#apparently some people are being rude about the patreon thing though???

[skyward-floored]

what's your opinion on the lu patreon?

I thnik it's great? I don't have the money to spend on it really, but I think it's nice Jojo's made a way for people to support her in a way that isn't just fan art and stuff (which is great, but yknow. It don't pay the bills).

I'll admit I'm a bit worried about how updates are going to be now-- some people getting them first could lead to some annoying situations and spoilers and things... but I think we'll figure it out, we always do. No biggie.

[jarofstyles]

yes yes! please continue the CEOrry! SO GOOD

Of course 😎

If you enjoy this, check out our Patreon!

——-

Harry never imagined himself in a situation like this.

Pining after women wasn’t something he did often. They usually threw themselves at him and he either had his fun for the night, or rejected them. He didn’t think too much of their feelings, or their interests. He didnt hang on to their words as they spoke and write notes into his personal journal about things she likes and dislikes.

The list so far?

Likes:

-orange cats

-caramel coffee

-the summer rain smell

-the colors pink and yellow

-quesadillas

-crochet tote bags

-silk eye masks

-thrift stores (especially with shop cats)

Dislikes:

-chocolate orange flavor combination

-overcast days

-bowler hats

-the mailman (unknown reason)

-popcorn kernels

-in n’ out (bad experience, apparently.

She was overtaking his own personal life. Being his assistant, of course she would be more prompt to being deeper than more employees. But he couldn’t help but pick out red ties more often because she complimented him in the color. She had gotten him a refrigerator magnet in Ocean City when she went for a girls weekend, and it was the sole magnet in the small water fridge in his office. She left traces of herself in his life that he couldn’t possibly ignore.

The most invasive and troublesome being his sex life.

He was getting to the point where he couldn’t get off without thinking about her. About her voice, her touch, the smell. His tiny, filthy and shameful snippets of when she leaned on his desk and he had caught a nice glimpse of breast, or the couple times she had bent over and given him an eyeful of her tiny panties and ass… how her dress would cling to her or the time she had accidentally soaked her white shirt with her water bottle and given him a view of her braless chest by accident…

Yeah. Every time he wrapped his hand around the thick shaft of his cock, it was a fantasy of her. The best orgasms so far in his life, only to be rudely awoken by the fact it was all fantasy. So what the fuck was it going to be like if he got his hands on her?

Y/N, unbeknownst to him was in the same boat. Smitten with his snarky comments, his thoughtfulness not many saw, and god, his beautiful face. It wasn’t lost on her that his gentleness was only to her. She had seen him yell too many times at other people and as soon as she would walk in, his tone would soften when directed at her. She got away with a lot more than others did and it did make people… talk.

They talked all about how she must have slept her way into the job. Placed bets on how long it would take her to get fired for not dropping to her knees fast enough. And while it wasn’t everyone, she did overhear it enough to make her upset. Hell, she wished she was getting dicked down by her boss, bur she wasn’t! And they still had all of the nerve to say it just because she had managed to stick around longer than the others. Understandable, Burt hurtful.

Harry was stuck, really. He knew that he either had to ignore it or make a move. But still, he was unclear about if she was actually into him- or if it was just wishful thinking. She was so kind to everyone, and he really wasn’t warm and fuzzy. His feelings were probably a bit more obvious, he thinks, and she hasn’t made a move. Was it because there was no reciprocation, or because they were at work?

He would need to figure it out.

“Y/N?” He called out to her desk which was outside of his. Another thing that had changed was his door staying open during the day more often. He liked to hear if anyone came up and was flirting with her, if he was being totally honest with himself. He had caught it a few times and that unholy possessiveness reared it’s ugly head. Plus, it made it easier to call to her.

Y/N perked up, standing up and striding towards his door. Upon his instruction of closing the door and coming closer, she did. Her mind went to mush though, because he looked…. So fucking good. With his hair slightly messed up for once, his white button up a bit tighter than normal around his biceps… she felt weak and dazed simply looking at him. His powerful aura was so, so sexy.

“I need help with a project after hours.” He was winging it. Completely and utterly winging it. “I’m redoing my den area in my home… and I’d like you to help me do it. You’ve got design experience, yes?” He crossed his arms, trying to not stare too hard at anything other than her face. It was hard.

“Oh- I’m, yes? But I’m not too good, I just make those Pinterest boards like I showed you? I was just planning and-“

“Good. I liked when you showed me them. My home is very boring. Sterile. And I would like some more… character.” In reality, it was just going to make him go insane even more at home. Seeing her in his living space. Things she picks out in his living room. It was so stupidly dangerous for their professional relationship considering how close Harry was to jumping her bones, but he wanted time away from the office to see if he was imagining her flirtations.

She was overwhelmed by the offer, but couldn’t say no. Not when it gave her an excuse to see him… in potentially casual clothes, and feeding her nosy imagination for his house. Plus, she loved to decorate. What could go wrong?

“O-okay, sure. When would you like me to be doing this?” Her voice raised in pitch, showing her nerves slightly. Adorable. He loved getting reactions out of her.

“Some hours during the weekends. You will be compensated and fed, of course. And I will be with you. We will do the shopping wherever you see fit. But you know me. I am very particular, so I wish to be involved in this process. The most I can be.”

Weekends. Alone with his assistant that he wanted to make his own so badly that he had to clench his fists to avoid grabbing at times. The assistant that had been the main star of his fantasies, the assistant that made his palms sweat and heart race.

He was interested in seeing how it turned out.

[monstersandmaw]

Male drider x female reader - WIP, Part Two (sfw)

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

After a teasing Part One last week, here's 3.5k words of Part Two, featuring two poems, neither of which are my own... Things get off to a very rocky start between the lord of Widowsweb Court and the reader, with the drider not exactly behaving in a manner befitting a lord... Naril, the firbolg gardener that everyone seemed rather taken with, continues to be a complete cinnamon roll.

Hope you enjoy, despite 'his lordship's' terrible manners and behaviour... Part Three has just gone up on Patreon today. He also got dubbed ‘cranky spooder’ over on our Discord server, which I adore.

Enjoy x

On the day you first met the lord of Widowsweb Court, you’d opened up one of the enormous windows to breathe a little life back into the stuffy library.

Having spent four weeks getting to know the collection as it was, you’d taken the opportunity to dust a little as well. That had the added advantage that you were now able to let the air back in without fear of choking clouds of dust billowing up into your face. For a house as enormous as Widowsweb Court, you had been surprised to learn that the staff was so minimal - no more than Naril and his father, Chiara the housekeeper, a valet of the lord whom you never saw, and two other members of staff; one a cook, and one a maid.

Standing beside the heavy, ragged old curtain that dragged its hem on the floorboards like a sullen teenager scuffing their heels, you sighed and stared listlessly out at the enormous park beyond. There was something melancholy about it. The grounds were meticulously kept by Naril, not a leaf out of place, and yet it was deserted.

There should have been parties, the voices of people laughing, the chink of glasses and the murmur of conversation in the evenings as people gathered to watch the sun go down over the stunning vista beyond. Music should have floated across the terrace behind the house, washing out to mingle with the dancing splash of water in the fountain, but that basin with its fantasy carvings and rearing stone centaurs, laughing fauns, and wide-winged harpies remained silent and dry.

“Why is it so sad here?” you whispered to yourself, the backs of your knuckles trailing down the old, warped glass of the leaded window. The shutters of this window had been thrown wide too so that you could see what you were doing, and the light poured in over one of the three long, research tables that lined that half of the dour library. Over the course of the past week, you’d stacked books pertaining to poetry up into huge, teetering piles that now looked more like a model city than anything, with skyscrapers reaching for the moulded plasterwork of the triple-height ceiling.

A low, bitter voice from behind you made you jump. “The name didn’t give it away?”

You yelped and tensed, turning sharply to find a figure occupying the shadows between two looming bookshelves. Unable to see them behind the chiaroscuro contrast in the room, you squinted. “The name?” you croaked when you’d finally recovered your senses.

A long, black, needle-thin leg emerged first from the darkness and you almost recoiled in surprise before another appeared beside it. A drider. The voice belonged to a drider. “Widow’s web…” he said in his low, gravelly voice, the tone heavy and dripping with sour sarcasm.

“Oh.” You blinked and curiosity flared in you. “Do… Do you work here as well? I haven’t met you before…”

The emerging drider stopped, the shadows still concealing his upper body, but you could see that he was one of the deadly, flash-quick driders; slim-built and light boned, and probably full of venom. You swallowed. Perhaps he was some kind of security agent? Perhaps it was his job to keep an eye on the place and make sure people kept their distance from the place. Perhaps he had come to check up on you.

For a long moment, the drider remained silent, and then without a word, he flung a thin volume onto the nearest end of the table, only a yard or so from where he still hung back, half concealed in shadow, and turned wordlessly to go. “See that this one is shelved with the rest,” he growled.

You caught a flash of red on his spider’s abdomen before he completely disappeared. His needle-clawed legs made almost no sound on the floorboards, and if you hadn’t been so stunned by his unexpected appearance and behaviour, you might have gone after him to scold him for treating what had to be a first edition - everything else so far had been - so callously. By the time you heard a sharp creak and the soft click of a secret door closing somewhere, it was too late to follow.

So instead, you left the window and picked up the book. It was an anthology of poems, and as you let the volume fall naturally open in your hands, it revealed a short, painfully bitter poem.

And like a dying lady, lean and pale,

Who totters forth, wrapp'd in a gauzy veil,

Out of her chamber, led by the insane

And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,

The moon arose up in the murky East,

A white and shapeless mass.

No wonder he was so gloomy if this was the kind of thing he read. With a sigh, you closed the book and laid it with the other poetry anthologies, and spent the rest of the day trying to shake the encounter from your mind.

At lunch, Naril leaned over the table and frowned. “You alight?” he asked. “You look kind of… far off…?” It was just the two of you that day, with Naril having come in from the gardens a little later than usual, and his father having already eaten.

You sniffed and blinked, not realising you’d been staring into your bowl without really seeing it. “Yeah,” you croaked. “Listen… I’ve not really asked about… this place much. Why is it called Widowsweb?”

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his lanky arms. He was tall, even for a firbolg, and that day he had scraped his long red hair back into a thin plait that hung down his back. His eyes, bright green, turned a little distant. “Apparently a dowager from the Silkfoot family had a falling out with her son, and he was so desperate to be rid of her that he exiled her here and gave the entire estate to his cousin who went with her. The two families diverged there, and never had anything else to do with each other since.”

So what Sarrigan had told you, about the two families being at least distantly related, was true. You wondered if the part about the Silkfoot family not liking humans had played a part in the disagreement. “I know one of the Silkfoots. Not well, but he’s a friend of a friend. He seems nice, but he says his family’s mostly awful.”

Naril was still watching you. “What’s brought this on?” he asked after a moment.

You took a breath and said, “I’m assuming your master is a drider then?”

Naril nodded. “Yeah. You… You didn’t know?”

You shook your head. “I hadn’t given it much thought, if I’m honest. Your father was the one who employed me and dealt with everything on behalf of your ‘master’. I… I think I met him this morning though.”

It was Naril’s turn to look a little surprised. He batted his long-lashed eyelids a few times and then barked a rough laugh. “Seriously?”

“Why is that so strange? He lives here. I find it weirder that I’ve not seen him yet.”

“He never shows himself to any of us. He lives in his wing of the house and literally never goes out. Chiara, and his valet Mason are the only two who ever interact with him directly.”

“Why?”

The firbolg’s surprise melted into something softer. “It’s said he’s cursed, but my father says that’s bollocks.”

“If he’s not cursed, then why? Why live as a recluse?” and why was he so rude?

Naril gave a half shrug and then stood, reaching across the table to collect your plate with his scuffed, scar-knuckled hand and take it to the sink. You murmured your thanks as you waited for him to speak, but he didn’t for a long time. You stood watching him, his shirt dirty and sweat stained, ripped here and there, presumably from the vicious thorns of the roses you’d glimpsed from the windows.

“He lost his wife and their entire clutch when they’d only been married a year or so,” he said at last. The splashing of water in the sink as he washed up almost masked his words, but something in your chest panged when you caught them. “People said he did it. People said he was cursed. People said his whole line was cursed.”

“People say a lot of cruel and stupid things,” a harsh, female voice interjected from the doorway behind you and you turned to find Chiara glowering at the pair of you. Naril cringed and turned his attention back to washing up. “You’d do well to ignore all of them, and repeat none,” she said, fixing her yellow eyes on you. The harpy’s tone was as sharp as her claws, and you didn’t fancy crossing her.

You nodded. You weren’t part of the staff, no matter how welcome Naril and his father had made you feel. You were here to reorganise the library, and then you were going to leave. You had been there for one out of your six contracted months already, and the task seemed gargantuan, but you were determined not to let it get the better of you. Time to get back to it.

“Chiara,” you said carefully, “We weren’t gossipping. I believe I met your master this morning, though he didn’t fully show himself to me. I just wondered who I’d met, that’s all.” With that, you turned and put your hand on Naril’s arm. “Listen, I’d better get going. Thanks for doing that,” you added with a twitch of your chin towards the soapy dishes in the sink.

He bowed his head, his large, cow-like ears waggling softly, and closed his eyes briefly. “Take care up there in the library, eh? Don’t go falling off something or lifting more than you can carry. You look worn out.”

“I am tired,” you said, cracking a yawn almost directly on cue. “I haven’t been sleeping all that well here. Could I borrow you tomorrow for half an hour or so? There’s a massive chest that’s been parked in front of a shelf and I need to move it to get to the books behind it.”

He grinned, his odd, almost feline nose twitching. One lip pulled back to reveal his blunt, herbivore’s teeth and he nodded. “Happy to lend a hand, you know that. After lunch?”

You smiled, feeling a slight heating of your cheeks, and turned for the doorway. “Thank you.”

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, and you finally cleared enough shelves to begin putting the first phase of your plan for the library into action.

Three days later, though only as you tucked yourself up in bed for the night, you realised you’d left your phone behind in the library. Cursing, you knew you’d have to go back for it if you were going to get up in time the next day to start work. No one formally kept track of your hours, but your professional pride demanded that you start work at nine, and you didn't fancy sleeping through til gods-knew when, especially given your erratic sleeping patterns of late.

Dressing hastily in jeans and a t-shirt, you grabbed the back door key, with which Mr. Ambleside had entrusted you after your first week on site, and let yourself into the main house.

If Widowsweb Court was creepy in daylight, it was unfathomably eerie at night. Pipes creaked and groaned sporadically, and a draft whistled up the corridor as you fumbled along the passageway that would lead to a servants’ staircase, and eventually, emerged onto the second floor near the library.

Were it not for the light of an almost full moon beaming in through the windows along the corridor, you might have missed the library doors altogether, but as it was, they illuminated the brass fittings so that they gleamed like gold, sparkling and winking at you almost fatefully. You scoffed at the thought, and pushed into the library, the door giving its usual raucous yelp on the hinges.

“Gods, I’ve got to get Naril to look at that,” you grumbled, moving across the floor and wondering if you dared turn all the lights on. Part of you expected a hoard of ghostly spectres to be drifting around the shelves like shades through gravestones.

Before you’d gone three paces, you froze. The whisper of a page turning caught your attention, and you swallowed, heart thudding. Again, you were not alone in there.

“Who’s that?” a sharp, male voice demanded from a table at the back of the room.

“It’s me,” you replied, immediately realising how stupid a thing that was to say to someone who wouldn’t have been familiar with you. You added your name, and followed it up with, “I’m working on the library catalogue.”

“At this time of night?” the scratchy baritone growled.

“I left my phone in here,” you said weakly as you stepped around a bookshelf and found him standing behind the furthest research table from the door. You knew immediately who it was, and your heart was thudding as you wondered just how well the lord of the manor would take it that you were sneaking about his house at this hour of the night. “I need it for my alarm in the morning.”

“It’s over there on the windowsill,” he said carelessly, moonlight running along his outstretched arm like mercury. From what you could see of his body, silhouetted against the light from outside, he was unhealthily thin, and he had long hair that fell loose and unrestrained down his back. He was also huge. Sarrigan was squat, fluffy as a tarantula, and muscular, but this figure was spindly and ominous, and built like a black widow.

“Thank you,” you croaked. “I’m… I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

As you picked up your phone from the sill, you heard him clear his throat, and glanced up to see him shifting a little. He looked like a nightmare demon from a shadow-play, all legs and pendulous body, but something about the angle of his head gave you pause.

He took a slow, rasping inhale. “How… is the work going?”

“Slowly,” you said with a rueful smile. “Mr. Ambleside might be a little out of touch with the collection… It’s larger than I was expecting.”

After a pregnant pause, the drider snorted softly and you broke into a nervous laugh at the innocuously-spoken innuendo.

“Anyway, on that note, I’ll leave you to it. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” he said and you watched him walk towards the window. As he moved, you realised what was unnerving about him. One of his legs was missing. Where most driders had eight legs, he had only seven.

You thought about him all the way back to your accommodation, and even after you’d set your phone on your bedside table and lain back to stare at the ceiling, the master of the house still occupied your thoughts.

The next morning, you found your feet taking you to that furthest table, and there you discovered that a book had been left open.

The poem that graced these pages was older by many centuries than the one about the moon. It was written in a language that had long evolved beyond recognition, but you stared at it and trailed your fingers down the verse, murmuring the words aloud in the Old Tongue. It was one you’d studied at university during one of your shorter modules, and you barely remembered any of its translation.

Oft him anhaga     are gebideð,

metudes miltse,     þeah þe he modcearig

geond lagulade     longe sceolde

hreran mid hondum     hrimcealde sæ

wadan wræclastas.     Wyrd bið ful aræd!

You frowned, muttering words aloud until you’d muddled out a tiny bit of it. “Often, the one who is alone finds grace for himself, the… mercy…? The mercy of the lord? Although he, sorrow hearted… heavy hearted?”

“‘Sorrow-hearted’ works,” came a now-familiar voice from behind you and you jumped, nearly knocking the book from the table. This time you turned to find the drider advancing on you in full view.

Slowly, you let your eyes slide up his body to his face. He wore a crisp white shirt that looked like it had never been worn, the stark, monochrome contrast with his black spider’s body almost jarring. His hair was black, with a thick streak of bright, blood red falling around the right hand side of his face, which was gaunt and sallow, with dark shadows beneath his four red eyes. Around his right two eyes, his white skin was stained dark - almost purple - down his face and a little way onto neck, the birthmark looking like a swirl of watercolour. He blinked slowly at you, as if expecting something; waiting for you to say something rude or thoughtless.

With a start, you remembered the poem, and turned back to it. “Was this what you were reading last night?”

“Mmm. You’ve studied the Old Tongue I take it?” he said, and you turned to find him approaching slowly.

You tried not to let your gaze snag on the void where his leg should have been, and instead looked at the text again. “A little, and it was a while ago. I’m rusty… I think I remember this one. It’s called The Wanderer, isn’t it?”

He nodded, his hair sliding forwards like a black theatre curtain to hide his sunken face. “Not going to chide me for leaving it unshelved?” he sneered as he turned and headed once again for the back of the library. “I never did like librarians, you know?”

Grinding your teeth, and forcing yourself not to snap something rude at the person who was technically your employer, you said, “I’m an archivist, and this is your collection, not mine. One book being out of place is hardly going to though the whole thing into chaos, is it?”

He froze, on the point of leaving, and with an almost theatrical slowness, he turned to regard you. After fixing you with his eerie, red stare, he lifted one side of his upper lip and snarled, “I suppose not.”

And with that, he left you alone and unnerved again.

Work progressed at a glacial pace on the library, but you eventually moved from poetry to non-fiction: travel journals and histories, geographical texts and maps.

Naril grabbed you one bright, weekend morning after breakfast and dragged you out into the gardens for the first time. The two of you spent a couple of glorious hours touring the kitchen garden, the walled garden, the rose garden, the knot garden, and finally the orchards and arboretum. As the pair of you walked, hot and honestly quite tired, back up to the house for refreshments, your eyes naturally found their way to the library windows that overlooked the terrace and lawn at the back of the house, and you were surprised to find them flung open.

You paused and scowled.

“What?” Naril asked. “What’s wrong?”

“I was sure I closed the windows last night…” you murmured.

“Maybe the master is in there,” he said. “You know, I think you’ve seen him more than I have now. What’s he like?”

“Sad.” That was the first word that came to mind. “He strikes me as someone who’s incredibly sad. I’ve only seen him three times now, but each time he seemed so bitter and prickly. It’s like he’s curious about what I’m doing in there, but he doesn’t want to talk to me too much.”

You passed beneath the windows and slid into the house, sighing as the air of the cool stone passage wafted over your sun-warmed skin. No more than an hour later, you found yourself back in the library, but the master wasn’t there and the window was shut again. Easing yourself down into a comfortable chair beside the casement, you let your head loll against the back, and wondered if he ever set foot outside. If Naril was to be believed, the drider never left the confines of his wing for anything other than quick trips to the library.

After a while, you found your eyes drooping, and you inhaled deeply, letting the weight of a doze seep through you like the warmth of a hot bath.

A noise stirred you, and you opened your eyes to find that the light had changed to the vibrant magenta of a clear sunset, and that you were not alone. Squinting at the shelf, with his face far closer to the books than yours needed to be to read the titles, was the lord of Widowsweb Court.

You watched him in silence for a moment, not sure if he knew you were there or not, and took in the lines of his black legs - skinny, barbed, and deadly. The chair creaked as you sat up straighter, and he whipped around, dropping the book with a bang onto the floorboards and rearing up, his front legs rising like lances ready to strike.

“Sorry,” you gasped. “I didn’t mean to make you jump. I didn’t know you hadn’t heard me.”

As he lowered himself back down, you looked up into his face and the expression you found there made your heart stop. He looked furious. “Get out,” he barked. “If you’re not working in here, get out.”

Without another word, you rose and fled the room as sedately as you could muster.

Part Three --->

To be continued next Wednesday… Part Three is currently up on Patreon so you can read it right now on the Pixies and Goblins Tier.

I really hope you folks enjoyed this one! Don’t forget to let me know if you did enjoy it by leaving a like and/or reblogging it!

__

| Masterlist | Patreon | Ko-fi | Writing Commissions |

[jawritter]

My Rescue Story

Summary: People can be cruel and judgemental, but they don’t get to see the side of him you see.

Warnings: Fluff, just tooth rotting fluff. Maybe the tiniest bit of angst at the beginning. Language, Jensen being the soft little bean that we all love so much. That’s about it.

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Reader

Word Count: 1505

A/N: This fic is completely unbeta’d, so all mistakes are mine! This is just a spur of the moment fic. I figured you guys needed some fluff after I destroyed people with my last one shot, lol. As always people do not copy my work. Feedback is golden! I hope you guys enjoy this one!

Want more? Check out my Masterlist! 

***MASTERLIST***

Still not enough? Become a Patreon, and get exclusive fics and one shots!!

***BECOME A PATREON***

“STOP!” Jensen said, swatting annoyedly at Jared, who was still trying to touch the small hole in the sleeve of his shirt. 

The whole crowd roared with laughter as grumpy Jensen gave Jared the best bitch face he could muster. The one he knew everyone loved. The adorable scowl with the pouty lips and the scrunched up face. The one that made him look like Dean no matter how long his hair was, or how full his beard got.

You giggle along with the rest of the crowd as the panel continued along the lines of much of the same lighthearted, tomfoolery, that they always did. Apparently not everyone found it so funny that Jensen was acting especially grumpy on this panel. 

One of the handlers, who probably thought that you would never hear her comment over the laughter of the crowd as Jensen and Jared reenacted some story that Jared was telling, made the comment to an older woman standing next to her. 

“God, he’s such an asshole. Always in a damn mood.” 

The other woman laughed at her friend. They were obviously talking about Jensen, who was currently giving an over-exaggerated grunt as he pulled himself off of the stage floor. The crowd ate it up. They loved it when Jensen acted like that because it reminded them so much of Dean Winchester. Still, these women didn’t seem all that impressed. 

“I know, he’s always bitching on stage about something, or he’s acting like a grandpa while Jared is just trying to have a good time. He’s such a fucking killjoy,” she said, walking off the to the corner of the stage to signal the end of the panel to the boys with her friend following close on her heels. 

Rob and the band scurried around the stage, singing the last question song with Jensen as Jared helped a younger-looking fan on stage to ask the final question of the panel. 

You weren’t really paying attention at this point. Your mind was still stuck on what the handler and her friend had been saying about Jensen. 

Jensen and yourself had not been dating very long, maybe around four months, and this was your first convention to have attended. They were still going, even though the show had ended. Which was impressive all on its own. The fandom was amazing, and everyone you had met so far was great, with the exception of a few. 

How could they talk about Jensen that way? It was rude and inconsiderate, but more than that it was belligerently wrong. 

Jensen and yourself had a bit of an age gap, roughly ten years, but usually, you didn’t even notice it all that much. He wasn’t an asshole by any means. He’d literally give the shirt off his back if he saw someone who needed it more than he did. 

He wasn’t grumpy all the time. Hell, he and Jared had just been trying to shock Rob with one of those handheld, gag gift buzzer things before he got on stage. He usually carried such a light with him. He had a way of making everyone around him smile, and if he knew someone was having a bad day, he’d work especially hard to do so. 

He in no way was a “grandpa”. 

They didn’t know him. They didn’t know your Jensen. So why would they feel they had the right to talk about him in such a way? 

You would never understand why certain people made it their life goal to look down on and talk about people, just because they were miserable; and the more you thought about it the more you felt sorry for those two women. They apparently had such a bleak outlook on things if they were going to take Jensen, who is an actor by trade, ACTING on stage for the crowd so seriously!

That’s not Jensen’s real personality, none of that is. It is all for the entertainment of the people that came to see them. Sure, there was some of his true personality mixed in there as well. There were moments when he’d get emotional, or when they would ask a question that hit home with him. 

He was human, just like everyone else. Being human means you're imperfect. Jensen, like everyone else, had his flaws, but “asshole” was not one of them. 

“Hey Princess, you ready to go head up to our room?” Jensen’s voice intruded on your inner grumbling as he slipped up behind you, and wrapped his arms around your middle.

As soon as the smell of his cologne surrounded you, your anxiety immediately started to fade away, and you leaned back into him, laying your head on his broad shoulder. 

You could feel the stares of the handlers that had just been talking so badly about him, but you ignored them. 

“Hey you, you don’t want to go get something to eat first?” you quested him, looking up into his piercing green eyes for a moment before he quickly brushed his lips over your own in what really wasn’t a kiss, but more of just a soft little touch that Jensen seemed to love to do when he thought no one was looking. 

“Not really, I just want to go upstairs and cuddle with my girl until I fall asleep,” he mumbled, completely ignoring all other people in the room. You knew the longer you both stood there like that, the more attention you will attract. You were sure there would be pictures later of this, but you didn’t care, and neither did Jensen. 

This was the real Jensen. Not some grumpy little smart ass on stage, though like everyone Jensen had his moments they were few and far between. 

He was the guy you always dreamed you’d find. So loving, and soft. He craved your affection and you craved his. You’d never get enough of him, of this.

You could tell that he was tired. It had been a long flight the night before with layovers due to weather, and then the time zone difference always was a bitch, plus he’d been working nonstop. If he wanted a little cuddle time, how could you deny him that? 

See, a relationship is more than just sex. I mean most everyone loves sex, and sex with Jensen was always absolutely phenomenal and mind-blowing. I mean come on, the man was 42 years old, sure, but he had the body of a damn Greek God; and he knew just how to use it. 

It was about the tender little touches. It was about the fact that even though he was tired, he wanted to take a shower with you, just to be closer to you. Just so he could take his time pampering you just a little while. It was in the way he held you so close to him as the water sprayed down over his broad back and shoulders, that you could feel his heartbeat through his well-sculpted chest while his finger traced lightly over the wet skin of your back. 

It was in the little kisses, and soft brushes of his lips against yours as you lay in the dark hotel room together, nothing between the two of you but skin. Slow, sweet. No needy hurry to get somewhere. Not all teeth and tongue. It was in the lazy way his lips moved slowly against your own, stealing away your breath as well as your heart.

It was in the way his hands barely moved over your skin while your hands brushed their way through his hair. His fingers played with little patterns that only he could see across the exposed skin of your shoulder. Every little touch made your heart feel like it could fly out of your chest, and flutter around the room. 

The way he looked at you. As if you were his everything, his entire world! He could have anyone, but he’d chosen you. 

Time like this, just time spent together. That’s what really felt like it drew you closer together. Connecting your very souls. Time falling asleep in each other's arms with his warm breath fanning over across your neck as his breathing became deeper and more even. You let your eyes wander over his freckle dusted skin. His face was soft, and his features relaxed, more relaxed right now than you’d seen him be in at least a week.

This was him, your Jay. The soft, loving, painfully handsome man that had the biggest heart you had ever seen in anyone. 

He was your rescue story, and he didn’t even know it. He saved you from yourself. He saved you from the self-loathing, and self-doubt, showing you that you were beautiful. He showed you that you could be strong and that you were special. You probably wouldn’t be here today if it wasn’t for him. 

So let those people think what they wanted too, they didn’t get to see what you saw. Your Jay, your world, your heart. Your rescue story.

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[marlynnofmany]

Accidentally Human, Chapter 22

The himbo pixie has a good idea! Who would have thought?

First chapter Previous chapter Next chapter The latest chapter is already up on Patreon!  

~~~

Chapter 22 1445 words

    Twig was excited. This was exciting! They knew where one of the bad people was. Granted, he was surrounded by some of the most powerful magic-users in the nation, but still. It was a start. And the unicorns weren’t being mean anymore! Not as much, anyway. They still had Twig and his friends caught, but at least they were only bickering with Razorscale instead of hurting them now.

    “We need to hurry,” the dragon was saying, gesturing with one human arm. “He could leave at any time!”

=Our two compatriots are already there,= the scary unicorn reminded him, diamond fangs flashing in the light. =And you should go nowhere near the place after being so clumsy about your exit.=

    Razorscale bared his human teeth in a grimace that was probably supposed to be threatening. He argued some more. Twig tried to think of a solution.

    What could he do? Not much while stuck in this magical sticky-trap, but the unicorns would surely let him go soon. Then he could … what? He didn’t have his wings, so he couldn’t even fly there to listen in. Windmane still had pixie dust in her bag, but…

    The pixie attendants fluttering about the unicorns caught his attention. They could do everything he usually could. Probably more, if the unicorns weren’t stingy with their magic. They could…

    “We can spy on his house!” Twig exclaimed. Heads turned in his direction. “If we know who he is, the pixies can sneak in and look around.” He tried to point, though the sticky magic made it difficult. “We do know his name, right?”

    Everyone looked at the fangy unicorn. Who still hadn’t introduced herself, now that Twig thought about it. Rude.

    =Our compatriots are discovering that now,= she said smoothly. =The conversation at court is all about him.=

    “Good,” Razorscale said. “See if they can get the names of his allies as well.”

    =Obviously.=

    “Then we can go to his house!” Twig said.

    No one answered him directly.

    “It might not be a bad idea to search his place of power,” Razorscale said to the unicorn. “He will likely return there, and we can question him.”

    =And search his workspace for record of the offending spell,= the unicorn agreed.

    “Send the pixies first!” Twig insisted. “We’re great at sneaking in through windows and things.”

    They ignored him, but they ended up following his suggestions anyway. Twig beamed from his place in the sticky-trap while the unicorns relayed the information they were getting from their compatriots.

    Apparently the pixies at the party were being helpful too, showering the fake minotaur with compliments until he answered their questions about his workspace. The unicorns at the party were close enough to pick up his surface thoughts of what it looked like (and where it was) without him ever noticing. Sneaky. Probably illegal, actually. But all in the name of Catching The Bad People who had done much worse. So yay for the unicorns and their creepy mind-reading!

    When they had the information they needed, the unicorns argued with Razorscale some more about who would go where. Razorscale won. The unicorns released the sticky trap — hooray! Twig could scratch his nose again! — and Razorscale directed the magic carpet to Windmane. The pixies arrowed out through a window, on a mission. Twig cheered as they left.

    He smiled as the whole group exited the room under their own power, following the pixies by foot. Or maybe they were going back to the party; Twig couldn’t keep up with the arguing. But he trusted Razorscale to get them on the right track one way or another.

    The night sky outside was darker than before, though this ritzy neighborhood was lit up like a festival. It smelled nice too. Twig didn’t mind a walk.

    Windmane and Stomp were muttering behind him: plans on how to handle the fake minotaur, by the sound of it. Assuming the guy was still in that shape when they saw him.

    “What if he gets drunk at the party?” Windmane asked. “Will that make him easier to taunt?”

    “Possibly,” Stomp said. “Probably. But we don’t know how long he’ll be a bull.”

    “Will he still be drunk when he changes back?”

    “I have no idea. I don’t know how the spell handles that.”

    They were both silent. Twig stopped pretending he wasn’t listening, and turned to look. Both were staring pointedly at the magic-users who did understand the spell, none of whom were paying attention to anyone’s conversation but their own.

    The unicorns stopped talking suddenly. Then the boss said, =The pixies have been stopped by a ward on the house.=

    In the time it took Twig to say “Well that’s not fair,” the unicorns had cast a new glowy magic around the entire group, including themselves.

    =It’s quicker this way,= the unicorn said.

    The whole thing lifted off the ground without feeling like it was moving at all, which Twig found impressive. Then the world below flashed sideways. Between one blink and another, they were there.

    “That was great!” Twig said. “Can we do it again? How do you make it feel like we’re not moving?” Even now, as the ground approached at a casual pace, it felt like he was holding still.

    The magic dissipated as everyone’s feet touched down. The unicorns were ignoring Twig again, and he supposed he didn’t blame them this time, since there was a cluster of agitated pixies waiting to talk to them.

    They couldn’t get in, they explained. The sprawling mansion behind them — which Twig had to turn in place to see all of — was warded to the highest degree.

    But the unicorns were talented to an even higher degree! They took up a position aiming their horns at the house, and Twig prepared for a magic show.

    He waited. And waited some more.

    When he opened his mouth to ask how long it would be, the lead unicorn broke into a spate of cursing that was frankly shocking.

    “Do you need me to do it?” Razorscale asked smugly. “Oh wait, I’m incapacitated at the moment. Apprentice, come show these unicorns how to break a ward.”

    Twig took a step back at the amount of fury crackling off the two unicorns as Silver quietly stepped in front of them. The young dragon focused and … waited.

    Twig looked from face to face for an answer.

    “I can’t,” Silver admitted. “It’s not a matter of power; it’s the type of ward he’s using. It reacts to my aura’s resonance and counters it.”

    =Yes,= said the unicorn. =Yes it does.=

    “What if you worked together?” Twig suggested. He pressed on when they all turned to glare at him. “Your auras are pretty different. It probably can’t counter both at once.”

    The dragons and unicorns glared at each other instead. Twig didn’t know why they weren’t getting on with it already; it was the perfect solution.

    “It would work,” Razorscale finally said.

    =Of course it would work,= the unicorn snapped back.

    “I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.”   

    =Fine.=

    With a swish of her sparkling mane, the unicorn flounced forward to stand beside Silver. Razorscale and the other unicorn joined them.

    Then they did an impressive amount of standing there, while the pixies spread out in a pattern that looked like it meant something. Twig admired the formation while he waited. That was some good wing control to hold so still.

    Then white light flashed in a silent explosion that was over before Twig had finished covering his eyes.  

    =He won’t be alerted,= the unicorn said. =I tied off his alarm thread in a loop.=

    “Yes, I saw that,” Razorscale said. Where another person might have added a compliment on a job well done, he simply said, “If you missed any on the inside, that’s on you.”

    The unicorn bared her fangs at him as she walked toward the house. He returned the gesture and kept pace.

    “Are they going to be like this the whole time?” Twig said aloud.

    “Yes,” chorused Stomp and Windmane.

    “They already forgot we’re here too,” Beak said, moving after them. “Better hurry if you don’t want to be left outside.”

    Twig definitely didn’t want to be left outside. The forests that surrounded the rich human’s house had been planted in rows. Unspeakably creepy. Who knew what kind of equally creepy things patrolled them for intruders?

    He hop-skipped forward and grabbed onto the corner of Windmane’s carpet for good measure.

    The paving stones rung hollowly under his feet on the long walk to the door. Razorscale was already arguing with the unicorn about how best to break it down.

~~~

The next chapter is here, and the latest is up on Patreon.  It’ll be time for the dragon to have Opinions again.

[pixieungerstories]

The Captive - 5

My stories always turn up here after they are finished on Patreon. This one is a $1/month novel, so if you can’t wait, you can subscribe for the month of September and binge read the whole thing.  I just checked my stats and apparently I have over 250 chapters of assorted works up there.  $5/month will get you access to all of them.

“You slept in today, tre- Elly,” George observed.  “The boy was quite worried.”

“Ben?  Nah.  He was fine.”

George snorted, “He does not approach the stairs that often when you are on time.”

Elly froze.  “What would you have done if he had gone up them?”

George turned to peer at her out of the darkness, his eyes glowing faintly.  There was an uncomfortable moment of silence.  “There is a chesterfield down here that matches the chair you are sitting upon.”

“Wait, who even calls it a chesterfield anymore?”

George bristled, “I do,” he said quietly.  “What do you call it?”

“A sofa.”

“If you understand the word, why comment on my choice of it?”

“Sorry,” Elly said softly.

George settled slightly back onto the floor.  “I would like you to sleep on it tonight.”

Elly blinked.  “Down here?  You can’t be serious.”

“I am.  I have cleaned the fireplace.  I will allow you to bring your horrible lights,” he conceded graciously.

“You are serious!” she was shocked.

“Of course I am.  You have not invited me into your space, so I am respecting that and requesting you spend the night in mine.”

Elly considered this.  It was dark.  It wasn’t damp.  It certainly wasn’t cold and George could easily adjust the temperature if she needed it.  Hell, he was acting as the furnace after all.  “Why did you need to clean the fireplace?  I mean, you are the fireplace.”

“It helps with ventilation and you can use it for cooking, if needed.”

Elly wondered what he thought she would be cooking overnight in her sleep.  “I don’t understand why you are asking me that.”

George gave a frustrated and slightly steamy sigh.  “I understand that you tend the shop during the day.  I understand that you do the shopping and go out for chores on the days the shop is closed.  Nonetheless the end result is that I receive only a minimal amount of your time.  You aren’t holding up your end of the bargain, treasure.”

“I am!” Elly protested. “I live here and take care of the place and I’m never out after dark!”

“That isn’t the bargain, Elly.  The arrangement has you here to keep me company.  The shop is just supposed to be a hobby for you.”

“A hobby? No.  A hobby is something you enjoy.  I’m only running the shop because I like eating food and sleeping indoors.”

George’s brow wrinkled.  “You have money, you don’t need to work.”

“What reality are you living in George?”

“The one where there is a trust set up for whoever is living here,” he explained impatiently.  “All you have to do is present with a copy of your birth certificate and sign the paperwork.”

Elly blinked.  George sighed again, noticeably raising the humidity in the room.  “If you dial the telephone for me, we can call the lawyers in the morning.  It has been awhile since I have spoken to Mr Biddu. It is probably well past time.”

She swallowed, “Maybe it has been embezzled or something.”

George’s teeth glittered in the light of the lamp.  “Oh, I doubt it.  Your law firm is in on the secret.  I have spent a lot of effort on guarding my treasure.  And whether you like it or not, that includes you, Elly.”

“This is a lot to take in,” she murmured.  “Why do you want me to sleep with you?”

There was a faint choking noise before George replied.  “You are here to keep me company.  I was giving you a chance to settle after moving to a new place.  It has been months since you arrived.  It is past time.”

Elly considered this.  “I don’t want to sleep down here, George. It’s too dark and scary.”

He didn’t reply, but just kept watching her.

“Um…  If you sleep in my room, do I have to worry about a fire?”

“No,” was the cold reply.

“Do I have to worry about getting you down the stairs before Ben sees you?”

She could swear he smirked at that.  “No,” he replied.  “I can be discreet if you insist.”

Elly pursed her lips and looked at the stairs.  “All right.  If we push the bed against the wall, there should be room for you on the floor.”

George chuckled, “It sounds like you need a bigger bed.”

“I like my bed!” she protested.

George let that one slide.  Apparently he wasn’t going to push his luck yet.  He followed her up the stairs, close enough that she could feel his breath on the small of her back.  She could hear his claws clicking on the floor as they went.

“I don’t have my space set up for … someone as large as you.  Just … please be careful not to break anything.”

“I will be very careful with your treasures, Elly.”

Elly fought not to laugh.  There were some very nice antiques that had come with the house, but none of it was hers.  She had brought a lot of books, a lot of shelves and a desk that was set up to be ergonomic for her.  It was all still in boxes in the room she wanted as an office.  She had hit the ground running here and hadn’t had a chance to even unpack her things.

Looking at him in this space she was amazed he hadn’t smashed the furniture on his way to her room.  She gave the couch a shove to make a little more room for him.

“May I?”

She looked at him watching her.  What the hell, it wasn’t her couch.  “Sure.”

George muscled it aside, widening the space behind it.  Then he crept back and moved the chairs and coffee table to keep the grouping the same.  “I liked the way Ann had the furniture arranged better.”

Elly gritted her teeth.  She should really just let it go, as long has he remembered her name, that was the important thing.  But still, “Her name was Ina.  And I don’t know how she had the furniture before, but I haven’t moved any of it since I got here.”

He went very still at that.  There was a long pause, when he spoke he almost sounded like he could cry.  It was the first emotion other than irritation Elly had seen out of him.  “Ann was before her.  She was my friend.”

Elly didn’t know what to say to that, then the enormity of it hit her.  Ina had been here for the last fifty years.  George hadn’t known her name.  So either Ina hadn’t insisted he learn or that was a really long time to be alone.

Shit.

No wonder he was so insistent on spending time with her.  How did the idea of solitary confinement even apply to George?  Reptiles made shitty pets because they were solitary creatures as compared to dogs, which lived in packs or cats which at least lived in colonies.  But was George even a reptile?  He was definitely warm blooded.  She couldn’t get her head around the temperature thing.  Or… any of it really.  If magic was just science people didn’t understand yet, then George sure as shit was a magical creature.

He was watching her.

Elly blinked.  “Um…  I guess that’s why the doors are all so wide.”  George inclined his head, giving her an off centre nod of agreement.  “I’m not attached to the furniture layout.  We can rearrange it on the weekend if you want.”

“Thank you tr - Elly.”

“Did you call Ina treasure too?”

George narrowed his eyes for a moment before he closed them entirely.

Elly hesitated before asking, “Did you actually talk to her at all?”

“In the beginning, as much as I talk to you now.  I did not demand more of her time and over the years that dwindled to her simply bringing me food, then leaving before I had eaten it.”

“That sounds lonely.”

George’s eyes snapped open and he glared at her.

Elly took an involuntary step back.  “Um!” she blurted out trying to diffuse the situation.  “We should move the bed over against one of the walls in the room.”

She opened the french doors to her room.  All the doors in the apartment where french doors, but they were all a weird size.  Each door was only slightly larger than two feet wide, so that when you opened the both the doorway was unusually wide but opening only one was uncomfortably small.  George would have no problems fitting through a wheelchair accessible door and could probably squeeze though a standard door, but watching him ease through the double doors it was clear that this space had been designed to fit him.

“You are staring, treasure.”

Elly opened her mouth to correct him on her name, then snapped it shut when she realized he was being rude to point out her rudeness.  If you would have asked her a year ago to pick a word to describe dragons, snarky wouldn’t have made her top twenty.  Big, reptilian, and snarky.   George’s back legs were short like an alligator's.  They weren’t any longer than his arms, which were uncomfortably human looking.  She was sure if he stood up he would be seven feet tall.  His face was almost human, maybe a little longer in the snout.  She was sure his skull had to be closer to that of a gorilla than to any reptile she could think of.

His lips curled back to show sharp, inhuman teeth.  “If you are going to stare at me, just tell me to go.”

“I haven’t ever really looked at you,” Elly admitted.  “I always made a point of not staring.”

“You can stop now,” he snarled.  

Elly flinched, then turned and scooped up her sleep shorts.  “I’ll go brush my teeth.  You will do a better job of rearranging the furniture than I could anyway.”

[astyle-alex]

[Fanfic] Museum Mishap | the BatFam

Museum Mishap  |  Chapter 5/6

Fandom: the DC Universe, Batman & co. Pairings: Jay x Tim Characters: Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson Rating: Gen Audiences Warnings: None

Total Word Count: 38,590

Summary:

Middle-School Tim Drake is on a field trip to the Science Museum, but with a WE exhibition of top-secret new technologies being staged in the basement, Tim separates from his classmates and breaks into the staff-only areas by using the skills he's developed over years of stalking Batman and Robin.

Current-Robin Jason Todd catches him in the act, but he's not there to confront Tim for trespassing or truancy - he's there because there's a rumor on the street that Tim Drake knows Batman's real name. And the rumor's gaining ground, quick, drawing in the wrong kind of attention.

When a Drug-Lord decides to take the rumor seriously enough to kidnap the little genius, Jason jumps into the crossfire. It all goes downhill from there. Fast.

(Jason is 14, Tim is 12)

||  Read on Ao3 | Read on FF.net | Follow my updates on Patreon  ||

Museum Mishap Chapter 5: Checking Up

     Dick is the first to notice something’s different about Jason.

           Which is fair, because even though Bruce is the first person to see Jason after he wakes up on Saturday, a full 27 hours after being rescued from Sabini (ten of which he’d spent sleeping peacefully in his own bed instead of the Cave’s infirmary) – and even though Alfred is the first person to talk to him after he comes downstairs for breakfast – the bulk of what is actually noticeably different about Jason is aimed directly at Dick.

           Literally.

           Because Jason is starting.

           At Dick.

           From across his plate of scrambled eggs and sausage and toast piled high with strawberry preserves instead of the peach marmalade Dick likes and has on his own plate, Jason is staring. At Dick. Directly.

           He’s not even glaring at him, he’s just… watching.

           Which actually makes Dick more self-conscious than if Jason had been glaring, makes him think he’s done something wrong. Something especially wrong.

           Dick had never asked for a little brother, and to be perfectly honest he could admit that he hadn’t exactly been very nice to the one he’d acquired unexpectedly. While he had concrete and valid reasons to be pissed at Bruce for how he’d handled things, Dick wasn’t quite self-centered enough to miss how he hadn’t done right by Jason either.

           He’d screwed up their relationship in the beginning and now he spent most of his time trying to avoid making it worse. Which meant most simply that he spent most of his time straight up avoiding it…

           The longest span of time Dick had spent alone in a room with Jason since storming off to California a few weeks before his sixteenth birthday – to go be Robin with people who appreciated him and his skill and his right to wear the R, because it was his and always would be – was about the length of a Star Wars movie. The longest they’d spent together without such a specific and effective distraction was about twenty minutes.

           In which Alfred usually checked in on them halfway through.

           Because Jason does deserve the R.

           And he’s always resented that the older brother he’d never asked for thought he didn’t.

           Which isn’t exactly true, but Dick has never been able to explain that before Jason – brilliantly observant, woefully astute, and brutally willing to cut to the quick as he was – said something that made Dick get defensive. Which is when the yelling always started.

           And the quiet moments in between the yelling had always been punctuated by glaring.

           But now Jason is staring – and distinctly not glaring – and Dick doesn’t know what he did, or what he should do now. So, he sits in silence and plays with his eggs and worries.

           Because something is different about Jason this morning, and he doesn’t know why – or what it has to do with him. Or what Jason thinks it has to do with him.

           Because if Jason’s pissed with him for not getting to him quicker last night, for not jumping in earlier – early enough to stop Sabini from breaking his leg perhaps – then Jason would already be yelling. But he’s not. He’s staring.

           And Dick doesn’t know what to do.

           “Do you have a driver’s license?”

           Dick is so startled by the question he nearly drops his fork.

           Actually, he does drop it. He just manages to catch it before it skitters off the counter.

           “B won’t let me in the Cave with my leg and Alf won’t let me have the keys to any cars topside until I’m legal,” Jason explains – without explaining anything.

           “Yeah, I’ve got my license.”

           Dicks voice doesn’t squeak or waver. He’s moderately certain that some sort of magic or robotic voice replacement tech is behind the phenomenon. Or maybe his Robin conditioning is finally proving useful outside of the dark allies where his calm could comfort victims.

           Jason nods. He’s still staring.

           But now he’s squinting, evaluative. Not quite a glare, but closer.

           “Cool. Can you drive me somewhere after breakfast?”

           Dick nods. He decides not to ask to ask why Jason isn’t asking Alfred to drive him.

           He also decides not to ask where Jason wants to go until they’re already in the car.

           They don’t speak again until after Dick pulls into the circle at the end of the Drake Estate’s mile-long driveway, and even then, it’s just a gruff C’mon to hurry Dick along while Jason hauls himself out of the car on his own.

           Dick is slightly distracted as he cuts the engine. He nods to Jason – who’s paying him zero attention – as he marvels openly at the fact that they do, apparently, have neighbors.

           The Drake mansion isn’t quite a massive or effortlessly grand as Wayne Manor, but it’s a decently imposing imitation. There’s wealth here, excess. And no hint of the soft touch that Alfred has to bring a human element into the aching chill of life with money.

           Dick wants to ask what they’re doing here, of all places, but Jason is focused.

           It’s a feat for Jason to wrestle his crutches out of the car and limp his way up the wide steps of the ostentation front stair, but he manages. He does it without even making Dick feel terrible about not offering to help – though he knows if he did offer, Jason’s only response would be to curse and try to whack him with the pointy end of his crutches.

           Dick follows silently up the stairs after him and waits as Jason rings the doorbell impatiently, pressing it again after only a few seconds of silence.

           He’s not quite scowling at the Drakes’ front door, but he’s not smiling either. Whatever he’s thinking about is serious enough to warrant asking Dick for help instead of Alfred. Dick is definitely concerned by that, but there a hopeful anxiousness twisting in him too.

           Because Jason needed help, and he asked Dick to provide it.

           It’s not much, but it’s something.

           Jason’s leaning on the doorbell again when Dick hears a shuffling inside that indicates someone coming to check the matter. Dick hopes it’s not an elderly butler – Alfred moves around pretty well for his age, but it’s a big house and it takes even him a minute to get to the door on the bizarre occasion Wayne Manor has unexpected security-approved visitors.

           The Drakes’ equivalent can’t possibly be as light-footed or quick and Dick wants to tell Jason that it’s not whoever’s fault that it takes a while getting from one end of a mansion to the other on a Saturday morning for an unanticipated guest.

           There’s the sound of the lock being turned, but the door doesn’t open immediately.

           Jason is about to lean on the bell again – and Dick is seriously considering how counter-productive it will be to stop him from being overly rude – when the knob finally spins and the massive solid-wood structure sweeps inward.

           Dick plasters a smile on his face and –        

           It’s the kid from Thursday night.

           Dick’s whole being freezes.

           It’s the kid that took a beating because Sabini thought he knew something about Batman.

           Dick is stuck in a sudden mental rut of wondering why this kid – and Dick know he’s a tough one, he’s seen it, but he’s a head shorter than Jason and probably weighs as much as Dick’s leg and he’s just survived a torturous kidnapping and should be on bedrest with soup and blankets and stuffed animals – why this kid is answering his own door.

           Especially in a house like this. His family is clearly rich beyond reason and could have a flurry of staff to care for the household’s daily needs and to fawn sweetly over the poor injured young master. So why is he answering the door?

           When his door costs as much as the entire Trailer the Flying Graysons called home in Haly’s Circus. When there are still bruises on his face where Sabini’s fingers gripped him that haven’t quite gone ugly and greenish from healing. When the butterfly bandage on his cheek is still the only thing holding the skin together beneath the antiseptic goo.

           Jason’s brain is clearly doing the same acrobatics as Dicks, asking questions it’s not really keen on getting answered because the answers can’t be good, but Jason recovers faster.

           Which is good because the Drake boy – Timmy, Dick remembers, except no, that’s just what Jason called him, he introduced himself as Tim in his brief moment of lucidity on Friday morning – is looking between the pair on his doorstep like one of the rescue dogs Dick remembers Haly bringing into the circus fold on their first days of being treated well.

           They were cautious and skittish and quick to shy away, but also a little bit awed by the care and attention being paid to them – slightly overwhelmed to say the least. And Tim Drake is clearly in a similar state of mind.

           Dick is frozen on the doorstep.

           Tim is frozen in the doorway.

           Jason falters too, but only for a moment. Then he’s using his crutches to nudge Tim out of the way, so he can swing himself through the door and into the Drakes’ imposing foyer.

           Dick follows.

           Tim remembers to close the door – and lock it too, with a sturdy deadbolt that Dick knows will provide actual security – and then shuffles after Dick and Jason.

           Silent on his feet – impressive, given the floppy sneakers he’s wearing – Tim allows Jason to lead the way through the mansion’s sprawl to its kitchen. Tim is watching Jason’s back as he swings forward on his crutches, which gives Dick time to look around the mansion as they walk. He knows Jason’s scoping the place out too, and he’s glad Jason can manage it with that subtle street-wise skill he’s got ingrained. Dick could probably be subtle – he was trained by Batman – but he’s finding it hard to rein in the reaction he’s having to the place.

           It’s absolutely sterile here.

           More like a museum than like a house.

           Nothing looks soft, or like it’s meant for people to sit on, and the few chairs and cushions Dick has clocked as they move through the sprawl don’t look like anyone has ever used them. There’s not a speck of dust, but honestly that just makes it worse. There are people that come through here, in order to clean it at least, but nobody lives here.

           “What’re you saying about your face,” Jason asks bluntly when he stumbles upon the masterwork that is the Drake kitchen. Dick can tell that finding the kitchen has help Jason relax a little, that being in a place that’s meant to be sterile has helped at least as much as the prospect of diving into the soothing rhythm of cooking, but Tim doesn’t pick up on Jason’s new degree of ease and relax himself. If anything, he tenses more.

           “I’m going to say that I tried to launch a rocket in the back yard and it blew up in my face,” Tim explains. He watches as Jason moves to investigate his fridge.

           He notes when Jason stiffens, flinches as he realizes what he just said to prompt it, and he whips his head around when Dick is the one to speak up about it. “You’re ‘going to say’?”

           Dick knows the way he blurted it in aching disbelief is rude. Not calm. Not helpful.

           But he’s lost sensation in his limbs and his stomach is still sinking towards the center of the earth at supersonic speeds.

           They had dropped Tim back into his bed at 2pm on Friday afternoon, once Bruce had convinced Alfred that he was stable and well on his way to healing. That was almost 20 hours ago. Dick’s stomach churns as he realizes that no one’s been to check on him in almost a full day.

           Tim survived a brutal beating, and he’s been dealing with the mental fallout of his kidnapping – not to mention the physical aspects of his recovery – entirely alone.

           Dick is staring at Tim, wide-eyed and worried, and he knows it isn’t helping as Tim looks down and toes at the marble floor.

           “Mrs. Simz doesn’t work on Fridays,” he mumbles. “She thinks I spend Friday nights with my school’s chess club.”

           Jason snorts. “Of course, she does. That sounds perfectly reasonable.”

           He pauses. Anyone but Dick probably wouldn’t be able to catch the way he steels himself and forces down a mix of rage and worry before he asks lightly, “Hey, kid, you got any flour hiding in this joint? Baking soda?”

           “Why?”

           “I’m gonna make pancakes, obviously,” Jason replies, shouldering open the fridge and pulling out milk and eggs. He spreads his haul on the island and shoots Dick a look that he hopes means that he should start investigating the Drake cabinets for mixing bowls and a griddle and such. Because that’s what Dick starts doing.

           “Pancakes?”

           “Yeah, they’re kinda like pizza – you eat them,” Jason replies, a gruff amusement in his voice that tells Dick there’s some sort of inside joke involved.

           Dick wants to think that there’s no part of the joke where he should be legitimately concerned that Tim doesn’t eat, but he also remembers how easy it was to pick the kid up when they rescued him. Sure, he’s only twelve, but Dick is fairly certain that he weighed at least twice what Tim does when he was twelve. Comparing him to Jason – even the emaciated twelve year old Jason that had first been brought to the Manor – would be too tragic to let him keep the smile on his face, so Dick consciously fights the urge.

           Tim jumps in to help direct Dick and Jason around his kitchen, Tim acting as Jason’s legs while Jason barks orders. Dick didn’t know Jason could cook, but he’s not as surprised as he thought he’d be – even when Jason whips out the fancy tricks like cracking the eggs one-handed and twirling his spatula as he times the flips perfectly.

           Butter and syrup appear on the island as Dick tries to help put the finishing touches on their meal. It’s been over an hour since breakfast, so Dick can definitely eat – and he knows Jason is probably already starving. Tim is looking at the looming stack of pancakes warily, however, and Dick is pleased with himself for not shooting Jason a worried look.

           It gets even harder to resist when they actually settle down to eat and Tim expends a painstaking amount of effort on arranging the careful stack of pancakes on his plate instead of making any move to dig in.

           “So, Timmy,” Jason says around a mouthful of pancakes, “Find any cool new toys since you’ve been home playin’ with your rocket?”

           Both confused, Dick and Tim look blankly at Jason – who rolls his eyes. Then he taps his ear and makes a wide gesture about the kitchen. He’s asking if Tim’s found any Bat bugs.

           Dick knows Batman must’ve left some – Tim was suspected of knowing his secrets for a reason, after all, and Bruce would certainly want to keep tabs on any future developments that might potentially occur. What Dick does not know is why Jason’s asking Tim if he found any listening devices hidden in his home – why he’s referencing the plausible option so casually, so openly. Unless… unless Tim knows.

           Scandalized, Tim looks between Jason and Dick – redness creeping up his neck until his ears are bright ruby – and then stares down at his pancakes. He nods.

           Like he’s pulling teeth, Jason waits a beat to make sure Tim is still alive and then asks with the same casual air, “Find any in here?”

           This time, Tim shakes his head, still staring resolutely at his pancakes – and still making no move to actually eat them.

           Jason nods, satisfied.

           Tim waits, but Jason doesn’t say anything else.

           Eventually, peeks up. Looks at Jason. Waits.

           Then he slowly, sheepishly turns his head to look at Dick. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the accusations and yelling to start. Tim does know their secret, and he expects to be in serious trouble for it.

           Jason levels his own look at Dick, daring him to break the tenuous trust they’ve developed in the last few hours by voicing any sort chastisement.

           When they’d first brought Jason and Tim back to the Cave, Batman had been on Jason about getting to the truth of the rumors around Tim – to the point of absurdity, considering that there were two traumatized and injured kids to care for, considering that Jason himself was being questioned before Batman would give his broken leg the medical attention it needed…

           Dick had spoken up in defense of Jason – asserting his own opinion that Tim was ignorant of the secret that got him wrapped up in this mess – mostly because he was pissed at Bruce for being so callous. Dick knew that Bruce cared, that he cared so much he buried all of his feelings deep beneath an impenetrable layer of cold practicality so he could deal with the pragmatic details of resolving the situation.

           But it was really hard to remember that he cared when it felt more like he wanted answers in his own interrogation rather than to help the adopted son he’d just rescued from a drug-lord who’d been asking the same questions.

           But Dick had defended Jason’s stand against Bruce.

           At the time, he hadn’t realized Jason was lying – that Bruce honestly did have a valid reason to worry about Tim’s ability to threaten Batman’s secrets. He knew Jason wasn’t being entirely honest, but he’d brushed it off as embarrassment at getting caught and needing rescue.

           Knowing what he does now, that Tim is aware of much more than he should be, Dick isn’t certain he would’ve made the same call. On the one hand, he wants to trust his brother’s judgement – to stay focused on Tim as a victim rather than a threat – but he also feels the urge to trust his mentor’s trend of caution, because if Tim threatens Bruce’s secrets he’s also threatening Dick’s. And Jason’s. And possibly Barbara, and the Titans, and any other mask they’ve ever worked with… Tim could be very dangerous if Jason’s wrong about trusting him.

           But Tim is waiting to be yelled at – waiting to face the good guys’ wrath for simply being clever. And Dick had seen the R on Tim’s sweater. He’s a fan, and he’s been clever, and he’d taken one hell of a beating for a twelve year old kid to be expected to handle.

           And he hadn’t talked.

           It was more than Dick would’ve expected from most grown-ups. It was as much or even more than he’d expect from adults trained to withstand interrogation.

           If Dick needed proof that Tim wasn’t a threat, that was it.

           Tim was still staring at him – waiting for his anger. Waiting to be punished.

           Jason was staring too – waiting for a reason to get angry himself.

           Resolved to let Tim continue to fly under Batman’s radar, Dick doesn’t say anything. He just takes another bite of his pancakes. The bite goes down easier than he expects, validation that his gut trusts Tim on a level beyond instinctual. Something more like kinship.

           Tim keeps staring – like he doesn’t quite recognize what it means that Dick is just going on with eating like a major secret affecting both of their lives hasn’t just been exposed – but Jason relaxes. He even flashes Dick what could pass for a smile.

           It makes Dick feel like he’s made the right decision all over again.

           He’s got very little good history with Jason, but he’s working on his own issues and he thinks that, just maybe, he and Jason can work with this – can use Tim’s hush-hush existence as a bit of common ground to try standing by each other instead of against each other.

           Tim is still staring, though.

           Still waiting, still worried, still convinced that he’s in trouble.

           “Pancakes not to your liking, Tim?” Dick asks, flashing him a grin. It’s not the dazzling, thousand-watt smile that’s always made him shine as a media darling, but it’s still bright and teasing enough to startle Tim. And genuine.

           Jason growls before Tim recovers, retorting, “Hey, my pancakes are fantastic, asshole.”

           Dick gives a shrug, his smiling building as he feels out Jason’s grumble and realizes that there’s almost no real malice in it – none of the gritty defensiveness he’s used to from Jason.

           “They’re, um, great,” Tim replies in a squeak.

           With another snort, Jason says, “You haven’t even tried them yet.”

           He reaches across the island and swoops a smear of butter onto Tim’s topmost pancake, giving the terrified youngster a mild heart attack. He pushes the syrup across the table with his fork – it’s good stuff, real maple in a ceramic jug – until it clicks pointedly against Tim’s plate.

           “Eat.”

           Tim picks up his fork, obedient but still anxious and pushes a few bites around before he finally picks one up and forces it into his mouth and down his throat.

           Watching as Tim swallows and waiting until it looks like he might take another bite of his own volition, Jason says, “You gotta relax, Timmers. We’re the frickin good guys.”

           Dick gives a supportive smile as Tim forces himself to nod.

           His eyes jump guiltily to Dick for a moment but then he settles and takes another bite of his pancakes. This time he looks much less like he wants to throw the food back up immediately.

           “How’s, um, how’s your leg,” Tim asks. Guilty, which makes Dick’s lungs tighten, but at least he’s speaking up – which means he might be able to be convinced he’s not at fault.

           “It’s good,” Jason replies with a shrug. “I’ve gotta stay off it completely for the next week, and I’m benched for the next three, at least, but it doesn’t hurt anymore.”

           Dick snorts. “You’re supposed to stay off it for three weeks,” Dick counters automatically. He lets himself fall into older-brother over-dive to add, “And B wants to keep you benched for the next two months. Alf might actually put you in a coma if he sees you trying to go down to the Cave before the cast comes off.”

           With a shrug, Jason says, “So like two weeks and we call it even.”

           Dick tries to claw back the sigh that’s threatening to cut off all his air.

           “It was a pretty bad break,” Tim pipes up. He looks slightly guilt-ridden, but he forges on to add, “But it was direct contact to the bone, instead of to a joint, and I’m guessing it was a stable, simple tibia fracture – no skin penetration or muscle tears – and it was either transverse or very slightly oblique, so it should heal cleanly.”

           “Not if he bungs it up by trying to do cartwheels on it too quickly,” Dick counters.

           “I’m gonna leave the cartwheeling to you, Dickiebird,” Jason replies with a chuckle that’s warm and teasing and so much nicer than the conversations he’s used to having with Jason.

           It almost sounds like they’re just talking about your average sports injury, and Tim even joins in a few more times as the discussion shifts to Dick and his penchant for cartwheeling down the long halls of Wayne Manor. Tim’s a fan of the Flying Graysons, and after a little figuring, Dick actually remembers meeting him before – before the show for a picture and a hug and a somersault promise, before Zucco, before his parents fell… before life got so complicated.

           Dick and Jason and Tim stay gathered around the island in the Drakes’ kitchen until Tim has completely finished his plate of pancakes without needing to have Jason force him through each bite. And they stay an hour after they’ve cleaned up, and an hour after that too.

           They stay until Alfred sends Dick a text to warn him that Bruce is getting antsy with their absence, antsy enough to start wondering where they’ve gone.

           Tim looks sad as they start gearing up to head back to the Manor, but Jason assures him that they’ll be back tomorrow – and after school on Monday, assuming Tim actually goes to school on Monday. Neither vigilante would blame him if he wanted to take a day off.

           “Why?”

           “Because you got beat up by a drug-lord,” Jason told him with a gruff, but affectionate exasperation Dick can hardly believe he’s hearing from the ill-tempered teenager, “That totally warrants a fucking vacation day or two.”

           Tim shakes his head. “No, I mean why are you gonna come here? Why’re you here at all, if I’m not in trouble for… you know.” He mumbles through most of the words, falling back into the timid little thing he was when he first saw Dick and Jason standing at his door.

           It’s only now that Dick realizes how much he’d managed to come out of that shell.

           “We’re checking up on you, baby bird,” Jason huffs, “Duh.”

           “But why?”

           Tim stands there like the question is perfectly innocent, like it’s not one of the most heartbreaking thing Dick has ever been asked.

           If Jason didn’t have a broken leg and crutches to wrestle with, Dick is sure that Tim would be trapped under Jason’s arm getting his hair mussed beyond all possible repair. As it stands, Jason looks halfway to smacking Tim with one of his crutches.

           Or smacking whoever made him feel like his current state of being is somehow one that is in any way an acceptable situation for a child.

           But Dick smiles and slings an arm around Jason’s shoulders.

           “Because we’re Robins,” he says, promising, “And that’s what we do.”

           There’s a pause.

           And then Tim nods, smiling back in a way that makes Dick’s limbs feel gooey as he goes all warm and fuzzy. He can feel Jason lean into his side, can see that he’s smiling too – not as broadly as Dick is, but the expression is just as genuine. A bit surprised, perhaps, but happy.

           The door closes behind them and Jason clambers into his side of the car without beating Dick with his crutches for helping. The drive back to the Manor is just as quick as the one away from it this morning, but not as quiet.

           The Robins get themselves on a united platform about having gone to visit Drake as civilians – he’d recognized Jason as a Wayne and they’d gone to commiserate with Jason as a fellow victim of random, rumor fueled violence. They explain again to Bruce that Tim doesn’t know anything about Batman and latch onto Alfred’s concern that the boy’s parents are still out of the country. The Robins volunteer to go over and check on him tomorrow.

           At Alfred’s insistence, they agree to spend most of the day there, and several days next week – and bring over some of Alfred’s amazing, high-nutrition cooking.

           With all three of them set against Bruce in this, he relents to giving full approval to their plan – assuming that Nightwing patrols with Batman for the next three weeks while Robin remains obediently on bedrest.

           The butler sides with Bruce on that one, but he gives the boys a wink behind Bruce’s back and it makes Dick get that warm and fuzzy glow again.

           He’s halfway giddy all through that night’s patrol.

           Batman notices.

           But Dick doesn’t explain when he’s asked about it.

           He just says that he and Jason are finally seeing eye to eye about what it means to hero in Gotham, to be Robin… to be a good Robin.

           He smiles into the sunrise after a long night of beating up petty thugs on Gotham’s street corners – of looking into and utterly quashing any remaining rumors that Timothy Drake has any information on Batman. And maybe the throws a few extra flips into the maneuvers that carry him from rooftop to rooftop of Gotham’s city skyline.

           It’s a beautiful day and Dick resolves to make the most of the chances he’s been given – however unfortunate the circumstances around them. The world is already a slightly better place, and Dick is determined to make it more so, bit by bit.

           Because we’re Robins. And that’s what we do.

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[vios-rockland-corner]

Nightmare Realized

“Nightmare Realized” is a short visual novel/game that acts as a teaser for the first upcoming Misfits horror game, “The Misfits: First Blood.” 

It’s a haunting precursor for the events that will come, and a good look at one of the characters.

I highly recommend playing it through first (it only takes less than 5 minutes).  Otherwise, I’ll be placing my random thoughts below for fun.

[Spoilers below for Nightmare Realized, Rumors of Rockland Article 1, and The Misfits: First Blood demo]

I absolutely loved this teaser.  Especially the way it was presented.  It’s pretty short, so I’ve decided what I’ll do here is make a bullet list of any little thing that caught my eye.  Once that’s done, I’ll decide what I want to talk about more (I may not address every single bullet point).

1.      Rory Stryker is a kind person at least to Syndey and Tyler.

2.      Tyler might possibly get his drugs from his mother (not clear if she got him into drugs or if she just provides- the phrase “drug abuse” is stated though).

3.      It sounds like…Sydney has trouble being nice with his blood family usually (like his mother and Tyler)

4.      Something is VERY wrong with Sydney.

5.      Sydney may have an obsession with either blades or using them (or both…possibly blood too).

6.      Getting to hear the knives’ “songs often now” implies that he is becoming more active (possibly to hurt or kill people).

7.      Quill, similarly to how he was portrayed in the demo, has a huge ego.  And yes, even his friends think he’s a d*ck.

8.      Sydney considers Quill, Chase and Kinley as family.  Possible even more so than his blood family from what I can tell.

9.      There are romantic relationships among the four.  It’s implied they all may love each other.  Outlaw has a lot of polyamorous and pansexual characters, so this isn’t unusual.  That’s why Sydney’s description for each of the three feels like a genuine love confession. I might say from these depictions they do share, but there are favored partners for each person (Chase-Quill and Syndey-Kinley)?  But I need to be careful about what I say since I’m not familiar with this dynamic. (Btw creators, if this is rude for me to comment on, I’ll try to avoid the topic in the future and edit this part out).

10.   Chase is nonbinary and used to be mute.  They were also abandoned when they were younger.  [Note: I actually knew this already from some Patreon notes, but I thought it’d be good to make that clear here]

11.   All four characters, happily engage in “hunting.”  Obviously, they’re not talking about game hunting here.  If you’ve played the Misfits: First Blood demo, it was mentioned that these guys DO go after people as a pack sometimes.

 One of the biggest things about this game is it’s the first time I believe we’ve gotten to see a glimpse into Sydney’s personality.  Even better, we get a direct look into his psyche since this is POV.  Syndey’s character has been around, but before this game we’ve only had artwork and Quill mentioning his name briefly in the demo.  There weren’t any clues for what this guy was like.

Right off the bat we can see Sydney is very off.  It sounds like he usually puts in the bare minimum when it comes to functioning and interacting with others.  He sounds very out of it.  He only gets more lively and emotions once Quill and the rest of his friends come into the picture.  Let’s not forget either the sinister urges we see invading his mind at an alarming rate. This is apparently a dangerous trait he’s had for a long time.  It’s almost like he can’t help himself.

What was really interesting to me was the very beginning actually.  I’m really curious what kind of relationship Sydney has with his family.  Compared to his friends, his blood family is either a lot lower on his priority list or he just has a lot of issues connecting with any of them.  We still don’t know what the Stryker family does yet, but that could play a part in this.  I wonder, since he seems slightly disconnected from his immediate family, if any of them are aware of Sydney’s “hunting hobby.”  His parents are part of “The Professionals” group, so they’re not innocent themselves.  But I don’t know how much each party influences or is involved with the other here. Unlike with Quill and his father Alchemy (another “Professional”) where we do know from the demo that Quill learned from Alchemy.

I’m also more curious now about Tyler.  We got a good introduction to Tyler in the Rumors of Rockland Article 1 that was released.  He seemed pretty chipper and easy going there.  But I don’t know if he has his own problems.  He’s a drug dealer and…yeah it’s very possible that he’s also addicted to drugs as well.  Sydney specifically uses the phrase “drug abuse,” but I can’t quite figure out if he means Tyler is abusing drugs, or it’s some kind of influence by his mother. Like I said, she could be a dealer herself.  There’s something twisted there.  

Whatever the case, Tyler and his mother seem to be much closer to each other than Sydney is to either of them.  It doesn’t FEEL like Sydney has any malice towards either of the two, but I’d need more information to be sure.  Sydney’s apparently not always nice to Tyler, but Sydney doesn’t seem to pay attention to this fact in his daily life.

One thing I loved about this game is how it progresses.  We start off with Sydney clearly not having a wonderful morning (he’s very distracted).  Then we slowly meet up with Quill, Chase and Kinley.  The minute Quill comes into the picture, Sydney becomes more emotional and thoughtful.  We get to meet Chase and we’re distracted by the depiction of this small character with a sad past.  Then we’re suddenly reminded something.  These people are monsters.  Despite the casual setting at the arcade, once Quill brings up “hunting,” we the audience see the wolves hiding beneath these playful characters through wonderfully dark visuals.  Even cute little Chase has a wicked grin on their face.

There’s even a brief moment where Kinley is introduced and Sydney is able to return to a calm, loving state for a moment (after getting excited over the thought of blood).  Kinley’s a psychologist who took care of his unwell mother at a young age.  He seemed to be picking up on Sydney’s excitement here. So for a brief moment…you think MAYBE Kinley has come over to calm Sydney down and drive away his more murderous thoughts?  NOPE. We’re quickly shown that this man is no different from the other three.  They ALL crave a hunt.  No matter how beautiful you paint a picture of each on the outside, they all have thorns underneath like a rose.

And in a twisted way, Sydney feels more connected with these three because he DOESN’T feel like a monster here.  They are all the same.  Which of course, is horrifying as a viewer. They’re probably far less likely to feel remorse for their actions if they know there are other people like themselves around to share their sick hobbies with.

It’s a chilling and perfect teaser for the inevitable Misfits game.  The message is clear:  Don’t trust any of them.

 Side note:  I personally look forward to seeing more egotistical Quill.  I love it even though I want to punch him in the face sometimes.

[pochapal]

I feel the response to my ask was "disingenuous as fuck". Your original post was mad that the writers lost their jobs & blamed the fandom for not continuing to pay money for writing that many viewed as genuinely trans/bi/black-phobic. I don't think they deserved death threats or hate, but criticisms are valid. I don't get why you defend them and act like a fanbase of mostly lgbt+ who are probably hurting for money during the pandemic should be throwing money at writers that treat them like shit.

over a thousand members of the fandom WERE still paying money to the patreon is the thing though. i’m not arguing with you about what exactly kind of harm homestuck^2 did because i don’t know what exactly you want me to say? i’m not qualified to talk about the issues homestuck has with race but writing kind of spotty queer rep is in no way comparable to material anti-lgbt harm being inflicted on real people, nor did hs^2 at any point textually encourage violence against said marginalised groups. 

but there were people who were still willing to financially support the team and the wider fandom harassment campaign directly led to these people no longer being able to donate money. also no one was being forced to donate to the patreon? the people who donated did so because they wanted to and because they were in a financial position where they could do so.

i defend the writers because they really aren’t these malicious actors bent on inflicting abuse on poor helpless lgbt fans like they’re made out to be. to be specific the writers who were pushed out of the team before now were all marginalised and were reviled for the apparent crime of representing their perspectives in line with homestuck’s narrative (thinking here specifically about the backlash towards pesterquest roxy and literally anyone who had any creative input on the direction of vriska’s character). the only evidence of those people treating the fans like shit is when they defended themselves and got mad about the literal online dogpiling they faced. if i was being 24/7 hounded by entitled fans i’d probably call them some rude things too! these were people doing a job that was comfortably financially supported that they had to walk away from for their own wellbeing. they did not owe the fans anything and even if they did they still had a large number of fans that supported their work and now it’s all gone because of a moral crusade by people who never liked post-canon homestuck and never intended to. that’s pretty much why i’m mad at the fandom.

[pixie-unger]

The Captive - 5

My stories are generally posted on @pixieungerstories and they always turn up here after they are finished on Patreon.  This one is a $1/month novel, so if you can’t wait, you can subscribe for the month of September and binge read the whole thing.

“You slept in today, tre- Elly,” George observed.  “The boy was quite worried.”

“Ben?  Nah.  He was fine.”

George snorted, “He does not approach the stairs that often when you are on time.”

Elly froze.  “What would you have done if he had gone up them?”

George turned to peer at her out of the darkness, his eyes glowing faintly.  There was an uncomfortable moment of silence.  “There is a chesterfield down here that matches the chair you are sitting upon.”

“Wait, who even calls it a chesterfield anymore?”

George bristled, “I do,” he said quietly.  “What do you call it?”

“A sofa.”

“If you understand the word, why comment on my choice of it?”

“Sorry,” Elly said softly.

George settled slightly back onto the floor.  “I would like you to sleep on it tonight.”

Elly blinked.  “Down here?  You can’t be serious.”

“I am.  I have cleaned the fireplace.  I will allow you to bring your horrible lights,” he conceded graciously.

“You are serious!” she was shocked.

“Of course I am.  You have not invited me into your space, so I am respecting that and requesting you spend the night in mine.”

Elly considered this.  It was dark.  It wasn’t damp.  It certainly wasn’t cold and George could easily adjust the temperature if she needed it.  Hell, he was acting as the furnace after all.  “Why did you need to clean the fireplace?  I mean, you are the fireplace.”

“It helps with ventilation and you can use it for cooking, if needed.”

Elly wondered what he thought she would be cooking overnight in her sleep.  “I don’t understand why you are asking me that.”

George gave a frustrated and slightly steamy sigh.  “I understand that you tend the shop during the day.  I understand that you do the shopping and go out for chores on the days the shop is closed.  Nonetheless the end result is that I receive only a minimal amount of your time.  You aren’t holding up your end of the bargain, treasure.”

“I am!” Elly protested. “I live here and take care of the place and I’m never out after dark!”

“That isn’t the bargain, Elly.  The arrangement has you here to keep me company.  The shop is just supposed to be a hobby for you.”

“A hobby? No.  A hobby is something you enjoy.  I’m only running the shop because I like eating food and sleeping indoors.”

George’s brow wrinkled.  “You have money, you don’t need to work.”

“What reality are you living in George?”

“The one where there is a trust set up for whoever is living here,” he explained impatiently.  “All you have to do is present with a copy of your birth certificate and sign the paperwork.”

Elly blinked.  George sighed again, noticeably raising the humidity in the room.  “If you dial the telephone for me, we can call the lawyers in the morning.  It has been awhile since I have spoken to Mr Biddu. It is probably well past time.”

She swallowed, “Maybe it has been embezzled or something.”

George’s teeth glittered in the light of the lamp.  “Oh, I doubt it.  Your law firm is in on the secret.  I have spent a lot of effort on guarding my treasure.  And whether you like it or not, that includes you, Elly.”

“This is a lot to take in,” she murmured.  “Why do you want me to sleep with you?”

There was a faint choking noise before George replied.  “You are here to keep me company.  I was giving you a chance to settle after moving to a new place.  It has been months since you arrived.  It is past time.”

Elly considered this.  “I don’t want to sleep down here, George. It’s too dark and scary.”

He didn’t reply, but just kept watching her.

“Um…  If you sleep in my room, do I have to worry about a fire?”

“No,” was the cold reply.

“Do I have to worry about getting you down the stairs before Ben sees you?”

She could swear he smirked at that.  “No,” he replied.  “I can be discreet if you insist.”

Elly pursed her lips and looked at the stairs.  “All right.  If we push the bed against the wall, there should be room for you on the floor.”

George chuckled, “It sounds like you need a bigger bed.”

“I like my bed!” she protested.

George let that one slide.  Apparently he wasn’t going to push his luck yet.  He followed her up the stairs, close enough that she could feel his breath on the small of her back.  She could hear his claws clicking on the floor as they went.

“I don’t have my space set up for … someone as large as you.  Just … please be careful not to break anything.”

“I will be very careful with your treasures, Elly.”

Elly fought not to laugh.  There were some very nice antiques that had come with the house, but none of it was hers.  She had brought a lot of books, a lot of shelves and a desk that was set up to be ergonomic for her.  It was all still in boxes in the room she wanted as an office.  She had hit the ground running here and hadn’t had a chance to even unpack her things.

Looking at him in this space she was amazed he hadn’t smashed the furniture on his way to her room.  She gave the couch a shove to make a little more room for him.

“May I?”

She looked at him watching her.  What the hell, it wasn’t her couch.  “Sure.”

George muscled it aside, widening the space behind it.  Then he crept back and moved the chairs and coffee table to keep the grouping the same.  “I liked the way Ann had the furniture arranged better.”

Elly gritted her teeth.  She should really just let it go, as long has he remembered her name, that was the important thing.  But still, “Her name was Ina.  And I don’t know how she had the furniture before, but I haven’t moved any of it since I got here.”

He went very still at that.  There was a long pause, when he spoke he almost sounded like he could cry.  It was the first emotion other than irritation Elly had seen out of him.  “Ann was before her.  She was my friend.”

Elly didn’t know what to say to that, then the enormity of it hit her.  Ina had been here for the last fifty years.  George hadn’t known her name.  So either Ina hadn’t insisted he learn or that was a really long time to be alone.

Shit.

No wonder he was so insistent on spending time with her.  How did the idea of solitary confinement even apply to George?  Reptiles made shitty pets because they were solitary creatures as compared to dogs, which lived in packs or cats which at least lived in colonies.  But was George even a reptile?  He was definitely warm blooded.  She couldn’t get her head around the temperature thing.  Or… any of it really.  If magic was just science people didn’t understand yet, then George sure as shit was a magical creature.

He was watching her.

Elly blinked.  “Um…  I guess that’s why the doors are all so wide.”  George inclined his head, giving her an off centre nod of agreement.  “I’m not attached to the furniture layout.  We can rearrange it on the weekend if you want.”

“Thank you tr - Elly.”

“Did you call Ina treasure too?”

George narrowed his eyes for a moment before he closed them entirely.

Elly hesitated before asking, “Did you actually talk to her at all?”

“In the beginning, as much as I talk to you now.  I did not demand more of her time and over the years that dwindled to her simply bringing me food, then leaving before I had eaten it.”

“That sounds lonely.”

George’s eyes snapped open and he glared at her.

Elly took an involuntary step back.  “Um!” she blurted out trying to diffuse the situation.  “We should move the bed over against one of the walls in the room.”

She opened the french doors to her room.  All the doors in the apartment where french doors, but they were all a weird size.  Each door was only slightly larger than two feet wide, so that when you opened the both the doorway was unusually wide but opening only one was uncomfortably small.  George would have no problems fitting through a wheelchair accessible door and could probably squeeze though a standard door, but watching him ease through the double doors it was clear that this space had been designed to fit him.

“You are staring, treasure.”

Elly opened her mouth to correct him on her name, then snapped it shut when she realized he was being rude to point out her rudeness.  If you would have asked her a year ago to pick a word to describe dragons, snarky wouldn’t have made her top twenty.  Big, reptilian, and snarky.   George’s back legs were short like an alligator's.  They weren’t any longer than his arms, which were uncomfortably human looking.  She was sure if he stood up he would be seven feet tall.  His face was almost human, maybe a little longer in the snout.  She was sure his skull had to be closer to that of a gorilla than to any reptile she could think of.

His lips curled back to show sharp, inhuman teeth.  “If you are going to stare at me, just tell me to go.”

“I haven’t ever really looked at you,” Elly admitted.  “I always made a point of not staring.”

“You can stop now,” he snarled.  

Elly flinched, then turned and scooped up her sleep shorts.  “I’ll go brush my teeth.  You will do a better job of rearranging the furniture than I could anyway.”

[officialleehadan]

Red Silk Wings

Eskyl was not overly pleased to be in a whorehouse.

Oh, sure, it was a classy whorehouse because Zain had expensive taste in everything including lovers, but it was still a whorehouse. Red draped the walls. The seating was polished wood, smooth and comfortable, and easy to clean. The whores were beautiful, dressed in almost-transparent silks and very little else. These were not the whores of a warrior tavern, either. These were confident, sleek courtesans, who were selling good conversation as much as anything else.

Zain, of course, was holding court. He had no less than four lovelies, three men and a determined woman, draped halfway in his lap as he did little cantrips to amuse them.

Eskyl had purchased absolutely nothing but a mug of good mead, and told the first whore to approach him that he was soon to be wedded.

For any other whorehouse, that would have been an invitation. This woman took it for the polite refusal it was, and kept her hands to herself.

Bald-Face was, unfortunately, less versed in the nuances of human conversation. He was also holding court, apparently unaware that the lovely young woman listening to him was halfway to shoving her hands down his pants.

Well, Eskyl supposed be understood. Bald-Face was polite, reasonably good-looking, and very prone to talking about honey at length.

And also was oblivious to just how many honey references could be misconstrued as references to sex.

This was sure to be deeply hilarious. Eskyl caught the eye of one of the girls and ordered a plate of food for himself even as two of Zain’s companions dragged him into the dancing.

His necromancer friend seemed to be losing clothing at an impressive rate. Eskyl had to give the whores credit for their alacrity. Zain’s clothing tended to be the complicated sort.

“It’s not so difficult to coax the best results out of my ladies,” Bald-Face was saying brightly, definitely talking about bees. “A light touch where it matters, but that’s no difficulty. I just move a little more slowly.”

Bees. He was talking about bees. He was always talking about bees.

The whores did not know he was talking about bees.

“Tell us more about this light touch,” the whore, a delicate creature of dusky skin and black hair and deep yellow silks, purred. She gave a good impression of being riveted to Bald-Face’s every word. “We live for a man who takes his time.”

“Well, all good things take time,” Bald-Face told her fondly, and looked down when another whore, this one pale, with fiery hair and green silks, twined her fingers with his. “Oh, hello. We’re talking about honey.”

“I love honey,” the redhead sighed, and stretched appealingly. Her eyes were lined in black kohl and her lips were inviting. Eskyl was impressed. It took a lot of skill to do makeup so well, and to make it look like she wore none at all. “All sticky sweet and golden.”

“He takes his time,” the dark-skinned whore murmured to her, eyes wide and promising. Bald-face didn’t even notice. “He was telling me how you need to go slow.”

“Just until they warm up to you,” Bald-Face said cheerfully. “But really, it’s the queen who matters the most. She’s the one who commands everything.”

“Do you like to be commanded?”

“Well, when a queen wants something, you can’t say no, can you? It would be rude.”

Eskyl was laughing too hard to breathe, silent shudders as he tried his best not to choke on his own mead.

“Are you alright?” Bald-Face noticed his distress, such as it was, and looked over. “What’s so funny?”

Eskyl flapped a hand at him, still laughing and completely unable to speak.

The whores glanced at him, then at Bald-Face, and decided they probably didn’t want to know.

“Queens are touchy sometimes” Bald-Face was warming to his topic as a third whore drifted over. “Really though, the honey from wildflowers is the sweetest, even if it’s the hardest to coax out of them.”

“I love the wild,” the new whore breathed as she leaned over far enough for Bald-Face to see right down her shirt. He didn’t even notice. “Would you tell us about how wild you can be? We’re desperate for you.”

“Oh, I’m not very wild,” Bald-Face told her obliviously. “But I adore honey.”

The whore who Eskyl first talked to came over with his food, and looked at Bald-Face with something like confusion twisting her red-painted lips.

“Bees,” Eskyl wheezed when she turned to him for answers. “He’s talking about bees. He’s a bee wizard. The only females he’s interested in are the ones with stingers”

The whore’s lips parted in a wordless Oh, and she turned to head off her eager compatriots. After all there were other customers who were interested in stingers of a different, much more profitable sort.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t fast enough.

The red headed whore must have decided that they weren’t being forward enough, or maybe just ran out of patience. She ran her hand up Bald-Face’s thigh, bold fingers making her invitation inescapably clear.

Unfortunately, Bald-Face was only sometimes human, was never good with women, and reacted poorly to surprises.

He yelped, attempted to clamber over the back of the couch to escape the whore’s questing fingers, and turned into rather a lot of bees all at once.

Pandemonium ensued.

Whores ran in all directions as thousands of bald-face hornets swirled through the room, buzzing with fury and confusion all at once.

Eskyl put a hand over his mug to keep the hornets out, and sighed.

People scattered. Mass panic sent whores and their half-dresses customers scrambling out of the room. Doors slammed, but doors were never much good against hornets, and there was more screaming from upstairs as the hornets tried and failed to find a way outside.

Zain stormed into the room, stark naked and glowing with unearthly magic.

The few whores left in the room took one look at him and fled, screaming.

The bees swirled and coalesced back into a very contrite-looking Bald-Face.

Zain stared at him, radiating outrage.

Eskyl started laughing again, and took a deep drink of his mead.

“Well,” he said as they glared at each other. “You did say you wanted some excitement.”

+++

Brothers Bound:

Before they were old monsters, they were young men. The adventures of Eskyl, Zain, and Bald-Face, before they were legends.

Body-Weight of Bees

Already Dead (Free on Patreon!)

+++

MORE STORIES!

+++

[ibelieveinahappilyeverafter]

Putting the Cat in Catastrophe Chapter 1 (edited)

Bonjour, mes chers! I’m about to upload chapter two in half an hour or so here, but this is the edited chapter of TCC where I had to edit a few things to make it work better once I finished plotting it all out. Enjoy! Also, a new thing, I’ll be uploading the chapter fully onto tumblr. Neat, huh? 

If you’re a Patron of mine then you can find a link the the old version of the story - and even notes of what I wanted to do! - on my patreon at mjanderson! You can pledge as little as a dollar a month and get access to a bunch of cool things. Go check it out!

Click here to read on FFN Click here to read on AO3

Summary:   Danny Fenton has just escaped from a secret government testing facility and runs straight into Andrew Riter - a busybody librarian who seems to be obsessed with helping a stray black cat - said stray black cat happening to be Danny himself. The Government gets interested when they find out a seemingly ordinary human can shapeshift into different animals. Danny just wants to return to his family and try to find his lost memories, but he's having a hard time doing so when he's finding less and less reasons for leaving Andrew's side. He couldn't tell anyone his secret - not again - but... But why did he want to trust this man so badly? (Iambic Prose) (Shapeshifter Danny AU)

Warning: This story will have references to laboratory testing, mentions of vivisections, blood, wounds, character trauma, and things of a similar sort. Most mentions of such things will be vague, but there will be heavy mentions of it and warnings at the beginning of chapters when it gets explicit.

<<Next Chapter>>

Chapter One

:: 

It could be said that how a person’s day went was largely determined by their mood and their personal worldview. With such an outlook, it would be correct in saying that if you looked upon the day with a cheery smile and attitude, then you would have a happy day no matter what bad things befell you.

Andrew Riter would like nothing more than to punch the face of whoever had said that. Preferably with a knife, but a regular punch and kick to the balls would work just as well, he was certain.

See, Andrew would readily admit that he wasn’t that optimistic of a person - in fact, he was usually downright sour to people and for good reason. He dealt with enough stupidity at work and school, he didn’t need it in his daily life. There was a reason he avoided social contact as best he could. He still did his best to enjoy his days and take them one at a time, of course, but that was very difficult when his day had become a giant shitshow.

It started, as always, when he woke up to nothing but wonderful peace and quiet. That was very bad since it meant his alarm hadn’t gone off. A look to his piece of shit alarm clock had showed he only had an hour to get ready for work. It wasn’t the best, but at least he hadn’t slept through the start of his shift. Which, that was fine. It could have been a still okay day since it meant he got more sleep, but, no.

He quickly found out his depression and anxiety medication were completely empty. Completely as in there was a post-it note reminding him to refill the damn things, but he hadn’t, so screw his past self. The day could have been saved by a good cup of morning coffee and a muffin or two, but his cabinets were dismally empty and the only thing in his refrigerator that wasn’t expired were some eggs and milk. He hated dairy. As for the new bag of coffee he got… He grabbed the wrong one last time he was at the store.

So with a horribly cold shower because the water in his apartment sucked, Andrew had gone out the door and had been five seconds away from a full blown panic attack because of the fucking espresso coffee he bought that existed for the sole reason of people hating themselves. It may not have been as bad if he hadn’t been stopped on the stairwell three times by his neighbors.

Vidya, his sadistic landlord who he was absolutely certain was a witch of some sort due to the fact she always smelled of plants and wore a lot of black and green and had grey hair when she was thirty, had wanted to discuss that month’s rent and was not assured by Andrew telling her - quite often - that his paycheck would be coming in just a few days and could she please stop threatening eviction when she never went through with it? Either commit or don’t, but stop acting like his life wasn’t in her hands, honestly.

He had then been stopped on the second floor by Sam who had spent almost half an hour screaming at him over the ethics of animal testing. Sam was a childhood friend who had ‘coincidentally’ wound up in the same apartment as him and tended to dress on the more vampire side of goth. The black hair fooled no one when the roots were so quick to fade back to blonde. Ugh. She also had this thing about animal testing. Andrew was of the opinion that he didn’t care at all and Sam seemed to think him a monster for not caring about - what even had she been upset about this time? Eyeliner on bunnies? Andrew couldn't care less. Actually, he probably could care less! This was him! Not caring!

Oh and then Tucker. Tucker, another ‘coincidental’ childhood friend and certifiable genius when it came to mechanics and computers and looked like a nerd straight from the 80s or early 90s, had stopped him five feet from the door and spent thirty minutes trying to talk to him about theoretical physics. Andrew was just trying to get his Associate in Arts and then transfer to a nice four-year to study Creative Writing - maybe Journalism if he got curious and or desperate enough. He was not killing himself with a double major in Engineering and Physics or whatever the hell it was Tucker did. Of course, that did nothing to stop the ‘genius’ from talking his ear off. By the time he got outside to his bus stop the bus had been gone for twenty minutes and his shift started in ten. His job was fifteen minutes away by car.

Needless to say, that left Andrew very cranky and running through alleyways and down not so safe streets as he tried to take shortcuts in whatever way he could in order to get to the library he worked at on time. Three minutes of trying to find the right street and proving he had just circled a block and wasted time almost sent him to tears before he heard his phone buzzing with a familiar ringtone.

Taking a breath, and trying not to hysterically laugh at the ‘Werewolves of London’ song he now had playing and couldn’t figure out how to change, Andrew clicked accept call and tried to stay calm. Focused. Peaceful. “Bonjour, grand frère.”

“What did you do and what do I need to fix?” Rude. Randy had called him, thank you very much. “Andy, you only call me that when you want something or you’re about to have a nervous breakdown. Are you about to have a nervous breakdown- Shit, you took your meds this morning, didn’t you?” Dammit.

“I’m not screwed up enough to forget my meds, thanks.” How did his brother always manage to call right when he was feeling at his worst or when he ran out of his pills? He was pretty sure the man had him bugged. It wouldn’t surprise him. He took overprotective to whole new levels. “Why did you call me?”

“Lunch!” Oh. It was one of their lunch days, wasn’t it? “Our lunch breaks should align today, so I figured we could meet up at our usual place around then?” It was ridiculous that Andrew could hear the ‘are you okay’ hidden in those words.

“Lunch sounds fine.” Randy was annoying, but he had this ridiculous way of making Andrew find a reason to not just curl into a ball and never wake up. He also made Andrew feel better about his own wreck of a life considering the messes he got himself into. “You’re paying, Mr. $82,000 a year.”

“Hey, I’m not that good of a vet yet and I’m still paying off student loan debts!” Feeling a small smile on his face, Andrew sighed softly. Randy somehow always made it okay again. He would die before telling that to his face, of course, but still. “I’ll meet you in a few hours. Try not to get lost in your books, Andy.”

“Try not to flirt with the owners of your patients, Randy.” Honestly, his decision to become a veterinarian had come out of left field, but Andrew couldn’t deny he did a good job. “Especially that one you’re so fond of. Now, what was his name… It started with an N?”

“Bye, love you, gotta go!” The call disconnected and Andrew gave in to the urge to laugh. Seeing the time, his laugh quickly fell and, right, he should at least call in to let the library know he was going to be a little bit late. Of course - of course - he got four rings in before his phone died. Because apparently his phone hadn’t charged from the night before even though Andrew had unplugged it this morning.

And as if the gods had somehow heard of his day and decided he needed to suffer even more, the clouds above him rumbled with the menacing beats of thunder and lightning cracked against the sky like a jagged edge of a wound. It took only a second for Andrew to realize he was fucked and two for the rain to begin falling.

Within fifteen minutes he was late, soaked, and felt as if he had offended some minor deity over something or other - or maybe it was Vidya making him suffer for being behind on his rent. Mm. Maybe he had broken a mirror or spilled some salt, actually. That sounded like his kind of luck. Heh. Maybe it was divine punishment. He obviously hadn’t suffered enough for what he had done, right?

By the time he got to the library he was pretty sure his clothes were ruined and he would never be dry again. At least he could get inside and clean up in the bathroom before sitting himself right over a heating vent and sorting books. It was a nice, quiet library and it was raining like it wouldn’t stop for forty days. He was sure the owner wouldn’t mind. In fact, he could even… He… He could stare at the locked doors and dark windows.

Gaze caught on the white notice posted to the main door, Andrew could only stare, utterly speechless. It was Memorial Day. They were closed on Memorial Day. Andrew had just walked for what was probably close to thirty minutes in the rain and… And… At least he wasn’t late. That was great. That was fucking fantastic.

Shoving a hand in his bag to see if he had some magical solution that would fix all of his problems, Andrew stared at the purple umbrella that came out and began mocking him at once. He stared for what felt like an eternity before he clicked the button and ducked into the alleyway. Sitting down on a set of side steps that led to an unstable backdoor, Andrew propped the umbrella up over him and stared at the red brick wall across from him.

It wasn’t even noon, yet, and his day was completely ruined and shot all to hell. The worst part was that this wasn’t even the first time this had happened - maybe the exact circumstances were, but getting screwed over by life? No, no, Andrew was very familiar with getting screwed over.

Glasses fogged up, breath still short from his running, and soaked through to the bone, Andrew could only bury his face into his hands and make a noise that he hoped was closer to a groan than a sob. It was always like this. Life built up to where he couldn’t handle the strain, everything came crashing down around him, and he shattered. Eventually he would put himself back together, but it kept feeling like it was harder and harder to be able to do that.

A clash of thunder and lightning and gust of wind had him trying to bite down another sob/groan. Of all the things he expected to happen next in his life, it wasn’t to hear an answering hiss to his own pathetic noise.

Head jerking up, Andrew stared down at the pathetic scrap of fur that sat in front of him, just as soaked and just as pissed as he felt himself - although the scrap of fur looked to be as broken as Andrew probably looked. Staring for a moment, Andrew huffed and looked at the black cat with a wry smile, “Bonjour, chat noir. Are you the cause of my bad luck today, then?”

At least animals didn’t judge you for speaking French first instead of English, he mused. Sighing, Andrew fixed his glasses, trying to see. He had given up wiping them off after the first few minutes of the rain storm. “Would you like to add to today’s woes, then? I’m sure there’s nothing else you can do to me, at this point, but you’re welcome to try.”

There was a rumbling little growl that sounded utterly pathetic, Andrew huffing out a laugh as he stared at the mangy thing. No doubt the cat was covered with fleas, ticks, and other unsavory bugs. The ribs poking out showed he hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks - maybe months. Poor thing probably wouldn’t make it through the night.

Tilting his umbrella forward, Andrew propped his cheek up on his hand - elbow balanced on his knee - as the fabric kept anymore rainwater from getting on the cat. “There you go. Might as well. Not like I can get much more wet myself.” The rain was freezing as hell, of course, so Andrew was being a complete idiot by doing this for a cat that looked ready to claw his eyes out. Ugh. Why did he have to pity small, tiny things?

The cat grumbled and stared at Andrew hard before leaning forward and giving as quick a headbutt to Andrew’s leg as he could, Andrew amused to see that the cat looked disgruntled at even that much. “You’ve had a very hard life, haven’t you?” The meow sounded like utter, sarcastic agreement. Maybe Andrew was projecting. “I know what that’s like, petit chaton. Would you like to hear about my cursed day?”

So, of course, Andrew spent the next however long telling a cat about how terrible his day had been. The cat seemed to be an attentive audience, at least, nodding along and making little rumbling noises close to a purr as he said something particularly witty. Andrew wasn’t sure if that was meant to be amusement or a reprimand- A cat. He was projecting emotions onto a cat. He had fallen far, hadn’t he?

“I imagine your story is much more interesting, though.” Andrew stared down at the mangy little stray, the cat staring back up at him before jumping up into his lap. Andrew scrambled to keep the thing from falling and not dropping the umbrella, calming his racing pulse down. “A warning would have been nice, you know.”

The cat meowed with what sounded like derision, Andrew huffing and ready to argue before going utterly still and silent as bright blue eyes caught onto him own. “I didn’t know black cats had such bright eyes.” The cat only settled down tiredly, looking utterly exhausted, but those eyes… No. No, it had been years and it was time to get over it. Happy endings like those in his books didn’t exist in this world. The sooner he realized that days like this one were the norm, the better off he would be. After all, you couldn’t get disappointed when you expected the worst, right?

But, still. Andrew couldn’t stop himself from threading his fingers through the small creature’s fur, the threat of tears starting to fade. The fur was rather soft even with the rainwater that drenched them. Actually the storm was starting to lessen into a drizzle.

Leaning back against the unstable backdoor, Andrew sighed and closed his eyes, biting his lip as his fingers tightened on the fur. Black fur with blue eyes. That… “You know, I like to think that black cats are actually lucky.” It wasn’t possible - it wasn’t - but… It wouldn’t hurt him anymore to keep hoping, right?

Just one last time.

[pharaohsparklefists]

Episode 102, part 2: PENGUINNNNS

Anzu wakes up from her dream/flashback/coma in that totally normal and relatable way...

... muttering your crush’s name while a penguin flippers you in the face.

Upon waking, she unquestioningly assumes this penguin is the same penguin who rescued her, which it PROBABLY is but she has no evidence for because I guarantee she can’t tell similar penguins apart. The penguin leads her to a river, where a penguin honour guard welcomes her onto a noble raft flying the noble flag of the noble United Nations of Penguinia.

or something.

Everything starts out great but, as with all pleasure-cruises run by penguins, things quickly become very spooky, the dark mist descends, the penguins that you thought were your friends coldly abandon you, adrift on a merciless river...

... surrounded on all sides by the waiting masses...

... waiting ... watching ... their cold eyes gleaming with your doom.

um

SO, Anzu arrives at a temple ... thing ... on a hill, surrounded by penguins, and decorated by penguins. As in, the decorations are of penguins, not like, the place was decorated by the artistry and labour of penguins. Although maybe that too. Hard to tell.

Also present: AMAZING FACTS about Kaiba Corp. COUNTLESS MUSICAL PERFORMANCES? Specifically on BROADWAY? Does this date from the Goizaburo years? Or is this a Seto Kaiba original? If the latter, are they ALL Duel Monsters themed??? Is/was Pegasus involved How much was Pegasus involved? COUNTLESS?? Just Broadway, or is there also KC money in the West End? Do any of these sponsored musical performances tour Japan at all?? Or is this just Kaiba’s bizarre advertising strategy for the USA market? WHY DO THEY INSERT THESE THROWAWAY BIZARRITIES AND NOT EXPLORE THEM PROPERLY???

Who’s telling us this anyway?

THIS ASSHOLE who I will be referring to as Penguinfucker because he’s a total fucker, and a penguin, and also because I believe he fucks penguins.

Okay so this guy, right? The Big Five were obviously all like, hey let’s each embody our Deck Master since we don’t have bodies and have, like, a Theme for our duel. So Seamonkey Fashionmodel picked idk historical military tactics, and the guy who duels Jou picked the judiciary and shit. And this guy. This asshole. Penguinfucker. Was like: “penguins! ... no, the specificity of choosing a much younger and opposite gendered body to steal to reincarnate myself! ... wait, no, ecological stewardship! ... nah, okay, penguins. ... no wait I changed my mind, BROADWAY! ... no hang on, aggressive sexism! ... no it’s gotta be penguins.” and eventually they just let him fucking All Of The Above this bullshit cause DAMN this asshole has a LOT going on. Especially compared with Seamonkey Fashionmodel, who had one bizarrely specific thing going on.

He opens with Special Topic: Broadway!

(This one ends up butting up against Special Topic: The Specificity Of Choosing A Much Younger And Opposite Gendered Body To Steal To Reincarnate Myself, in a sort of creepy, Weinsteinesque way. #currentaffairs #stayingrelevant)

I do not know how these weirdos have so much apparently true information about these teenagers they’re wrongfully imprisoning, but hey, let’s enjoy some Fun Facts About Anzu and try not to worry about the massive overreach of privacy protections blatantly committed by KaibaCorp and then co-opted by these criminally dangerous half-dead cyber-kidnappers

um

~ Fun Facts About Anzu! ~

Interesting! It doesn’t say what his work is. I wonder if this made Anzu a bit of an outsider everywhere, and good at making friends quickly and not giving a shit what people thought? Because that would certainly explain how she adopted Yugi the way she did.

EVERY kind? Even chess-boxing?

He goes on to say that even though she’s a promising student, her only stated goal is to go to NYC and become a dancer, but...

... so she probably won’t do it. #rude

AND that she’s inherently selfish and only does what benefits her, ahem...

#RUDER

a) she seems like a go-getter to me also she’s only 16 and has been embroiled in the surprisingly dense and time-heavy intrigues of some kind of card-game mafia for the last few months, cut her some slack

b) she’s not selfish and if she is sometimes, she’s only 16! Teenagers are supposed to be selfish, their dumb brains are growing faster than their empathy can keep up (<- not actual science)

c) Yugi is not a foolish young man excuse you asshole just because he occasionally runs full-tilt at a murder-door and has a habit of being shockingly trusting to the point of oblivious gullibility

It’s at this point that we take a SHARP left turn into Special Topic: Ecological Stewardship, which, honestly, I did not at all expect.

That’s a super low number! Does that include like, accidental, like, a receipt flew out of my purse? Cause like, less than once a year is not bad at all! 

Um, nothing at all? Literally, not one single person could care less? ...  Wait ... is 12 litterings a really high number by Japanese standards? Is Anzu like a total fucking slob? Is dropping less than one stray tissue or bottlecap per year in Japan equivalent to, idk, stealing a whole shopping trolley*, filling it with the debris from an entire party and dumping it into a protected river while on fire, weekly, in Ireland? Cause, like, there’s a lot of shopping trolleys in our rivers and while it’s not great, and we do a lot of anti-littering and clean-up-our-rivers campaigns, afaiaa no one has been cast out in shame for a hundred years of penance for it either...

*(This is a shopping trolley. It’s not a type of tram. I’ve played Americanese-to-HibernoEnglish before! In Ireland they have a coin slot to pay a deposit to unchain them so you don’t steal it and throw it in a river. For some reason it’s a huge problem. That’s a satirical “news” site btw, don’t take it literally. I’ve played Link-Americans-To-WaterfordWhispers before!)

Anyway back to Penguinfucker.

... ARE THEY THOUGH?

So then in a total, rather elegant, smushing together of the themes of environmental protectiveness, penguin-obsession, and taking-over-a-much-younger-and-female-body, Penguinfucker comes out with

which is just missing some weirdly sexist jab about musical theatre to really sum up the whole exchange at once.

And Anzu’s like...

nope nope nope!

help me reach my next patreon goal!

help me reach my next payday!

[scholarquestresourcemanagement]

< The previous page (page 3)

The disadvantage of not packing for myself is that I have no idea what she packed for me to read… I guess not really a disadvantage, it’s kind of a surprise. Sorta fun… lets see.

Put my paw into the bag, pull out a random book or scroll… aaaaand….

...Author name looks Canid… ugh, okay maybe it is a disadvantage.

Try again, hmm.

“Those who brought us here.”

The book isn’t a thick one, bound in a reddish brown leather. Smells… old, comforting. It lacks an author's name, just a title and an image of a talon. Engraved with heat, into the leather front.

It’s fairly pleasant.

It smells good, the talon on the cover feels pleasant to run my paws over. It’s not too long, and possibly written by an Avian… which, considering that I’m traveling with one, it could be useful to have some insight into their thoughts.

The subject… “those who brought us here”... information on them is often rather… unreliable. Mostly based on myth, especially on the earlier days of this world…

There’s a rock digging into my butt, that will not do.

Not the ideal reading location, I guess the fresh air is somewhat pleasant… but I’d much rather be at home… urgh.

Anyway, with that out the way…

“Those who brought us here. A telling of the first age, a story of how things became to be.”

Well that’s the first page… literally all that’s on it. The writing’s fairly big, but still most of the page is blank.

“There is nothing. With a splash, there is something.

A great canine, taller than any mountain. As vast as any sea. Sets down into the nothing. It’s body turning nothing into something.”

...Oh great, I’ve heard this before. Personally I have many doubts that the world is a giant dog.

“That nothing, becoming something. Becomes an ocean of nothing, of which the canine can swim though. Which they do, it’s head staying above the nothing. Looking out into nothing, in the total darkness of nothing.

It moves with purpose, guided. For it is not alone, on top its head a council of those who brought it here.

A crowd of beasts, both big and small gather between its ears.

For they who brought it here, have a purpose for doing so. Though that purpose known only to them.

They meet to discuss their mission, and one thing is certain between those who brought it here.

It is dark.

They look out, across the great snout. Darkness meets their gaze, as they look out across the void.

The can barely see themselves, or each other. Which will not do.

Groups of those who brought it here, set out. In search of light, their bodies fading off into the void.

With no light, without a sun there is no method of counting time’s passage. Those who stay behind, do so for an unknown number of days, or months, or years.

The search yielding no result.

Then like it was always there, those who brought it here brought something else. Bright, warm sunlight broke out across the canine’s back, blinding those who stayed behind.

A mountain spike, higher then -”

Thud

He’s sat down beside me, feathers brushing up against my face… ugh, why.

“What’cha reading there?”

I push his feathers out of my face, he apologises while rearranging himself. I swear one went in my mouth.

There’s a talon in my face... He apologises again, apparently he had knocked my glasses off. His talon presses them back onto my snout.

“Sooo then, what is it ya reading?”

He repeats his question. Even with his feathers removed from my face, he is too close.

“...Nothing, since you interrupted.”

“Aww, c'mon don’t be like that.”

“...A children's story book.”

“...A children’s book? Aren’t you meant to be some kinda scholar type?”

“Your point?”

“Shouldn’t ya be reading something a bit more advanced.”

“Shouldn’t you be setting up somewhere for yourself to sleep?”

“I’m done.”

I look over, my servants finishing setting up my tent. Though that appears to be the only one.

“I don’t see your tent.”

“Don’t need one! Weathers calm, perfect night to sleep under the stars.”

“...Do you even know what a star is?”

“I’ve seen pictures!”

He seems very proud of that fact…

I’d never thought I’d admit it, but I actually kind of miss stars. The night sky is awfully boring without them.

It’s kind of a shame, if it’s the only sky you’ve ever known.

“You still haven’t told me what it’s about.”

“...It’s a story about the first age.”

“How boring.”

“I’d rather be reading it right now, than having this conversation.”

“Rude.”

“So is interrupting.”

“You’ve hurt my feelings.”

He’s smirking like an idiot. This is all awfully amusing to him… urgh, I think I would have rather had a Canid then him honestly.

My servant’s practically done with the tent, and somehow I don’t think I’m going to be finishing this tonight…

“I’m going to bed.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Its waaaaay too early, come on.” He scoots himself away from me, sitting in front rather than beside. “Don’t be like that, I’ll leave you alone to read.”

He’s kind of ruined my reading flow… but it is too bright out to sleep… urgh.

“I have my own things to do after all, blades to sharpen. Armour to oil, it’s a lot of work you know. This line of work.”

For someone who’s apparently leaving me alone to read, he’s continuing to do a lot of talking. It’s probably an avian thing. Birds make a ton of noise, it makes sense that their more anthropomorphic counterparts are talkative…

“A lot less interesting than you’d think too! People think it’s all adventure and violence but really it’s a whole bunch of walking about! Like this job, I’m just following you around. It’s not exciting at all, easy money sure… but really not interesting.”

He’s just, yapping now… urgh.

“Even with such an easy job, there’s a lot that has to go into it. I still have to maintain all my gear, still have to carry it all. It’s not light you know.”

For an Avian, he’s awfully beardy… I didn’t know they could even have beards. I guess it’s less of a beard though? As its kinda coming from around his eyes.

“I am going to ache for days after this trip you know, I guess at least it keeps me in shape. Never going to get fat, lugging all this shit around.”

He’s really just going to keep talking...

And I’m apparently just going to sit here and listen to it.

“I have no idea how you manage it, as a scholar you’re probably nowhere near as active as I am. Yet you’ve kept yourself in shape, do you work out?”

“No.”

“How aren’t you fat, sitting around all day reading?”

“...I just don’t eat that much...”

I prefered it when I didn’t have to be involved in this conversation… urgh.

“Not much of a food person then, I guess that works.”

I think I’m going back to my original plan. It is at least getting a little on the dark side.

“I’m going to bed.”

“No, no I’m sorry. I’ve been talking your ears off haven’t I. I’ll be quiet! No more talking from now on I promise.”

“Why are you so insistent on me staying around.”

“Who wouldn’t want to be around such a pretty thing such as yourself?”

Urgh, back to that… great.

I guess I do want to finish the story…

Where was I…

“A mountain spike, higher than the tallest of towers. Reaching higher than the birds can fly

A grand temple, perched atop.

Its greatest heights obscured by a blinding orb of light.”

...He’s started whistling… really.

I glare at him, and he stops. A dumb smirk clear on his beak. I’m pretty sure he’s trying to annoy me now.

I close the book, and remove my glasses. Putting them away in my pack.

“Ookay okay, I promise I’ll stop. Quite from now on.”

“I’m going to sleep.”

“Don’t be such a grouch, I’m only messing with ya.”

“You’re being a nuisance.”

“I’ll stop, I’ll stop.”

“I’m going to bed.”

“You’re no fun.”

Enjoying the story? considering supporting the artist/writer on

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[kahnah23]

October Prompt II

The next prompt fill for my lovely Patreons!

Fake AH Micheoff

1. "It scares me what I'm willing to do for you."

7. "I'll serve you forever if you'll allow me to do it."

10. “My life is in your hands."

12."I'd die if you asked me to."

“I’d die if you asked me to,” Michael said one day shortly after he got hired by the Fake AH Crew. It’s meant to be sarcastic, but he knows deep inside how true it is. It’s not loyalty, not yet. He is a loyal person if he wants to be, but it’s simply too early for that.

It’s this kind of job. He could get killed on the next mission, or he could get stabbed from behind if this new team didn’t like him. He’d seen it happen for less reason.

So yeah, there’s a grain of truth in his sarcastic comment, but he’s not really scared. A job with the Fake AH Crew means money, and money means not being hungry. It’s been a couple of years since he’d really been in need of food, since starving was a fear gnawing in the back of his mind, but some types of hunger simply didn’t pass that easily.

“What point would that be?” Ramsey asked. He sits behind his mahogany desk in a suit that probably costs more than Michael earns in a year, playing absentmindedly with his phone.

If Michael thought his little confession would impress him he’d been wrong because Ramsey rather seemed bored.

“If you just died in the next mission I would have to search for someone else,” Ramsey continues and looked up. His eyes were tired, but Michael figured they always were. Didn’t mean this man wasn’t attentive if he needed to be.

“If I choose someone for my crew I usually like them alive. I had the impression this Mogar guy I was hearing about wouldn’t be killed that easily.”

Michael stares at him for a moment, and he doesn’t know what exactly is showing on his face, but it at least made Ramsey chuckle to himself.

“Just be there when I call you in,” Ramsey told him before turning back to his phone.

--

They said that the Fake AH Crew was different. That beneath the hired guns and the drug dealers was a tight knit group of hand chosen members.

The first one of those Michael met was Jeremy, and he seemed like a pretty cool guy. They drove out to a deal just to stand in the back and look dangerous and the whole time Jeremy was running his mouth. He was telling him about some of the things that apparently went on in their penthouse and Michael was pretty damn sure that it was bullshit.

Why would anyone with so much money and influence get a small bouncy castle? And why would you stick it to the ceiling?

He wasn’t buying it, but he sure as hell kept his mouth shut about it. Jeremy was fun and all, but he was one of the closest to Ramsey, and Michael was pretty sure that one wrong word from him and Michael would be quickly forgotten, and somewhere along the line he started to want this job. Not only because of the money, but because of the challenge, the fun of it.

Sure, he wasn’t one of the big guys who ran in Ramsey’s heist, but he saw the heists, saw how ridiculous they were, and he wanted in on it. He was yearning for the rush of adrenaline, the danger, and the breathless laughter that followed afterwards.

So he would do his job right and get in.

Ramsey had an interest on him, he knew that much. Otherwise he wouldn’t stand here with one of his closest, otherwise he wouldn’t have even seen Ramsey himself, and he could feel the man’s eye on him.

Whenever he was around the base, and even now, in this shitty warehouse, he surely was supervising through some cameras.

Cold blue eyes that made a shiver work down Michael’s spine as they followed his every move.

Knowing all that he shouldn’t have been surprised to be called into the base after Jeremy dropped him off, but it still made his heartbeat pick up. For the second time he was called into Ramsey’s office and could barely grasp what an honor that was.

This was the heart of the crew that run Los Santos and the man in front of him had ways to kill him without even moving a finger, but here he was now, standing in front of him without knowing why he was allowed to.

“I’m going out on a mission tomorrow,” Ramsey told him without any other greeting whatsoever. “I want you as my bodyguard.”

And that was just stupid. Ramsey had the Vagabond and Jeremy, a dozen other people who could play that role and had worked for him way longer than Michael did. It wasn’t even something that Michael had done before. He knew his way around a fight and explosions and fast cars, but this was something so utterly different that he couldn’t help but stammer a confused, “Why me?”

Ramsey just shrugged, like this was fun or a game.

“My life is in your hands,” he just said, and then winked. “Maybe I’ll get off of that.”

Geoff didn’t get shot that day, but Michael did. It had been an ambush, and as he sat behind cover with a bullet somewhere lodged in his thigh he wondered if Ramsey had known about that. Probably not.

Going to a deal expecting an ambush with just him as a backup was too reckless even for him.

At least Pattillo was on her way, Ramsey had assured him, and Michael told himself to take deep breaths. In his sweaty hand he still held his gun, but every time he aimed it was all over the place. His leg was burning like fire and he couldn’t help but stare at Ramsey’s hand.

The kingpin had a hand high up on his thigh and pressed down to keep Michael from bleeding out while he shot. His aim was off as well, but Michael didn’t know why. Maybe because the other was just an awful shot in general, but he would hold his tongue to make a remark about that. It was enough to keep the other guys pinned down at least, and that was all they needed right now.

Ramsey’s hand shifted slightly and Michael grunted in pain. A fresh wave of blood gushed over the hand and wrist, coloring out the spaces between the tattoos.

“Sorry,” Ramsey mumbled absentmindedly. “Just wanna make sure you’re still with me.”

“You could have asked,” Michael snapped back only to hear the other huff. “I would appreciate it if I kept as much blood in me as possible!”

Ramsey barked out a laugh at that and sat down beside him, hunkering down behind the boxes.

“I’m all out,” he tells him with a cheer in his voice that didn’t belong there, not while they were getting shot at. Putting his gun down, he turned to Michael and grinned.

And even when Pattillo burst into the room, bringing fire and explosions with her and shots coming from above, Michael couldn't take his eyes off of that smirk.

He was pretty sure it was that moment he fell in love.

Michael wasn’t sure how they fell into bed afterwards. He took three more missions, one in which they didn’t even work together, and it just kinda happened. Fine, on the last mission he was full of adrenaline and maybe a bit tipsy and Ramsey - Geoff - smiled at him just like before.

It was easy to follow the open invitation afterwards and it wasn’t like he regretted it. No, when he was groaning and writhing on the sheets regret never came to his mind. Maybe later but he never quite dared to dwell on it.

He should feel flattered after all.

He still didn’t know what the kingpin wanted to do with someone like him, a random boy half raised on the street who barely knew a thing or two.

It was just for fun surely, something new and exciting and Michael knew that. He wasn’t stupid, he knew that Geoff could have everyone he wanted, could snap with a finger and have them brought to him and Michael wasn't quite sure if that wasn't exactly the case.

Geoff was awfully close to Pattillo and Michael hated the ugly little part of him who wanted to despise Jack for it. It was hard, because beneath all the fire and the violence Jack was kind, and Michael at first was vary about this but couldn’t be anymore. It was something too rare in this world not to treasure it.

Still, he watched whenever those two would leave together, Jack’s hand in Geoff’s back pocket and jealousy burning in Michael’s stomach.

It was a dangerous headspace he was in and he knew it. When he woke up in Geoff’s bed and wished the other was still beside him, when he couldn't take his eyes from Geoff during a meeting or out in the field even though his attention should be somewhere else.

Because of the sheer amount of thinking he did, daydreaming as well.

It was just for fun, just a fling.

He tried to tell himself that when he woke up one morning, the rest of the bed beside him empty but still warm when he let his hand travel over the sheets. With a sigh he sat up and ran a hand through his hair. It stood in every which way like every morning and he was pondering over taking a shower when he heard noises coming from the kitchen.

Slipping from the bed he patted into the hallway and heard Geoff talking quietly to himself. It smelled like eggs and bacon, and Michael stopped at the threshold to watch Geoff work on breakfast.

That was nice, he usually didn’t do that, and Michael wondered if that meant something. Probably not, Geoff was just hungry, and how rude would it be not to offer Michael some food as well? Yeah, that was most likely it, and he felt stupid for getting his hope up.

Biting on his lip, he grunted in pain. His lower lip was still bloody from the mission yesterday and he reached up to carefully prod at it.

“You look like shit,” Geoff greeted him good naturally from the stove and pointed to Michael’s side.

His ribs were a blue and red mess but not broken. They had checked on that yesterday and now Michael put a hand on it to make sure. The skin was hot, and there was a faint pain whenever he breathed, but nothing he couldn’t take.

And Geoff had been alright. Michael had made sure of that.

“Not everyone can’t get out of trouble as easily as you,” Michael just said and moved closer to inspect the breakfast.

“I didn’t really get out of trouble. I should’ve been hit by that baseball bat,” Geoff reminded him. “You were the one who jumped in front of me.”

Michael just shrugged and instantly hissed at the careless motion. He rubbed at his side again.

"Told you I’d die for you,” he said lightheartedly, and back then he hadn’t meant it. Not like this. But the longer he stayed, the longer he had Geoff by his side- “I'll serve you forever if you'll allow me to do it."

Something about that made the mood shift, he could tell, and yeah, maybe he was melodramatic, maybe he was going too far, but he couldn't help it.

Geoff was staring at him, he could tell, but he couldn’t look up, his eyes locked on the bacon sizzling in the pan. He didn’t really see that, didn’t smell that, because his own words felt heavy in his chest and squeezed his heart, and he had to swallow.

“Sometimes it scares me,” he admitted slowly, and wanted to bite his own tongue because that wasn’t something you could just say, something he was willing to admit. But Geoff hadn’t disappeared in the morning and Geoff cared for him, and it was true what the people said because Ramsey was different. "It scares me what I'm willing to do for you."

Geoff was still staring at him and the silence was deafening, was heavy and awkward until he finally sighed.

“Me too, Michael.” He leaned down to press a kiss on top of Michael’s hair. “It scares me as well.”

[floralkittygambler]

Shit to add: 1 - Fanservice is getting as far as some of the artists lowkey getting shipped with characters [fine as an inside joke but Ive seen it highly public too, mainly with probablyfakeblonde and Valentino - its a little awkward after a bit]. Likewise, glorifying abuse and sexual harassment, Stolitz, HuskerDust implications [even though Husk’s being harassed and is clearly uncomfortable... Just like Blitzo and Stolas, which can be even more offensive to those who worship the deity/demon of Stolas irl]. Notice how Charlie/Vaggie’s account [aka the mains] are mostly inactive. Most of the female cast’s stuff is rarely touched on. Only cringy fanservicey ship shit is. 2 - I used to pay for one of the highest patreon tiers. She’s meeting even LESS of her initially promised demands to the point the patreon is rarely updated. When it is, we get half promises [even voting on monthly arts as secret gifts to those paying, we get to vote occasionally and see results even less. The most recent was October I think? Between Mil x Mox and Chaggie, Chaggie won btw and we still havent seen it], there’s no more behind the scenes, in fact the streams show more behind the scenes as youd never be notified there - not even about surprise streams or new merch, nothing. I pay less now but still enough for the Discord and they had to ban one fella who I could see the MOMENT I JOINED was a bit too obsessive [Im keeping his privacy, so please dont ask me to do that to him.] yet he was given many chances. We’re given quite a few rules on being courteous yet many are kinda rude imo- the people, I mean. I expressed some of my issues with HuskerDust as well as briefly that Ive been through unpleasant harassment like that, yet one member specifically who adores that ship fuckin ripped into me and constantly started talking about it in the chat despite me politely asking her to take it elsewhere [as this is for questions, canon shit, voice calls with viv and fans], yeah she didnt respect that at all and I got a member DM me apologising for her behaviour but that she’s normally argumentative and to ignore her. I appreciate their kindness but they dodged the question as to why she’s still allowed to be that way in a PAID DISCORD. It’s like paying to be kicked in the dick. Also some of her friends were cheering for her. Thanks for allowing bullying. Canon info changes like the sea and contradicts, Viv needed help with... Ok she didnt want it public BUUUT Ive seen many public posts about it now as people found out anyways. Her dA was hacked and she wanted the old account deleted [none of her old shit was on there anyways]. So I filed the issue to dA on multiple platforms for her and a contact file [only the direct contact did I give her identity fyi]. Yeah many in the group treated me like shit for it - either I was simping hard for viv [fyi when youre a public figure, it’s more imperative you file yourself otherwise public complaints mean fuck all so I had to claim we were good friends bc that’s how these things work. Ive done this legal shit for others before on deeper levels], or that I didnt use her full name on the file [I prefer that when it gets to EMAILS as some complaint files go to public forums - since Fiverr nearly got me fuckin doxxed that way, the bastards], or for other stupid reasons. I told them to stop working at theyre looking at a day or two at MOST for it to be removed, whilst encouraging Viv to submit her own file. Apparently I wasnt empathetic over the situation and didnt care enough. No, Im a fucking adult who’s dealt with technical shit and files so much that I know how they work, how long they typically take and that worrying about something outside my control causes harm to me and no good in solving shit - even the guy who eventually got banned ripped into me. Most there are ‘stans’ and quite... Aggressive too- I know this could be seen as breaching my side BUT Viv’s already breached her own patreon rules by under supplying based on her Tiers rewards, spoiling things publicly only for us patreons to find out later, getting info that we cant even rely on usually, and just... If she cant meet those demands as shes busy [understandable], she needs to either lower prices, change rewards, schedule better and lessen her load overall OR put her Patreon on Holiday [this means she wont get paid but fans then arent paying for nothing - fyi Im paying $50 for a chatroom that can be quite toxic or entitled and the info we do learn is... questionable at times]. Likewise, she’s missed some of her patreon calls or came but just for a short chat and go. It’s honestly a shameful mess... 3 - Remember that stolen pin art? She confessed in the group she was dealing with it with the artists privately and that she wouldnt publicly address it as it would hopefully die down. Yknow, the ONE bit of information that SHOULD BE PUBLIC. She seems to mix up what should be exclusives and what NEEDS to be publicly addressed. It’s a mess and really unprofessional. Plus many of her VAs, Artists, team, etc post a lot of non-canon ships they favour [which are quite ooc from canon despite it be something theyre working on], have a lot of oc inserts [interestingly Faust admits her and Viv shipped Tyco with Angel but due to copyright works they couldnt be arsed to go through that to give Viv the rights to Tyco and make it canon? What? Even though one of the art pieces in the background feature tyco’s hand holding the glass angel’s in- I know that cameos dont mean you own that character but with the oc thing it’s... messy. Fine lines], probablyfakeblond and val [thats all I need to say there, it’s like the IGs are fanon rp accounts, but Ive seen many fan ones run better and more canonically accurate], speak a lot of their thoughts/hcs which is a breach of confidenciality plus odd considering many of these dont work close enough in the departments to even have these says then fans take it canon, jokes end up canon that shouldnt be, facts being muddled, if anyone working happens to like something as personal preference its treated as gospel, I could go on but overall it’s such a fucking mess and a shame- It makes me angry because it has a LOT of potential. You can see preferences and bias, how easy fans can influence the series [MINUS petitions] and how fan works become canon [Addict was a fan song, Viv in discord confirms that it was a fan running Cherri’s IG and was found out late - not publicly addressed when it should have been and played off publicly as Cherri having troubles based on Angels selfie with her - kinda fucked up and kinda insensitive way to portray personal struggles], have a habit of deleting IG posts and act like they never existed [odd move tbh- yet keep up naked stolas- likewise some of the posts dont suit the characters personalities], overall everything is a clusterfuck that’ll only tangle more the way YanDevs YanSim is and itll get worse and worse until real action takes place. The IGs could be an AR oppurtunity to learn about the characters, their friends, their life and interests. Nah, just make it fanservicey and ship fuckery. A character doesnt show interest? Awww they’re playing hard to- *No*.  Hazbin will either not come to be OR will emerge as highly flawed and mediocre [the way YanSim’s goin] if this keeps up. But with the odd sprinkle of attempted self improvement, only to be immediately dismissed the next day on the character IGs for fan service [Stolas in Ep 2: I’ll never leave my daughter, improve for her and show that I wont run off with Blitz and leave her! Stolas next day IG: Ill call you daddy Blitzy~ xxxx <--- Seriously how blind can you be? How weak do your character development skills have to be to put a fuckin reverse uno that quick? Why should we pity and side with this disgusting cheater when he and his wife are both fucking up their daughter?]

Wait a FUCKING minute didn’t Hazbin’s pilot release in October? (I believe the 31st or something?) Ok, so where the fuck are the updates on ANYTHING? Those comics? Anything at all? It’s been nearly a year, and it’s just been radio silence aside from a few small updates here and there? Go on girl, give us nothing! ❤️