#fuzzy glowy guy

[mockingjaylad]

Happy birthday Jason 🎂🎂 (second cake is for Alfred)

More Jason and raw drawing under!!!!

Jason complication from this year <3

[hallahart]

here's 2000 words of self-indulgent solavellan veilguard reunion fic that is wildly noncanonical, apropos of nothing~

-

The Lighthouse, for all its depressing divorcée energy, is gorgeous—lots of magic lights, frescoes and paintings, high ceilings. Definitely nicer than the mud hovel Rook used to sleep in. But one mural (in what Rook is generously calling the living room—it has more of a tomb-like feel at the moment) is particularly eye-catching, seeing as how it’s about a story high: a woman reaching skyward, rising from the jaws of a snapping wolf with some kind of weird green geometric patterns surrounding her. 

“Who’s she?”

Rook doesn’t know Solas well enough to read him—the man is as impenetrable as Nevarran poetry—but they can hear his teeth grind from across the room. For a thousand year old god (or whatever), he sure is touchy.

“Must you pry into every nook and cranny?”

Rook ignores him, peers closer. “Oh, wait, I see it now. Green glowy hand, pointy ears. You know the Inquisitor?”

“I am surprised that Varric—“ he stops himself, starts over. “Yes. I knew her.”

He’s so obviously annoyed and uncomfortable that Rook has no choice but to wiggle their eyebrows. 

“Knew her, knew her?”

“The Inquisitor is of no concern to you.” Most people would probably backpedal when Fen’Harel looks at them like that, but Rook isn’t most people. They never really had a knack for survival instincts.

“Oh wow, you did, didn’t you?” Rook can’t quite imagine the standoffish man in front of them being romantic with anyone. He’s pretty…severe. They’re pretty sure he’s never smiled in their presence. “You know, I’ve never seen her in person, but those recruitment posters they put up back home—was she really so, you know…” Rook mimes some unlikely curves. 

Solas pinches his nose, and Rook is delighted to see a blush spread across his cheeks. “This conversation is over.”

Rook almost takes mercy on him. But apart from the sad silverware situation, this is the first glimpse of Solas they’ve gotten as a person and not some freaky wolf god with great taste in real estate. 

“So did she break up with you before or after she learned you were an evil trickster god?” They wiggle their fingers in mock menace.

Solas’ eyes flash and Rook knows they’ve gone too far. Whoops. Solas can’t kill them, not without possibly frying his own brain (or spirit, or whatever, Rook’s fuzzy on the details), but they’re sure he can make their life pretty damn unpleasant.

But all he does is sigh, the dark circles under his eyes deepening by the second, and holds up a hand. “Let us please focus on stopping the evanuris. Anything else is a…distraction.”

His voice is hoarse, and Rook immediately feels bad. Clearly this wasn't some meaningless fling (the twenty foot mural should have probably clued them in)—Solas is in it. Present tense. The sad empty rooms start to make a whole lot more sense.

You are the loneliest asshole I’ve ever met, they want to say.

“Yeah,” they say instead. “No problem. Plenty else to discuss. Ancient blighted gods freed from their eternal prisons, etcetera. Say no more.”

Rook can’t be certain, but they’re pretty sure the look on Solas’ face is grateful relief. 

What the hell happened between this guy and the Inquisitor that makes thinking about the gods that want him dead a relief?

___

Rook is lying on the couch pining over Taash and her stupid sexy crystal horn when Varric and Solas enter, already deep in furtive conversation.

The polite thing to do would be to let out a discreet cough to announce their presence. Rook burrows deeper into the pillows and holds their breath.

“Absolutely not, Varric,” Solas hisses. Sometimes he reminds Rook of a sad stray cat they used to feed. Very similar auras.

They come to a stop behind Rook’s couch. “Listen. I get it. Trust me. But if there’s anyone who can help us—“

“No. It is simply out of the question.”

“You’re going to have to face her eventually, you know.”

“There is no reason for the Inquisitor to involve herself. These are my mistakes to fix. Not hers.”

Rook can picture the pitying expression on Varric’s face. “Look around, Chuckles. Your Lighthouse isn’t empty anymore. Like it or not, you have to rely on the rest of us. And Ellana is already involved, even if you don’t want to admit it.”

“The Inquisitor is not—“

Varric scoffs in exasperation. “Took her arm off and can’t even say her name?”

Took her arm off? Whoa. Rook’s heard rumors, but…

There’s a brief pause. Rook can imagine the seething look Solas is giving Varric—it’s been pointed at them often enough. 

“Perhaps I should find a crossbow to name after her. Would that please you?”

Varric lets out a breath that’s half sigh, half chuckle. “Too soon. Way too soon.” 

Rook’s tried to pry into this whole romantic situation, of course, but Varric always deflects, saying something like Don’t even get me started or You’ll just have to pre-order my next book.

Another silence. Then Solas speaks again, his tone softening. “I have caused her enough grief.”

Varric sounds unmoved. “Yeah, by avoiding her for ten years. Has anyone ever told you that you’re impossible?”

“On occasion, yes.”

“Seriously, if you think she’s going to sit this one out now that she knows you’re here—“

Any gentleness is gone. “Excuse me?”

Varric’s nervous laugh makes Rook cringe deeper into the couch. “Yeah, about that… listen, you know it’s impossible for Sparkler to keep secrets from her. It was going to come out eventually, what with the whole ancient evil gods thing. I think she could put two and two together.”

Rook can practically feel the frost radiating from Solas’ voice. “You will tell her you were mistaken.”

“A little late for that,” Varric says sheepishly. “She’s, uh, arriving tomorrow.”

Rook winces at the slammed door that follows in the wake of this new information, and the movement is enough to give away their hiding spot. 

Varric peers down at them, his eyebrows raised. “You heard all that, huh?”

“Yeah,” Rook says, sitting up. “That was, uh…”

“Tell me about it.”Varric sighs, rubs a hand down his face. “Tomorrow is going to be a shitshow.”

___

Inquisitor Lavellan is very short in person. And she looks almost as tired as Solas. And she’s pretty–dark hair and skin, bright green eyes and a wry set to her mouth that looks out of place on the person who was supposed to be Andraste’s prophet. Rook was expecting someone a lot more dour and…Chantry-y. 

She’s also really obviously out of Fen’Harel’s league. No wonder he’s been pining for a decade.

She shakes their hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Varric,” she says.

“It’s an honor, your Worsh—uh, your Inquisitorial—“

“Ellana is fine,” she says—kindly, but impersonally, and Rook supposes she’s had this same interaction about ten billion times.

“Ellana, then,” Rook says, and she rewards them with a small smile.

“So you’re the one who interrupted the ritual,” she says. “With some rather interesting side effects, I hear.”

“You mean being magically linked to the grumpiest elf in Thedas? Yeah, interesting is one word for it.”

They’re arrested by the Inquisitor’s hand on their arm. “You could have been cruel to him, and few people would have blamed you. I must thank you for that.”

Her eyes are piercingly kind, and Rook suddenly understands how this woman had entire nations bowing to her will. They have no idea what to say, mouth dry.

“Still, I can’t imagine it’s been easy,” she continues, the wry smile back.

Rook shrugs, hoping their blush isn’t as red as it feels. “In terms of difficult personalities, he ranks a little below my Aunt Beryl, though Aunt Beryl couldn’t turn people to stone with—“

Then they spot Solas over the Inquisitor’s shoulder, hovering in the doorway like a ghost. He’s about as white as one, too.

“Inquisitor,” says Solas, his voice so void of emotion that it gapes like an open wound. 

Rook has a front row seat to the expression that plays across Inquisitor Lavellan’s face. Shock — she grabs the shoulder of her missing arm. Then something Rook can’t quite name—a deep well of some dark thing that makes them shiver, something they hope they never have to feel. 

And then her mouth settles into a grim line, eyes closing for a moment before she turns, back ramrod straight.  

“Solas,” she says, voice steady as she releases her shoulder. Solas’ eyes track the movement with his jaw set.

“You look well.”

It’s like he’s commenting on the weather. 

Rook, frankly, wants to throttle him. The woman you’ve painted onto every other surface of your house is right here, you idiot! Say something better than you look well! They try to communicate this through a series of glares, but Solas seems to have forgotten anyone but the Inquisitor exists. Fair enough.

“You look terrible,” she replies, stepping closer. Her voice is thick. Solas takes a step back.

“I think it best if we—“

“Solas,” she says, stepping forward again, and there is nowhere left for him to retreat. She has the Dread Wolf cornered. Slowly, as though taming a wild animal, she raises her hand to him, coming up to touch his face, the line of his jaw. “You’re really here.”

Rook backs away, knowing this is very much not for their eyes and ears, but—well, they’re nosy, and so they pause in the doorway, shamelessly eavesdropping. Luckily the two elves seem to have forgotten Rook’s even there.

Solas exhales roughly at her touch, ten years of tension rushing out of him in a moment. “Inquisitor—Ellana, I—“

“Hush,” she says, and drops her forehead to his.

Solas’ face crumples. “How can you—I do not deserve—” Rook can barely hear him.

“We have plenty to catch up on,” the Inquisitor murmurs, her voice gentle. “But you are alive, and safe. For now that is enough.”

Like a dam breaking, Solas reaches out, his arms wrapping around her like a drowning man, tight as a sieve. Rook is pretty sure he starts to cry, a sob coming from deep in his chest and shaking his entire frame.

Okay. Enough. Rook’s pretty sure Solas would actually murder them if he remembered they were still there. So they make their exit and ease the door closed without a sound.

They’re happy for him, despite everything. And they really hope they don’t fuck on Rook’s favorite couch.

[hush-writes-preg]

I love the idea of tutoring a huge massive football lineman like 6'5 450 lbs that can easily pick up my 5'4 215 lbs frame like a sack. One night visiting a frat party party we both get drunk and he gets possessive when someone starts flirting with me so he picks me up to show off and then breeds me in front of everyone before taking me up and dropping more loads in me to make sure I become pregnant so he can show off.

You hadn't expected to become a part of the frat scene at college, but then you hadn't expected to be invited along by the school's star lineman, either. Was that one of the perks of tutoring? You weren't sure, but you weren't about to turn down free pizza and beer.

Only it wasn't just beer, and apparently, your relationship with the lineman wasn't nearly as platonic as you'd thought. You were feeling mighty fuzzy yet good by the time one of his buddies tried to flirt and cop a feel, and he didn't take that well at all. You yelped as you found yourself yanked away and lifted into the air like you weighed no more than a feather. The others laughed and cheered him on while you sputtered in protest, demanding that he put you down, but he silenced your objections with a whiskey-soaked kiss.

Mmmm. Oh. Oh, that was nice.

So was the hand snaking up your shirt, boldly fondling you in ways you'd never expected from such a popular guy. Forbidden heat blossomed between your legs and left them rubbery. The thick shaft of his arousal nudged against your groin as he made his best attempt to suck the soul from your body, and you instinctively wrapped your limbs around him, the sounds of the crowd around you fading in the face of his unexpected attention.

You needed this. You needed him.

So when he flipped you around and pushed you down across the beer pong table, you didn't resist. The cool, sticky surface stuck to your bare skin as he yanked your pants free and slid between your thighs. The alcohol in your system made everything sort of soft and glowy, but there was nothing soft about the shaft that filled your sopping hole in one confident thrust.

You grabbed the edge of the table and held on as best you could as he pounded your inexperienced body, completely obvious to the envious gazes of the rest of the frat house as your lineman staked his claim. More than twice your size, he pumped in and out of your greedy body with the same stamina that got him through a championship game, and there was no way you could hope to keep up.

How many times did you come on that relentless cock? How many times did he come, his seed spilling into your unprotected body as the others watched and cheered?

"Mine," he grunted against the back of your neck as his balls rhythmically clenched and spat their potent load into your womb yet again. "Gonna knock you up so good that there ain't nobody who's gonna take you from me."

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. You should be terrified at the thought of accidentally getting pregnant-- you weren't on birth control, after all. But something about his words struck a primal vein in the depths of your mind, and you couldn't stop your body from clenching desperately around him.

Though a little embarrassed afterward, you survived the night and continued tutoring him, just as he continued bending you over convenient surfaces when the mood struck.

And when you waddled across the stage at graduation at the end of the school year, you did so on his arm, your lineman looking proud as hell all the while as he showed off your heavily pregnant form to classmates, family, and friends alike.

[sharpbutsoft]

So I know you do digital art, but The Hanged fireMan looks like a watercolor. Do you work with watercolors as well, or is it the program you use?

(please brag about your art process, basically)

Yeah! So I do all my (fan)art in everyone’s favourite innuendo of an art program, Procreate. (Specifically on a 2019 ipad pro with a 1st gen Apple Pencil, both of which I would tentatively recommend if you can get them 2nd hand for less than 200euro like I did)

I did a lot of painting as a teenager, and still paint often to this day. Though I mostly worked in acrylics, I have been known to use watercolours (like, when I was in college I bought a little 3euro paint set and would use the inside of cardboard cereal boxes as diy watercolour paper and paint wild little Irish landscapes… and Winter Soldier fan art, sometimes. 2017 was a different world)

So in summary - I ‘paint’ digitally using some very traditional techniques I picked up over the years, and I kinda prefer digital art now, which I will elaborate on below the cut as I detail how I created The Hanged fireMan…

I’ll start with my favourite digital art ‘cheat’ which is that I use So Many Layers. Like seriously, pretty much every new colour goes on its own layer because I am a control freak and love being able to tweak them all as needed. So for this relatively simplistic piece, I’ve still got something like 20 layers all together.

I’m also usually better at grouping layers but in this one I gave up at some point and it felt dishonest to group them nicely before showing you guys lol

So yeah layers is my biggest hack, but the other is using specific texture brushes

I spent a while playing around with various brushes before finding this Tarraleah one which has just the most delicious watercolour-y texture and a really fun edge to it (and it’s got pressure sensitivity, so I can really control the amount of colour I want to put down on the page)

This background was painted entirely with the 1 brush & colour, and I think it turned out pretty cool. For this particular piece I did have a reference on screen to work off for the most part, but those clouded were just painted with my heart

Next (or maybe before, it’s a while sinceI drew this and sometimes I mix it up) is the lines, which are always done with my best friend, the Procreate Pencil!! I love her, she’s so fuzzy and textured and also if you tilt the tip on the pencil you get a broader line (like with a real pencil) which is just the coolest thing!

When it comes to lines I just sort of go for bigger shapes 1st and details later, and basically always with some kind of reference. I also use a very old & well known trick of putting the most detail into the object of most importance, and leaving the background more loose and vibey

Artists will tell you that this is to draw focus with details. Artists are lying. It’s cause we got lazy after drawing he fun part & phoned the rest of it in lol (I know this because I am an artist)

Also I love this pencil because I don’t have very steady hands and I actually cannot draw straight/smooth lines to save my life! If you’ve ever seen anything resembling a smooth line in something I’ve drawn, it is almost certainly a whole bunch of lines over each other and then erased at the edges to make it look neater

But who needs straight lines when sketchy sketch lines are so fun!

Next is flat colours (the 3layers in the middle with check marks beside them)

I used the same colours as the background, which you can tell from where they completely blend together right down the bottom, and what I genuinely do is use the Tarraleah brush to generally block out he shape, and then go back in with an eraser and smooth out the lines

Why do I do this? …good question

Next is one of my favourite parts, which is adding the lights! Procreate has some really fun -glowy- layer effects - my favourite is probably Add (A) though Colour Burn (CB) is great too for its vibrancy.

Also those 2 layer 11s are there because I duplicated one and then used the ‘Gaussian Blur’ feature to ‘fuzzify’ it (yes, that’s the technical term) It’s a pretty quick and easy way to add a more diffused light effect around something. (I did the same for the yellow reflective strips on the turnouts too!)

Last step now! So full disclosure - I absolutely traced that writing from a photo of a tarot card lol. I actually always trace writing, as, much like drawing straight lines, I’m bad at handwriting on a screen

I also stumbled upon the Exclusion (E) effect by accident - Originally it was going to be a plain cream boarder like a traditional tarot card had, but I wasn’t fully happy with it, so I just flipped through a few layer effects and as soon as I got to this one, I knew it was the right choice

I love the dreamy contrast of the pinks and purples to the dark navy and grey & how it makes everything looks kinda unreal and outer-spacey

And yeah that’s about it! Everything else comes from my 15+ years of Practical Art Knowledge but these are the specifics of how I utilise it digitally!

This was a lot of fun to write out, and I hope that if you’ve made it all the way here, it was fun to read too!

[blackthorn-legion-irl]

Tommy Mail.

One weird glowy green metal cube thing this pink fuzzy guy told me to send to "Lise's friend".

-T

oooh, cube. what's it do?

i have some suspicion, but if it is my first thought it's definitely been powered down on the way here. no radification epidemics from me today

[n1ko-whoisdefinatelynotacat]

(oh boyyy… it’s a practice write thinggg)

“How’s your head?”

They sighed, covering their eyes with their arm.

“I can tell a headache is building, but it’s not too bad just yet. Hopefully taking a break like this can help head it off.”

“That’s usually what the teachers in my course say to do when somebody asks, so I’d say that’s a good idea.”

They just nodded, trying to focus on Asa’s voice instead of the slowly building pain between their eyes.

But it really didn’t feel much better. It honestly just started to feel worse as time went by.

After a few minutes, they felt a sort of shift in their mind, and knew the glowy guy must be awake again. They seemed confused, and after a second, they were aware that the other had started looking through their eyes as well, though all they would be able to see was their arm covering their eyes.

‘Niko.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Are you alright?’

‘I’ve been better.’

‘Are you hurt?’

‘No.’

‘Then what’s happening?’

‘Headache. I get them pretty often. Something to do with the yellow phosphor that got into my body from my time in the simulation, and the boosted light magic doesn’t always help.’

‘I see.’

The other went quiet for a moment.

‘I really do need to tell you my name. Glowy guy isn’t right at all.’

They couldn’t help but laugh a little, explaining to Asa what had just happened when she asked.

‘That’s probably a good idea. Have you figured out how to say it yet?’

‘I have.’

‘Well then, le-‘

They stopped, wincing. Why did the pain between their eyes feel so much more intense all of the sudden?

Everything felt fuzzy… they were aware of Asa trying to get their attention, and at the same time, they knew the glowy guy was trying to get their attention too.

But the pain between their eyes felt like it multiplied by a million, and everything went white.

[sonicaspeed123]

sure! let's hear about Chao Sonic theory!

THSI IS SOOOOO EXOMEM BASED BUT

>No parents

>No concrete memory before green hill

>the Mural in sonic 3 hello hi. This kid has a Destiny whether he likes it or not (he does Not) (Zeph is having a very hard time coming to terms with this actually)

>Chaos Emeralds' Favorite little Guy

>Extremely in tune with nature

>Looks like a neutral run/run chao which presumably existed before him and also can be created without exposure to him specifically so it CANT just be DNA based like knuckles' amy's and tails' lookalike chao are. Dark run/run looks like shadow which makes sense considering his hybrid silliness and his chaos powers silliness

>Connection to frontiers' Ancients?? Able to navigate through cyberspace with relative ease compared to his friends who got Trapped. Literally doesnt comment on the glowy shit that happens when he interacts with certain puzzles on starfall (rotating statues makes his hand LIGHT UP and he fuckin TELEKINESIS-ES IT??) And he is SO casual about having his brain just integrated into the cyberspace network. No big deal its just my Brain. Anyways chao are literally evolved Ancients. So.

>zeph's earliest memory is a veeeery fuzzy memory of a chao garden

>Zephyr ate chao fruit regularly no consequences. Normally fucks with other ppl's tummies

>Sonic is a mutated chao. To me

[kerryweaverlesbian]

Cas using the angel blast sigil also blasts him back in time and he can't stop staring at Dean in the next bed over and telling him he is special and worthwhile and Dean can't help wanting to comfort this guy who's acting like this is the first time he's ever experienced discomfort.

Dean makes a quip when Cas is complaining about his injuries like 'what you need someone to hold your hand?' And Cas thinks about it and goes '....I think that would be very nice, yes' and Dean's like '[suddenly so so badly wants to hold his hand] ha. Well don't look at me I'm too far away.'

And then later Dean has an especially rough time or a surgery or something and he wakes up to find Cas has struggled over to sit next to him and hold his hand.

Cas gets his powers back and healed via some sort of huge glowy event and Dean (awed) goes 'what are you?' And Cas goes 'you wouldn't believe me.' (He's learned from experience. S4 Cas would have just said it lol). Dean's like 'You'd be surprised' and Cas thinks about it but then he shakes his head.

Dean (sarcastic) is like 'and where's my miracle cure?' Not expecting anything and Cas looks at him with his tubes and his wires and his eyebags and he leans in really slowly to give Dean a chance to say no if he wants to. Dut Dean doesn't say no. So Cas kisses him on the forehead to heal him too and disappears between two reverent blinks.

(I was gonna say he doesn't to preserve the timeline but I don't think Cas gives a flying fuck about the timeline with Dean right there looking like. Well we've all seen Faith.)

The event gets very fuzzy to Dean after the fact so he doesn't recognise Cas but one time Dean gets sick with the flu while Cas’s powers are on the fritz and Cas holds his hand and Dean's like. Oh. 'You left early last time.' 'My apologies, I had an Apocalypse to get back to'. 'Well, you should have let me...' Dean paws at Cas’s shirt with no strength but Cas gets the picture and leans forward enough that Dean can kiss Cas on the forehead.

Then Dean coughs for half a minute and laughs and goes 'there. You're all better now.'

And Cas is like. Dazed with the romance. 'Yes. Yes I am.'

what if. faith!dean and tmtm!cas kissed........... see my vision rei.......

no because they could make the most devastating tragic love story movie out of this! just two sickly men!!! in a hospital together!!! dying!!! and being gay!!! for each other!!!

[one-more-offbeat-anthem]

there’s one last truth in dean’s pandora box, and he’s ready to let it out. he’s tired of being the guy in the leather jacket, the hardened one, quick with a joke but slow to love, because he’s not slow to love, never has been. 

he’s going to say it, right now, isn’t he? cas (on paper, complete opposite--rich family, rides a bike instead of driving because “carbon emissions, dean,” chose his major by himself and not with shame clawing onto his back, tattoos of rare butterflies) is staring at him in the lamplight, and it’s all fuzzy (dean’s glasses are...somewhere) and glowy, here, crammed into the extra-long twin bed in dean’s dorm room, and--

“I remember when i first saw you,” dean says, words spilling out, and cas blinks slowly. “you--you didn’t see me. it was in the library. i was trying to figure out how to use the copier, and you had about six books on...i dunno. i just remember watching you carry them. you were wearing that sweatshirt with the tattered cuffs.”

“you’re right, i didn’t see you.” cas’s lips curve up at the corners, a smile. “but tell me more.”

“i kept hoping to see you again.”

“you were yearning.”

the word makes dean blush, even if it’s right. even if cas knows he can make dean blush. even if--

cas tangles their free hands together and brings them up to his mouth, kisses dean’s knuckles, reverent. “don’t worry,” cas says, “once i saw you, i wanted to see you again, too.” 

[xkichu]

Hi I'm Kali. I'm new hereeee but im an 18 year old multifandom artist with a main focus of Zelda and Splatoon !! :)) <3

I hope you guys enjoy my works. I am Game Art student in university and just recently moved out :D

This is Tetra / Zaheva ! She is my mammalian OC enjoying the glowy light from the fuzzy ooze.

[archived-kin]

you braid your favourite fire boy’s hair (and get indirectly confessed to, maybe)

note from kin: some of you may say that diluc is too calm and stoic to be an arsonist but i refuse to believe the man hasn't set a tiny bit of fire to kaeya’s house at some point or another

fandom: genshin impact

character(s): gn!reader, diluc, aether (mentioned), venti (mentioned)

pairing(s): diluc/reader

warning(s): none! (except, like, hair brushing and stuff? i don’t if that counts but i also don’t know what sort of trauma people have so,,, here’s the warning just in case)

genre: fluff

“How do you even manage your hair?”

Diluc shoots you a look over the bar as you lean forward on the counter. “What are you talking about?”

It’s another one of those nights where Mondstadt and the area around it is pretty quiet. Normally you’d be out doing commissions or just general favours for the public with your adventuring buddy Aether and his friend (pet? guardian fairy?) Paimon, but he’s been in Liyue for the last week or so helping Zhongli run some errands, and likely won’t be back for another few days. He had asked you whether you’d wanted to come with him - the two of you make a dynamic duo like no other, after all - but the last time you’d spent time with Zhongli, you’d ended up having to pay about ten thousand Mora in terms of expenses on his behalf. You love the guy, but he really grinds your gears with his inability to comprehend how basic currency works sometimes.

So off Aether had gone to Liyue, though not without promising to bring you back a Starconch or something in return for your offer to patrol his area for him in his absence, and you had stayed behind in Mondstadt, promising to let him know if anything about his missing twin sister comes up while he’s gone.

As much as you’d like to (mostly for poor Aether’s fragile sense of self worth), you can’t say it’s been a particularly difficult week without him in terms of work - you miss your friend, of course, but there haven’t really been any outstanding attacks in the area that you didn’t manage to take care of within the hour. The lack of disturbances also means that Mr Darknight Hero over there hasn’t had much to do either, so he’s spent most of the past few nights behind the bar - which means, of course, that you’ve been coming is much more often than usual to see him.

Angel’s Share is a bar by trade, so of course it’s open all night to any gracious patron looking for something to drink. More than often it’s full, being one of the more renowned taverns in the city, but today is a day of rest, and so Diluc had closed up shop about half an hour ago.

Why are you still allowed in Angel’s Share if it’s closed, you ask? Well, obviously it’s because Diluc likes you so much!

No, that’s a lie - while you’ve always thought of Diluc as a close friend, you’re more inclined to believe that Diluc himself is only letting you stay here past closing time because he owes you for helping him out with a particularly overzealous Abyss Mage that had gotten a little too close to the city gates yesterday.

Still, you can’t help but hope that there’s some other reason behind his lenience...

“Hair’s hard to take care of, and you have a lot of it,” You respond matter-of-factly, dipping a biscuit into your mug of tea and shoving it whole into your mouth. Much like Diluc, you prefer to abstain from alcohol when you can - ironic, considering you’ve spent so much time in a bar recently. “I’m just curious. What do you do with it when you go to sleep?”

He shakes his head with a quiet scoff and returns to polishing an empty tankard. “I don’t do anything with it.”

“What, so you just leave it in a ponytail all the time?”

Diluc looks up to see you shooting him a scandalised look. He sighs, evidently not particularly willing to put up with one of your moods this late at night. “Of course not.”

You relax a little, only to stiffen right back up when he continues, “I take it down to wash it.”

“You—” You take a deep breath in an effort to calm yourself, setting your elbows on the table and pressing your hands together as if praying to Barbatos to save this poor man’s hair-ends. Finally, after a moment of silence, you ask, voice hushed, as if afraid that the answer will be too much for you to handle, “How the hell is your hair still so pretty?”

Diluc pauses in the middle of putting his freshly-polished tankard away. He takes a long while to formulate a response - whether because he’s nonplussed by the gormlessness of your question or something else (because he’s flustered, maybe? You know better than to hope in vain, but you can’t really help what your idiot of a heart does to your mind).

Finally, though, he mutters in reply, “Pretty?”

Your hand hesitates in the middle of reaching for another biscuit from the plate sitting next to you. Diluc doesn’t sound offended, but you know better than to assume that he isn’t. You don’t think there’s anything particularly wrong with calling his hair pretty, but maybe it stings his ego as a man or something?

“Uh, yeah…?” You curl your fingers around your warm mug and pull it towards you, staring determinedly down at its contents to disguise your growing nervousness. “I mean, well, it always looks really healthy and soft and glowy and stuff…”

Well, if he wasn’t offended before, he probably is now. You mentally cuff yourself around the head, reminding yourself that you shouldn’t let yourself get loose-lipped just because you’re so relaxed in the homeliness of the tavern. It doesn’t matter how comforting the warmth of the mug in your hands is, nor does it matter how fuzzy just being in Dilic’s presence makes you feel - you need to watch what you say.

But then you see Diluc move out of the corner of your eye, and you look back up to see him standing much closer than he was before, a smile tugging at his lips. You can practically feel your heart screech out of pure surprised joy as he reaches out and gently brushes his knuckles against your cheek.

“Thank you,” He murmurs - do you dare to hope that you hear affection in his voice? - and pulls away as quickly as he’d come close. “I appreciate it.”

You aggressively force your breathing to even out as he moves back to his work, going about his usual duties of making sure all the bottles on display are tightly shut and squeaky clean. Surely the fact that he willingly initiated contact with you - and such intimate-feeling contact at that - must mean something? Diluc has never been the type to be physically affectionate with friends, not like Kaeya, who you’re pretty sure has kissed about half of his entire friendship circle, or Lisa, who has absolutely zero qualms about giving a stranger a bone-crushing hug if they need one. Even if this only means that he considers you a closer friend than the others, though, you can’t help the delighted flutter in the pit of your stomach.

Diluc’s touch has far more power than you’ll ever admit - brief as the contact was, it’s sent such a rush of adrenaline through your entire body that you somehow muster up enough courage to abruptly ask, “Would you mind if I braided it?”

Diluc pauses again. You watch him in anticipation as he slowly turns around to look back at you. “...why would you want to do that?”

“Uh—” You struggle to come up with a decent reason that won’t make you sound like a lovesick fool, and eventually settle on, “I just think it would look nice?”

Diluc stares at you in silence for so long that you begin to think that you’ve lost him completely with your out-of-nowhere request. Then, however, he gives you a curt nod. “Go ahead.”

You barely catch yourself in time to prevent your shock from showing on your face as Diluc moves out from behind the counter and sits down in the seat beside you. “...uh?”

“Go ahead,” He repeats, reaching up and untying his hair from its low ponytail. It tumbles over the back of the chair in messy waves, reflecting the light of the fire so precisely that it almost looks like it’s glowing in the dim lighting of the tavern. “I assume you know how, since you offered.”

It takes you a moment to do something other than stare in pure dumbfounded surprise, but once you snap out of your mini-trance, you nod hurriedly and get to your feet, reaching in your pocket as you do so. You’ve made a habit of carrying around spare hair ties and a foldable wooden comb ever since you and Aether had started working together - his hair comes undone from its plait a lot in battle, and it’s always all matted and tangled in the morning if he lets it down to sleep - which means you won’t have to fumble about for an hour trying to comb’s Diluc’s abundance of hair out with only your fingers.

Diluc is sitting as prim and proper as ever in his chair as you hesitantly move around to stand behind him and - after a long, uncertain pause - begin to brush his hair. His back is ramrod straight, which doesn’t look comfortable at all, but you suppose that whatever works for him is fine.

“That feels nice,” He murmurs quietly as you carefully tease out a knot. Your hands freeze for a moment, then silently continue with their work. “You’re good at this.”

After a pause, you reply, equally quiet, “I get a lot of practice.”

He hums in reply, and the deep rumble of his voice almost seems to fill the room. “...with Aether, I presume.”

You nod, then realise he can’t see you and hurry to give him a verbal answer. “Yeah.”

There’s a long silence between the two of you. You continue to work your way through Diluc’s abundance of hair, painstakingly spending far too long combing out each tangle and kink out of fear that you’ll hurt him if you get too rough.

You don’t know how much time has passed by the time Diluc finally speaks up again. “You spend a lot of time with him.”

It’s a statement, not a question - but you can’t blame him for phrasing him that way. It’s well-known around the city of Mondstadt that you and Aether have been partners-in-crime ever since the two of you had bonded over nearly being stampeded by a swarm of hilichurls and working together to kill them all. It’s odd that he’s bringing it up now, though… you wonder why.

“...well, I do, yes. We are adventuring partners…”

Diluc inhales and lets out a soft sigh. You don’t miss the way that his shoulders tense up slightly. Another long silence passes, and he finally murmurs, “I might be a little jealous.”

You freeze again. Did you hear him right? Did Diluc really just say what you think he just said? He’s… jealous?

You don’t even have time to try to formulate a response before he starts speaking again. “The two of you are always out exploring together. It’s rare that we get to see each like this.”

“...hey, now…” It’s not often that you’re unable to find words - you’ve always had a sharp tongue. Right now, though, it feels like they’ve all dried up in your mouth. “What are you trying to say…?”

Diluc pauses. Then he lets out a soft chuckle - one that has no right to have the effect on you that it does. “...nothing. I just mean that it’s nice to be able to spend time together like this.”

He doesn’t continue, and you take that as a sign that this particular stretch of the conversation is over, and return to carefully separating his hair into segments. Your hands wobble imperceptibly as you do so, but if he notices, he doesn’t say anything about it.

Diluc sighs and lets his shoulders relax as you start pulling the locks of hair over each other into the beginnings of a long braid, carefully tugging it closer to the base of his head so that it looks a little neater. You’re not sure whether you want to go for something similar to Aethar’s plait or something more intricate, but considering the hour, you’d probably be better off keeping it simple. You wonder briefly what colour ribbon would look nice against the deep red of his hair, but quickly shut the idea down - it’s already a wonder that Diluc is letting you do this, and you don’t want to push your luck.

(You don’t know this, but, though his face is calm and composed, Diluc is so hyper aware of his stuttering heartbeat that he’s sure you can hear it. He almost wishes you would use more force with your hands, if only so that he can feel the movement of your fingers more clearly - there’s something therapeutic in the way they weave through his hair. He could almost fall asleep there on the spot, so soothing is your presence and the warmth of the fire, but he wants to talk longer.)

“Hey,” you begin, suddenly feeling that the quietude is more awkward than comfortable. “If you’re ever free, uh… I’m sure Aether wouldn’t mind if you came out on an expedition with us. There are some rumours about an Oceanid popping up in Starfell Lake…”

Diluc makes an indiscernible noise in response to indicate that he’s thinking about your question. You wait with bated breath, only to feel disappointment drop in your chest like a rock when he shakes his head, shifting the incomplete braid in your hands.

A moment later, though, the pressure disappears as he says quietly, “I’d much rather go with you alone.”

“Oh…” You breathe out loud before realising your mistake. You resist the urge to slap your hand to your mouth to shut yourself up, and instead hurry to rectify yourself by continuing, “That sounds good.”

Diluc chuckles again. “You don’t sound particularly enthused by the idea.”

“No, that’s not what I meant!” You shock even yourself with just how indignantly loud your voice gets. You hasten to quiet yourself, continuing much more mutedly, “Um— I mean, I’d love to.”

You can’t see his face, but you can almost hear Diluc’s soft smile in the way he speaks. “Then it’s settled. I’ll take a look at my schedule and let you know when I’m free, alright?”

You can’t help but feel an enormous grin pulling at your own mouth. Well, can anyone really blame you? You’ve just discovered that your unrequited feelings for Diluc might not be as unrequited as you’d initially thought! It’s almost too good to be true - as if you’re dreaming. It’s like the two of you are one of those couples in Venti’s songs, the ones that he likes to play after a good hour of so of drinking, staring meaningfully at you at the end of each… line…

Wait a minute…

A flame-haired noble with a stare as cold as ice, who does his duties by day and hunts evil at night? An adventurer with no roots left at home, who clings to action so as to not feel so alone? The longing stares across a busy room, the late nights thinking of a face so dear, the romance waiting to blossom and bloom, the hopes and wishes that they would stay here?

Son of a hilichurl! That cheeky bard really wrote a song about you and Diluc - and you somehow hadn’t noticed!

“What’s wrong?”

You jolt out of your train of thought as Diluc turns around to look at you. The faint concern on his face is enough to send butterflies spinning through your stomach. Stupid heart. Am I really that weak for this man? “Huh?”

“You haven’t moved in a while,” He says by way of explanation, gesturing to the end of the braid that you’re still holding. “Is there something bothering you?”

You stare at his face - at the deep red of his irises, the flutter of his long lashes, the strands of red hair framing his face, the faint freckles on the slope of his nose. You breathe out a quiet laugh. Perhaps there will never be a time when you can tell him the true extent of how you feel about him, but this will certainly be a start.

“No, nothing at all. So, about tomorrow…?”

[moonfurthetemmie]

wait i forgot to actually answer your question

see the problem is, I think it'd be fun to have a radiant bat, but i feel like skink would fit him pretty well.

As much as I'd like to make him a little fuzzy glowy guy who hags upside down from your arm or the ceiling, Skink has the Vibes of Boa more for reasons I can't quite explain

Okay: Boa as a bat or boa as a skink. Choose your fighter. They are both teeny.

Yknow actually it’d be REALLY funny if boa and gecko could shapeshift but like. Boa turns into a gecko and Gecko turns into a boa. I don’t think a snake would fit Gecko, but it’d be funny

If I had to choose between bat or skink….

Ough I don’t know

They’re such little guys,,,,

oh my god wait this one looks like a dinosaur

Fucking!!!! Little dino man!!!!! Look at him face!!!

[seriouslysnape]

Hopeless Romantic

__

Lucius Malfoy x Fem. Reader

Warnings: Implications of sex, Language.

Word Count: 1,634

“I see you found one of my messages.”

__

Even Lucius would admit, he wasn’t very in touch with his romantic side. The love language of Lucius Malfoy was physical touch, have no doubt about that. He felt that if his hands were on you, then he was displaying his care and adoration in the only way he knew how. However, after spending more and more time with you, he learned that there were other ways to show his affection.

Words of affirmation were definitely one that stunned him. You were always telling him how you were proud of him and how you admired him. At first, he tried to ignore the way his heart did a little leap whenever you spoke to him this way. It made him feel warm and fuzzy inside, which wasn’t always normal for him. He’d find himself going back to those moments, smiling off into space at how it made him feel. 

Lucius had never been a “flowers on Valentine’s Day” kind of guy. His hands being on your body or his fingers running through your hair or even just brushing by you when he walked by was his way of showing his love. While that was always great and appreciated, he just didn’t understand yet that you needed more than that. 

You had mentioned it a time or two before that you needed to hear his love for you and see it. Lucius became rather irritated, thinking that you were just being overly clingy and ungrateful. Lucius was a VERY proud man, and it was rare for him to ever doubt the way he did things. If you weren’t satisfied with him, then that was a you problem in his eyes. 

While it was incredibly frustrating that he never showed his devotion any other way, you understood that Lucius didn’t know how to. Over time, you were able to identify that his lingering touches and passionate kisses were his way. So, you accepted it and moved on.

Despite this, Lucius began to notice something new. You had accompanied him at a dinner party of sorts, enjoying the company of others and taking that much deserved social time. Lucius had been standing with you, his hand on the small of your back when he caught the conversation you had been having with one of the guests. She was telling you about how her husband had started writing her love notes, and leaving them around the house for her to find later.

Lucius almost audibly scoffed at the thought of such a cheesy idea, but he stopped himself when he saw the way your eyes brightened in a not-so subtle way. You gushed and gawked with your friend for the next ten minutes, going on and on about how romantic that was. Lucius was surprised that you had such a reaction to the idea, and he suddenly began to see just what you had been talking about. 

He spent the rest of the evening thinking about it, wondering if he could pull off the same exact thing. He was confident at first, because how hard could it be to put his love into words? He didn’t realize just how challenging it would be until he had been sitting at his large desk for almost thirty minutes, quill in hand, and the paper completely blank. He was surrounded by crumpled pieces of paper that had been discarded, none of them proving to be successful drafts.

He couldn’t think of a solitary thing to say, or even how to say it. It seemed that his penmanship skills were less than perfect. He was growing more and more aggravated with each passing moment. This shouldn’t be this hard. He was crazy about you, so why couldn’t he string together a damn sentence?

He tossed his quill back onto the desk, ready to give in to defeat. He sighed harshly, his eyes roaming over his previous attempts that were scattered in front of him. His gaze wandered to a gold-framed photograph that he kept at the front of his desk. He picked it up, letting out a soft chuckle as he remembered the day it was taken. 

It was a rather candid picture, which was much different than any of his other images of you, but it was his favorite. It was a bit of a secret hobby of Lucius Malfoy, but he had a glimmer of interest in photography. You were often the subject of his pictures, sometimes they were fully staged and sometimes not. He might take pictures of you just cuddled up next to him on the sofa, or sometimes he’d have you model for him to take more sultry, provocative pictures (that he kept stashed away in a locked drawer in his desk for his sole viewing pleasure).

He glanced over the finer details of the framed picture. The way you looked so glowy and gorgeous. Your eyes sparkled a little more and your skin looked heavenly. His mind wandered to how he loved to touch you as a reminder that you were there with him. How he cherished the way you snuggled up next to him when you were cold or wanted attention. Before he knew it, he was thinking about all the things he loved about you. Exactly the things he wanted to put into words.

He quickly picked his quill back up before he lost his stroke of genius. He wrote like a madman, writing one to three sentences on each piece of parchment before moving on to the next one. He used a lot of the things that you said to him on a daily basis to help him along. He was on a roll after a few minutes, pushing out at least five or six little notes to leave around the house. He planted them in various places, and considering his residence was massive, he had plenty of spaces.

He was proud of himself, but hoping that you would find them endearing. He wasn’t home when you found the first two. The first had been stashed into the novel you were currently reading, falling onto your lap when you opened the book. You raised a brow at the parchment that you identified as Lucius’ personalized stationery. You opened the folded note, reading it so many times because you were sure that you were dreaming.

[Y/N],

Your heart is as pure as the words written on these pages. I love you for being my greatest story.

Lucius.

You were totally shocked. Surely, this wasn’t YOUR Lucius that had written this? The same Lucius Malfoy that sneered at anything even remotely commercially romantic? This was a textbook definition, straight out of a romantic Muggle movie that he would never be caught dead watching. You were filled with joy, an amazing feeling of care rushing over you. It was a wonderful surprise, one that you would keep close to you. 

While the first one was a shocker, the second one was three times that. An hour or so later, you entered the bathroom to take a shower when you caught a glimpse of the small piece of parchment tucked into the corner of the mirror. You plucked it into your grasp, a blinding smile appearing on your face.

My love, 

I hope you find this with a smile on your face, the same one that I have undoubtedly fallen in love with. I love you for being the light of my life.

Lucius.

This one caused tears to prick at your eyes. You were overwhelmed with emotions. You had watched Lucius become “soft” over the years and watched him comply with your needs. Seeing HIS handwriting, writing THESE words that he put together was a gorgeous thing. You wiped away at the happy tears streaming your face when you heard someone enter the connecting bedroom. Sure enough, the man in question appeared in the doorway. A grin appeared on his face when he saw you holding the note.

“I see you found one of my messages.” Lucius said, approaching you at the bathroom counter. 

“I’ve found two...how many are there?” You asked, even more gleeful that you might have more to find.

He hummed thoughtfully.

“Quite a few,” He admitted, snaking an arm around your waist. His smile disappeared when he saw the faint tracks of tears on your cheeks; “Have you been crying, darling?”

He swiped at your damp cheeks, a soft giggle escaping your lips.

“Yeah, but happy tears. I wasn’t expecting this at all, Luc.” You confessed, resting your hands on the collar of his shirt.

He felt his heart melt. He never knew how something so simple would touch you like this. You deserved to feel worshipped and appreciated, and if this was the way he needed to do it, then so be it. 

“I meant everything I said. I do love you. Even if I don’t always say it.” He said, holding your face in his hand.

“I love you, Lucius. I’m proud of you.” You said. 

Oh, there it was. His favorite words of encouragement. He smiled again, listening as you carried on.

“Even if you don’t say it a lot, you always show me,” You said in a seductive tone; “And, oh, do you show it well.” 

His smile faded into more of a smirk. His first instinct to pick you up and place you on the counter, stepping between your legs and leaving hot kisses on your neck. Before he progressed further, he stopped.

“Wait, don’t you want to find the rest of them?” He asked, figuring you’d rather do that instead.

You shrugged. While you did totally want to, you could spare a few minutes for this. You kissed him in response, replying before making sweet love with him.

“Yeah, but I want you more.”

[thenixkat]

The generic pop culture dragon review (4 legs, 2 wings, 1 head) part 2

Toothless the Nightfury from How To train Your Dragon

5.5/10. The thing about Toothless is that if he were in a different series and kept that slit eye expression, I’d love him. He’s got great wings and a nice sleek silhouette. Unfortunately he doesn’t match the style of the other dragons around him and lacks the spikey goofiness that the rest share in their design. If his spikes were spiker and his eyes were just fucking absurd like a potoo he’d be great.

Lightfury from How to Train Your Dragon

2/10. Take everything that doesn’t work about Toothless and intensify it. Throw in ‘how do we show that it’s female?’ plus the very annoying trope of ‘females must be paler than their male counterparts’ and that’s this dragon. Unlike Toothless who I’d like if he was in something else, I wouldn’t like this dragon no matter what she was in. The most striking thing about it is how it turns invisible. I’d say if we’re gonna make her smooth and porpose like, shrink her eyes till their beady, give her a big bulging forehead, and make her chunky chunky and also like twice Toothless’ size.

Thoron the Dragon King from Dragons: Fire and Ice

5/10. Definitely a dragon. I do like the dragon soul gem crystals and each dragon having a different power.  Not a fan of the wings or his colors. Doesn’t scream ‘King of Dragons’ to me. His green markings could pop more, maybe alster the shape of his horns and add green onto them?

Flight of Dragons (All)

7/10. These guys are so chunky and old school I love them. Their anatomy makes no sense but we get the explanation of why exactly it works. These fuckers are balloons and that’s how they fly.

DORUgamon from Digimon

6/10. I love dino-dragons with boxy heads. Also its fuzzy but not overly so. The coloring is nice and the claws and gem pop in contrast. And for a digimon the design doesn’t feel cluttered.

Xeno’jiva & Safi’jiva from Monster Hunter World

7/10 (Xeno) & 4/10 (Safi). The baby form Xeno’jiva looks so damn pretty. Also it looks like it has multiple eyes. I love the crystalline glowy bits and the transparency of the skin. Also the freaky human hands. But the adult form Safi’jiva is such a downgrade. It looks more generic dragon than Fatalis somehow, like I feel like I’ve seen its exact design other places. It keeps nothing from the baby design but the human hands. If it had the constellations on its wings all the time then it’d rank higher.

Shara Ishvalda from Monster Hunter World

10/10. Look at it? Look at it! Fucking creepy and majestic tree demon sonic laser beam spider hand wing dragon. Just its lovely. Also in its rock armor mode its spider crawls its wing hands at you!

Gogmazios from Monster Hunter 4 Ultimate

8/10. It’s about the stance. Bracing with the massive wingarms is just yes. Also it sweats explosive tar and spits explosive tar. Sticky drippy tar. Its got things stuck to it.

Faffy from Dave the Barbarian

1/10. I simply do not vibe with this potato.

Discord from My Little Pony Friendship is Magic

5/10. Hmmm, I would like this better in a different art style. It’s very chimeric (tho doesn’t strike me as chaotic) and kind of evokes an eastern dragon. Not a fan of that tooth tho.

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Not So Golden Opportunity (BAON)

Summary:  Usually Stretch likes getting packages in the mail, but there is always room for an exception.

Tags: Spicyhoney, Established Relationships, Hurt/Comfort

Part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

~~*~~

Read it on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

The knock on the front door wasn’t much of a surprise, not when it came at delivery o’clock. Stretch always had packages coming in, everything from equipment for the lab to a new t-shirt that declared he was a ‘Karaoke King’, there was always something for their delivery person to drop off. At any given time, there was enough cardboard stored in their garage waiting to get dropped off at recycle to make one heck of a box fort, and that was on his list to do with the neighborhood kiddos one of these weekends.

So, the knock on the door? Not a surprise. What they were delivering on the other hand—

“uh, wow, thanks, marty,” Stretch said, a little dubiously. Marty let out an agreeable honk and meandered their way back to their little mail truck, leaving Stretch standing there with an enormous armful of flowers from an unknown source. Couldn’t be from Edge. Sure, he’d given flowers a few times, but Edge was more of an in-person sort of guy when it came to presents.

Welp, there was only one way to find out, wasn’t there. Time to get his Velma on and look for some clues.

Stretch carried the massive thing inside and plunked it down on the coffee table to give it a closer look. It was actually a very nice floral arrangement, even Stretch could see that and he didn’t know shit about flowers or décor. Tiny sprays of white, bell-like blooms and ferny green things surrounding several huge blooms of golden flowers, the likes of which Stretch hadn’t seen in years, not since they were Underground.

Hm. Golden flowers.

The card had Edge’s name on it, but Stretch didn’t bother sneaking a peek. Mystery solves, there was only one person who would’ve had this delivered to their door and he probably made it with his own fuzzy hands. The real question was why that asshole was having flowers sent to his husband, thank you, and the only way to find out if he needed to start making plans to yank out hunks of fur with his bare hands was to ask, with the minimum of simmering jealousy possible.

“babe?” Stretch called. Edge was in the kitchen, making preparations for their new cupboards to be installed next week. “hey, c’mere a minute!”

He’d expected Edge to be pleased, he did like his flowers, heck, maybe even excited in that adorably subdued way he had, and much as Stretch could have done without any surprise packages from Ass-gore in their house, eh, he’d deal with it if they made Edge happy.

The last thing he anticipated was for Edge to stop cold halfway out the kitchen door, the fleeting expression of disgust crossing his face quickly shifting to blankness. Edge wasn’t exactly the most emotive guy out there, but Stretch was pretty good at reading his facial version of charades and right now there wasn’t so much as a twitch of the eye socket or a curl of his mouth as he said, low, “Please put that in the garage.”

“the garage?” Stretch repeated doubtfully. He looked down at the extravagant display of floral dominance in his hands and wondered if he’d heard that right. “you sure?

“Yes, because someone might notice if you put it right into the trash.” That blankness cracked, a little, enough for Edge to snap out, “Just get it out of the damn house!”

Yeah, okay, got that message loud and clear, especially since Edge was starting to look a little glowy around the hands, like he was considering a little impromptu, and violent, floral rearranging. Stretch grabbed up the offending bouquet before it could end up as target practice and shortcutted out into the garage.

Like the rest of the house, it was neat as a pin, no oil stains on this concrete floor and all the tools neatly put away on the pegboard. In the back corner was the motorcycle, shrouded in drop cloths and waiting for Edge to be able to take it out for a spin again. Didn’t seem like putting the flowers anywhere special was part of today’s theme, so Stretch stuffed the thing into the furthest spot, away from Edge’s car so he wouldn’t have to see it when he came out on his way to work tomorrow.

Job successfully achieved, Stretch dusted off his hands and teleported back inside. Edge was already gone from the living room, no surprise there, but he hadn’t gone back to the kitchen. A quick, not-at-all-frantic search found him sitting out on the front porch and that wasn’t really a surprise, either. But the cigarette in his hand? Now that blew past surprise all the way into flabbergasted shock. Far as Stretch knew, Edge hadn’t bummed a smoke in months, his general attitude towards smoking was distaste with extreme prejudice. It took a helluva lot for him to give into the urge for a quick fix to a nicotine craving. Whatever his issues were with the flowers, whether it was the gift or the person who sent them, they were bad.

“babe?” Stretch asked, cautiously, still hovering half in the house. As worried as he was, he wouldn’t push, ready to leave if Edge wanted to be alone.

Edge only shifted the cigarette to his other hand and patted the concrete next to him in silent invitation. A little relieved, Stretch came out and sat down. He dug his own cigarette out of the crumpled pack and the two of them sat hip to hip, quietly smoking. Overhead, the sky was endless sea of deep blue broken only by the occasional streak of a puffy cloud. A nice day, too nice for the unspoken questions hanging heavily in the air, but Stretch didn’t ask them. Edge would talk when he was ready and if he never was, welp, that was fine, too. Edge wasn’t the only one who could be supportive, Stretch was more than willing to take his turn under the weight.

It wasn’t until Edge tamped out his cigarette in the ashtray Stretch kept out on the porch that he spoke.

“I’m sorry,” Edge said finally. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“i think i’ll live, babe,” Stretch replied, dryly, “the wounds were superficial.” He gave Edge a gentle nudge in the side with his elbow. “you okay?”

Yeah, okay, that wasn’t pushing, thanks. Besides, it was a stupid question, because the answer was obviously going to be a ‘yes, fine’ and that’d be it.

Except that he didn’t get the obvious answer he expected.

“Not right now,” Edge said. His sockets were half-closed and instead of their yard, he seemed to be looking miles away. “I will be.” They sat in silence for a while longer, Stretch watching people walking by, waving as required and leaving Edge to his thoughts. He was lighting a second cigarette when Edge finally spoke again, softly. “Golden flowers.” The faint hitch in his voice could’ve meant nothing, if the person he was sitting with didn’t know him so well. “I haven’t seen real golden flowers in years.”

Stretch considered that. “i’m taking it they weren’t sorely missed.”

“Hm?” Crimson eye lights briefly flicked his way. “No, not at all. I hate the blasted things.”

Stretch only took a long drag and exhaled slowly, blowing a smoke ring up into that blue, blue sky. He didn’t ask or urge him to talk, simply being there if he chose to. And Edge did, slowly, as if choosing every word with care. “The only place in Underfell where golden flowers grew was the king’s chamber in New Home. My memories of that place are…not pleasant.”

Not pleasant. Yeah, like lava is a wee bit warmish or the Titanic sprung a little leak. Indisputable truths: water is wet, the sky is blue, grass is green, and any meeting with the king of all Monsters in Underfell was not pleasant.

The explanation made perfect sense, really; if Stretch’d had a minute to actually think about it instead of dividing his attention between ditching the flowers and then finding his wayward husband, he probably would have figured it out on his own. Perfect sense, yep, and that was why Stretch was torn between temptations. First, to grab Edge and hold him close, to keep him there in his arms and do whatever it took to chase away any of the mental ghosts that were creeping in, to be the protector for one damn time. And then there was the equal temptation to take that little flower arrangement on back to the source and see if he could find any handy place to stick it, because right now, he was ready to cram it so far up someone’s fuzzy buns that they’d need their dentist to help get it loose.

But Edge wouldn’t appreciate either of those options. All Stretch could do here was sit here, be here, and hope it was enough.

Stretch was so lost in his thoughts that he startled at the touch of a gloved hand as it settled gently over his bare one, sharp fingertips blunted by fabric lightly stroking his own. “He didn’t know, love. He mentioned to me in passing that he’d started working on floral arrangements again for the summer and that he’d be sending them out to Embassy employees, and I completely forgot.”

Trust Edge to know exactly what direction his thoughts were headed, right off the grid and into a little righteous revenge. Didn’t help that the things Stretch wanted to say to that excuse weren’t exactly helpful. Things like, Asgore should have been able to guess, homey reminders were only good for people who actually liked their past home, and maybe a reminder to pay some fucking attention to anything besides his own personal popularity contest was in order. Or how about suggestion for a visit to emphasis the whole ‘we don’t send my husband any gifts without pre-approval, asshole’.

None of those options were actually useful and either might actually get him banned from the Embassy this time, so Stretch kept ‘em to himself and only said, “i know.”

Then he let out a squawk as that gentle touch on his hand turned into a firm grip around his wrist and he was abruptly yanked over into Edge’s lap. He barely managed to put out his cigarette before it landed anywhere unpleasant. It took a little creative, and occasionally blatant, wriggling to get situated but in the end, he was settled across Edge’s femurs and snuggled in. His own hands were perfectly G-rated, Edge’s only slightly less so but it wasn’t like anyone on the street could see the hand he’d slipped under Stretch’s sweatshirt and settled over his sternum, right where his soul would manifest if he summoned it. Neither of them did, not yet, not out here in front of the broad daylight and the neighbors. The barest suggestion was enough for right now.

“I’m all right,” Edge murmured, and the warmth of his breath against the curve of his jaw was a tempting distraction. But Stretch wasn’t gonna forget to hand over a carefully selected piece of his mind to Asgore the next time he saw him.

Next time fuzzy ass wanted to send a present, he could stick with a gift card.

-finis

[tooomuchtofu]

It’s denial at first, Tubbo thinks in retrospect, that kept him upright where he sat. Denial, along with a healthy dose of the same sort of emotional vacancy that’s gotten him through the past few years in this fucked up world. 

He sees the message on his communicator—of course he does, so does everyone—but his eyes skim over it. It’s just another accident. A bit too long of a fall. A friendly spar. An argument gone sideways. It didn’t stick, surely; whoever’s name he just read in chat felt the death slither down around them like a shed layer of snakeskin, stepped into another life just as easily as taking another breath. Whoever that was is probably sitting up in bed right now. 

It’s fine. It’s alright. Never mind the buzzing that’s started at the base of his skull. Ranboo cracks a joke and he laughs. Jack pokes his head out the doors of the Big Innit Hotel, shooting Tubbo a wary look. Tubbo nocks another arrow and the door slams shut. He puts the bow away. 

His hand drifts back to his communicator, because of course it does. He picks it off his belt, flicks it on and glances at the messages. Did he see that right?

Tubbo has to blink before the screen focuses, his eyes blurring. He’s never been a great reader, really. Even after he’s picked his way past every letter, though, the message above Jack’s most recent death blurs still. The words have flipped themselves on their heads, twisted into monstrous glyphs. Maybe Ranboo sent something in enderspeak. Maybe he’s asleep. 

“Guys, I think Tommy just died,” is what he hears himself say.

Maybe he did read that wrong. Maybe he did. Ranboo’s hand on his shoulder—out of nowhere, wasn’t Ranboo just on the other side of the path?—is the only thing aside from the letters. He still can’t make them out. He blinks again. That might help. 

“Oh my gosh,” Ranboo says, and for a breath, the death message might be real. He can feel his fingers shaking, can feel the cold edge of the communicator where he holds it. 

“Wasn’t he like, your best friend or something?” It’s Jack Manifold. Tubbo doesn’t know when he came outside. 

Tubbo stands, then, from where he’d, at some point, sat on a stray piece of scaffolding. Everything is all bright colors. All of it. There’s sun in his eyes. He thinks it might hurt. He’s looking at it. The white is better than the red or the blue or the green or the tawny, rough oak beneath his feet, because all of that is real. And this isn’t real. 

Ranboo is in front of him. He’s taller. Tubbo can’t see the sun anymore. A shame. It was nice and bright. 

Ranboo is real, too. Black and white like a panda or a cookie or something. Red and green, black and white, rumpled suit and prickly ears. Tubbo giggles. Maybe Ranboo isn’t real; his whole face is speckles with black, swimming and swirling. That doesn’t usually happen. 

“Tubbo, are you okay? Tubbo, why are you laughing?” Ranboo’s brows are all drawn and furrowed. He looks so worried. But that’s okay. That’s okay. 

“Ranboo, you silly… silly man…” Tubbo reaches up, lets his hands find his husband’s, his friend’s, ears, feels the weird fuzzy spots at their bases. 

Ranboo flinches back, grabbing Tubbo’s wrists and pushing them down. “No—Tubbo, why—” He makes a weird hissy sound. Silly funny enderman. “Do you need to sit down?”

“No, it’s fine! I’m alright, big man.” He rubs his hands down his face, pulling at the scar tissue across his nose and jaw. He remembers when he got those scars. Tommy was there. He sat in Tubbo’s room in Pogtopia every night after for weeks. He always woke Tubbo up whenever Tubbo started screaming. That was a permanent death, the festival was. Tubbo is one slip away from dying. So is Tommy. But they’ll be okay, because Dream is in prison. It’s all okay now. Tubbo’s palms are sweaty and sticky, so he takes them off his face. 

“What the hell happened?” Ranboo mutters, fiddling with his communicator. Tubbo isn’t sure he’s ever heard Ranboo say “hell” before. That’s kind of funny. They’ve pretty much spent the entirety of the past few weeks together. Ranboo doesn’t seem to swear much. Tubbo hasn’t done anything but hang out with Ranboo since Tommy finished his hotel. They’ve barely left each other’s sides. Ranboo and Tubbo, Tubbo and Ranboo. 

“Tubbo. Hey, Tubbo.” Ranboo’s hands are on his shoulders again. “Tubbo, where are we?” 

Tubbo hums under his breath. “We are on the Prime Path, big man.” Outside the Bee and Boo. It’s very bright today. Everything looks a little blurry, though. 

“Sam says he’s at the prison,” Ranboo says. “Do you want to go talk to Sam?” 

“Sounds good.” Tubbo looks over at the prison. It’s just past Skeppy’s mansion. The prison, where Dream is. Something… something is wrong. He thinks. 

As he follows Ranboo down the path, he frowns, trying to remember what it is. Something… wrong. At the prison. 

“Wait, but Sam hasn’t died,” he says. “Sam is still there. Dream is still in Pandora’s Vault.” As long as Dream is in prison, they are all safe. Everything is fine. Everything is perfect. They won. They have the discs. It is okay now. 

“Yes,” Ranboo says. 

The approach is long, with the path he walks stretching into infinity. It seems forever that they spend walking towards the prison’s hulking shape. Sam is waiting for them when they get there. 

“I made a mistake,” he says in a shaking voice. “I’m so sorry. Tommy is… Tommy’s dead.” 

And Tubbo is seventeen years old. He is standing in the world he calls home near the path his best friend built out of oak, standing next to his friend-husband-business partner, and he is not crying, because Tommy cannot be dead. Because Tommy does not die. Because Tommy survives. It is what he does. 

And Tubbo did not spend the last week his friend spent in prison falling in platonic love, building a hotel, playing chess, singing and cracking jokes and making pancakes and playing his ukulele. Because Tommy is not in prison, because there is no reason for him to be, and if he is, there’s nothing Tubbo can do anyway, is there? What is there, really, for Tubbo to do, aside from forget what has him curled up in his bed some nights, hugging himself as tight as he can so his stomach will stop eating itself out of helpless guilt? And now everything is fine, because the time is up, and Tommy is fine, because Tommy is always fine, even when there’s lava and holes and fireworks and Dream. 

Tubbo is not crying. That is not a lie, but maybe it is wrong nonetheless. 

xxx

To Tubbo, Dream has not taken all of Tommy’s lives until Tommy is standing outside the hotel the next morning. 

He does not remember falling asleep, but it must have happened somehow, because he has just woken up. He has a splitting headache and an aching heart and dry, blurry eyes, and he thinks he’s seeing things at first. 

Tommy is staring up at his own hotel, but he turns around when Tubbo opens the door, grinning when he sees him. 

“Big man!” he shouts. “You seen this thing yet? Pretty proud of it, I am.” Tommy’s grin is glinting white, his face greyish, his hair silvery pale. He is soft and fuzzy and not-all-there. Tubbo blinks once. Twice. And then he is crying. 

Sitting on the path, crying. His face is in his hands and Tommy’s touch on his back is cold and staticky. Tubbo remembers when Tommy’s touch was warm, like fire, glowy and bright and wonderful for a cold winter’s night.

“Tubbo? What’s wrong? Are you okay?” 

Tubbo gasps in a breath, chest spasming for air. His face is drenched and raw. There is a gaping hole in his chest, his ribs shattered into jagged knives. It is Technoblade with withers and fireworks and TNT laying waste to his heart. Tubbo does not move when someone cold and full and real picks him up, cradles him in too-long arms, and lays him on a bed. Tubbo does not move. Tommy is not fine.

xxx

“I didn’t come,” Tubbo forces out one day when everything is numb again. He’s sitting in the Big Innit Hotel’s lobby, slumped in a chair beside the front desk. He’s still wearing his Snowchester jacket, fiddling with the strings of one of the buttons. He’s vaguely aware of red concrete stone bricks and Tommy’s faint form somewhere in his periphery, but it’s mostly just the button and the string. “I’m sorry. 

“What do you mean?” Tommy asks. He’s sitting behind the desk, ready for customers. He’s usually ready for customers these days, when he isn’t committing arson or wandering up and down the Prime Path or sitting on a bench on a hill, hands fidgety and unsure, like he’s missing something. That is, if he’s to believe Ranboo: Tubbo hasn’t left the Bee and Boo much. Ranboo says that’s what Tommy’s been doing, though. 

A few people have even stayed in the hotel. People will stop by to visit, to see if it’s true, to say hi to Tommy or to talk to Tubbo or just to gawk, even, and usually end up staying in a room at Tommy’s insistence. 

Tommy always acts like he’s going to charge them for it, but he never actually does. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t need money. Maybe he just forgets. He forgets a lot of things. 

“In prison,” Tubbo mutters. “Sam might’ve let me in. I didn’t even try.” There are tears at the corners of his eyes, suddenly, but he rubs them away. He’s sick and tired of having a wet face. It’s sticky and awful and he always ends up with a headache and a stuffy nose. 

“...What are you on about?” Tubbo glances up. Tommy is giving him an odd look. “Prison? Dream is the only one in prison. We put him in there, remember? I kicked his ass with the—with—” He frowns, making a swinging motion with his hands. “With—with that axe. You know?” 

Tubbo sighs. “Yeah, I know.” He goes back to his button. 

xxx

Ranboo comes for him later that evening, when the sunset has just begun to filter through the windows. Tubbo hasn’t moved from his chair, even though Tommy went somewhere below the desk a while earlier. 

The vest’s button came off. It’s still on the floor where it fell, and Tubbo’s started on a new one. 

“Tubbo,” he says when he walks through the double doors. Tubbo glances up at him. “Tubbo, can we go home now? You’ve been here all day.”

Tubbo doesn’t say anything. Maybe he doesn’t have to. Maybe they can just leave. 

Ranboo walks over. Sinks down in front of Tubbo. He looks away.

“Tubbo.” He takes Tubbo’s hands in his own. “Hey, Tubbo. Can you look at me?” 

Tubbo does not look at Ranboo. Tubbo squints his eyes shut and ignores the prickly wetness. It is not there. It has already been there too many times in the past however-long-it’s-been.

Ranboo sighs. “Tubbo, you can’t do this forever.” He squeezes his hands. A tear trickles down Tubbo’s face. “I know it hurts. I know it hurts. It’s going to hurt. It always will. But you’re not alone, I promise. He might not be here anymore, but you’re not alone.” 

Tubbo breaks the breath he’s been holding to gasp in a new one. It shudders against his lungs, painful and loud.

“Can you talk to me?” Ranboo asks. “Please, Tubbo. It’s been weeks. Please.”

And that’s where he breaks, where all the air comes out in a fragmented sob, where the tears are back again, and he throws himself at Ranboo, collapsing into his chest and tucking his face into Ranboo’s shoulder. He must be startled, Tubbo notes absently, because his hands take a moment to find Tubbo’s back.

“I’m sorry.” Tubbo gasps. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? It’s okay to be sad.” Ranboo is rubbing circles. It’s an awkward, stilted motion, but there’s heart.

“I can’t—” He blinks hard, swallowing a knotted lump. “I can’t. I can’t. He wasn’t supposed to leave me. He wasn’t supposed to be the one who left.” 

Tommy was the queen, and Tubbo the pawn. This directionless pain that festers at his core isn’t supposed to be here. Maybe if Dream had just killed him none of this would have happened. Tubbo would be dead and Dream would be free and Tommy would be in prison but he’d be alive, and maybe Tubbo could visit him as a ghost and keep him company. And neither of them would be this confused because Tommy always knew what to do. He’d get out of the Vault and he’d tell Tubbo what they needed to do next to take down Dream, and it’d be them against the world, the two of them, together always, Tubbo and Tommy, Tommy and Tubbo. 

Ranboo has always ran a little cold, which Tubbo found unnerving at first, but right now, his cool skin is soothing and better than anything else could have been against Tubbo’s face. His head is aching and it feels like it’s burning from the inside. 

“It’s okay,” he’s murmuring. “I’m here. I’m here.”

What am I without you? Tommy asked one day, in a vault swamped in glimmering darkness. And Tubbo said, yourself. It’s an easy solution to the question that leaves Tubbo paralyzed now, but one that hurts and aches and doesn’t help at all. 

He’s been here before, back when he was still president. Back when there was still a nation to be president of. Back when nothing was okay and Tubbo was a monster, the next Schlatt, a tyrant who had only doomed a nation that was doomed from the start. Back then, nothing was okay. 

Everything was supposed to be fine now. And it isn’t. So Tubbo cries.

xxx

A few days later, Tubbo goes out. 

Ranboo is with him, at his side, holding his hand. Tubbo is wearing a green button-down shirt that’s only a little bit green at this point, holey and worn. Tubbo is hazy-headed with tears. Nothing is okay. But today, he has decided to try. 

The sight of the prison made him break down once before, a week or so ago, so when they walk out of the hotel, he fixes his gaze firmly to the right. Stares at the planks of the Prime Path, puts one foot in front of the other. They’ll maybe go to the Community House. Stop by Captain Puffy’s place, or visit Eret, or something. Both of them have a sort of calming presence Tubbo can’t deny wanting to feel again, and Ranboo mentioned something about Puffy wanting to talk to him. He isn’t really sure. For now, it’s easiest just to walk. 

Step by step by step. Tubbo watches the edges of all the builds on the path scroll by. A pattern of blood vines webs its way across the grass. He’s glad there’s none on the path; he’d probably trip. 

The Targay is somewhere on the edge of his vision when he hears it. Plattering, bouncy notes, dancing through the air. He hasn’t heard this song in a while. He isn’t even sure he’s hearing it now. But each step up the staircase has weight, suddenly, as he makes his way towards the embassy. 

He sees it when he crests the hill, of course; it’s hard to miss. Someone cut down the trees that used to stand in the way a while ago, and now it’s just grass and flowers and the bench. That and Tommy, sitting there, staring out at the view, with one arm over the back of his seat just like always. Cat is in the jukebox, spinning just the same as it always has. Tommy must hear him or something, because he turns around, face lighting up when he sees Tubbo.

“Tubbo!” he cries. “Ranboo! You’re here! Come sit with me!” 

Tommy. On the bench. Waiting for him.

Breath caught somewhere in his head, Tubbo stumbles over, feet only kind of there. The grass is soft and the sun is bright and the view is beautiful and he sits down and Tommy is there and there’s music and oh, he thinks he might be crying again. Ranboo sits in the grass to their right. 

Tommy slings an arm around Tubbo’s neck.

“Hey Big T,” he says. “It’s good to see you again.” It’s almost easy to pretend like everything is the same. “You doing okay?” 

Tubbo looks over at him, blinking hard and mustering a smile. “I’m fine,” he says. “How have you been?”

“Good, good!” Tommy says, flashing a grin. “It kinda sucks being dead, though.”

“Oh, yeah?” Tubbo swallows. “Why’s that?”

“You never hang out with me anymore!” Tommy complains, kicking his shin. “And when you do, you’re always so mopey. I know you didn’t want me to die, but like… you could at least spend time with me, eh? There’s no point in just forgetting.” 

Tubbo remembers a muttered rant a few months back, something about Jack Manifold and a trident accident and a joke that turned real (count from ten backwards, don’t let this ruin your life), and he exhales. Leaning into Tommy’s touch, he tries again at a smile. “You’ve gotten a lot wiser, haven’t you?” 

“Nah, I’m just dead,” he says. “Seriously, though, Tubbo. It sucks, really, it does. But you can do this. I believe in you. You are—quite possibly—the coolest person I know. And you will be okay.”

Tubbo can’t see past his tears. “I—I just—” He stops. Takes a deep breath. “I feel so lost without you. It was always for you, all of it, I don’t—”

“No, no, Tubbo—” Tommy catches his hands where they’ve flown up to rub away the tears— “Thank you. Please. Thank you. For everything. I would have never made it half as far without you. So please. Keep going for me.”

Cat ends, the final note ringing out into the midmorning air. Tommy stands, grabbing the disk from the jukebox and giving it a spin on his finger. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, alright, Tubbo?” he says. “I’m gonna go put this away. And then I’ve got to go make sure I haven’t missed any cli-enteys.”

“Okay,” Tubbo whispers. “Okay, Tommy.” 

Tommy starts off down the Prime Path, whistling a senseless tune to himself. Ranboo wraps his hand in his cool grip. Tubbo takes a deep breath.

“And Tommy?” he calls.

Tommy looks over his shoulder. “Huh?”

“I love you.”

“Ew.” Tommy squints at him, but he’s grinning. “That’s gross. You’re gross. You’re really—you disgust me sometimes, Tubbo, you know that?” 

Tubbo laughs, then, for real, for the first time in weeks. And he thinks, then, that maybe, maybe, it’s going to be okay.