one.”

“Cybil’s made of something, though. Data, or whatever it is. I’m not a computer scientist,” she huffed.

“And what of the character in your head? Cybil’s made of information, programs are made of electricity, usually,” it said, “And so are your thoughts. Lil’ electric shocks in your brain,” it grinned. “So then?”

“But I don’t exist in someone’s head,” Lorelei asserted.

“Oh? You exist in this one’s head,” it tittered again. “Just like this one exists in yours.”

“I can touch you, you can touch me,” Lorelei insisted, shaking her head.

“And? So? That’s just more electrical signals telling your lil’ brain I’m here, being touched.”

“Fine, so everything I’m seeing is in my head. But that doesn’t change that a character up there is just not out here like I am.”

Cio shrugged, smoking, breathing. “So it exists in a different way from you. But it exists.”

“Then that’s the difference between us, and so I’m not a character,” the Witch nodded.

“But then,” the doll’s eyes glimmered mischievously, “If a character exists, then where does it exist?”

“I… Don’t know,” she said.

“Could it be that it exists somewhere you’re thinking about?”

“I don’t know…”

“In your head? In the book you’re reading? In another world?”

“What are you getting at?”

“What is it getting at?” the doll asked back.

Lorelei turned this over for a minute, then answered. “That fictional characters are real somewhere.”

“And so you could be one of them,” it concluded, rolling the pipe over in its ball-jointed fingers.

“I guess neither of us can prove it.”

“It wonders,” the doll hummed, smoked again, and looked out to where Morn was watching across the room. “So, what is it you’d like?”

“I’d like to know why my story leads here.”

“You’ll see. Just go on, it’s your story, after all. Tell it yourself.”

She sighed. “Alright. I’d like to know more about the Nether, and how programs exist.”

“Oh, lovely,” Cio grinned. “Then go to the Wing of Technology, Lotheia can help!”

The Witch nodded, stood up, smoothed her skirt, and bowed a bit. “Thank you. By the way,” she gestured up to the great dragon above them. “Who’s that?”

The Quill looked at her unblinking, a wry smile on its lips. “Oh, now that’s a plot twist this one can’t spoil.”

“I see. I’ll guess I’ll be going. Take care, Cio,” she smiled, and began off.

Morn caught her as she headed to the elevator, filing in after her. “Productive?”

Lorelei looked flatly to it. “Not even a little.”

It chuckled, pressing the button to shut the doors. “Hope you’re not frustrated.”

“On the contrary, I’m ready to get started with this. For real.”

The doors shut on the pair.

[fishenjoyer1]

Fish of the Day

Today's fish of the day is the longnose gar!

The longnose gar, known well within North America by anglers, and for their distinctive snout. Scientific name Lepisosteus osseus, meaning bony or armor-scaled bony fish. Gars, as a particularly old species are often referred to as living fossils, in that many of them are exactly the same as the fossils of them we have been finding from millions of years earlier, and the longnose gars are no different. Gars first start appearing within the fossil record around 240 million years ago, and are the only remaining decedents of the Ginglymodi clade, a particularly successful fish group in the Mesozoic era. The reason for their low amount if speciation is because gars are the slowest rate of molecular evolution among jawed vertebrates.

These gar fossils can be found worldwide, but the longnose gar can first be found in the fossil records around 1.8 million years ago, fossils found in Cuba, Kansas, Central America, and area in-between. In the modern day the longnose gar lives along mainly the Mississippi River and the Eastern United States freshwater rivers, although they can handle relatively high salinity, giving them the ability to live in estuaries that other gars can not. In these environments they spend their times living in the shadow of vegetation, usually near fallen trees that they can hide within, or near rocky outcroppings that they can camouflage near, or sea grasses.

Referred to as a primitive fish sometimes, this is because their lack of change over the years. The longnose gar in particular is known for having their intestines in a shape referred to as a spiral valve. A spiral valve is a section of lower intestine that is shaped in a stack of potato chips on top of one another, with a spiral going between them, similar to the look of fish gills when opened, found only within animals that are particularly old and living fossils (sharks, sturgeons, lungfish, paddlefish, and gars). Shaped this way for excess absorption. other than this they also have some old trait such as the bony scaling referred to as ganoid scales, which can also be found in some variation on sturgeon.

Their diet consists of mainly insects and crustaceans, and occasionally small gamefish that they can catch, although this is a rare occasion and mostly made up of fry. Other than humans, they not predated upon, and are apex predators in their environments. Their lifehistory is rather long compared to the fish they live around, but shorter than most gar, living 15-20 years, although in captivity there have been longnose gars that live as long as 40 years. These animals spawn in the summertime from April-July, having as many as 30,000 eggs at a time which are spawned in areas of smooth stones, where the eggs will stick. These animals usually reach sexual maturity around 6 years but some males will reach maturity at 2 years of age. Once they reach their full size they can get as long as 4-5 feet and can weigh more than 50 pounds.

Have a wonderful day!

[tribbetherium]

Daggoths, with their subterranean lifestyles, unconventional limbs and even more peculiar senses, are easily among the most bizarre lineage ever to arise on HP-02017: a clade so derived as to look almost entirely alien. Yet, despite their otherworldy appearance, the daggoths are still mammals: giving birth to live young, and nourishing them with milk, at least for some period of time. And no other species combines the strange with the familiar as the spindled cheeseweaver (Lactarachne brevipus), a descendant of the roof stalac, an insectivore that dwells among the stalactites of the cave's ceiling, a biome obviously absent from the surface world.

Like its predecessor, the spindled cheeseweaver is an ambush hunter, pouncing on insects that it finds among the stone spikes. With long, spindly front digits, yet short, stubby rear ones, it ambles along predominantly with its forelimbs, while arching its back intermittently to secure its grip on another location, in a strange, nine-limbed inchworming gait. Its progress is helped along by broad pads on both fore and hind limbs that are equipped with thousands of tiny, densely packed hairs that allow it to stick tightly to even smooth surfaces, allowing it to negotiate the cavern roof, anchoring with its hind limbs while using its forelimbs to seize insect prey, be it feelerflits that blunder into its outstretched digits or other, flightless bugs that dwell on the rock surface, feeding on bacterial mats and fungi.

But easily the most remarkable characteristic of the cheeseweaver is the namesake ability the females have when rearing their young: they conceal their undeveloped, quasi-larval young in weblike cocoons that they affix to hidden crevices in the cave ceilings. These cocoons, reminescent of an arthropods', are perhaps the most unmammalian feature yet evolved by the daggoths, yet, conversely, is actually what ties the cheeseweaver to its mammalian ancestry: the webs are actually made of modified milk, and further taken to a bizarre extreme thanks to the fermentation and action of several species of symbiotic bacteria living in their mouths and plays a special role in the females.

In both sexes, these bacteria aid in an immune and digestive function, but in females, it contains just the right ingredients to make its silky webs. As daggoths rear their young for only a few days before they leave them, they produce particularly thick and concentrated milk rich in nutrients for their young, with high levels of protein to facilitate their quick growth. This feature is repurposed in this particular species, as when female cheeseweavers lactate, they do so shortly prior to birth, then use their long forelimbs to scoop up the creamy mixture into their cheek pouches. Here, the bacteria begin their work, separating out the proteins into a thick, stringy, and stretchy material after a period of at least 1-2 days that then, piece, by piece, the cheeseweaver female then pulls from her mouth in ropy threads and spins into a cocoon with her four pairs of fore-digits, stretching and spinning and weaving it in a disconcertingly arachnid-like manner into a protective pouch. Once finished, she inserts her rear end into the pouch, births anywhere from six to twelve tiny young each barely 4 millimeters long, and finishes it with a second layer of fibers to safely seal them inside a permeable shell that allows them to respire, as, at this point, the almost-embryonic young breathe entirely through their thin, vacularized skin that directly absorbs oxygen, as their lungs are not yet fully developed.

Once her job is finished, the female cheeseweaver conceals the cocoon with a lick of saliva that masks its scent and firms its adhesion to the surface, and then wanders off with no further care. She can spin several such cocoons during the breeding season, bearing her offspring in batches. The young, in turn, develop safely inside the cocoons, hidden away from predators that hunt mostly by scent. Inside, she has packed into the cocoons as well a rich reserve of the thick, fatty milk, semi-solidified to a soft, jelly-like consistency, to serve as a food source for the developing young. It is during this period that her symbiotic microbes again play an important role: they produce antimicrobial excretions that ward off pathogens and harmful bacteria that may infest the milk and harm the young, but which are tolerated by the beneficial bacteria that are then ingested by the young and become symbionts of them in turn. Once their teeth are fully matured, at the age of about two to three weeks, the young chew their way out of the cocoon and, after consuming the remainder of the empty husk, emerge out into the world, skilled hunters from day one that first practice on microscopic invertebrates before graduating to a diet of bigger insects as they progress toward adulthood.

-----------

And one final late-Spectember entry before schedule conflicts take over again. Sorry again to those who expected much content for Spectember, I hope you don't mind irregular random posting.

[barbwillbrb]

Blorbo lore drop:

What's one habit they picked up from their parents and one they picked up from their partner?

Gonna narrow it down and focus on our pairings~

Rackal

He's pretty knowledgeable about mushrooms and knows how to forage them, something he picked up from his father. Like his father, he's fairly reserved/soft-spoken-- although he does have a quiet anger/rage that pops up from time-to-time courtesy of his mother; it usually shows up when someone crosses a line with his loved ones. He's also very active and enjoys fishing, which he takes after his mother.

Honey is very warm and open about her wants/desires, while Rackal has a tendency to bottle things up (he's considered the calm, constant one in his friend groups) and doesn't like to burden people. I think he becomes more open about his desires and is more likely to act on them once these two get together.

Clairice

She's often considered loud and abrasive, traits that stem directly from the twins' mother. On the flipside, she's also a smooth-talker/very good with words, which she picks up from her dad, along with a pretty laid-back attitude.

Rain is a very subtle trickster, able to get up to mischief without anyone suspecting them. Every one of her friends suspect Clairice is up to some bullshit even when she's innocent, especially Rackal. I think Clairice picks up the art of subtlety over time with Rain. She also unconsciously becomes well-aware of accessibility needs and can quickly clock if a place is equipped for Rain to be comfortable.

Kelum

My half-orc boy takes a lot after his human father; he's very calm, soft-spoken, and a pacifist by nature-- he prefers to talk things out rather than physically fight. This trait is furthered by his mother, who preferred to use her size/strength to create things rather than sow violence (she is a carpenter by trade). He also enjoys woodworking, which he gets from his mother, and but follows his father career-wise as a fisherman.

Prior to meeting Coren, he has a hard time sticking up for himself; if teased/insulted, Kelum will let those comments roll off his back. After meeting her, he will call out behavior/shut it down (honestly, standing up for her/making sure she is respected forces Kelum to do the same for himself).

Mortimer

The one habit Mortimer picked up from his bastard of a father is how to verbally tear someone down-- if insulted/threatened, Mortimer will go for the throat. He's also a very nervous/anxious person, with a tendency to keep to himself, and is very reluctant to ask for help-- characteristics that are both a by-product of his upbringing and traits belonging to his father (although Sebastian Craig is far, far better at maintaining an illusion of cool superiority, whereas Mortimer is a fucking disaster who wears his emotions on his sleeve). His mother died when Mortimer was young, but he has a fondness for rodents/small animals like she did.

Much to everyone's surprise, Mortimer's fear/dislike of insects turned into an appreciation for them thanks to Eno. He is also now prone to getting up earlier, and his eating habits no longer mimic that of a feral raccoon given consciousness.

[wowbright]

Anderson’s Guide to the Birds of North America, Ch. 13: Being Next to You

Summary: Fourteen scenes from the lives of Blaine Anderson, grad student and avid birder, and Kurt Hummel, clothing designer and Vogue writer, from before their first meeting during the COVID lockdowns of spring of 2020 through falling in love. Written for the Klaine Valentine’s Challenge 2025.

Also on AO3.

Title and some lines adapted from the Klaine Valentines 2025 prompt Wedding Song by Bob Dylan.

~~~

Chapter 13: Being Next to You

They started their COVID bubble not at either of their apartments, but by biking to the salt marsh. As much as Kurt wanted to get Blaine naked and in his bed, it was more urgent to get away from the place where he had spent most of the last two weeks in quarantine.

Besides, it gave them an opportunity to ease into touch.

The palm of Blaine’s hand fit perfectly into Kurt’s. It was warm and solid and real, and Kurt didn't want to let go of it even to focus his binoculars. The palm warblers were close enough that he didn't really need them, anyway. He watched them with his naked eyes as they chirped and hopped from stick to stalk, catching invisible insects in their beaks. He leaned into Blaine, their shoulders pressed together, feeling the rise and fall of Blaine’s breaths.

Blaine leaned his head against Kurt’s shoulder, still watching the birds, and chuckled.

“What is it?” Kurt asked, smiling. He knew Blaine well enough by now to no longer feel bewildered over his random fits of laughter. It always meant something good.

“I could barely sleep all night. Mostly excitement, but I also kept worrying I was going to do something wrong or you wouldn’t like the way I smelled—”

Kurt turned and buried his nose in Blaine’s hair. It smelled like herbal shampoo with a hint of raspberry and a lot of fresh air. “I love the way you smell.”

“Likewise.” Blaine rubbed his nose against the skin right above Kurt’s collar—hitting a spot that made Kurt’s knees buckle—and took a big whiff. “You smell amazing. You are amazing. And that's what's so funny—I was so worried about being awkward, but I can’t be, because being next to you is the most natural thing for me.”

“More natural than standing in a salt marsh watching palm warblers?”

Blaine nodded solemnly. “Yes. Because … the palm warblers would go along happily whether we were here or not. But ever since you walked into my life—or, technically, I guess I walked into yours—the circle’s been complete. You’re the missing piece. Happiness to those birds is eating and mating and reproducing. Happiness to me is you.”

“Oh,” Kurt said—or maybe he didn't say it. Maybe his lips just fell open in that shape and no sound came out but his breath. Because Kurt had seen this expression before on Blaine’s face, but never so close. He’d never been able to see the different shards of amber and honey and brown that made up Blaine’s irises, or the distinct hairs that made up Blaine’s thick lashes, or the individual pores on Blaine’s chin that held hints of the dark hairs shaved away that morning, and which Kurt was now touching, dragging his fingertips over the skin, smooth in one direction and rough in the other, as Blaine’s pupils grew wider and he leaned closer in.

Blaine tasted incredible. His lips were soft and strong, and he made a little gasping sound into Kurt’s mouth as they kissed, and he wrapped his hands around Kurt’s jaw and cradled the back of Kurt's skull and pulled him closer, mouths falling open and tongues touching as the world disappeared around Kurt.

Everything was Blaine: Blaine’s mouth and Blaine’s body and the smell and taste of him, filling all of Kurt’s senses.

[butterfrogmantis]

I've been holding onto Matador since I got back from Barcelona months ago and here he FINALLY is. And also another newbie!

Matador Smurf:

-Ironically very anti killing. He just wants to show off more than anything. Can usually subdue large or dangerous animals into crashing into walls and stuff quite well but he's a noble heart, will never go for the kill. IS a skilled fencer for other sapient opponents when it's fair. Would fight Don more but Don's a swashbuckling kind of hero whilst Matador sticks to fencing rules and would probably lose in a real swordfight.

-The Barcelonian! From the Catalonia region of Spain. Knows both mainland Spanish and Catalonian but tends to use Catalonian to P off Elena who only knows mainland Spanish … bit of a cultural rivalry there XD

-As bad as Smooth for flirting with everything that moves. Actually that includes Smooth too. It's a flirt off. And by that I mean dating but not. It's similar to Smooth and Slammy, both are wayyy too non committal to settle down but after Smooth's 174758th rejection from Jokey and when Slammy is back to doing his part time dating of the band Smooth can usually be found crawling back to Matador

SmurfHemlock:

-Born SmurfSunflower (Sunny) was a shy kid who disliked the other typical grove activities like archery and dance. Thought she didn't really fit in with anyone and would usually just be found down by the swamp poking stuff with sticks. She had one friend tho, a friend she thought was just as weird. SmurfRafflesia was obsessed with the undead and paranormal, and through her admiration of her, Sunflower came to enjoy these things too, finding beauty in death and wanting to preserve it somehow.

-Teenage Sunflower takes on a goth not-phase and changes her name to Hemlock (Sunflower was so … preppy!) and begins to study the art of taxidermy. Still regarded as one of the black sheeps of the grove but she minds it much less now - she kind of revels in the solitude. Begins developing a fairly big crush on Rafflesia before one day … Raff just goes missing out of the blue. It breaks Hemlock's heart and she sinks further into the loner persona. Also some weird demon got out somewhere but Papa and Willow took care of that.

-Lol JK Raff isn't gone forever, she shows up one day as a ghost and claims some Archaeologist from the guy village found her and whoops she's been gone for a century what did she miss haha. Well Hemlock is PISSED. I mean who does that? Esp/ since Rafflesia admits she wasn't even trapped she was just vibing in the mausoleum Archie found her in (Raff and Archie are a bit similar in that way, they're both married to their work and can be a bit self absorbed in it at times)

-Anyway Hemlock's been doing great w/ her taxidermy all this time. She's very careful and only sources natural deaths or kills … but may adopt elderly insects with some ulterior motives. At least she's good to em and they get a very comfortable end of life before becoming art pieces. Go figure. She's made up w/ Raff, it is pretty cool to have a ghost friend after all, and apparently Rafflesia also made some new friends in the village - holy shit is that a talking skeleton?? That's pretty goth.

-Skelly groans internally. Yet more admirers. Will he 'ere be rid of his fans ("Shut up Skelly")

Smooth (c) The Smurfs

Matador, Elena, Rafflesia and Hemlock are mine

[thevoiceofthebard]

Chapter 10 - Uthgerd II: Bleak Falls Barrow

Tirdas, 19th of Last Seed 4E201 Early Morning

Uthgerd

I've never understood why some people play jokes on others. Once, when I was seven, some kids my age gave me a stick, telling me it was a magic wand that would make my mother give me extra treats. Needless to say, it didn't work, and the boys laughed at me when I told them of the spanking my mother gave me when I ordered her to give me another sweetroll after dinner. They stopped laughing when I broke one's tooth and blacked the other's eye. So no, "pranking" has never been a past time of mine.

Why, then, did I feel such joy over the sight of Talao leaping out of his bed, drenched in water? Revenge, maybe. Well, not my problem he hadn't woken up earlier. I toss the now empty pail at him while he sputters away. "You overslept. Get into your traveling gear, get your pack, then meet me at the gates of the city in ten minutes, or I'm leaving without you."

The sound of his hurried steps follow me until I exit the inn. Then nothing. It's always bothered me just how quiet a city can be before dawn. Out in the wilderness, you're surrounded by noise. Insects buzzing, elk bleating, rivers flowing. Here, not even the most optimistic vendor has yet set up. I wrap my cloak more tightly around my armour, and set out to the gates, boots crunching against the frosty ground. Whiterun is warmer than most of Skyrim, but the province's famous chill is never far off, especially at night. I learned that the hard way a long time ago...

A patrol passes me by, and talks to the guard standing beside the gate. Shift change, most likely. I can see them throwing glances my way from inside their helmets, like they're expecting me to attack them. I ignore them, leaning against the wall. No doubt they recognize me and... What I did. I suppose getting out of town is the best I could do. Give the rumours time to die off, like the bard said, and for me to put it to rest in my own soul.

Before long, I see Talao walking swiftly toward the gates. I notice an odd hitch in his step, and a cane or staff in his hand, as if he were hobbled. Great, he's a cripple too. That's going to increase our travel time. I seriously cannot catch a break.

"You said we were to leave at dawn! It's well before then!"

Hmph. "I said dawn, not sunrise. There's light enough in the sky to see the path, and the sooner we leave, the sooner we can get to... Wait, where in Kyne's name are we headed?"

"Oh." He seems embarrassed at his oversight, as the gates close behind us. "Bleak Fall Barrow, just overlooking Riverwood. It'll take us most of the day to reach Riverwood, so we should spend the night there, or make camp near the base of the mountain."

"Fair enough." The road out of Whiterun is smooth, from the thousand of wheels, horses, and feet that use it every day. I see, out of the corner of my eye, Talao keeping pace with me, no difficulty despite his odd gait. An old injury then, one he's spent a long time with. Somehow I doubt I'll see him sprinting anytime soon, but at the least, we won't take threefold the time to get anywhere. Hopefully, he holds up as well on the mountain.

The Khajiit are up and moving as well, the fire from their camp burning brightly. I eye them with a cautious respect. I've bought supplies from their caravans many a time to make my travels easier, and it takes some guys to wander a country during a war. But I drew my cloak tighter around myself anyway, not from the chill. They aren't allowed within the city walls for a reason, after all.

"Wares for the weary traveler?" A grey-ish brown cat asks me, his eyelids half-open, but attentive. A sign he's relaxed. At least, I think that's what it means. All I really remember about Khajiit behaviors is that you should run if they "smile" at you, unless you like bite marks on your ass. "Ah, but this Breton Ri'saad remembers. It is Talao, yes?"

"Aye. Pleasure to see you, Ri'saad." He waves to the other caravanners, who return the gesture. Interesting how at ease he acts with them.

"Ri'saad is please to see Talao as well this morning."

"Is it morning?" he grumbles. "It still feels like night to me."

The cat - Ri'saad, I try to remember - hums, like a purr almost. "Ah, the Breton does not enjoy losing his rest. Khajiit finds dawn most invigorating. The slow rise of the sun, and of the sounds of the day, the smell of the dew upon the grass."

"Just smells strange to me."

We're getting off track. "We need to get moving if we want to reach Riverwood by nightfall, Talao." My pack is still rather full from my last outing, but I buy a few potions and some hardtack, just in case. Talao does the same, also grabbing a flask of wine, happily chatting about how alcohol can be just as helpful as a fire on a cold night.

Despite my best efforts, the chatty Khajiit drags Talao into another conversation. "Ri'saad has noticed that Talao is no longer wearing the robes sold by this one. Did the bard forget them in some fair maid's home?"

"Nothing quite so titillating, Ri'saad, but infinitely more interesting," Talao chuckles. "I was capture by Imperials, but then saved by a dragon!" The cats murmur in the background, as Talao spreads his arms wide. "Picture it: A misty dawn in Falkreath Hold. The sleepy town of Helgen awakened by a brigade of imprisoned Stormcloaks, preparing for sentence from their Imperials captors. Among them, a lone innocent, a victim of circumstance. He awaits, hopelessly, his inexorable fate. The chopping block taunting him with freshly spilled blood. But fate has other plans, unbeknownst to him as he is forced upon the block. A great roar resounds through the valley. The innocent looks up, past the gleaming executioner's blade, and a monstrous beast descends, clad in armor darker than blackest night, gleaming in the first rays of the morning, as if from Aetherius itself! Saving the innocent from the cold bite of death by mere seconds, and the chaos affords him the opportunity to escape."

"Hmm. Ri'saad believes this is the most outlandish story Talao has yet shared."

Silently, I agree. The man has a way with words that makes Mikael seem a brutish oaf in comparison, but the story is absurd. Although, there must be a reason the Jarl entrusted... A man like him with such an important task. Unless he's embellishing that as well.

"Outlandish, yes. But every word true."

The Khajiit strokes his chin, continuing, "This one has, however, heard rumours of the return of the winged lizards, few though these rumours may be."

"I've only seen the one," Talao responds, "but if one dragon survived supposed extinction, there could be more. And one is more than enough, if that one was anything to go by. It destroyed an entire town, holding an Imperial garrison, by itself. I'd hate for our next meeting to be with a burnt corpse, so eyes to the sky."

"A life without risk is not one worth living, friend. But then, it is best to remain alive to witness it in its entirety. Khajiit will take precautions."

"That is all I ask." Enough of this drivel. I nudge Talao sharply and begin walking off. He spits out a hasty farewell, "May your roads lead you to warm sands," and catches up.

The sky has brightened a bit, though the sun has yet to rise. I notice the head of Talao's cane, shaped like a dragon. A staff then, not a cane. "You a mage, Breton?" I ask, gesturing at the staff.

"Ah, no. A gift from Farengar. Sadly, I have very little aptitude for magickal arts."

Now that was odd. "A Breton with no magicka?"

"Aye, strange, I know." He grins ruefully. "I'm a bard. I don't think I mentioned."

"No, but after your story, I might have guessed. Still..." The question was still burning in my mind, so I decided just to ask. "Why would the Jarl choose you to go into a Barrow, famous for active Draugr sightings, if you have no combat expertise?"

"A fair question," he replies, shrugging. "I suppose I did think it odd how quickly he trusted me, but given the direness of the situation, perhaps he thought there was not enough time to find a more suitable person. Farengar did mention not wanting to spread rumours, and seeing as I was one of the survivors at Helgen... Hold up."

"What?" We've reached the bend at the White River, just at the bounds of Whiterun's farmland. Talao stops, staring up the hilly road to the south, but I see nothing. "What? Is it the hill? You can't expect me to believe..."

"We should get off the road."

"What are you...?"

"Now!" He shoves me toward a bush - or at least tries to, considering I'm twice his size - on the side of the road, before hiding himself in it. I sigh wearily, looking up the path. Still nothing. So now he's a coward as well as defenseless. Or possibly insane. I settle into the bushes, lamenting the fact that it is going to take us until the next era to reach Riverwood at this rate.

A moment passes. Then another. A few torchbugs buzz around our heads. A wolf bays in the distance. And still nothing stirs along the path.

"Talao..." He places a hand on my mouth, the other pointing. And then I see it. Or something. A hazy blue glow, still far in the distance, swiftly approaching. Mage light, perhaps? The closer it gets, the more I feel a sense of dread creep over me, and I understand why Talao had us hide. Whatever was approaching, it wasn't natural. My hand clutches the grip of my sword, ready to draw the instant anything happens.

Finally, the blue haze is defined enough to make it out, and my blood freezes. I've seen ghosts before, but this... An armor-clad specter, astride an equally spectral horse, flying across the ground faster than anything I've seen, fog trailing in its wake. And most unnerving, the ghost faced forward... But with no face to speak of, nor any head at all.

The specter is still heading directly toward us down the path, at an impossible pace. Then it slows. My breath catches, and my anxiety jumps. Some ghosts were weak to steel, but I doubted this one would be, were it to come to blows. The horse halts at the crossroads, and the headless figure shifted in its seat, as if checking its direction. My hand aches from its painfully tight grip upon my sword, but I dare not make the slightest move.

Suddenly, a piercing pain rips through my skull, and the ghost faces our hiding spot. Talao is yelling beside me, as the horse walks forward slowly, the figure pulling a large axe off its back. I try to do the same, but I'm paralyzed, held in place, unable to move or even fall from the pain. The horse whinnies loudly, as if laughing, and the ghost lifts the axe high. This can't be how it ends!

Suddenly, a blazing shaft of light bursts through the specter's body. He halts, his form slowly dissipating. At once, the presence lifts, and I fall forward, gasping for air. The sun finally peeks up from down the White River. Dawn has arrived.

A haunting laugh echoes through my head, and a phrase lingers in my mind as the ghost vanishes; "Such an abrupt end to our game." A chill runs down my spine, despite the warmth of the sun upon my face. A game? One I'd rather never play again.

Talao is a few feet away, on his hands and knees, retching. I can hardly blame him. Makes me glad that I skipped an early meal, else I'd likely be joining him. "By the blood of Orkey, what was... that?"

"I... I don't know. I've never heard of any tale like this." He stands shakily, heaving great breaths of air. "It was so... angry. Vengeful. I heard... 'All living shall fear the dead.'"

"What did we wander into?"

"A legend." Talao whispers. "One I'm not sure I want to be part of. But one I'll definitely write about. Someday."

One last stretch unravels the knots in my back, and I shoulder my pack once more. A quick glance around, but all seems quiet now. Without words, we set off down the path, the sun lifting our spirits. But I know that feeling at the base of my spine will stay with me for a while yet.

For once, I was looking forward to an uneventful trip.

For the curious, Uthgerd worships the traditional Nordic Pantheon, rather than the Eight Divines. Kyne is, obviously, the parallel of Kynareth. Orkey is generally considered the parallel to the Daedric Prince Malacath (rather than Arkay as you might think) and an enemy of the ancient Nords, hence its use as a curse.

Chapter 9 - Uthgerd I: Bleak Falls Barrow x Chapter 11 - Uthgerd III: Bleak Falls Barrow