#bile storage

[arthur-lesters-gallbladder]

(stores bile)

I think you guys need to stop with the Arthur Lester body parts because I just got a notification that Arthur Lester’s ball liked my post.

[bloodybigwardrobe]

Susan did not see Peter in battle for years—arriving to his stand against Jadis almost too late, catching up while he picked himself up from the torn earth, on the other side of the conflict when the remnants of Jadis’ army tried their luck at the Cair. Sure, she knew he fought and killed, just as she did, just as Edmund and Lucy did—and oh, how Susan loathes that last part, but Lucy had been the one to find the first assassin in their halls and there was nothing to be done about it now. There was entirely too much death in their first year, Susan thinks, the fairytale shine of Narnia soon breaking apart and leaving a country and people in desperate need of rest and time behind. It took her days to get the blood out underneath her and Lucy’s fingernails, and she knew Peter had just as bad a time with Edmund next door. With a lump in her throat, Susan wondered often if this was to be the rest of their lives: washing themselves clean of battles that were forced upon them by a world far too big for their hands to hold. But even then, with the bloodied waters between them all, she never truly saw Peter in battle. A slain Maugrim who had about as much a part in his own death as Peter’s shaking sword did, a witch that Susan never saw die, assassins that ended up on the moth-eaten carpets she had found in old storage rooms; things that should give her pause but she simply couldn’t consider for long with all there was to do. They had killed to end up where they were, and Susan knew deep down that they would have to kill to stay, too. Now, standing with her bow held tight and a quiver empty of arrows, a sword at her side she has yet to finish learning how to swing, Susan finds herself in a pocket of tar-slow time. Here, she stands with a muddied hemline and their castle once more under siege—unknown foes, but foes all the same—and there, across the way, with his hair longer than Susan has ever known him to have, Peter lets out a roaring laugh. Rhindon is far out of sight, a glaive taking its place in Peter’s steady hands. Even from afar, Susan feels it in her bones when Peter’s swing launches an enemy’s torn body across the field. There are bodies, horror-frozen faces, the stench of blood and bile. The steps to the Cair will perhaps forever bear the stain of this assault. They have lost people they held dear. Susan has wept enough to fill an ocean. And Peter laughs. With storm-eyes, bloodied tongue, and bared teeth, her older brother wages joyous war.

[izvmimi]

cw: platonic!zoro x reader. established romantic relationship with luffy. selfship-coded, reader has a devil fruit.

It’s not often that you and Zoro end up alone together, but today it really is just the two of you, him carrying the majority of the provisions you’d gone into town to collect for the next leg of your trip, and the remainder in the safekeeping of your internal storage. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to just stow away the rest?” you ask for the third time and by this time, Zoro decides to pretend he can’t hear you. In any other scenario, you’d make a comment about him needing to get over that silly fear of being emasculated, but for now you allow it, shoving your free hands in your pockets as you continue on on your stroll.

Even if when you’re around the rest of the crew there’s a huge and frequent show of you generally disliking each other, it’s hard to bicker when it’s just the two of you, because the truth is that you appreciate him tremendously. Zoro doesn’t always talk much, but he’s honest, and that is particularly important to you, making it easy to pour out your heart to him.

Perhaps that’s why today, you feel compelled to tell him exactly how you’ve been feeling these days since your return from the last island. Luffy has been asleep for days, recovering from injury that would probably have killed you on the spot, and while he apologized upon waking up two days ago to see you saddled with huge undereye circles and an open book with tear-staged pages at the foot of his bed, the fact of the matter is that you’re not sure how much longer you can handle this.

The crew is familiar with his wanton disregard for his own life, and perhaps you should know better by now, but it’s just too hard sometimes, and you can feel your heart starting to fill with resentment, and even that adds to your guilt.

Luffy is free, and freedom means choosing to live your life however dangerously you want.

“You know I hate complaining about him, and I know you’ll just tell me that I shouldn’t expect otherwise from Luffy, but just once, I wish he would take better care of himself.”

The thought slips out in a small voice, and Zoro lets it marinate in the quiet afternoon air. Discomfort rises like bile in your throat.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” you immediately backtrack, but Zoro looks at you and shrugs.

“I get it. It’s fine.”

You bite your lower lip, keeping the gaze at the ground before you. Zoro should know that you’re only frustrated, that you love Luffy more than anything, and don’t mean to speak ill of him, right? It’s just eating at you, the idea that only one of you is preoccupied with the idea of separating for good.

Luffy would be fine without you even in death. You, on the other hand…

You take in a deep breath.

“I trust him,” you say out loud, to which Zoro chuckles to himself for a moment, which makes your cheeks warm in embarrassment.

“What’s so funny?!”

“That you’re this worried about him.” Zoro shoots you a glance, and mercilessly adds - 

“Realistically, you’d probably croak before he does.”

“Wow!” you exclaim in dramatized offense. 

Zoro shrugs. “I mean, I guess he probably cares enough about you that he wouldn’t allow that to happen, but still, I don’t think much can put that guy down for good.”

You pout, but something about that is reassuring, and that heaviness in your chest seems to alleviate just so.

“I guess that’s a relief.”

Zoro snorts again, which has you frowning at him again.

“Is it really this funny?” you ask, indignantly, but when he finally speaks again, his tone is serious.

“I think you’re misunderstanding him a bit,” he finally adds. Stopping for a moment, he gives you his full attention, and suddenly your heart starts to thump at the change in mood. He sizes you up for a moment, as if he’s trying to decide if what he has to tell you is worth it in any way, then lets out a sigh.

“He told me if something ever happened to him, there are a few things he wants to make sure happen for you, so that you’re okay.”

Your eyes widen for a moment, incredulous.

“What?”

Zoro resumes his stride.

“Can’t tell you what they are, though.”

You find yourself running to catch up to him, your heart pounding in your chest. The idea that Luffy has thought ahead, considering you even in the process, is almost too good to be true. 

“So what was the point of even telling me?!” you hiss.

“So you don’t make up some narrative about not being cared for in your head, dumbass.” Zoro says. You stick your tongue out at him which has him scoff and look away, but you’re thankful.

The ship starts to reappear along the horizon and your outlook has changed a bit.

…

By the time you make it back on the ship again, Luffy has woken up from his restorative slumber and is already asking you if you brought any meat amongst your groceries, an arm looping around your shoulders and your waist. But instead of pushing him off of you for grabbing you too quickly, you look at him for a moment, and the sudden affection in your eyes is enough that it actually catches him by surprise.

“Hey, ___, what’s up?” he asks as you really take him in, but you just smile and plant a kiss on his cheek.

“Nothing. I’m just glad you’re back.”

He grins widely. 

“Can’t get rid of me if you tried.”

[benoitblanc]

okay other various ftf thoughts:

scully and mulder getting dragged in front of opr and reassigned because they *checks notes* saved hundreds of lives by getting the building evacuated even though they broke protocol is absolutely fucking infuriating but unfortunately believable

"kill mulder and you risk turning one man's quest into a crusade" is an insane line to drop in a film where literally every single one of mulder's friends shows up to help (or at least those who are able to... marita girl are you okay...), multiple people betray the syndicate for him, and scully is the one who gathers 99% of the tenuous evidence they have to prove what just happened. they already turned it into a crusade! they just don't realize it!

oh scully. she spends the entire film complaining about running around with mulder illegally in the dead of night and then continues to do it anyway because she loves him and she loves their work. she spends half an hour hiding in morgue cold storage that is NOT behavior of a woman who really means what she's bitching about

i audibly cheered when the gunmen turned up. i love them

rest in peace to the well-manicured man. you showed up you served cunt you grew morals and you pulled a javert about it

mulder's rescue of scully is definitely the most action hero and damsel in distress they've gotten but i by and large don't have an issue with it for two reasons. one is that dd's performance and to some extent bowman's direction make it VERY clear that mulder doesn't give a shit about being an action hero. his entire motivation is just that he loves her and she's in trouble. the second is that it's fucking gross. scully ends up vomiting bile on him multiple times. even though it's literally hollywood, it very much doesn't feel that way

also on that note i know people are always like "oh how did mulder get to antarctica with a cranial gunshot wound???" i think about 50% of that is plot hole and the other 50% is the kind of adrenaline rush that mothers who are able to lift cars off their children experience. the sun that his world revolves around is in danger of COURSE he's going to get to her no matter what

that being said literally how the FUCK did they get to and from ANTARCTICA

can't get over the fact that they put scully in makeup for the scene when mulder wakes her up at 3am. this is chronologically later in this post because it's such a stark contrast to the last hearing when they put her in no makeup and she understandably looks like a (still very beautiful) zombie

they ended the film walking off into the sunset together holding hands and i just KNOW they are never going to bring it up again. oh x files never change

[sad-not-glad]

could you do a soft Dom Steve x sub bucky x soft Dom sick reader?

where bucky wakes up all subby and wants his mama. he goes to look for her and cannot find her, he starts to cry but then Steve comes around the corner and tells bucky that mama has the flu and is lying in bed to sleep. Bucky than ask Steve if he can help mama feel better. Steve says yes, they spend the day helping the reader get better.

Hey love!! I’m so sorry it took me a while to get back with you, but it��s finally here! I wrote reader’s illness so it could either be just a bad flu, or a chronic illness since I deal with those and flare ups can be terrible aha. The ending is a little rushed and not my favorite but… I’m too lazy to fix it. Hope you enjoy!!

Soft Dom Steve x Reader x Sub/Little Bucky

Warnings: Bucky is scared of being abandoned, but that doesn’t actually happen. Illness. Other than that, just a whole lot of fluff.

(Part of the Sharing is Caring AU)

Blinking awake, Bucky was met with the comforting space of the shared bedroom. Steve’s sketches were littered on the walls, a couple of your nicknacks spread around. Even his own collection of books, stacked neatly on the shelf in the corner.

He could feel it, already brewing inside. The need to be coddled and cared for. The need to be nothing more than a good boy who pleased his Mama and his Captain. But they weren’t here. The bed was empty, only slightly warm. A whine huffed up from his chest as he rolled over on his back- where were you both? You were supposed to be here, covering your baby boy in kisses and compliments.

Bucky shuffled onto his feet, taking his time collecting comfortable clothes before putting them on. One of Steve’s sweaters you had stolen and been wearing for a week, it smelled like both of you. His softest sweats, the fluffy socks with silly cartoon cats on them. You and he had almost convinced Steve that a cat would be a great addition to the little family you had made together.

All cozied up and surrounded by the scent of his lovers, he stepped out of the bedroom at last. The little apartment area was quiet, which was unusual. If you and Steve were awake first, it usually meant the team had come for breakfast. Meaning lots of noise. So the silence piqued his curiosity, urging him further down the hall. He checked the bathroom, empty. So was the office, and even the little storage closet that you loved so much. (Mostly because it’s where you hide all the good snacks)

You both must be in the kitchen, he thought to himself. He needed his Mama, he needed his Captain, he needed to be a good boy and receive praises from you both. That he was kind and sweet, how proud you were and how much you loved him. Bucky was already thinking of breakfast, he would probably find his Mama and Captain cooking something. Maybe he could help! He was good at mixing things, and stealing the yummy bits when nobody was watching him. He was a renowned fruit thief.

Much to his disappointment though, Bucky found the rest of the house empty. The living room, dining room, kitchen, he walked through them all four times. And the only trace of life he found was a discarded soup can next to the sink. The silence was deafening, but somehow the heartbeat in his ears was louder. It felt like the ground had been pulled from beneath him, falling down a spiral of anxiety.

Were you hurt?

Maybe there was a mission nobody told him about?

Had you two gone out for breakfast without telling him?

Did you leave him?

Was he… alone?

It was as if the walls were caving in, stomach cramping with terror and bile rising in his throat. Bucky hadn’t even realized he was crying until then, but once he did it was like the tears wouldn’t stop. He was gasping for air, vision blurry as he wiped desperately at his eyes. Maybe this was his fault somehow. He was needy and damaged, never a good combination in his own opinion. Wasn’t he doing better though? Clearly not if his Mama and Captain both had left him-

“Bucky?”

He spun around wildly, already reaching out for the voice of his Captain. Bucky was swept up against a firm chest and the cries let loose. Steve was gentle and patient, petting his hair and shushing his tears until the poor man was able to form coherent words again. “Thought…I thought you were gone.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Steve sighs, pulling back so he could clean the brunette’s face with gentle hands and a soothing voice.

“We would never leave you, and you know that. (Y/N)- Mama is sick, baby. She’s not feeling good today, we were in the guest bedroom so we didn’t disturb you baby boy. M’ so sorry, I should have let you know.”

The guest bedroom, that made sense. He hadn’t even thought to look in there, it was never used for anything. None of you had family to visit, and all your friends also lived within a reasonable distance for daily visits. Bucky looked up at his Captain, eyes still wet with tears, face red and puffy from crying already.

“Mama’s sick? Can I help her be better?” He felt so small, he really just wanted to be useful somehow. Especially if his sweet Mommy wasn’t feeling good. You didn’t get sick often, but when you did it was never pleasant. Bucky had seen it on occasion, the underlying illness in your body flaring up with a vengeance. It left you nauseous, weak, miserable. And he didn’t want his Mama to be miserable.

“Of course baby boy, you want to help make her some tea?” He gives a little nod and is rewarded with his Captain’s charming smile. They take their time making the tea, Steve giving his baby boy extra love for the fright he endured and explaining a little more. You had been throwing up- and Bucky needed his sleep. He had been on too many missions lately. So you insisted on moving to the spare room, hoping he could get some extra rest. Next time he would definitely have to write a note to make sure your sweet boy didn’t worry like this again.

The tea was finished with no spills. Bucky held the mug close to his chest and walked carefully down the hall, his Captain following with a fond chuckle. He was shuffling his cat socks, pausing if the drink shook too much with that cute pout of concentration on his face. Once at the door he stopped, and Steve could see the gears in his boy’s head turning. How was he supposed to open the door? Sure, he could hold the mug with just one hand. But… it was hot, and he was holding it with his sleeves. The mug would slip away before he could open the door, and all his mama’s tea would be on the floor.

His pondering was answered as a large body wrapped around his back. Reaching around the man, Steve turned the knob and gently pushed the door ajar before urging Bucky inside. He knew that seeing your baby boy would immediately help you to feel better.

Bucky peeked through the gap, eyes landing on the mess of sheets and pillows on the bed. There was a small bin at the side, there in case you got sick. Discarded soup and water on the nightstand, curtains pulled tightly together. You hadn’t even noticed him yet, face buried in the sheets and you wrestled with the ache in your bones. His heart pulled together, his poor Mommy. You were clearly miserable.

As quietly and carefully as he could manage while still balancing your tea, Bucky shuffled his way inside. He could hear you groan from your spot on the bed, moving a little faster at the sound until he arrived at your beside.

“Mama…?” There was a shuffle, and you peered out from the sheets. The sight you were greeted with was just…precious. Your sweet Bucky, wrapped up in your favorite sweater to steal from Steve, a mug that smelled nearly diving held carefully in his hands. He was watching you with a nervous smile, presenting the tea for you to drink. “Here you go, made tea so you feel sick no more.”

Heart melting in your chest, you took the mug and gently set it to the side on the nightstand. Bucky was confused, you could see the pout forming as he began to think the worst. But before your baby boy had time to spiral, you lifted the blankets and reached out for him. “Thank you, sweetheart. But right now Mommy just want lovin’ from her best little boy.” The smile that lights his face could heal anything as he slid into the space provided, curling his large body up against your chest. You smoothed back his hair, pressing a kiss to his forehead before fussing with the blankets. Steve stepped up, taking over and tucking the comforter around you both with a fond grin. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, now that I have my baby.”

The blanket shook with a little giggle, you and Steve sharing a small kiss. Sick days were unavoidable sometimes, but they were always easier with both your boys at your side.

[themontess]

Thoughts on Lichdom by Marilys Ingellvar

Bit of a stream of consciousness on behalf of my Rook, prompted by playing through Arrangements a few days ago and wondering what they might actually think. Under the cut for spoilers, cw for death/fear of death, alcohol use and drug use. (Also, tag @redheadsramblings because I was about to post this anyway - might as well tag you in the whole thing rather than just 8 sentences!)

Emmrich wants to become a lich. That was the first revelation on a tour around the Memorial Gardens, which by turns saw them gather flowers and pay their respects to Rupert and Elannora Volkarin - his long-deceased parents - and share their first kiss (and second and third kisses) at the base of some impressive statuary. A single flower, Shrouds Bloom, is still pinned to Rook’s lapel. At the time, they’d said that the proposition was no stranger than anything else their order encountered. That remains true, in aggregate. Specifically - to Rook - the idea is lodged like a bile-stone somewhere in their gut. They don’t head back to the Lighthouse straight away.

Rook needs to buy reagents, a task for which they don’t need company. They reassure Emmrich with a fourth, tender, kiss that the distinction is between need and want. He is wanted. But they need some time alone. They neglect to tell him that their destination is a seedy bar on the wrong side of Nevarra City, a purveyor of illicit and inscrutable substances for merriment and mortal ill. If the professor had ever had cause to visit such an establishment, it would not be proper now. Even Rook raises their hood, their blonde bow braids and bright eyeshadow becoming a little too recognisable. They hand their shopping list to the clerk and sit with a glass of amber spirits and a line of something questionable. They won’t go home until the effects have worn off, and they will bring a gift. Gifts. Waiting out the high will buy them time to think.

Emmrich has a fear of dying. This, Rook knows. They have witnessed it first hand at Weisshaupt, where his increasingly measured and cheery responses to the destruction around them barely masked the simmering panic beneath. It had been hard not to grab him by the shoulders and slap it out of him, not that there had been time for it. Then again, near Lavendel, about to face down the blighted dragon. It was more acute then. The necromancer standing straight, but gripping his staff until his knuckles turned bone white; his voice silent, but his breaths gasping like a man drowned or buried six feet under. He got over it. He always has. But this is a fear which haunts him worse than any malign spirit: not the certainty of death but the uncertainty. When and how it would happen. What might be left behind. Lichdom offers that certainty. Emmrich will die, and then he will remain. Free of that fear. Unless he doesn't. Unless the ritual fails to come to pass. Then he will just… die. And what might be left behind, then? Rook takes a top up of their drink as their first provisions are brought back from storage. It burns on the tongue, like the funeral pyres their culture loathes, but they down it anyway.

What will happen to Marilys once Emmrich is gone? Rook finds it hard not to think of themselves by that name, their given name, in relation to the professor. Not since they let it slip some few weeks before. They have only known one another perhaps a month more than that. Marilys has always had a healthy attitude towards death - or at least as much as one can have, having been found in a crypt as an infant. Death is the boundary which defines life. You live, you love, you cry, you fight. And then you die. Emmrich worries - they know he worries - about the age gap between them. He has remarked that he has grey hairs older than Marilys themselves. What can he offer them? As if he is some invalid at the end of his ninth decade, not a man fit into his fifties. He has his hair, his teeth, his eyesight. No noticeable afflictions of the spine, the joints. He has years left to give, years Marilys would share willingly. Time they would cherish were it to only last a day - which seems like all any of them can ask for at the minute. But if they succeed - if Marilys, Rook, and the Veilguard save Thedas, then all the years he has left will be theirs. Lichdom would rob them of that.

Not the time: they would still have Rook’s lifespan. Not the companionship, nor this frilly, spark-hot passion which oscillates between them like an errant wisp. Emmrich's soul will still be his own. The Lich Lords can't have existed for as long as they have without exploring acts of physical intimacy; they do not cast all partnerships asunder with their flesh. But to Rook, to Marilys… the thought of one day losing Emmrich is part of what makes this new romance all the sweeter. Their time together is an empty vessel into which it can all be poured. He will be loved. He will be mourned. How do you have a legacy if you leave no-one behind? In quiet moments. Emmrich has stated precisely what he craves. Rook saw his eyes light up in the Gardens, when they promised his parents they would never leave him lonely. He expressed concern about what will happen to Manfred, when he one day passes (it is a stupid question, Manfred will be treasured by Rook all the same). But what will happen to Emmrich when everyone else is gone instead? Is witnessing death after death after death of those you care about worth avoiding the finality of your own? It is, Marilys thinks, a perversion - as within the bounds of Mourn Watch normality it might be. They don't have the words to tell him that.

“Here you go, love,” the proprietor says, setting down the last of the supplies. “Running low on the flasks you like, but ask the apothecary down by the wet market. If you don't mind what's been in ‘em, they might have a few to spare. Anything else for the road?”Rook takes another line, and they'll take a long walk. Gathering gifts that say I care for you, please kiss me again, stay with me. Cookies. Good beeswax candles. A small bead to add to the chain that runs from his left wrist to his thumb, a partner to the one they've had installed as a ball capture on a helix piercing. It's selfish, but they hope it works. Hope one day they can find the words to have this discussion for real. Because Emmrich Volkarin may fear death, but Marilys Ingellvar would and will fight gods to convince him to live with them first.

[halevetica]

Only Fools Rush In

Day 6 for Sterek week Prompt: Tarot Cards

Dread wasn't the right word for how Derek felt staring at the boxes that sat on his dining room table, but it was pretty close. His stomach was in knots. It had been since Cora told him they had to clean out the storage shed of their old things. A handful of boxes that he and Laura had hastily gathered after the fire. A place to store memories that neither one had been ready to go through. Now they sat on his table like a ghost before him.

He pushed off the lid of the first box. The smell of Ash filled his nose. Bile rose in his throat. Inside sat a set of blackened alphabet blocks, a half-melted children's xylophone, and a deformed doll.

These had been Lily's things. Taking in a slow breath he put the lid back on. He blinked back tears as he moved on to the next box.

A fusion of Hot Wheels cars, a charred soccer ball, and a singed teddy bear. Lucas.

Derek's cousins had both been so young, only two and six.

He put the lid back on and closed his eyes. Keeping this stuff had been pointless. It was useless. Just a painful reminder. But Laura had gathered anything that still had shape, tears streaming down her face. He'd been too numb to object at the time.

He reached for another box. He peered inside to see if it was just as depressing as the others. It was from his room. The giver, half burned. An incinerated Walkman that was too damaged to open. An unharmed baseball. A few baseball cards, a partially melted basketball trophy. All things from a life he hadn't been a part of in so long.

He pushed it away from him. Why had they kept this? These people were gone. These weren't happy trinkets to remember them by. They were sad, twisted reminders of a family long gone. Even his box was nothing but a ghost of a boy who died in that fire.

All these tombs, cradled remnants of people he loved. Opening these boxes didn't flood him with memories he wanted to remember. They filled him with the grief and guilt he'd been working so hard to let go of. To move past. To accept.

Taking another slow breath out he reached for another, pushing aside the lid and peering in. His brows furrowed when the smell of ash didn't hit his nose, but instead, stale, faint Jasmine and bergamot. His mind swept through memories of walks in the woods, gentle lectures, and coffee dates. Laura's perfume.

He plucked the small purple bottle. This box wasn't from their house. It was things Laura had left in their apartment in New York. This was the box Derek had packed after she died. He pulled out a framed picture of the two of them. A coffee date two days before she left for Beacon Hills.

He pulled a book on flowers. She had gotten into flowers after the fire, picking up a hobby his mother had loved. She was the best florist he knew. She could make even the ugliest flowers fit into a beautiful arrangement. Laying the book next to the perfume on the table, he continued to rifle.

A small jewelry box that held a simple silver necklace. A flower charm dangled from it. A recipe book she bought when she wanted to learn to cook. And a familiar purple box, gilded in silver stars and moons.

It had been a gift for her birthday. Another hobby she had taken up. Derek had never teased her about her many hobbies. He knew they were something to fill the emptiness she was feeling. He knew because he had felt it too. He had attempted to fill his own void, but he often found himself numb and distant.

He brushed his fingers along the small box before plucking it out. He opened it, making his stomach roll.

"So the three-card spread has many variations but I really like past, present, and future. Watch." Laura had laid the cards out in an arch. "Pick three." He did as told plucking three from the deck. They were black with gold filigree.

Derek rolled his eyes but said nothing as she stumbled through her reading.

"Okay, so you pulled..." She paused glancing up at him. "The three of swords upright." Her eyes saddened. "Your past is filled with suffering and grief. Your heart feels broken."

Derek narrowed his eyes. They were dangerously close to topics he didn't like to discuss.

"The second card is your present. And you pulled—" She let out a small sigh. "Five of cups upright... You feel a great loss, you're drowning in self-pity and grief."

Derek's jaw clenched. He didn't want to play this game anymore.

"The last one is your future." Laura's tone tried to sound hopeful. She flipped his third card and froze. Her fingers partially concealed a cloaked figure holding a lantern. "The Hermit reversed," She whispered.

"Let me guess it's just as bleak as the others?" Derek sneered.

"You face isolation and loneliness, you may feel aimless like you're lost."

"This is stupid. It's all fake." Derek swiped at the cards scattering them to the floor of the kitchen.

"Derek," Laura huffed, scrambling to gather them up. "I borrowed these."

Derek had felt bad for how he reacted and gifted her with her own deck. She didn't ask to do another reading for him though, and he never offered.

"Alright, Laura," he said, opening the box. He splayed the purple cards across the table and stared at them. The stars and moons shimmered in the sunlight that peeked through the window.

He slowly pulled three cards from the deck and laid them face down in front of him. It couldn't be all bad. Right? Maybe his luck had changed. It was a decade ago that he had last pulled cards. He was a vastly different person now.

He flipped the first one to see a figure draped in a purple robe, holding a scythe in one hand. Leafless trees framed him. The card faced away from him.

"Death reversed," he whispered as he compared it to the guidebook. "Fear of change, stagnation, decay." He frowned at the words. His stomach twisted, this was already not going well. But it was his past card. Perhaps his present card would be better.

His fingers brushed over the silky exterior. He took a deep breath, his heart hammering against his ribs. He flipped the card. A moon peered up at him. In front of it were six swords held aloft, in front of the moon. Beneath them looked to be a vast ocean of purples and pinks. This one faced him.

He flipped through the book to find the six of swords. His stomach flitted as he read the words, transition, leaving behind, moving on. That didn't seem so bad. But what did it mean? He wished Laura were here to tell him. What he wouldn't give for her to be here.

"Future," he breathed reaching for the final card. He was surrounded by people who cared for him. He wasn't alone or lost. He was right where he wanted to be. He wasn't missing anything. This could rip it all away though. Show him a disruption he wasn't willing to accept.

He considered briefly not flipping the card and just packing them away but a tug at his chest froze him in place. He could almost hear Laura's words. 'You can't be scared of your future, Derek, that's how you get stuck in the past.'

He hurriedly flipped the card. Two people faced each other, each one holding a cup in their hand. They leaned into each other like lovers.

Derek blinked at the upright card and flipped to find the right page. Unity, partnership, connection.

Relief rushed out of him. That didn't sound bad at all.

The sound of voices outside had him quickly shoving the cards and book back into their box. That would be Cora and Stiles back with the last load of boxes from his old loft.

He managed to get the box closed just as they entered, each one carrying boxes.

"Just set them in the living room," Derek said, trying to act nonchalant. He didn't know why he was acting like he'd just been caught reading porn. It was a silly card read.

"Oof, you started on the hard ones first. How's it going?" Cora asked, glancing at the ash-filled boxes behind him.

He turned to the boxes on his dining table and shrugged. "Honestly, it's pretty bleak. I don't know why we kept these all this time."

"Are you planning on keeping them?" Stiles asked, peering at the one open box of Laura's behind Derek.

"Not most of them. Maybe this one but the rest are..." he shook his head.

Cora lifted one of the lids and her expression went hollow. "You kept this?" she whispered. She reached in and pulled out an alphabet block. He could barely make out the letter L through the scorched wood.

Stiles sucked in a breath.

"Laura was... I didn't have the heart to argue with her." Derek shrugged.

"You shouldn't keep these." Cora put the block back and stepped away from the box like she could catch something from it.

"Yeah, I think I'll keep the box of Laura's things from the apartment in New York but the rest..." How was he supposed to throw them away though? It felt...wrong. Like he was forgetting them.

"Why don't I take these out to the jeep, you guys can start unpacking the other boxes." Stiles stepped past Derek and Cora and gathered two of the boxes into his arms.

Derek's chest warmed. He was glad Stiles was there. He was often like a soothing balm on a fresh wound when it came to his past. He never pressured Derek or made him feel less than. In fact, he was always so supportive.

"Did you go through those while we were gone?" Cora asked, meeting Derek's eyes.

"A few of them."

"I'm sorry. You should have waited for me."

"I honestly forgot what was in them. I knew it wouldn't be good but... You have to understand. We were in a low place. Keeping this was the only way we knew how to cope."

Cora rounded the table and placed a hand on Derek's arm. "You don't have to explain."

"I'm sorry you had to see that," Derek bowed his head in shame.

"You said you're gonna keep Laura's box?" Cora turned to the perfume bottle and raised it to her nose.

"Yeah, she uh, she picked up a lot of hobbies while in New York." Derek gestured to the cards and books.

"Cooking, like dad always did." She smiled at the recipe book. "Flowers. Mom was always so good." She brushed her fingers along the cover. She paused as she got to the deck of cards. "She got into tarot?"

"Yeah, I bought her those." Derek nodded. "No clue where she got the inspiration to start."

"Me," Cora whispered.

Derek frowned at her. "I had a friend at the time, Savannah, she got a deck for her birthday. I told Laura I wanted a deck for my birthday. She listened to me rant for two days about how it works and the different pulls."

Derek blinked. "She wasn't just filling the hole with hobbies. She was filling it with all of your hobbies."

Cora opened the deck as Stiles returned. "Is that a tarot deck?" He asked, peering at the cards as he gathered the last of the boxes.

"Yeah," Cora laid out the cards.

"You never told me Laura was a fortune teller," Stiles nudged Derek as he walked by.

"I never got my deck," Cora spread the cards out and placing her hand over them, swirled them around the table. She continued to mix them up.

"What are you doing?"

"It's how you shuffle them."

"Pull a card," Cora urged.

"What? Why? Don't you have to have like a special spread and such?" Derek pretended to not know how it worked. He didn't know why. It was nothing to be ashamed of.

"You can do a single card pull. It's often good for clarity. Or if you have a question. It's been a long time since I've messed with tarot honestly."

Derek stared at the cards. He didn't have a question. And despite his most recent pull not being so bad, he was still afraid of them. Like they alone could disrupt his life.

"My mom had a deck when I was young," Stiles said, returning once again. The boxes were all out of the house.

It was almost like a weight was lifted off Derek's shoulders.

"I'm trying to get Derek to pull one."

"It's fake," he grumbled.

"You pull one," Stiles urged her.

Cora plucked a card. "The Star upright." She held up a card with a woman looking up into a night sky, a star gleamed down at her from a distance.

"I have no clue what that means," Stiles shrugged.

Derek pointed to the book. "Look in there."

Stiles flipped through pages and then tilted his head. "Wait, it's just some words."

Cora snatched the book from his grasp. "Well, duh, it's interpretive. So the star upright means hope, faith, and rejuvenation."

"Wait, but I thought..." Stiles frowned down at the cards before gathering them up into a pile. "Hold on, let me try— oops," Stiles reached for the card that he dropped.

"What is it?" Cora asked wide-eyed. "When you accidentally flip a card, that means the universe is trying to tell you something."

Stiles laid the card on the table.

Derek's stomach lurched. The two of cups card lay upright.

"Two of cups," Cora hummed, flipping through the book. "Unity, partnership, and connection."

"What on earth could the universe be trying to tell me with that card? I'm not even dating anyone."

Derek's heart sped in his chest like it could escape the situation. Surely that wasn't what his card was referring to.

"Maybe you're gonna meet someone soon."

"In Beacon Hills?" Stiles snorted. His eyes cut to Derek briefly.

"I dunno, I'm not a professional tarot reader," Cora shrugged, gathering the cards back up.

"There's one downtown by the station."

"Think she'd teach me?" Cora laughed.

Derek stared at Stiles, his mind reeling. Did that mean something? Surely not. It was chance. There were only seventy-eight cards. The chances of pulling the same card were... less than two percent if he was doing the math right. Shit. That wasn't a high percent. Surely that had to mean something.

"Well, I should get going. Derek, if you need help unpacking all these I can come back by tomorrow."

Derek blinked trying to process the words Stiles had just spoken. "Uh, I uh, sure."

"Okay, I'll see you around noon then?" He gave Derek's forearm a gentle squeeze as he walked by.

Derek nodded, unable to say anything.

"Thanks for your help, see you." Cora held out a fist and Stiles bumped it with his.

Derek loved how easily Stiles fit in. Like he was meant to be here, part of the family. It felt natural having him around.

Once Stiles was gone, Cora turned to him and crossed her arms.

"What?"

"How much longer are you gonna pretend that you're not in love with him?"

Derek stiffened. "He's family, nothing more."

"He could be literal family if you got your head out of your ass."

Derek shook his head. "Stiles deserves better."

Cora scoffed. She poked him in the chest. "That's a pathetic excuse and you know it."

Derek scrubbed a hand down his face. He stared down at the box of tarot cards. He had spent the last two years convincing himself that Stiles deserved to find someone outside of the supernatural. Someone normal. But when he pulled his future card...

"I need to run out for a bit, you want to order in tonight?" Derek asked, grabbing his keys from the counter.

"Uh, Sure. Chinese or Pizza?"

"Chinese," Derek answered sliding on his leather jacket.

"Where are you going?"

"Out," He answered vaguely, he took the steps from his new house two at a time. This was stupid and he didn't know why he was doing it but he was determined to get answers.

-

"Are you really doing this?" Derek asked himself staring at the sign in front of him. The 'Matron of Ravens' it read. The shop was small, its glass front was decorated with raven symbology. The words 'for fate seekers' were plastered at the bottom in elegant scroll. A simple porcelain mask hung from the corner. Through the glass, he saw shelves of tarot cards, crystals, and other trinkets.

"You seem hesitant dear," A voice pulled Derek's attention to the door where a woman in a long black dress stood. Her thick hair was pulled into a black side braid that draped to her waist.

"Yeah, I don't really know why I'm here." Derek glanced over his shoulder at the car. He should just get back in and go home. Pretend none of it had happened.

"Yes, you do. You're just afraid of the answer." She smiled. "You can't be scared of your future. That's how you stay stuck in the past."

Derek's head whipped back to face her, his eyes wide.

"Come inside." She walked in, not waiting for him to answer.

Derek followed despite the pit in his stomach. He didn't even believe in fate. And she was right, he was afraid of the answer. He wasn't going to do anything about it.

The inside of the shop smelled like lavender and sage. It wasn't overbearing to his senses though.

"Sit." The woman gestured to a table with two chairs that sat behind an open draped room.

Derek sat and let out a slow breath. He felt foolish. His heart hammered and his stomach rolled.

"My name is Maven Dusk," She said, sitting across from him, the curtains now drawn giving them privacy. The space was so small Derek almost wondered if this was meant to be a closet.

"Derek Hale." He glanced around. The walls were draped in tarot iconography and ravens.

"So tell me, why are you here?" Maven asked, clasping her hands together on the table.

"Aren't you supposed to know the answer to that?" Derek asked, focusing back on her.

Her lips quirked into a smile. "I'm not a mind reader, Derek. I'm a tarot reader."

He dropped his chin to his chest and let out a breath. "I'm sorry, I just..." he scrubbed a hand down his face.

"You're troubled by something. What is it?"

"My sister. She had this deck." He glanced around expecting to see one lying around but there was nothing on the table but a black tablecloth. "I don't know... I don't believe in this stuff, no offense."

"You must if you're here."

"I didn't. But I pulled this card and I don't know what it means. I mean, I read her book but... it's just the keywords or whatever."

"Is your sister versed in the way of reading tarot?" Maven asked, tilting her head slightly.

Derek's shoulders dropped. "She was learning...but she's..." he trailed off.

"Ah, I see. You feel like she may be trying to tell you something?"

Derek met Maven's eyes. "I did a three-card spread. It's the only one I know. Past, present, future. And it didn't mean much to me, but not ten minutes later someone pulled a card and it was the same card I pulled for my future. The deck was shuffled. The chances of that are... I mean how often does that happen?"

Maven leaned back and hummed. "You want to know if this person is important to your future?"

"I can't imagine a world in which he's not," Derek muttered. "I want to know what the card means."

"Well, why don't we see if it shows itself to you again?" She pulled out a deck from seemingly nowhere. Had they been in her pocket?

She spread the cards out in an arch.

Derek's stomach vaulted. "Wait."

She paused, looking up at him. "Is something wrong?"

He shifted in his seat. He didn't want another pull.

"You claim to not believe in them yet you fear the cards. Why?"

Derek frowned down at the black cards. Gold lines draped across them, converging to a porcelain mask in the middle.

"I had a bad reading once and I just..."

"The cards don't control your future. You can change it at any time. That's the beauty of it. Go on."

Derek took in a slow breath and let it out as he reached out. His hands shook as he plucked three cards from the lineup.

"First," She nodded to the first card Derek pulled.

He hesitated before closing his eyes and flipping. The artwork depicted a man riding a chariot, being pulled by two horses. It was reversed.

Derek sucked in a breath as he waited.

"The Chariot," Maven hummed. "You lacked control and direction in your past. You held onto aggression. Perhaps you were controlled by an obsession or goal."

Derek let out the breath. That was true. But he was in a better place now. He carefully flipped the next one. An arch of leaves held up by four posts, in the distance were two people in celebration. The card faced him.

"Ah, the four of wands. This card is often associated with community. This card shows celebration as well as a harmonious, happy, and relaxed environment. You are currently in a happy place. Your life has balance and stability."

Derek nodded. Once again true. He stared at the final card. Part of him hoped it was a different card. Part of him hoped it wasn't.

"You fear your future. Why?"

"Because I'm right where I want to be."

"Is that why you came to see me? Because you're right where you want to be?"

"I'm afraid of it getting messed up. I've worked hard to get where I am. I can't—" he shook his head. "I won't lose that."

Maven smiled warmly. "Are you at risk of losing that?"

"I don't think so."

"Then why not be excited for the future? Eager for what more you may accomplish." She gestured to the card, urging him to flip it.

His throat shriveled like leaves on a hot day. He could do this. It wasn't a big deal. He flipped the card over quickly. A hand held a cup that overflowed into a lake below it.

"Ace of cups." She smiled. He wanted to take that as a good sign, but he couldn't push away the anxiety. "I see why you're afraid now."

Derek straightened in his seat.

"The keywords here are love, new feelings, and intuition."

His stomach rocked.

"You have feelings for someone, don't you?"

"What does the card mean?" Derek pressed, ignoring her question.

"Well, it suggests the awakening of new feelings. Or perhaps a new stage of intimacy with someone. This card signals there is an opportunity for you to grow emotionally should you accept. You only have to learn to trust your gut and avoid over-analyzing situations."

Derek scrubbed a hand down his face.

Maven frowned, watching him. "You seem displeased. Many would be thrilled to receive this card."

"I can't—"

"Tell me what future card you pulled earlier." She urged, tucking his picked cards back into the deck.

"Two of cups," Derek said softly.

"A card known for unity and connection." She nodded. "That card encourages the beginnings of partnerships of any kind, and the harmony that arises when two people come together to work in unity. It also suggests a relationship that is mutually beneficial, one where the partners encourage one another."

Derek's throat stuck.

"You fear this. Why?" Maven tilted her head at him.

"He deserves better."

"Perhaps you are his better."

Derek blinked at her. No. She just didn't know the whole story. "He was messing with the deck. He dropped a card and it flipped over facing him. It was the two of cups."

"So you think that he is who you will end up with?"

"I don't know... how else do you explain it?"

Maven gave him a sympathetic look, it made him feel small and judged. He hated it. He shrunk back into his seat. What was he a thirteen-year-old girl?

"It's all up to interpretation. Do you love him?"

Derek swallowed, his throat still like glue. "Yes."

"And how does he feel about you?"

Derek opened his mouth and snapped it shut. Did Stiles feel something for him? He never questioned it. Stiles had never hinted at it or acted differently. He never smelled different either. A new fear gripped his chest. "I don't know."

"Perhaps he thinks you deserve better."

Derek frowned. The idea that there could be better than Stiles was a ridiculous notion.

Maven plucked a card from the middle of the deck and slid it forward. "Perhaps you should stop overthinking it and just make the leap."

"I don't want to lose him. If he doesn't want me then—"

Maven sighed, sliding the card back into the deck. "I cannot tell you want to do. I can only tell you what the cards say."

"Thank you. I feel better knowing what they mean." He wished he had more clarity with that knowledge, unfortunately, though he was only more unsure.

-

Derek sat at the kitchen island, staring at the tarot cards in front of him. They were splayed out like Maven had done. He could only stare though. He didn't know what he was waiting for. The cards weren't going to jump into his hand. His sister wasn't going to appear and claim to be trying to sway him from the other side.

"Knock knock," Stiles' voice called from the front door. Derek whipped around to see Stiles stepping inside. He jumped to his feet.

"Stiles, you're—" Derek glanced at the clock on the stove. Noon. "Right on time," he sighed. How long had he been staring at those cards?

"Yeah?" Stiles frowned. "Are you playing with those cards again? You did not strike me as the tarot type."

"Yeah, I'm not." Derek rubbed at the back of his neck.

"So what's with these? You decide to become one of those whimsical ladies on the front of tarot monthly?"

Derek snorted a laugh. "No, I was just... thinking I guess."

"Let's see what the universe has to say." Stiles reached over and plucked a card from the spread.

"This is the same card I pulled yesterday," Stiles hummed showing the two of cups.

Derek stared at it.

"What does this card mean again?" Stiles reached for the book but Derek snatched the card from his hand.

"Whoa, hey, what—"

"Pull again," Derek demanded.

"Dude, are you okay?"

"Pull again."

"Okay." Stiles grabbed another card from the deck. He held up the Ace of cups this time.

Derek snatched it from his hand. "Pull again."

"Derek, what's going on?" Stiles tilted his head, eyes scanning his face.

"Just—" Derek scrubbed a hand over his face, before slumping back into his seat. He let the cards fall away.

"What's wrong? Talk to me?" Stiles placed a hand on Derek's shoulder and it was like everything melted away. Stiles was always a comfort for him.

"I keep pulling these cards and..."

"I didn't think you believed in this."

"I don't."

"So why are you letting it bother you?"

"I don't know. I did a pull for myself and then I went to that tarot place downtown and paid for a pull there. These two cards were my future card and I'm just... trying to understand."

"They're just cards. Maybe you're putting so much stock in them because they were Laura's."

Derek sighed. "Maybe."

"Or maybe the cards are telling you that I'm your future," Stiles laughed.

Derek's shoulders slumped.

"I'm kidding."

"I think you're right."

Stiles blinked at him.

Derek's heart slammed against his chest wall as he searched for any scent changes. Nothing.

"I'm confused."

"Do you know what these cards mean?"

Stiles shook his head. "I mean, I don't know this one," he grabbed the Ace of cups. "I think the other one was something about connection."

Derek stared into Stiles' eyes. They danced worriedly in the bit of sunlight that filtered through the kitchen window above the sink.

"You left Beacon Hills. For years. Why'd you come back?"

Stiles' brows shot up. "What?"

"You could have settled down anywhere, but you chose to come back here. Scott moved to L.A. Lydia is traveling the world. Why'd you come back?"

Stiles shifted. "My dad's here and..." He shrugged, his eyes dropping to the card in his hand. "so are you."

Derek cupped Stiles' chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. "You deserve better."

Stiles blinked again, his brows furrowing. "If you're afraid of me leaving, I'm not going anywhere, Derek. This place is my home. You are my home." His eyes flitted down to Derek's mouth for just a moment.

Hope rocketed through him. Don't overthink it. Take the leap. He could do that.

Derek surged forward, catching Stiles' lips on his. It was less of a kiss and more of a declaration. A promise. A leap. He pulled back just enough to whisper into Stiles' mouth. "I want to be your better."

"I have no clue what that means, but yes," Stiles dove back in, reconnecting their lips.

Unity, connection, partnership, call it what you want. It was worth it.

[im-his-druidess]

Okay but Bo Sinclair and this prompt

“As an Alpha, I have the right to claim you, the Omega, and you know that, don’t you” whispered in the omegas ear in his sexy Louisiana drawl with his smug dominating smirk brushing against her skin

After he’s scented the omega tourist and chased her down after the rest of the tourist have already been killed/taken by Vincent 🥵😈

This is the good stuff, Nonnie 😩👌

“I know you’re in here,” a voice called out, playful with a singsong lilt, and you nearly jumped out of your skin at the smooth southern drawl of the man chasing you so close to where you were crouched.

You thought you had lost him, but apparently, he had stayed right on your tail giving you no chance to even think of a way out, let alone catch your breath. Your friends had been mowed down one by one leaving you the last one standing, their screams and pleads of mercy that went unanswered still ringing in your ears, and you curled in tighter to yourself behind the shelf of the cluttered storage shed you were hiding in.

“I can smell you,” the man continued with a rumbling purr and you felt your already thundering heart skip a beat.

The man was an Alpha in every sense of the word and you knew he was speaking the truth. At the gas station, before everything went to hell in a handbasket, the friendly mechanic wasn’t subtle about sniffing out your designation. Looking pleased with himself when his eyes bore into you when he finally caught a whiff of your naturally sweet Omega scent.

‘Omega,’ he had murmured just low enough for you to hear and you were so shocked by the rude acknowledgement that you could only gape at him.

It was considered downright insulting for Alphas to call out Omegas, even though everyone knew that the scent of an Omega was as obvious as the sky was blue to Alphas, but he had just grinned slow and honey-sweet and predatory when you spun on your heels to march out to join your friends when you couldn’t think of a response. Then once the attacks started the only thing you could think of was your survival.

“Not often we get Omegas in these parts. I could smell you a mile away, darlin’” the man, ‘Bo’ you remembered grimly, said and you forced yourself not to flinch at how close his voice had gotten.

“Such a pretty little thing you are…why don’t you come on out, now? You know this is inevitable,” he growled out and panic seized your body and stole the air right from your lungs.

Your inner Omega was preening at the thought of this virile Alpha hunting you down to claim you and you wanted to bang your head on the closest wall at those barbaric instincts. You suddenly realized that the room had become eerily silent, no more footsteps or taunting remarks, and you strained to hear over the sound of blood pounding in your ears.

Sweat beaded on your forehead and dripped off your nose, the humid air sticking in your lungs and covering you in an oppressive blanket of heat, and you tried to breathe as quietly as possible. You pressed your raw bloody palms tight against your thighs, bits of loose gravel still embedded in the stinging flesh from where you tripped over one of your friend’s limp lifeless bodies on the road, and just the feeling made bile rise up the back of your throat. If you survived this night you knew that you would forever be haunted by what you have witnessed. You wanted to peak out from under the shelf to see if the coast was clear, but terror had you frozen in fear. You sniffed the air as quietly and subtly as you could, the scent of mold and dust and your own fear filled your nose, and you desperately tried to push past that to scent out the Alpha. Eventually your nosed twitched when you caught the smell of dark exotic spices, the tell-tale scent of an Alpha, smoke, and gunpowder.

You realized a second too late that the smell was suspiciously close.

A large hand gripped your bicep and you were dragged from under the shelf before you had a chance to scream.

“Gotcha!” Bo cooed and you shrieked as you began clawing at him and trying to yank yourself free with the desperation of a cornered feral animal.

However, his grip was like an iron shackle, and you felt tears burns your eyes as he dragged you closer to his broad body. Bright blue eyes stared down at you with triumph, a lopsided cruel smirk twisting his lips and making the corner of his eyes crinkle, and you felt his laugh more than you heard it. His free hand tangled roughly in your hair close to your roots and you could only yelp in pain as he roughly yanked your head to the side. He then pressed his nose into the crook of your neck and inhaled deeply. A groan rumbling deep in his chest before you suddenly felt something hot and wet drag over your fluttering pulse.

The son of a bitch licked you.

You screamed again, this time in outrage, and renewed your struggle. The hand on your bicep moved to your waist and you were crushed even harder against his chest, effectively pinning your hands against his chest, and you wheezed at the pressure compressing your lungs. He licked you again and you released a small sob.

“Please…please don’t,” you pleaded and felt him nuzzle against your shoulder and throat. Rubbing against the sensitive scent glands. He was scenting you.

He hummed softly as if thinking over your words, but any hope of him setting you free died when he shifted and you felt something hard poking into your stomach.

“You can’t do this,” you gritted out passed the lump of fear and anxiety in your throat and he laughed.

“As an Alpha, I have the right to claim you, the Omega, and you know that, don’t you” he whispered in your ear, pressing a kiss to your temple that would have been considered sweet under any other circumstance, and you wailed at his words.

“Don’t be like that, darlin’. I’ll treat you real good. Keep you here to look after the house, keep you warm and fed, and keep this sweet pussy of yours nice and full,” he said with a small groan and you felt fresh tears spill down your cheeks at the reality of your situation.

You shook your head frantically, words unable to leave your mouth and your throat seeming to close in on itself, and he pulled back to look down at you. He smiled and nodded his head while moving to smooth your hair from your damp face.

“Yeah, I’ll treat you real nice…and you’re gonna be nice to me, too, aren’t you?” he murmured gently as those piercing blue eyes swept over your face with barely concealed hunger.

He pressed a lingering kiss to the top of your head.

“If you’re nice enough I’ll even make sure Vincent doesn’t get his hands on you. He’s not used to Omegas being around so he might wanna go at you,” he continued in that same soft tone and nausea rolled through you at his implication.

The memory of that longhaired Alpha cutting down your friends and dragging them through the street was still fresh in the forefront of your mind and you began openly weeping. Bo shushed you as your legs gave wave under the force of your emotions and he tucked his face back into the crook of your neck. You barely resisted when you felt him slowly walking you backwards until your back met the wall and your chest began heaving with your sobs as he slowly rolled his hips against you. You weakly pushed against his chest and felt his teeth nipping at your throat, right where a claiming bite would go, and dark spots began flickering across your eyes as it became harder and harder to breathe. You felt him smile once more against you.

“Welcome to Ambrose.”

[paperpepperfrog]

Keep quiet, says the denial of reality!

- Well? Your name. - The claw passed so close to the doctor’s face that Pharma could swear that his crumpled and battered reflection was visible in it.

- I uh... Pharma..? - If he had a nickel for every time he saw an alien this close, he would have two nickels. It's not much, but he's almost surprised it happened twice. And they had never asked him his name before... Well, aliens.

- Alright, “Uh Pharma”... - The surgeon did not recognize what the helicopter wanted to say, since a bullet whistled very close to his captor’s helmet.

- Oops, break's over, time to move on, bwehehehehe. - The man was pushed back under the yellow glass and - oh my God - Pharma just realized who the alien was going to fight against.

Whirl was definitely something that was made to kill.

Graceful and... Deadly.

The glass slammed shut and took several shots - without even cracking! - and the surprisingly stable claws flashed dangerously.

Somewhere under the medic’s feet, mechanisms began to sound and the cabin shook.

- STOP! - Pharma was surprised that he had not yet vomited, randomly tumbling in the cockpit and scratching the chair. - STOP-STOP-STOP, DON'T YOU DARE! These are pilots! This is a Mecha project! These are not enemies! You can't!!!

- And what? - This... This... Thing. It was moving too fast. Too unpredictable, too... natural, in a way that pilots did not move, as no one moved, perhaps with the exception of piloting aces like Jazz. Although Pharma would have been happier if the alien, Whirl, had turned out to be less good and the frantic shaking, cacophony of sounds and flashes in front of the doctor’s face had stopped. - They shoot, I shoot, it's a fair deal.

The shots struck the transparent surface again. What Whirl was good at was fighting shots.

- You're crazy! - What did he need to be happy? Shootout? With your own?? No, no, and no again, Pharma would give anything right now just to be on solid ground and for the headache to stop and for his stomach to stop performing aerobatic maneuvers. The sour taste of bile ran through my throat again.

(If only I didn’t throw up right in the cockpit).

This is all a nightmare, terrible, alcohol-induced dream. And he will definitely wake up with his face in the reports or in the first-aid post, and he will lash out at Ambulon, who is minding his own business, for sure... And no aliens who shoot at pilots, no frantic pirouettes, no...

- OH YES, DOCTOR, SAY IT AGAIN! - Loud, metallic laughter and the screech of machine guns, laughter and shots, this...

God.

Fuck.

How many times did Pharma want to apply for a damn transfer to a morgue somewhere, apparently he would appear there as a patient. If there is at least something left of it that can be put in a storage room.

- YOU ARE PSYCHO-PSYCHO-PSYCHO!!! LET ME OUT IMMEDIATELY!

If it was just a furious fur, Pharma would have punched it in the stuffing.

Although, here she is, right in front of him.

Pale fingers grabbed the armrests and Pharma kicked with all his might, and then howled in pain.The instrument panel, clearly copied from some earthly technology, turned out to be stronger and did not even move. Attempts to turn the steering wheel were also unsuccessful.

- Hey, don't bother me. I'm almost collected four-of-a-kind!

Pharma should pray that he stays alive.

God, please...

Mecha au by @keferon

[bonefall]

How would the cats get rid of the bile to prepare a prey item for food? The liver is one of the best items to use for gravy--my family uses our roasted Turkey's liver as a gravy base every year and to have to throw it out cause someone fucked up while on kitchen duty would suck.

Not all animals will actually have gallbladders, but removing one from the liver is as easy as just chopping it off when you get to the processing part. It'll be down on the bottom of the liver, usually pear-shaped, and a dark greenish color. Sorreltail, a sapient cat with her great sense of smell, could tell it apart from the surrounding meat with her eyes closed.

I do have to stress, though, you CAN eat bile. You don't have to have the cats toss that, that is a thing they can eat. Again it's not nail polish remover like the Erins think it is. It's bitter, but it's used in human food. You just balance out the bitterness with spice and sweetness.

This is papaitan, from the Philippines, made with tripe and bile,

Bile is also said to have anti-inflammatory effects and be a generally healthy food, too. I can see ShadowClan in particular really liking to cook with this, especially for a sick cat. They like bitter and spicy tastes a lot more than other Clans. Their version of chicken noodle soup.

Also; a lot of animals do not have gallbladders. Here's a short list of common prey animals and their gallbladder status;

Rabbits = No

Rats = No

Mouse = Yes

Shrew = Yes

Deer = No

Pigeon = No

Quail = Yes

Carp = Yes BUT DO NOT EAT THESE CARP GALL BLADDERS CAUSE FOOD POISONING. ALL species, everywhere. This includes goldfish. Your cat will live if they swallow a goldfish or eat a gallbladder once or twice, but it will make them sick. Process this fish before a Clan cat eats it.

(Side note: It's actually kind of funny how carp keeps coming up as The "Fuck You" Animal in all of these. They're full of seizure-causing anti-nutrients, their gallbladders are poison, what am I going to find next?)

The gallbladder in fish is really easy to find btw, they're usually massive, round, and dark green. If you gut fish regularly it's like... right in the "chest." Also you can poke it open and soak little paper squares in it and then they spin around in water, it's very cool

Bile is for the breakdown of fats, and a gallbladder is for the storage and concentration of bile. Generally, herbivores are more likely to lack gallbladders, because their liver just dumps the weak bile they have directly into their intestines. The mystery of why rats don't have gallbladders has actually vexxed scientists for like 100 years, btw.

Some herbivores (deer especially) have a very tiny "pouch" for bile called a diverticulum. But unlike the gallbladder, it doesn't concentrate it, just stores a little extra. Some hunters will nick this and think they tore open a gallbladder, but they did not.

[starwrighter]

I am not a baby!! (Yes you are)

(Ao3) (Masterpost) (Previous) (Next)

(Chapter thirteen)

Gone with one issue on to the next, post haste! It was like this year was pelting him with problem after problem. Of course, a quantum destination would be the next space on his bingo card of disasters! Why wouldn’t it be?! If there’s one thing the universe would never give him it was a break. That nap was a curse! He made up for too much of the sleep he’d lost back home. Now, there was karma to pay for those extra few hours of sleep. 

Granted, he felt better than yesterday, but was it worth the quantum detonation? Temptation says yes but logical thinking says no. Logical thinking also said nothing he could’ve done would’ve prevented the damage to the drive core. It would have already started to degrade from seawater pouring in before he even got there. It was nice to know this one thing wasn’t his fault, but it wouldn’t soothe the anxiety of knowing the Aurora was going to explode.

The damage a drive core from a ship the Aurora’s size could cause would be catastrophic. The radiation alone was a planet-ending event. Could he prevent this with his limited access to his powers? There were no blueprints for a radiation suit in his PDA and he doubts he could make one himself. Building what was essentially a hazmat divesuit strong enough to protect him from the lethal doses of radiation the aurora was dishing out wasn’t the same as building a table. Did he still have any kind of immunity to radiation? 

Regardless, he’s a Fenton! He got irradiated for breakfast! 

Swimming back to his base, Danny began pilfering through his storage. If he’s even going to try attempting to stop a quantum detonation, a seamoth would be helpful. Not only did it sound cool as hell, it’d make traversing through the waters a piece of cake! Only… The blueprints wasn’t there and data corruption was to blame. Cursing, Danny collapsed to the floor, scrolling desperately through all the blueprints over and over again. He’d regained the blueprint for the mobile vehicle bay, but there was no amount of tampering that’d give him the Seamoth. The mobile vehicle bay was useless without a vehicle! 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Danny decided this was the perfect time to check the radio. Any information concerning the rendevuos would be a life saver!

Swimming back to his pod, a cloud of rot spilled into the ocean. The foul odor of the remaining goo assaulted his nostrils. Nausea bubbled in his stomach, bile crawling up his throat. He crawled back into the pod. They say the smell of human decomposition was one the human body was hardwired to recognize and Danny could now say with confidence that rotting halfa was the same. Even if he’d been completely unaware of the lifepod’s contents the smell alone sent a shiver down his spine. It was easier to dissociate the pile of goo on the floor before it’d decomposed to this extent. Dried blood stained the floor any green that’d been there was gone without a trace.

This…This would be a gruesome site for whoever was going to collect the life pods after this was over. It’s a difficult scene for him to see for ancient's sake! It was funny to think that despite the horrid smell and blood, he’d rather have found something like this in Lifepod 3. Bodies, or at least more than a PDA entry to prove someone was here! He’d perfer finding blood and rot than have the dead be forgotten so easily. They’d died within the meager three hours Danny had been unconscious, and been torn into by local wildlife until nothing remained before anyone could respond to their distress signal.

Tearing his eyes away from the puddle, Danny sucked in a deep breath, regretting it instantly as putrid air filled his lungs. His PDA screamed, biohazard warnings taking over the screen, begging him to leave. With a shake of his head, Danny covered his nose with his hand toddling towards the radio. The device was flashing and Danny couldn’t hit a play button harder than he had today. 

“Playing pre-recorded distress call…” Waiting on his tippy toes Danny stared at the device with hope-filled eyes as a human voice sounded through the pod.

“This is Ozzy from the cafeteria. What the hell guys?! They didn’t warn us this might happen!” Danny’s heart sank as the message continued.

“Our pod was almost crushed by the seamoth bay on the way down, now we’re hanging on the edge of a cave system and this grim-looking snake thing’s trying to eat through the hull! Come get us already!” 

Saying that didn’t sound good would’ve been an understatement. How many hours had it been since this message was sent? A grim-looking snake thing? He has someone like that outside. Chances were they weren’t talking about the same snake thing.

 Dami has a snake-like body, but he resembles more of a dragon or a sea serpent…Dami hadn’t even made an attempt to hurt Danny or his little base. Sure, he scratched the glass but Danny had a feeling those claws were capable of much worse. Trust was a strong word to use when talking about a giant sea monster but Danny was confident Dami wouldn’t freak out and try to kill him for no reason.

All he’d done since seeing him was give reason after reason to kill him! Honestly, Dami just seems confused by his existence, but to be fair Danny is too. Logically he should be permanently dead, erased from every plane of existence but something gave him a third chance at life. Now he’s everyone’s problem!

Updating the signal to his PDA Danny crawled back out the lifepod, a signal to follow and materials to gather.

@ashoutinthedarkness @avelnfear @meira-3919 @thought-u-said-dragon-queen @hugsandchaos @blep-23 @zeldomnyo @bytheoldwillowtree @justwannabecat @shepherdsheart @starlightcat04 @stargazing-bookwyrm @pupstim @dragongoblet @noxcheshire

[5mind]

It wasn't uncommon for employees of the Agency to get sent out to work under affiliates of the company. And of course, most of the time this meant working under another villain.

Enter Antares decked out in the bright yellow hazmat suit that was standard issue for the Busy Little Bees that worked under The Pollinator. True to the motif of little flying insects, it even had black stripes across the limbs and stylised bee wings printed on the back. It didn't have a tail hole though.

'What was even the point of sending him over then?' Antares thought. 'That's like his whole charmpoint !'

He had a very strong hunch he already knew why they'd picked him to come out here. It was punishment. Someone at work, higher up the ranks, had it out for him! Who? Well...it could be anyone for any reason, really.

"B-8!" Antares was rudely wrenched out of his morning blues by a stern voice and gloved fingers snapling right in front of his face.

"Stop gawking at the flowers, and set the equipment up already. These pollen aren't dispersing themselves!"

In his defense, the flowers in the greenhouse of Pollinator's lair were very gawkable. Not that he was gawking at them.

Antares, or should we say B-8 , stifled a groan and dragged his feet. Where to? Anywhere but away from Pollinator.

"Oh and B? B-8?" Pollinator addreased him with faux sweetness."Be a dear and go pick up strain K26-dash-05-dash-22 from storage. You can do that, can't you?"

Antares nodded. But then realised his (thankfully) temporary boss wouldn't be able to tell what with the hazmat suit and replied with a tired "yes, ma'am".

It was all mundane manual work, screwing things closed and making sure everything was fixed tight. And then to the storage room.

Well, not straight to the storage room. You see, Pollinator was a fan of complicated buildings of questionable architectural sense. So first, he had to go through a frightfully sterile labyrinth that required passing through a decontamination chamber on the way in (and out).

As he trudged past door after identical door, Antares started to wish he hadn't been one of the few Busy Little Bees that had actually shown up early for this shift. The faltering ceiling lights seemed almost empathetic to his plight (not that ceiling lights had feelings).

The lights flickered and dimmed and yellowed but never went out.

Wait-

Yellowed?

Antares blinked. He looked up at the ceiling and then at the corridor before him. It wasn't the lights that were yellow.

There was something in the air - little particles floating and gathering on the screeb of his hazmat suit in a thin yellowish film.

Was this normal? Or was there some sort of breach? Antares continued forward. If there was something wrong, he should at least report it to Pollinator, right? Better than her finding out later on her own and thinking he'd caused it somehow.

Whatever it was.

The air grew denser with particles and through the piss-yellow filter of pollen, Antares saw where this was all coming from. A door hung open ahead of him. And in front of the door, crumpled in a heap and staining the floor, was a person.

No, not a person, but a subject.

They coughed as they raised their head weakly at the sound of approaching footsteps. Something grew under their skin, criscrossing their terrified face with verdant veins and bursting in blooms through gangrenous wounds.

"Hel- herrgh--" They coughed, hacking up blood and pollen. And yet, between coughs, they tried to speak. Tried to plead.

"...uh...alright..." Antares mumbled. It was almost disconcerting to him how bile didn't even rise up his throat at the sight. "Let's just get you back inside-"

He was cut off by a loud wheeze - pained and rattling. It was not from the poor little thing in front of him but from the room all that pollen was coming from.

There were more.

And from the looks of it, whoever had put them there had done an awful job securing them. Or at least one of them.

The escaped subject staggered onto their feet and then in a desperate burst of vitality, attempted to flee from the (temporary) Busy Little Bee.

They weren't fast enough.

A low kick knocked them to the floor. Another kick and they skidded back into the yellow haze that filled the room they'd just broken out from.

Antares slammed the door shut. He spat out a curse as he found the door handle jammed. So that was how they'd gotten out in the first place.

Leaning against the door, he tapped on the side of the hazmat suit's headgear to activate a hidden communication device to report all this to Pollinator. Choked sobs behind the door were soon drowned out by the scolding he got for taking too long to get one (1) vial of pollen.

[l-egionaire]

Boiling Isles Angel's headcanons.

So, something I discussed with my friend @ordinaryschmuck was the idea that angels do exist on the Boiling Isles. And since I previously asked if someone else had ideas, I figured I'd share mine.

The Angels reside on islands that float in a ocean of clouds just above the clouds that deliver things like boiling rain down onto the Isles, called the Floating Seas. It's a bit like Skypia from One Piece, where the clouds act more like water and oceans than actual clouds, complete with "fish" and "sea life" who get through the clouds by flight.

Unlike Witches, Angels don't have pointed ears. Instead, they all posses wings. And instead of a bile sac in their hearts, Angels magic storage organ is a gland in their brains. They have halos because they're a magical optical illusion similar to a rainbow created by excess magic being vented through the pores in their scalps.

Despite how different they might seem, Angel and Witch magic is almost exactly the same, done through them making spell circles. They even have the same main nine tracks as Witches, though their Abominations are more like solid statues then slime blobs and they call them Guardians instead.

Angels also have some similar seeming magic items to witches, such as using scrolls as phones. However, instead of having crystal balls for computers and TV substitutes, they use mirrors instead.

Angel food is much closer to human food than witches food is, being made up of regular seeming cows, chickens, and human like vegetables. However, unlike human food, Food grown or raised by Angels on their land either shines with bright light or looks as if it was made of gold. Even the raw salt they gather look like bars of gold. Eating any of it gives the eater a bright golden glow, giving Angels and other species that reside above the clouds with a golden shine to their bodies.

Angels aren't the only species that reside on their floating skylands. They also share the land with dragons and nature sprites. These beings also have wings and can perform magic.

According to myth, the Archipelago was formed when a great dragon, with powers equal to the Titan's of the Isles, came from the stars and breathed the magical floating clouds into existecene. Then, her she'd scales fell to the land and made it fertile, also giving birth to the dragons and nature spirits who live their. She then fell into a deep slumber, but would one day awaken when needed. Since then, a dragon who was said to be part of the great mother dragon's lineage rules over the lands.

Instead of Palisman, Angels and other magical beings of the sky make their staffs using magical jewels they then use to make staffs. They place a single magical jewel at the staffs end, and when they need to travel, the staff can shrink into an amulet that they keep on their person until they need it.

Angels don't have covens, but rather guilds who find work for magic users who specialize in a specific form. And their police force and military that is made up of a group of Angels called the Archangels. Like the Emperor's Coven, they're considered the best of the best in terms of magical ability, and their focus is on protecting the Archipelago.

Despite their different aesthetic, similar to the Islands, the Angel's are naturally fine with most LGBT+ type people.

The Angels are forbidden by law from ever going below the clouds. Millions of years ago, there was a terrible war between witches and angels and when it was over, both sides decided to no longer live in the others lands. Angels fell into myth among witches, but Angel's still know the witches and demons are down there. And most wish to avoid another war, so they keep in the sky's.

Angel's are to witches what aliens are to humans: As far as they're concerned, they're a myth, and anyone who talks about them is considered crazy. (Tiny Nose talks about them non-stop).

[ebbyillustrations]

Slight update to my Sally Acorn design.

This sure grew out of control! Following what I know of Sega and their character requirements is an interesting art challenge, gotta say. Stat details for readability:

Stats:

"Age": Mid-teens (15)

Species: Red squirrel (American)

Skills: Gymnastics, coding, forest gardening, hardwiring, planning

Driving force: Protect her people/team, finding her dad

Likes: Her people, flowers, ballads, chess, technology

Dislikes: Eggman, Naugus, over-formalities, [being underestimated especially when it comes to her skills]

Image songs: Stardust Speedway (Good Future), Chill Palace Zone by NutBonkers

Design Inspo: Gymnasts (Gabby Douglas, Simone Biles), Major Kusanagi (Ghost in the Shell), her SatAm pilot design

Ranks I just made up: Speed: B [she's as fast as every other character who's not Sonic or Shadow] Power: C [she can lift one person, slowly push a large rock...] Skill: S [she's a fast learner, especially when it comes to tech and a brilliant strategist who's gotten better at thinking on the fly] Flight: N/A

Game play:

uses "Midden system", originally created [by Rotor, NICOLE, and herself] for salvaging and storage.

when the Midden system is activated, the arrows on her outfit glow cyan

names attacks after chess moves/tech terms

"Caches" items to use later on

asks NICOLE to "scan" items

can cling to many surfaces (she’s a squirrel lol)

Homing attack (“Castling”): jumps to take over robot enemies, only temporary, robot explodes after use.

Counter/parry (“Counter gambit”): she forms an orb of coding to throw at enemy projectiles (think Kirby’s star bullet), can be done while running, a high risk/high reward for stronger enemies.

Spin attack (“Shadow tail spin”): not a 1 shot, take 3 hits to be effective

Sync: calls on friends via NICOLE for specific jobs, only 3 friends can be picked before levels.

[autumnslance]

23: wearing someone's clothes.

(Have 770ish words, I made myself feel things when writing.)

She had to dump her entire pack to find the dress and its accessories. She had packed it near the bottom, wrapped in other clothes to keep it safe. Practically hidden, in case someone came snooping—but also from herself, in some ways, after giving in to the impulse to bring it along.

“Our mother bought this fabric,” her sister had said, as she struggled with the pattern. “She always meant to make it into the traditional dress for me, but…” her sister trailed off, leaving her younger self to nod.

It had not been practical, to grab the sewing bag and cloth among their few possessions as they fled. An impulse, her sister said. A memory of home and family and traditions, as they built a new life so far away. Sewing skills not up to the task, her sister finally admitted defeat, and found a local tailor willing to work with her to create the dress, the pants, the shoes. The blade-bracer their father had already fit to her sister’s arm.

She remembered helping her sister put the dress on, after thoroughly washing her hands and filing her nails, not wanting to snare or mar the fabric, admiring how it felt, how it looked, and how her sister looked wearing it. She remembered watching her sister, beaming and brilliant, flowing like fire through her forms, a deadly dance of their own, the fabric accentuating every move.

She held the bundled fabric to her face, willing herself not to cry, though the warning prickles stung at her eyes. Years of storage preservation had wiped out any lingering traces of her sister’s usual warm, spicy perfume, let alone her natural scent.

She didn’t remember what either smelled like anymore, anyway. Not really; it was just an impression.

“When I grow up, I want to wear it!” she had exclaimed once, watching her sister twirl for her amusement.

“Someday we’ll make you a dress of your own!” her sister had laughed in response, cupping her face and pressing a kiss to her forehead, making her fuss and squirm. She wasn’t a baby, after all!

She wished her sister were here now, to cup her face and kiss her forehead.

What she had was the dress. They had never made her one of her own. They never had the chance.

She shook out the clothes, wrinkling her nose at their state after storage and being folded in her pack for moons, and set to cleaning out the smell and steaming out the wrinkles. She had an appointment of her own making to keep, but she wouldn’t—couldn’t—simply wear her sister’s dress this first time without showing it the proper respect.

Their mother had chosen the fabric for its color and its resilience both. She was grateful for that as she finished her work, looking at it all hanging together. She hurriedly bathed herself next; travel grit and grime, salt and sand, blood and bile seemed to have accumulated even with all her other—oft hurried—washing up. But before she wore her sister’s dress for the first time, she had to be clean.

She remembered the near-ceremony her sister had induced in everyday bathing, when preparing to wear the dress for an important event. As she brushed out her hair and put it back in its tail, she remembered all the times her sister had done so for her, while talking about the styles and fashions of their people.

She put on the dress, pleased that it fit so well. She looked in the stained, cracked glass serving as her mirror, and sucked in a breath.

Everyone always said she looked so much like her sister; if they had been closer in age, they would have been mistaken for twins. Her vision swam and stung again, even as she smiled at herself, and in a way, it was like having her sister smiling back, finally seeing her in a woman’s traditional dress.

A dress worn for special occasions, made strong enough to last through time and rigorous use.

What occasion was more special than winning back one’s homeland?

She hugged herself tight, wrapped in her sister’s dress, made from cloth their mother had chosen and begun to shape, and wearing the blade-bracer their father had forged for her sister’s arm. She had left the mask behind, but still carried her family with her into this final battle that they were not here to see, yet were a part of. Because they were part of her.

Embraced by those memories, the woman in the red dress squared her shoulders and stepped outside to fight through the storm.