#i feel like a slug.... so gross

[vse-kar-vem]

12+ hour flight and im finally home urgajhghh im so glad i get to draw again

[randalltier]

Okay that's it I'm making a post: does anyone else on testosterone suddenly have so much mucus and phlegm? Like I can barely breathe when walking in cool air for like 3 minutes and I have to constantly blow my nose or clear my throat it's so embarrassing why am I soggy what the fuck. How do I end this?

[autism-corner]

waugh

[bees-bees-fear]

Morrigan makes me want to do a male Amell playthrough

[charonte-simi]

.

[almostfoxglove]

I'LL CARRY YOU: part II

YOU CARRY IT

RATING: Explicit (18+) PAIRING: Javier Peña x f!Reader WORD COUNT: 7.7k CW: Smut (piv, characters are drunk but sound of mind and consenting), drinking, and a lethal amount of yearning.

SUMMARY: Four years after he disappeared from your bed in the early morning, Javier returns to Laredo once more—exhuming a lifetime of memories.

part I | series masterlist | series on ao3 | almostfoxglove masterlist

dividers by @saradika-graphics & insp for one moment from this post (wink)

ELEVEN

You don’t know you love him, but you do. Grass-stained and grubby, dirt beneath your fingernails, digging for jewels in the front yard that yields nothing but squirming things. Earthworms, pillbugs, a slug. Beside you, Javier is on all fours, scanning the lawn through squinted eyes, his head haloed by the sun as he blocks the light. “Don’t see nothin’,” he groans, elbows bent as he dips his face close to the ground. So earnest in his hunt for something that’ll delight you—buried treasure.

You grin, watching him, knowing in your heart there isn’t anything good buried in the square of grass outside your house, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is this: the afternoon spent in the company of the lanky kid whose arrival has punched your whole life out of orbit, rewriting all that is possible for you. Reimagining. 

With a huff, Javier sits back on his heels, his t-shirt stained with soil. His mom’s gonna whack the back of his head when he gets home—lightly, lovingly—for ruining another set of clothes, but he’ll never learn his lesson. “Sorry,” he mumbles, meeting your gaze with round, warm apologies swimming in the earth of his eyes. “Can’t see anything good.”

It’s obvious he means it, obvious he’s disappointed in himself for not accomplishing the impossible. Fulfilling some childhood fantasy you’re well aware will never be real. For Javier, it’s not enough to see you dreaming; he wants to make it come true.

Small smile on your lips, you reach out to nudge his skinny arm. “I forgive you,” you tease, and he blinks once before he catches the joke in your tone and a grin grabs hold of his face, briefly creasing his cheek.

Just then the wind chime sings from your porch and both of you turn to see the sea glass shiver prettily in the breeze. In a moment that feels beyond time, you and Javier sit transfixed by its gentle magic—the sparkling tune of blue-green glass chiming in the wind. The moment ends only when Javier slumps down to lie in the grass, dropping his head into your lap. School’s only been in session for three weeks���which means you’ve known him a grand total of twenty-one days—but somehow, though he’s never done this before, his touch feels to you as natural as breathing.

Javier sighs. At eleven, he’s already burdened by the weight of the whole world, and you don’t know why.

Shy, your hand hovers over his head, stilled by hesitation. Then he wiggles a little, adjusting himself to lie with one cheek pressed to your thighs and the other turned up to you, and your hand falls softly against his temple, brushing an unruly lock away from his eyes. He makes a soft sound sort of like a hum as if you’ve done what he wanted, and pride surges in your chest—a sudden tide. Dark lashes fluttering, his eyes close. His cheek pink and gold beneath the carpet of sun.

“Sad?” you ask him softly, carding your fingers through his hair, unfazed by the sweat that wets the curls at the nape of his neck. You don’t find him gross, not for a second, but you don’t know yet what that means.

His shoulder bobs with a tired shrug. “Wanted to find you somethin’ good,” Javier mumbles.

“That’s okay. The fun part is looking.”

“Still wanted to,” he sighs.

And you know, sudden as a lightning strike, that this boy’s your best friend in the world. Doesn’t matter that you don’t know his middle name yet, or all his secrets, the feeling thrown down at you from above hits you without any warning, rearranging your cells—you love him all at once. That’s all it takes. You’d do anything for him.

EIGHTEEN

You love him, but so does everyone here—Javier Peña is an incredible drunk. Three red solo cups deep and barely eighteen, he doesn’t dance through the packed dormitory lounge, he swims. Graceful and lithe, though the occasional splash of shitty beer gulps golden from his cup, splattering on the floor. But Javier dances with his whole body, especially when he’s drunk, outweighing any mess with his charm: head thrown back and eyes closed as he sings along to whatever record someone’s put on, hips balletic, boneless, fluid. He focuses on someone for a song or two like they’re the only person in the room, then moves right along to find someone new. 

The girl he’s dancing with now is licking his neck.

You think you’re ready to go home.

When the next song ends, he comes down panting from his lyric high and his head sways in your direction: perched on the back of the couch with your feet on the cushions in the corner of the room, worrying the slit that’s cracked in the plastic rim of your cup with your thumbnail. You’re not sure how many drinks you’ve had, only that two of them were jello shots that went down like slugs and made your mouth taste like a rancid ice pop. Still does, unfortunately. No quantity of beer seems capable of rinsing it out.

Javier bends down to whisper something in the girl’s ear and she removes her lips from the column of his throat, slinking off to be swallowed by the dance floor with a smirk on her face. And that’s it: the magic of his attention—hardly anyone seems mad when he moves on. There are, from what you can see in the dark, no jealous glares or bitter remarks spat from anyone. 

Perhaps Javier gives his lust freely, fleetingly, but it is always earnest. 

Now he’s headed straight for you.

The minute he reaches you with that lazy grin, you’re cured. Happy again, drunk on the dazzle of the black lights someone tacked up on the walls with duct tape. The writhing mass of limbs and hips made neon in the dark—shocks of ultraviolet and blue raspberry and the brightest white ricocheting from painted bodies. Biceps and back pockets and necks branded with electric green acrylic. Beaming in his white button up, the top three buttons undone and collar open loose around his throat, Javier is a dream. Luminous and stained by a slender handprint low on his shirt like whoever left it had grabbed his hip.

“Why aren’t you dancing?” he asks, frowning. He blinks up at you, his gaze narrowed and face shadowed in the dark, and drops onto the couch to settle between your legs. 

You’d be surprised if you were sober, but you’re not, so you think nothing of it—though he’s never touched you like this before, in front of so many eyes.

“Too clumsy,” you reply.

Sitting above him, you’ve got the perfect view of the crown of his head. Dark curls dislodged by dancing and beer and the way he keeps running his hand through it, fingers carding between sweaty locks. When he bumps his head against the inside of your knee, you know what he wants. He never asks because he doesn’t have to. You know him. He knows you.

“Should dance with me,” he says as your hand slips mindlessly into his hair, scratching in the way that takes him apart. “I’ll let you step on my feet.”

“I’d have to get in line,” you tease, scratching harder for a second so his gaze lifts to the center of the dorm-turned-dance-floor where three girls are watching Javier as they roll their hips—three, and you don’t even have a full view of the crowd from where you’re sitting—and though his head points in exactly their direction, what you can glimpse of the expression on Javier’s face is what you’d expect to see if he were looking at a wall. Not callous, just vacant. Like there isn’t anything to see or form an opinion about.

You feel pleasure fill you in great, crashing waves—grateful for these moments when all he cares about is you.

He shrugs, tilts his head up again, and shakes his head to tell you he’s noticed you’ve stopped scratching. When your fingers move again, he hmphs, settles back against your knee. All senior year you’d wondered if he’d bore of you in college. You waited for it, figured he’d get on with new friends and stop needing you. Course Javier’s made friends, and while crossing campus together between lectures you’ve more than once witnessed girls approach him alone or in packs, and he always knows them by name. It’s not a secret that he’s fucked two girls since the semester started. Nothing is a secret between you.

And yet, here he is: tucked between your legs on this nasty couch like there ain’t a soul for miles but the two of you. Not a single thought about outgrowing you in his gaze at all.

Glaringly upset that you aren’t enjoying yourself like he thinks you ought to, too.

“Dance with me, cariño,” Javier insists—and your stomach yelps, sudden and breathless. He’s never called you this before, but he grins the moment it falls out of his mouth, so you must be smiling.

You shake your head, summoning his pout. Bottom lip jutted, licked, and glossy under elemental light. The girls who want him haven’t broken their gaze, despite your hand in his hair and his ignoring them. 

“Don’t have to be embarrassed,” he says. “Ever’one’s drunk.”

“You’re drunk,” you tease.

Javier cuts his eyes. “You’re drunk,” he grumbles, and as if on cue you hiccup once, yanking up the corner of his mouth. You stop scratching to sweep a curl off his damp forehead, charmed by the way he leans willingly into your hand. 

“Let’s go home,” he mumbles. 

You don’t question it; you take his hand without knowing whose dorm he means.

Turns out he means yours—bronze in penny-dark light at the edge of residence, a whole four blocks further from the party than his, but you’re not complaining. He has terrible pillows, a roommate. You’ve got a cozy shoebox with memory foam all to yourself.

At the front door, you drop your keys trying to fish them out of your bra, and Javier kneels to snatch them from the pavement. A single coin of light shines down outside the entrance in which he is now brightened, eyes glassy, head loosely attached. He sways, crouched still at your feet as he gazes up at you, not quite kneeling, not quite praying—but close, you think. This feels close.

“Smooth,” he chides softly, and offers you your keys. 

“Not m’fault,” you grumble as you take them. “Dress doesn’t have pockets.”

A grin. The magic of his face when he smiles properly, if only for a moment. With the light how it is, harsh and clear, all it touches is pristine. The flat of his jaw, the freckles between his collar bones, on the tanned triangle of his chest. You wonder about them, suddenly. How it might feel to make a constellation of him with your fingertips. 

“Pretty though,” Javier says.

How it would feel to make a constellation of him with your tongue.

You take the keys, face shied from illumination as if he might read the thought from your face—he probably could. A blessing and a curse, to be known by someone this well. Then the moment slips gone, gone, gone, and you and Javier walk hand in hand inside. Up three flights of stairs, down the echo chamber of your silent dorm, your hallway. He never once lets go. Long past quiet hours, now. No one awake, it sounds like, to make a peep but the two of you.

You only get one short, tremored jab of the key—it misses, then Javier whirls you around. Your spine meets your door and his eyes have never quite been this color, you think. Never quite this vibrant, this wanting, this terrified. Never quite this close to yours.

Warmth holds your face. His hands. 

“Javi?” you whisper, as he draws closer and your fool of heart skids rampant in your chest, smashing into your ribs.

He exhales sharply, fogging your face with the heat of his lungs, and you can smell the beer on him, his sweat and aftershave. You’re certain, too, that every time you’ve ever seen him nervous before now doesn’t hold a candle to the tremors you feel in him as he presses his chest gently against yours, pressing you cautiously against your door. 

Javier shakes his head, scoffs mirthfully, and licks his bottom lip. You watch his mouth—transfixed by the muscle of his tongue—and he watches yours. 

He’s going to kiss you, you realize. It looks like he’s going to—

“Porfa,” he whispers. “Una vez.”

One time.

Then you’re nodding before you can fear what nodding means, and Javier casts his shadow over all the world, disappearing everything that isn’t him, the careful press of his lips, and the way his shaking doesn’t stop until your arms have slid around his neck. He makes a small, needy sound passed from his tongue to yours as he sinks against you, whole and heavy. The sort of weight you’d carry as far as he needed, as far as you could take. 

His hands make a map of you, skimming places they’ve never ventured: high on your ribs, low on your stomach, the back of your neck, just under your chest, just over your ass. 

It’s a little clumsy—often your teeth bump in your enthusiasm and you part briefly to laugh—but it doesn’t feel wrong in the slightest. Every time Javier dips back in to kiss you again, you want more. When you slip one hand to his chest, the gold vee bared between open buttons, the slick of his skin rips a soft moan from you and Javier’s chest stutters beneath your touch. 

“Is this—” he whispers, pausing to catch your bottom lip between his again. “Is this okay?”

Giggling, though you don’t mean to—Javier draws back to look you in the eye and his are black: a body possessed. Helplessly searching for a sign you want him to stop or go on. You shake and shake your head, lay your fingertips over his soft lips, and Javier’s eyebrows dent low over his eyes, utterly lost and confused. His hands stop their trail to rest on your hips. 

To you, it’s hilarious that he could possibly wonder when it’s so obvious that this is what you should’ve been doing all this time. Now you can’t imagine how you ever avoided it before. Smiling, you feel him breathe on your hand as he scans your face for a clue before you finally get out, “Mhm,” and then, quieter, “Don’t stop.”

“Thank fuck,” Javier mutters, before crashing back into you—with meaning this time, lips needy, hands heavy in their roam, not pinching but squeezing, pulling, holding you hot against the lean of his body, those fluid hips. 

His lips, emboldened. Trailing now to your jaw, finding a spot beneath its hinge that makes you mewl and tonguing it sweetly until you wiggle him off you to kiss him properly again. 

You manage to stumble inside, eventually, Javier’s shirt shedding before the door has closed. He scoops you into his arms the moment it’s off—your feet leave the floor, lose one shoe, and he trips over it and you yelp, accidentally biting his tongue as he catches himself against your shitty dresser. It creaks beneath his hand. 

“Gonna hurt ourselves,” he grumbles into your mouth, a little frustrated, his broad hand palming your ass to grind your hips against his.

“Worth it,” you grin.

You’re young, in love with him without rank or title or practice. Still mostly a child, all wonder and cravings that haven’t yet solidified into their final form—so it’s impossible to get this right the first time. You’ve had sex just once before for a grand total of eight minutes, and though Javier’s had a few more tries he hasn’t cracked it. Doesn’t help that you’ve got just the twin bed, and he’s all limbs. Has only his concentration to give you, his gravity, his ardent hunger. 

The way you feel all night that he wants you in his new, thrilling way. Always mumbling hotly into the curl of your ear.

Fuck, you feel—feel so good.

Pretty like this, so pretty like this.

And worst, maybe, which is to say best—want you, baby—wanted you so fuckin’ bad.

Despite the champagne grape color of his blush when he loses it halfway through, you think this is the closest you’ve ever come to transcendence. Every star aligned in perfect syzygy—at last, one piece of fate has clicked into its rightful place.

“Shit,” Javier mutters as he pulls out, soft and ashamed, but you just shake your head, tugging him back to you by the nape of his neck.

“Don’t care,” you insist. “Just wanna touch you.”

You mean it; you don’t care, but Javier still looks down at you with those round eyes guileless in his shame, open as any book. Fine, you’ll prove it. Tongue wet and doting, you lick between his freckles, kiss over his collarbone, across his chest, up his neck—an act of sincerity in which you make him the sky, a chain of constellations joined by your mouth. 

Then he’s hard again, hips canting against yours, and you resume.

It’s a kind of fullness that belongs not just to the body, not purely physical—but you dismiss this as nothing more than some nonsense, drunken thought.

In his fervor, your skull bumps against the wall and he gasps a sudden apology, one hand moving to cradle the crown of your head as he rocks into the cradle of your hips. Then your sudden laughter makes Javier’s whole body freeze suddenly, ceasing all rhythm. His hands pinch warningly at your waist.

“Gotta stop—shit, nena—quit laughin’,” he rasps, breathless, desperate. 

His sudden seriousness has you lost to besotted amusement, unable to keep your laughter from bubbling out.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Javier pants, with his eyes squeezed shut as he fails to concentrate. “Gonna make me—fuck.” 

Then he’s undone, his sweaty forehead dropped to your chest as he comes down, disappointed, from his high.

“S’okay,” you whisper, hands slinking through his hair which now is beyond salvation. A hopeless, shaggy cause so sweet between your fingers. In an instant he’s melted, body leaden on top of yours, squishing you to the mattress, safe, secure.

For a while you stay like this, both catching your breath. His forehead pressed to the skin between your breasts. Then Javier fetches a t-shirt from your dresser and helps you clean the mess of your stomach, both of you snickering, in awe of how strange and ridiculous this all is. Shirt tossed from his hand, it jellyfishes in the air, falls deflated to the floor like a gunned down hot air balloon and Javier crawls over you, stripes your cheek with his tongue just to get you to gasp, clumsy hands shoving him off you with a gross, Javi, while he sits back on his heels. He shrugs, dark eyes drifting to your lips. 

He doesn’t have to say what he’s thinking; you just roll your eyes.

“Shut up,” you tell him, blushing as you tug on clean underwear. “S’not the same.” 

When a sleep shirt comes next he grunts in disapproval, earning a soft shove to his arm.

He drags his pants back on but the paint-stained shirt stays off, his body all cricket at the foot of your bed: leaning back on one hand, legs bent at the knee. Lean muscle and sudden joints. His smooth, tanned chest. Beautiful, same as he’s always been, and somehow entirely new. He cracks your sorry excuse for a window, asks if you mind if he smokes.

Your eyebrows rise. “That’s a disgusting habit,” you scold, all smirk as you extend your arm expectantly. “You absolutely cannot smoke in my room, alone.”

With a smirk, he lifts his hips to pull a carton from the back pocket of his jeans—one of many pairs that make a meal of his thighs. Filter pinched between his teeth, brings the cup of one hand to the end as he flicks his lighter, birthing no flame.

“Drunker than I thought,” he mumbles to himself, defeated as you sigh.

Your hand, still open and waiting, folds twice. Give it to me, you mean, and he does; you thumb it a few times before tossing it back. “Just empty,” you say. 

The hem of your shirt slips up over your ass as you stretch for your desk drawer, and Javier—not yet broken from the spell of your entanglement—makes a low sound not unlike a growl that has you grinning. You produce a matchstick like a promise, bite it between your teeth, and hold his gaze as you draw it quickly from your mouth.

The red tip sparkles, flames.

“The hell d’you learn to do that?” he asks, crawling over once more to hold his cigarette to the small fire in your hand before it dies. Lit, he sucks once before handing the cigarette to you.

You shrug coolly. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” you smirk, drinking tobacco like it’s water until your lungs too protest and hack. As you cough, Javier lights a second from the match in the last moment before it snuffs, and leans back against the windowsill to take a drag that hollows his cheeks.

He knocks his foot against your bare knee with a pointed stare. “Teach me,” he says. So you do.

TWENTY-ONE

You love him. All night, he buys everything you drink. Twenty-one at last, you’re crowded against the sticky bar of The Last Man Standing amidst the Saturday high, bodies hot and impatient in every direction. So many adults who seem so much older than you. You think you spot your old algebra teacher smoking in a corner booth with a woman who is not his wife. Javier sweeps you against his barstool with a scowl when a man twice your size elbows you out of the way to order. 

“Here,” he grunts, and smacks his thigh twice with meaning, so you climb onto his lap, pleased that his arm hooks around the small of your back to steady you against his chest. 

Tipsy, that’s what he is. What you are. 

You lie to yourself. To the version of your heart that never got older than eleven, enraptured as you were the moment he walked into that classroom and hijacked your life. A bedtime story blooms in your head: you get him, somehow, over everybody else.

Call it a birthday wish.

“Such a gentleman,” you tease. 

“Just take your shot,” Javier grumps, dark eyes rolling in that way that means he’s fighting off a grin. Stashing his cigarette between his teeth, he nudges the shot glass toward you and you watch a lick of tequila spill onto the bar before you grasp it.

Together, you swipe your tongues across the back of your hands: you his, and he yours, before Javier showers salt from little paper packets he stole from a stranger’s basket of fries. He winks as the salt clings to your skin, folding the packets neatly to stash in his back pocket. Then you clink your glasses, hook arms, lap the salt, and swallow.

Tequila stripes hot down your throat, hits the churn of your stomach, and you grin as you set down your empty glass next to his on the bartop. Tipsy in the dreamy way that can put you to sleep if you don’t drink on, your head tips onto his shoulder to rest a while and Javier, without you having to ask, tightens his hold around your waist like he knows you want him to. 

“Don’t fall asleep,” he says, before his eyes flicker to the ceiling. “Got traditions to uphold.”

Above you, bras in every color known to man hang from the rafters and ceiling fans. Lacy things, plain things, hideous things—all polluted with a sheet of charcoal dust. You stab your elbow into his ribs, but Javier only holds you tighter, keeping your body in the cage of his.

“C’mon, baby,” he says. Eyes round and dark and twinkling with mischief. He clicks his tongue—daring you though he doesn’t have to. The heat of his proximity alone would do you in. That clumsy meeting of your bodies freshman year has not returned and you don’t think it ever will. He’s got Lorraine now, but the nicknames have stuck around. It’s normal, mundane, the way you call each other baby, cariño. Endearments felt with the whole heart but not the whole body.

Nena, however, was uttered by his plush lips just that once. Out of his mind on the precipice of release, probably doesn’t remember he said it. Probably didn’t realize even at the time. 

You try not to wonder if he calls Lorraine nena now, but he probably does. Definitely does. He loves her.

“Rules are rules,” Javier presses, eyebrows flicking up.

Rolling your eyes, you wrestle your arms behind your back to unclasp your bra through your shirt. His eyes hold yours as you drag the straps down your arms—left, then right—and you’d swear desire flares briefly in his eyes as you drag your bra from the sleeve of your shirt without having to undress. Must be the alcohol. Must just be him teasing you. 

Still, your cheeks burn. 

It’s not a nice bra, not one you’d show anyone, but Javier looks down as you hold it and moves below you, repositioning how you’re sitting on his lap. 

“C’mon then,” he urges you, patting the small of your back with his broad hand. 

You toss, someone across the bar lets out a masterful whistle, and your bra catches on the blade of the ceiling fan overhead perfectly. First try. Straps swinging, scalloped from the band. You beam—delighted by the applause that roars from the patrons nearest you—and the bartender slides down the line to offer another round on the house. 

Smug, Javier leans forward to take one while you grab the other. Righteous in his posture: chest broad and upright, pressed against you. Shirt unbuttoned at the top like some swash-buckling pirate you’d swoon over in a movie. Seems it doesn’t matter how much you try to forget what it felt like to be wanted by him, you just can’t. In some other version of your lives, he might not have met Lorraine. Or he met her but didn’t want her, because he already had you.

But he has you now, anyway. Javier gets it both ways. A girlfriend—blonde, pretty, wry—and a best friend who love him in the same way, while he only has to return that affection to one.

One week from now, his mother will give you her rosary when you visit her hospital room. Green beads polished to pearls by her prayers. 

Two weeks from now, she will die. The chemo has failed, unbeknown to the two of you. 

You’ll watch Javier shoulder her casket from church to grave with Chucho, his uncle and cousins, in a suit that’s too snug across the breadth of his shoulders and the tie she bought him for prom. You’ll watch Lorraine hold his hand the whole ceremony, the whole wake, and afterwards he’ll spend a week in your bed, unable to sleep without your arms, ignoring Lorraine’s calls and chain-smoking like a man who wants to die. If he cries, he won’t let you see it. But he’ll lie with you in the burrow of your duvet, his face planted in the bowl of your neck, sometimes kissing there. Tiny, needy grazes you’ll wordlessly allow. Kissing in return the top of his head, his forehead, his cheeks and knuckles. Never his lips. 

The ashtray you set on the nightstand for him will never move. It’ll stay there, unused, for years. When you move, it will move with you, set out on new nightstand, waiting for his return.

But you know nothing of that now. Today is all tequila and the glory of his attention, and everyone you love is alive.

“I hate you,” you grump as your glasses clink again.  

Javier hmphs, feigns impatience as he squeezes your hip. He does love you. You know that—you tell yourself so all the time. He loves you, just not in the right way.

“Drink, cariño,” he says. “Before we’re twenty-two.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

You love him, so you’d wait all night. Twenty minutes ain’t that late. Try telling that to your sputtering heart, but it’s fine. It’s just twenty minutes, and the look of this place. Just the glooms of shadow between each red-clothed table and cosmos of chandeliers that willow whenever someone opens the door and lets in a draft. 

It’s just that, now that you’re here, you have no idea why he picked this place. You’ve never been, and sat at a small table by the windows, it’s obvious why. This place, with its jazz band testing sound levels on the sunken stage, with its waitresses who are all, somehow, the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen—the kind of gorgeous so grand you can’t even hate them, can’t envy them, you can only sit in awe—this place is romantic. Unbelonging to you. 

This is the sort of restaurant you take someone when you ask them to marry you.

Which—given the last two weeks—is sort of hilarious. You’re inclined to believe Javier chose this place for dinner as a joke. Planned for the two of you to sit here, stuff yourselves stupid and tipsy and quip under your breath all night at the expense of the other patrons who all appear to be having a lovely night.

Except the joke’s not so funny when no one’s here to make it. 

Your watch spins its hands, laughing at you, making you the joke.

Thirty minutes late. 

You already have a feeling he isn’t gonna show—which is to say, you know for sure. Heavy and anchoring. Disappointment can center you, plant you where you sit. Sure, it’s not the first time Javier has flaked; his own head can often get the best of him when he’s restless or spent. But it’s different, knowing the depth of his heartache. Sensing it even when he isn’t in the room and isn’t anywhere nearby, like somehow your bodies can speak to each other at any distance. 

It’s not just your hurt you carry, but his shattering. The death of all his life was about to be that he ran like hell from.

When the waitress swings by, you accept a top-up on your wine. Might as well.

Soon the jazz band is playing, piano swooping acrobatic through the air, trumpet singing, sax crooning. As the sun drops low in the sky, flirting with rooftops, the chandeliers inside the restaurant dim. Then it’s alchemy, the aura of the room. Straight out of some movie that’d break your heart half as much as you fear it breaking any second now. 

You wish you knew why he asked you to meet him here.

You wish you knew why he told you to dress up—just a little, Christ, cool it, baby.

You wish you knew why he hasn’t come.

Not that this day on your calendar hasn’t been circling around in your head like water in a tub that won’t fully drain. There isn’t anything good to tell someone who just left their fiancée at the altar, even if he is your best friend—Javier knows this. 

Maybe that’s why he still hasn’t shown. 

Seems cruel to ask you here, gussied up for nothing in the dress he ten years ago peeled off you—reverent in his gaze and fixation, alight with obvious pleasure—when he must have known he wasn’t going to come.

Might have jinxed it when you hauled it out from the grave of your closet this afternoon. Feels pathetic, now, that you put this thing back on. Desperate.

You drain your wine, let it fill you, bitter and bloody and absent of any enjoyment. 

He isn’t coming.

Still, you wait, praying you’re wrong.

As the band’s first set comes to a roaring end, the whole place alive with praise, air filled by cheers and clapping hands. Even the waitresses halt where they stand to clap, poised in their practiced intermission, perfect as marble deities each kissed with red lips. The bartender, too, in his stupid bowtie and perfectly gelled hair. Everyone here is having the time of their lives but you, who can’t shake the feeling that you’ve never wanted to be anywhere less than you want to be here right now, alone.

One glance at the menu and all you see are the dollar signs that’d gut your bank account, send you back into the overdraft you’ve just paid off. 

You sigh, try to make a game of silver linings. 

At least you won’t have to pay for some stuffy meal.

At least you won’t have to watch the waitress fall in love with Javier the second he sits down.

At least you won’t have to call a cab because you’re too buzzed to drive.

At least you won’t be up late enough to be fucked tomorrow at work.

At least you don’t have to wear these stupid, pointy shoes until the little hours.

Needless to say, you lose the game. No amount of silver brightens the rift widening to a chasm through your chest. Hollowing you out. Splitting you in two.

One more glass, then the next time the waitress swings by, you wave the white flag and she hastily brings your receipt. Obscene, for three glasses of wine and an hour and a half spent watching pleasure flame in strangers’ eyes, but you pay for it. You take the loss and its drowning weight. You carry it.

“Do you have a—” you start to ask, as the waitress takes your bills, but she cuts you off, already nodding.

“Course, sugar,” she says, and points one lacquered nail in the direction of the bar. As if rehearsed, the bartender swipes his crisp white towel along the right wing of the polished bartop, revealing a phone on the wall behind him. You nod, thank her, and are so grateful that the bartender ducks into the back as if he just now has remembered something urgent in the other room that you consider crying. 

Chucho always picks up on the third ring. Reliable, steady. Like you.

“It’s me,” you say, when he’s on the line.

“Oh honey,” he replies.

Behind you: clapping again, except this time the band’s taking five. When you turn, the plastic phone pressed clammy to your cheek, someone’s down on one knee beside their table with a ring.

You close your eyes.

“Just—tell me he’s not in a ditch somewhere,” you say to Chucho. “Just need to know he’s, I don’t know, accounted for.”

Not dead, is what you mean. Not passed out, drunk, in a ditch, is what you mean. Not blackout somewhere without you to catch him when he leaps. Without you to carry him home.

There stretches—beneath the drone of jubilation marking the best day of someone else’s life—the long, brooding quiet in which Chucho remains silent on the other line. When he speaks next, it’s in the middle of a sudden piano solo. Celebration, or their next set, doesn’t matter. You don’t hear shit. Have to plug your open ear with your hand.

“Sorry, once more?”

Crackling static. A slow, apologetic breath.

“Told him to tell you, sweetheart,” he repeats. “Would’a called if I knew he hadn’t and saved you the trip.”

Not dead. The first real silver lining. You don’t so much breathe as you deflate.

“Kid took that job,” Chucho sighs. “He flew down this morning.”

THIRTY-SIX

You love him, and when you wake in the warm arms of morning he’s long, long gone. Already a thousand miles skyward, Colombia-bound, returning once more to the jaws of something that wants him buried and dead.

There’s no note, but you knew there wouldn’t be. Javier never writes anything down, never leaves you any proof. Last photo of you together must be from college, early on. Any presence he’s had in your life since then is smoke—it dissipates with the wave of his smooth, freckled hand. Gone, like he was never here at all.

Gone, like he never kissed you.

Gone, like he never picked you.

Gone, like he’ll never come back again.

FORTY

You love him, but it’s been four years. Nothing’s the same; it can’t be.

Except for you. Not just in your love, but in your being. A lighthouse for better and worse: beacon in any storm, buried on land. Immovable. Still living thirty minutes from the house of your girlhood, ever accessible, predictable, and lodged in the filth of all that has birthed and broken you. Entirely, utterly, incapable of leaving. Trapped in the case of your unshed skin.

Today is the equinox for the red and dying. Autumn at last unfurling its cool tendrils, usurping the summer’s reign. Air sweet and temperate, tinged with the promise of showers. You—running late, neck sore, caffeine-deficient—hustle the gravel tongue of Chucho’s drive, arms heavy with a batch of groceries. An old habit you never kicked—his hip’s been fine eight months now but you still come around every other Sunday with groceries to save him the trouble, craving his company. His calloused hand soothing your back in small circles, telling you everything’s gonna be fine without uttering a word. 

You dig out the key you’ve had since sixth grade from the void of your pocket. Not graceful, but you don’t drop it. The key wasn’t Javier’s idea, but his mother’s—a woman who took one look at you and felt exactly what you did. Eternal. Took the key off her own ring and handed it over, said she’d make herself another copy. 

“Anytime.” That’s what she’d said to you, eleven and heart scared as a rabbit’s by how much more the Peña house felt like home than your own. Her key, passed to your palm, was warm from her hand. 

Now in your own it’s warm again. Like a piece of her still lives in there, same as the rosary in your car. 

“Chucho,” you call into the house, when you’ve let yourself in. Late morning light bars the old wood floors. A gem, this house. Worn as it is welcoming. All broken in leather that’s butter to the touch and floorboards that croak like frogs. As you toe out of your shoes, you huff, your shoulders already easing into their right positions just by walking in the door. 

No sign of him yet, but that isn’t strange. Could be outside already, sleeves rolled to his elbows and hat low over his eyes. Still, as you haul the groceries down the hall, you call out again. 

“I’ve had the second worst morning of my life. Come take your food, viejo.”

While you wait, you set the bags in the kitchen, plastic crinkling, the burnt roast of coffee still rich in the air. The smell of cut grass weaves through the vented window. Rosy, this room, at this time of day. Blushed by the old lace curtains that have colored with age. There’s a kind of charm to a house like this—lived in, loved in—that you’ve never felt anywhere you’ve lived. 

You’re tucking eggs into the fridge when the floor ribbits upstairs, dragging a grin across your face. Coming home. That’s what this place feels like, when you come to visit Chucho and he insists on making you tea even though by the time he gets to you, you’re usually pouring him a mug of his own. 

There he comes now, you think, as you smile into the fridge. A man who ought to get some of the credit for raising you. You listen to him descend the creaking stairs one slow foot at a time as you toss old food from the forgotten corners of his refrigerator, replacing it with what’s vibrant, green, and new.

But you aren’t really listening. Not all the way. 

If you were, you’d know the second those feet hit the ground floor that they aren’t the footsteps of Chucho at all. Wrong Peña.

“Second worst?”

Then a long whistle. You turn.

Javier, not Chucho, stands at the foot of the stairs. Four years older than last you saw him, sober and smiling, brown eyes glinting shyly. Beautiful, same as always, but what did you expect. Wearing a white button up with long sleeves rolled just like his dad, though decidedly more unbuttoned—if he were closer, you’d see the freckles on his chest, his neck. The spots you once connected like knowing him was a game. 

Are those the same jeans he was wearing, that night in your bed? Better not to linger, wonder. Wondering is a terrible thing.

Whatever’s on your face melts Javier’s smile clean off. 

He’s put it together, then. He knows what the worst morning was.

You’ve gone eight years apart, but these last four feel like decades. There’s a wisp of silver at his temples that wasn’t there before.

“You’re home,” you hear yourself say.

He clenches one hand, fidgeting fingers. Guilty, then. Sad, then. Nervous, then.

You wonder if he’s reading you the same. If you still live side by side, on the same page.

“Yeah,” Javier says, hardly louder than a breath.

And you are running, rushing. Already against him, arms thrown, anger slinking back to the bottom of its well. For the first time in your lives, Javier doesn’t immediately return your touch. He stands for two long seconds like a statue in your arms as his heart smacks against his chest and into yours. 

You hold him tighter. Four years collapse like a stack of playing cards. He feels exactly the same, like he belongs in your arms. 

When he comes to himself, your feet lift until only your toes brush against the floor—that’s how tightly he grabs you, how wholly. You hang, held in his arms as he presses his face into your neck. 

“Smell good,” he mumbles after a while, lips brushing your neck in a way that could be accidental or entirely on purpose—either way, you don’t care.

You wind one hand into his hair. It’s shorter now, just a little off the back. The next breath that leaves you is sharp, almost a laugh. 

“You smell different,” you say, and pull your head off his shoulder to get a look at him properly. 

Javier keeps you where you are, not quite on the floor, held tight to his chest. Grinning in that boyish way. You press your thumb to his dimple and gasp—having figured it out.

“You quit,” you say, eyes wide. 

His are so close. Deep, rich, inevitable—flickering between yours. He rolls them, caught by you so easily, and rocks his jaw, smacking his gum as he sets you down to shrug. Rearranging his face to appear indifferent, but you see right through it anyway.

“Tryin’ it out,” he admits.

Neither of you let go, not yet. His thumbs stroking your waist where his hands have settled; yours moving to his temples to rake through the soft of his curls, introducing yourself to the newfound grays you don’t recognize.

“Gettin’ old, Javi,” you tease.

Then his hands rise to cover yours and a moment before they do—mere atoms away from touch—you think he looks how he did in your hallway freshman year, right before he kissed you. But his hands envelop yours and you watch his mouth twitch. Not up, not to the side. Down. His brows dipping for a millisecond as he puts it together.

You’ve forgotten. You forget all the time—hardly feel it anymore after six months of wearing the ring. Used to drive you crazy, always spinning the wrong way around, but it’s become just a part of your hand.

When you try to draw away Javier’s grip locks them in a vice, pulling them from his face to look down at your fingers where, on your left hand, sits a gold band. Two tiny diamonds bracketing a sapphire—not an heirloom, but it’s pretty. Beautiful, even. You’ve come to love it.

“Shit,” Javier mumbles, his brows high and chin hung down as he ghosts his fingers over the gem in disbelief. “Look at you.”

You hardly hear it. What you really hear is a reverie, a ghost. A ship that passed too far from your harbor, scared off by the beacon of you. Warned of your lethal shores. Pensé que me casaría contigo. Rambled when he was drunk and hollow and out of his mind. A whispered confession spoken in those tiny hours he spent in your bed in which nothing beyond the mattress existed but the two of you, intertwined.

I thought I’d marry you.

But he didn’t. Javier left without the grace of a goodbye. Now he stands with your hands in his, thumbing the sapphire of a ring someone else put on your hand while he was gone. Four years in which you had no idea if he’d come back, or when, or for how long. No idea if he’d ever want to see or speak to you again. 

Your mouth, dry, deserted. Your hands shaking in his—you have to ask. Break this moment in which he seems unable to take his eyes off the stony, cobalt blue.

“How long are you back?” you ask softly.

Javier lets go of your hands to rub the back of his neck and takes a tiny step away from you. 

You know the answer the moment he moves, but you let him say it anyway. You let him cut that tiny hole in your chest that’ll bleed dry your heart.

His smile is mirthless, doomed. Like he’s putting it all together in his head.

“For good,” Javier says, staring at the floor, then the window beyond your shoulder, into the yard. Anywhere but at you. “For good, this time.”

tag list & some mutuals:

@thethirstwivesclub @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @hediondoamor-blog @tuquoquebrute @thundermartini

@jessthebaker @pastelpinkflowerlife @ak-vintage @rav3n-pascal22 @sixhours

@spacelatinos4life @sweetpascal @leslie-lyman @biggetywitch @jeewrites

@burntheedges @studioghibelli @la-eterna-enamorada29 @goodgirlwannabe @janaispunk

@littlemisspascal @luxurychristmaspudding @tonysopranosrobe @undercoverpena @pedritosgfreal

[luveline]

If you’re looking for anything zombie!au for Steve, I’ve got a request! I sent it a while ago so if you don’t like the idea, please feel free to ignore!

I love that Steve has his own platonic soulmate—Robin—and has that person that will always be his friend no matter the circumstances. Their relationship means everything to me. I’d love to see reader maybe reunite with her “Robin”, as in her best friend and see her find that comfort in her person. Steve gets to see a new side of her and falls in love with her even more <3

zombie au —you reunite with your Robin. fem, 1.5k

“I’m grody.” 

“You’re not grody.” 

“I have greasy hair.” 

You shrug. Steve’s hair is a tad greasy, but it’s nothing you wouldn’t run your hands through. “Steve, I don’t think anybody alive today is judging you for having greasy hair.” 

You wanna call him baby, despite how foreign it can feel on your lips. He’s being adorable today, but the moment to dote on him passes quickly. Robin’s halfway across the campsite, her scratchy, mellifluous voice a ringer for her. You’d recognise it anywhere. 

“New recruits!” she’s saying, her head turning past her friend Sarah to spot you and Steve as you approach. “Hey, guys! Look, I lived.” 

Steve jogs until the gap between them is closed. “Hey, what did you do to your face?” he asks worriedly, his hand rising. 

She ducks away from his touch. “I got totally sliced.” 

“By who?” 

“This girl, Mina, she thought I was a geek, how gross is that?” Robin smiles at you. “I’m not that ugly.” 

“You’re not ugly,” you say. 

“I know!” 

Steve grins. “I wouldn’t be too sure.” 

“I know you don’t think I’m ugly, Steven.” 

You’re hit by two waves of memory, one after the other. The name Mina is hard to ignore: back then, before the end of the world, you had one good friend, and her name was Mina Delecki. You’d get into little spats like Steve and Robin do occasionally, but your friendship wasn’t as sarcastic. Which isn’t to say they aren’t loving, they are. Steve gives her arm a squeeze and promises to help her clean out the wound, and it reminds you of Mina and her scabbed knees. 

“She was nice, besides the attempted murder. They looked like they haven’t eaten in weeks though, the whole group, I’m surprised they didn’t try and rob us.”

“Well, not everyone is evil,” Steve says, wiping Robin’s cheek with his sleeve. “You’re okay?” 

“I’m fine. Does it look bad?” 

“Might need a butterfly stitch,” he says, grimacing. “It’s definitely gonna scar. Where is this Mina? I’d like to give her a piece of my mind.” 

“Steve, it was an accident.” 

“Well, maybe she should be aware that accidents aren’t usually subdermal.” 

“That’s a big word for you.” 

You roll your eyes. “Guys, come one. Did you eat?” you ask Robin. “Let’s go find dinner at the mess.” 

“Sure you’re okay?” Steve asks quietly. 

Robin lets him dote, for once. He slings his arm over her shoulder and steers her to the mess —a porta-building with a designated team of cooks reminiscent of your setup back at the College. There’s a small line by the door, but it’s not as busy inside as you’re expecting. You can spot the newbies from their skinniness, and their dirty clothes, but it looks like some of them have had a wash by the river, dripping hair wetting the backs of their necks. One girl laughs into her bowl of stew. Another cries. 

You know how it feels to be starving and afraid and then suddenly dropped into a community. It’s so scary, but it’s such a relief. 

“You wanna sit down?” Steve asks, rubbing Robin’s back before he lets her go. “What about you?” he asks you, turning away from her to offer you the same nice smile. “I can get yours.” 

“I’m alright.” 

Robin slugs off to a table at the back. “She looks really tired,” Steve says.

They take Robin because she’s slight; she can fit into places a lot of people can’t. But Robin wasn’t built for fighting, she still isn’t, and she’s obviously tired. 

“Well, maybe you should start putting your foot down,” you murmur, “you’re her family, so… if you say she shouldn’t go, maybe she won’t. And I don’t mean asking her not to. Maybe you should fight.” 

“I don’t wanna fight with her.” 

“Somebody took a slice out of her face,” you say. 

You know Robin likes you, even loves you, but it doesn’t feel like your place to get into that stuff. If somebody is gonna convince her to stay, it’ll have to be him. 

“I’ll talk to her about it.” He brings a hand to your waist. “I will, don’t worry. I don’t like it either.” 

“Your hand is cold?” you say. 

Steve tucks it quick as a flash behind your back, brushing your shirt up to touch naked skin. “Is it?” 

“You jerk.” You laugh louder than you mean to and step away from his touch. “This is why you need dinner, you’re freezing to death.”

Steve tries to get you again. He grabs you at the side, the chill of his hands palpable as he pulls you into him. Not to hold, but to be close while you wait, to take up as little room as possible. You both prefer proximity to each other. You let him warm his hands on your hips. 

You’re looking up into his face with a smile when someone says your name. 

A melodic voice. 

She says your name again and you feel it click. Mina’s on your mind, that’s all —yet you turn, and a familiar face is peeking out from behind wet, fine hair. An apocalypse, and somehow Mina Delecki hasn’t aged a day. 

“Mina?” you ask, holding Steve’s wrist tight on instinct. 

She rushes forward to meet you. Steve’s defences go up, his expression hardening as he pushes you behind him, but you slink around his rigid arm with a happy shout, “Mina!” 

Steve lets you go. You weave around a full table of onlookers with pushed out chairs and meet her in the middle, where she throws herself at you, a whirlwind of smell and touch. “Holy shit,” she says, sounding immediately wrought with tears, and joy, too. “I can’t believe you’re here!” 

You’re shocked out of speaking. 

Mina leans back. She holds your cheek, beaming so brightly, you’d forgotten how pretty she was. She is. 

“You’re alive!” she says, squishing your cheeks. “You’re here! Y/N, I looked for you!” 

“You did?” 

“I went to your house, you weren’t there, and we had to leave. I’m sorry, I thought… I missed you.” 

You’re further surprised. You did? you almost ask. “I missed you too.” 

She flings her arms around you for another hug. “I worried about you. Were you all alone?” 

“No, uh, no, no,” —you shake your head against her— “I had Steve. I have Steve. What about you?” 

“Well, my brother made us go to the Lake, but there was nothing that way, so we came back here. Thank god we did, ‘cos you’re here, this whole place, there’s so many people.” 

“There used to be more.” 

Mine squeezes you. “I missed you so much.” 

Your eyes finally burn. “I missed you too,” you say, hiding as your voice cracks. 

You and Mina just hug. 

Your shoulders give an embarrassing shake under her hands. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” she says, rubbing your back, her tone light, loving, and one you already know. “Don’t cry. I’m happy to see you, too.” 

“I’m so happy.” 

“That’s what I just said.”

You pull away from her to scrub your face. You’re laughing as you turn to Steve, excited, elated to introduce him. “Mina, this is Steve,” you say, taking his elbow into your hand, comforted by his arm slinking behind you. He pats your back. “He’s my boyfriend.” 

“King Steve?” 

Steve winces. “Just Steve.” 

“He’s nice now,” you say, grinning, “total reformation.” 

“Hi, Steve. My girl kept you alive, I’m guessing?” Mina gives him a smile, too. She’s only teasing, and Steve picks up on it easily. 

“She did… Hey, you’re not the Mina that cut a chunk out of Robin’s cheek, right?” 

“Hard to say. Which one’s Robin?” 

—

“Sorry, does it hurt?” Steve murmurs. 

Robin hugs her knees to her chest. “It’s fine, just be fast, please.” 

Steve knows it hurts. He’s dousing her wound with an antiseptic, he thinks it’s iodine, doesn’t really know. It’s not brown, but it smells strong. He washes the outside of the wound with a sterile gauze soaked in bottled water, and he pats it dry. The butterfly bandage he applies sticks at an awkward angle, but he pulls it closed tightly. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs again. 

“It’s fine. At least she got a friend out of it.” 

You sit a couple of metres away with some of the reserves of your candy haul and a few things you won’t miss. Socks, a sweater, a pack of chamomile soaps. Mina doesn’t want any of it, she just can’t seem to stop touching you. You’ve been holding hands for hours. 

“She seems really nice,” Steve says. 

“Gonna get jealous like you did with Eddie?” 

“She didn’t know Eddie before, she just likes him, which is weird.” 

“Not that weird.” 

“Maybe I am jealous,” he says. It’s strange to watch you hold hands with a new person, but it’s not like you and Robin haven’t done the same. The trust between you has solidified, and you use each other like pillows when you want to. “I don’t think I am? It’s nice to see her like that.” 

“Maybe you weren’t jealous at all, you just don’t like Eddie.” 

Steve laughs. 

There’s something about you, sitting there smiling, watching you talk a mile a minute as you explain something to her with no fear of judgement. You’re completely relaxed. 

“It’s actually really nice… to see her like that.” 

“You’re smiling like a creeper,” Robin says. 

“Whatever.” 

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

"Do you Trust me?"

Rollo voice) no

I feel like Rollo’s going to become a puddle of angry goo (think like a freshly salted slug) by the end of this series of headcanons…

A Big Scarabia Welcome to Rollo!

Savanaclaw’s weather was already bad enough, but Scarabia is 100 times worse. When Rollo hikes his way to the entrance of the grand dormitory (just a short stroll from the mirror), he looks like he’s about to give way to heat stroke if he doesn’t drown in his own sweat first.

He’s graciously received and personally welcomed by Kalim’s open arms (Jamil at his side) and just about the biggest smile you’ve ever seen. Rollo doesn’t sense any immediate ill will behind it (unlike the majority of the despicable mages that infest NRC), but he’s unsettled all the same by Kalim’s intense friendliness. When the Scarabian dorm leader goes in for a hug, Rollo politely steps back and declines (citing his excessive dampness as an excuse).

“Oh, you’re right! You’re not used to this kind of weather back home, huh? Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you!! Come on in! You’re today’s guest of honor!” Kalim beams, cheerfully ushering Rollo inside. Jamil follows quietly, but is staring intently at Rollo all the while—this man still remembers everything Rollo did, and he’s harboring a deep-seated grudge.

Kalim starts off the visit with a big tour of Scarabia! He forgets a lot of the finer details, so Jamil has to fill him in on the architecture and history of the dorm as he supplies them with water. (Kalim pauses to call out to and greet mob students as they pass.)

At first, Rollo’s impressed by the spread of knowledge provided—but the more he sees of Scarabia, the more disgusted he grows of its gross opulence. All the gold and jewels in the storage room could feed the entire City of Flowers for a lifetime and then some!!

The flippant way Kalim talks about his lifestyle also grates on Rollo. Who in the world places orders 100 coconuts for themselves, then buys diamonds for his entire dorm as souveinirs? Why does Scarabia have such frequent banquets and parties? How can one man live in such excess and not feel once ounce of remorse for it?! It boggles the mind.

“Hey, you must be hungry from your trip! Let’s put some food in you!!” Kalim summons a feast with the wave of his hand (Jamil had been up all night and all that morning preparing it). “Thank you, but just a nibble is enough for…” Rollo is interrupted by Kalim shoving some grapes into his mouth. “Ooh, you have to try this! Oh, and this too! And this cheese…!”

At one point, Kalim offers an apple slice with an ant on it, which causes Jamil to lock up. He screeches in disgust when Rollo casually kills the ant by squishing it under his thumb, then proceeds to take out a few others lying in wait. (“You touched bugs with your bare hands!!” Jamil cries, looking like he’s going to be sick any moment now. To this, Rollo retorts, “I should like to see you come up with a better solution!”)

After (force) feeding Rollo, Kalim tells him he has “a surprise” in store, which makes Rollo’s stomach sink. The dorm leader runs off, telling Rollo not to move from the spot. Left alone with Jamil, he warily eyes the man (who has been strangely standoffish the whole time). Jamil meets his gaze coolly. “… I didn’t tell him,” he says simply.

“To shield his poor little heart from breaking?” (Jamil shakes his head. “No, this isn’t about his feelings. I could care less about them. Kalim would only be sobbing and pestering me about my safety. I already have enough to deal with on my plate, I don’t need the extra stress. He’s kept ignorant out of convenience.”)

As expected, a self-serving reason. Rollo’s disgust does not abate. Still, a part of him wonders if Kalim would still be kind if he knew the truth of what happened in the City of Flowers, if some darker side of him would emerge as a result. No mage, no matter how upbeat, is entirely free of sin.

Kalim's taking longer than expected to get back, so Jamil and Rollo end up awkwardly playing some board games while they wait. Though Rollo tries his best, he's no match for Jamil, who takes delight in letting loose (he usually can't when he plays against Kalim) and smoking him in every match.

The ground shakes, rattling the stones in their mancala board. With each passing moment, the vibrations grow in increasing intensity—and suddenly, the doors kick open, revealing a parade of animals!! A tiger, 75 camels, 53 purple peacocks, 95 white monkeys, llamas, bears, lions, and even a flurry of birds!? Kalim arrives riding on an elephant and laughing to the slack-jawed Rollo. (Jamil groans. “You’d better get used to this, or you won’t make it through the day,” he warns flatly.)

The animals swarm Rollo, all of them kicking up a cacophony and demanding attention from him. He’s backed into a corner, trying to keep them at bag by poking them with his staff. Alas, to no avail!! The animals smother him in a pile of fur and feathers, and Rollo lets out strangled cry from between them.

“I think they’re getting along!!” Kalim notes from atop his elephant steed. (“Yes, I’m so happy for him.” Off to the side, Jamil snickers with some kind of sick, twisted joy.Finally, it’s someone else suffering for once instead of him.)

One thorough cuddling session later, Kalim flies to Rollo upon his magic carpet (it had been stashed away with him on the elephant) and offers a hand. He yanks his guest up with a grin and plops Rollo down beside him. “Next up: a magic carpet ride!” (“W-Wait, I don’t think my constitution can handle this much excitement…!!)

“Come now, where is your sense of adventure?” Jamil says as he kneels beside them on the carpet. His words are kept in an even enough of a tone, but there’s no mistaking the smirk on his mouth. (Rollo quietly fumes about it.)

Off they go into the Scarabian desert! Rollo wishes he could call it a peaceful ride, but it isn’t. Kalim keeps telling the magic carpet to show Rollo the tricks it knows, which means they’re not only soaring, but also tumbling and freewheeling through the sky. Below, the sands shine and shimmer splendidly.

Rollo’s eyes are clenched shut as he bends over the side of the carpet, trying hard to keep the contents of his lunch down. “Don’t you dare close your eyes,” Jamil whispers. “And hold your breath, it gets better.” (By ‘better’, he means ‘worse’, Rollo suspects.)

They speed up, bursting through the clouds, before dropping back down with collective shrieks. Rollo has to clutch onto his hat to keep it from flying off, forcing a scream back down as he hangs on for dear life, praying to be anywhere else. His eyes are wide with alarm, the fear inside of him clawing to escape.

The wild ride comes to a stop at a single spot of green and blue in the expanse of sand: an oasis encircled by broad-leafed trees. Rollo can’t scramble off that infernal carpet fast enough. (“Wow, he must have been really looking forward to this!!” Kalim chirps.)

With such crystalline waters available to them, Kalim thinks its only natural to take a dip! (Jamil has his sunscreen, towel, and swimming trunks on standby.) Rollo hurriedly backs away, trying to opt out—but he loses his foot in the shifting sands, and…

SPLOOSH!!! He’s drenched, the water weighing down his big hat and robes. Rollo looks less human and more like an angry wet cat (so much so that neutral-faced Jamil has to stop a smirk from overtaking him). Kalim, for his part, is super apologetic and offers Rollo his towel.

And so, Rollo sits in the shade of a tree while swathed in Kalim's towel, glaring at the Scarabia duo as they paddle around in the oasis. He hates that he can't just walk out on them, for he'd surely perish in the desert.

Rollo feels something at his feet--and when he looks down, he finds the magic carpet curled up there, emitting a sound akin to a dog panting. It seems... oddly excited to spend some time with him? Rollo frowns and makes a shooing motion, trying to banish the accursed thing--but, much to his dismay, it refuses to leave him alone and instead lingers at his side until the evening sets in ("Hmph, intrepid creature, aren't you?").

Thankfully, the trip back is uneventful (the magic carpet seems to have expended most of its energy on the showboating trip to the oasis). Rollo never thought he'd be so glad to see the garish interior of Scarabia again, but here he is. Jamil suggests that he prepare for bed (an idea which sounds surprisingly... normal, and thus earns a suspicious look from Rollo). "Oh? Do you doubt me? I would never try to deceive a beloved guest of Kalim's."

"Don't worry! Jamil's super trustworthy!!" Kalim adds. "Plus, we have to go get ready for the... Mmmmpfgh!" (Jamil quickly covers his mouth and gives a curt smile. "... As I was saying, you should wash up before bed.")

In spite of his doubts, Rollo relents with the suggestion to unwind for the night (he's had much too adrenaline for his liking today). He's escorted to a larger-than-life bathhouse and supplied with expensive-looking shampoos, conditioners, soaps, loofahs, a fluffy towel. and silk pajamas. "A bit much, don't you think?" he asks of Jamil. ("We don't do anything half-heartedly here," Jamil replies mysteriously.)

Being alone has never felt so good. Rollo has always preferred to be by himself, but after a day as hectic as this one he feels so relieved to not have Kalim and Jamil (or pesky pets!) with him as he sinks into pleasantly sweet-smelling waters.

He slips into the silk pajamas and steps out of the bathing area in slippers. Jamil bows to him and waves a hand. (Rollo's suspicions heighten.) "Right this way to your room for the night."

The inside of Scarabia is so big that it takes Rollo a while to realize that Jamil is actually leading him away from where the student rooms are—and how odd for such a noisy dorm to suddenly be dead quiet!! Just as Rollo begins to voice his apprehension, Jamil leads him right into Scarabia’s open-air lounge.

POP, POP, POP!! Party crackers go off, showering confetti onto Rollo’s freshly washed hair. He blinks several times to confirm that he is not, in fact, dreaming. No, it feels like more of a nightmare than a dream.

The lounge is infested with mob students, the air filled with loud music and the delicious smells of a sumptuous feast. Kalim emerges from the crowd and spreads his arms. “SURPRISE!! We’re throwing a banquet in your name! To our new friend!!”

Rollo feels so faint, his legs give out and Jamil had to catch him. “M-My handkerchief,” he sputters out weakly—alas, his coping mechanism won’t be able to help him now (he had foolishly tucked it away with his NBC uniform to dry overnight). “You have a party to tend to,” Jamil tells him.

The subtly evil sparkle in his dark eyes implies that Jamil knew this was coming all along… and had let it happen. He had been the one to lead Rollo here, the one to silence Kalim when he started to over speak. Anger rises in Rollo, and he struggles to contain it. “You scheming little weasel…!”

He’s not allowed to finish his statement, as Kalim has hooked one arm in his. Jamil waves good-bye to Rollo as Kalim yanks him around the room, introducing mob student after mob student to their honored guest. None of the names or faces stick in Rollo’s head, but the nausea from the earlier magic carpet ride is returning.

Speaking of the magic carpet, it trails after him and Kalim for most of the night! It weaves itself between Rollo’s legs and seems to stare at him eagerly, as if wanting head pats or compliments. (Rollo makes a face, but that doesn’t deter it.)

For the most part, Rollo keeps his mouth shut to avoid instigation (the last thing he wants is to lose it in such a public space) and downs as much grape juice as he can to quell his annoyance.

When all are full on food and drink, they’ve got to shake off all that energy!! Many take to the floor to dance, Kalim and Jamil included! They’re like birds in motion, free and flowing. Kalim just does what feels best to him, wheres Jamil mixes street dancing with his own expressive style. Rollo stands firmly at the sidelines, arms folded disapprovingly.

“Look at that disgusting display,” he grouses. The mob students around him cheer and hoot for their dorm leader and vice, their support rising about his disdain.

Now Kalim’s spinning wildly, his laugh reverberating like a bell’s echo. His arms extend as he twirls, reaching out to grasp Rollo by the arms. “Come on, dance with us!!” Kalim invites with sparkling eyes.

“No, I couldn’t…” Rollo protests, looking down stubbornly. Kalim misinterprets the motion as genuine bashfulness. (“It’s okay to be shy! That’s charming too.”)

There’s another tug—this time, Jamil. (“That’s right.” A smirk. “What’s so wrong with being a little bad once in a while?”

Rollo is dragged onto the dance floor against his will, set into the same twisted rhythm as the music. Those around him must get a sick thrill from the beats, each and every one of them a thrall to their own hedonistic desires. He wonders how they can live like this, free of care and worry—but as he dances among them, he, just for those moments, is left as feathery and as lightheaded.

How long do they dance for? He loses track of the time. There’s no clock to chime midnight to banish the magical spell placed upon him, only the burning in his feet as he dances the night away, intent on outdoing Kalim and Jamil.

Rollo basically blacks out in his bed that evening 💀 Man’s so tired and so done with this, he just wants OUT already!

… His body’s aching in the morning. (Nobody make an “he’s an old man!” joke, Rollo will smite you right where you stand.) He literally groans out loud as he hauls himself out of bed and prepares for the day. At the very least, his uniform has completely dried off from the unceremonious dunk in the oasis!

Kalim tries offload some extravagant parting gifts onto Rollo before his departure (from piles of gold and jewels to exotic new pets) to which Rollo stubbornly refuses. This leads into a back-and-forth about what would be a suitable souvenir to bring back with him from Scarabia. (Rollo won’t have any of it!!)

Jamil mediates, eventually convincing Kalim that his “invaluable friendship” and “the fun memories they made together” is treasure enough for Rollo. (Both he and Rollo gag internally at the idea, but Kalim seems super satisfied with it.)

"Yes, this won't be an experience I forget anytime soon," Rollo says dubiously. Kalim doesn't catch the malice in his flat tone, but Jamil definitely does.

[bogleech]

What are your favourite dragon quest monsters across the entire series?

The first Dragon Quest Monsters game I've ever gotten to play wound up being the first one to leave out exactly the top three I looked forward to getting:

GIANTSLUG/MAULUSC: I'm pickier about slug and snail creatures than you maybe expect but I love the vapid drippy zombie face of the DQ slug. It perfectly captures the appeal of a slug as a monster, a mindless gooey thing that will just eat you without a care. And its classic color scheme is that of a Banana Slug!!

BELZEBUB: I am also picky about fly creatures; usually I want them to have the proboscis present in some way, and the correct number of wings (two). There's something I still love about the toothy mouth of Belzebub however, maybe the way it curls up between the eyes? It just does a good job capturing the feel of a fly's personality I guess.

DARKEYE/EYELASHER: eye creatures can also very easily feel a bit boring to me because I've just seen so, so many of them, but DQ's basic killer eyeball appeals to me a lot with its irregular fungus-like collection of tentacles. The little root branches on "top" are especially cool to me, and sometimes they're the bottom, because they represent where the eyeball attaches to either floors or ceilings! In a few games, they're even encountered as parasites inside bigger monsters!

I used to admire the guidebook to the first two DQ Monsters games as a kid but never had the games themselves, and never got around to any other DQ titles. I just spent my whole life waiting for just the right one where I'd finally get to assemble my three favorites, then finally this new one comes out and has to be the first time these three took a vacation :( But, Dark Prince was at least nice enough to include exactly my next three favorites in the franchise. I went over them already in my DQM Dark Prince post but some people will see this post first so I will have to reintroduce them:

DROHL: droopy flappy membranous mollusk guys, honestly horrible looking in a great way. In 3d games it turns out their helmetlike head spirals in the back like a snail shell! Apparently they're meant to be troll-like beings.

LUNATICK: just a blue fleshy sac thing with gooey antennae, a bunch of tentacles (most of them segmented like worms!) and a little eyeball, perfect, no criticisms, also reminds me of what Berserk considers an "Incubus:"

(Don't worry, Berserk Incubus aren't sex monsters but monsters that give you nightmares and feed on the fear)

TAILEATER/MAD MOLLUSK: I love how pathetic their front face looks, and the whole shape is so pleasantly reminiscent of an abyssal sea cucumber of some kind.

SKULLROO/GUAARDVARK: I didn't even realize this was one of my top favorites until getting it in Dark Prince. It's an unpleasant wrinkly fat aardvark kangaroo thing that just always carries a human skull around. Its profile says they collect them and the one they carry is their favorite! A lot of slightly lower favorites were also left out however, none of these are in Dark Prince but are very high up there to me:

PYURO: what is this thing? I don't know! Different games have categorized it as an insect or a plant. It's a furball with five eyes encircling a butterfly proboscis, two little legs and a big huge ring of flower petals behind it. Very xenobiology.

TONGUELLA: it's kinda like a dumpy, hairless sloth with an aardvark tail with a mushed-in dog face and a giant gross tongue. I guess I just like foul moist beasts. I wish this was a real mammal we had in the world, I bet it'd smell terrible. Feels like a perfect counterpart to Guaardvark.

SLURPERON: it's one tiny pitcher plant with a giant tongue and then it has cool reptilian eyes at the bottom end. So simple and so rad! A fun way to stylize a pitcher plant monster without ripping off Victreebel.

SICKLER: is a little tiny mantis in a robe, like the Tonberry from Final Fantasy but a mantis

RAGIN' CONTAGION: a newer one, a gooey vaporous cyclops ghost that represents disease. In its first appearance as a boss in the series the English localizers decided it should talk like Yosemite Sam. Sure why not!

So I like the new game and it gave me some new favorites like Skellyfish and new appreciation for some others, but oddly it only has my very middle all-time faves

[sunshineting]

a drabble(?) of taking a shower with eren

fluff, mention of sex

“I’m bouta take a shower, you coming or what?” You yell across your apartment. A short moment passes before you hear heavy footsteps come toward your bedroom from the living room. Eren sees your already naked form and rushes to discard his clothes.

“Damn, you were movin fast as hell. Gimme a sec,” Eren quips. Steam begins to fill the bathroom after you turn the water on. You get in first, needing an extra moment to wet your hair. The hot water soothes your muscles. The shower curtain is pulled back and your boyfriend’s face appears. As he steps in, you look his toned body up and down.

“Your dick looks so funny when it's soft. It’s like a lil slug,” you giggle.

“And you be puttin this lil slug in your mouth,” he remarks.

“And do.”

You both are doing your own thing for a bit; you’re shampooing your hair as he washes his face. After a moment of lathering your hair, you notice him using your shampoo and conditioner.

“Um, hello?” You speak up, incredulously.

“What’s up?”

“Not you using my shit?” You cock your head to the side.

Eren just grins down at you.

“Mmcht. This ain’t even for your straight ass hair. And it’s expensive!” You complain. Grabbing the removable shower head, you start rinsing yourself off.

“You heard Ymir finally asked Historia out?” Eren asks.

“It’s about time! They’ve been crushing on each other for the longest,” you comment. The two of you talk about more mundane things until you both are clean. Your hair cascades down your shoulders, the water turning your usually curly hair into waves. Eren has pushed his hair straight back and out of his face. His viridian eyes gaze into your own.

“You’re so handsome,” you murmur with a smile.

“Thank you” He presses a kiss to your forehead. You get on your tippy toes to place your mouth on his. You were going for a light kiss, but of course he tries to deepen it.

“I haven’t brushed my teeth yet,” you mumble.

“That’s okay,” he says softly. He’s so gross but you kinda love him for it. He peppers little kisses on your lips, trailing to your cheeks and along your jaw. No matter how long the two of you have been together, he still gets you giddy. Eren does everything with passion, he puts his whole heart into anything he does. That’s one of the things that made you fall for him. When he kisses you, he engulfs you. You could never decide if he was selfish or selfless. For as much as he gives and gives, he takes just as much.

He gives you his tongue, he gives you his heart, he gives you everything he has to offer. In return, he takes your breath away, he takes your sense of self. The way he so effortlessly leads and takes charge makes you feel so at ease. You don’t even know who you are anymore without Eren. But it’s in the best way possible. 

[sephirthoughts]

30 and 32 for the ask meme, more valenwind please!!

30. Vincent calls Cid Chief sometimes canonically but that’s pretty much as far as he goes. He’s just awkward and terrible at pet names, and is too shy to try it. Whereas, Cid revels in the joy of both embarrassing Vincent and grossing out their teammates at the same time, and thus there is not a pet name in existence he hasn’t used for Vincent.

overheard in the bronco:

cid: how come you don’t have any cute little pet names for me? i wanna hear ya call me one

vincent: no. i am not good at those

cid: awww come on just once

vincent: no

cid: but honey, kitten, bao bei, sugar beet, babydoll, jelly donut, pookie bear, chocobo!

vincent: -sigh-

vincent: yes, sea…slug?

cid: …

cid: y’know what i’ll take it

NOTE: Vincent claims to be indifferent to pet names, but on a certain occasion, he was lurking nearby unseen, making sure Cid was safe walking home from the grocery store (HE HAS ANXIETY ISSUES DON’T JUDGE). He overheard some women flirting with Cid, to which Cid replied “No thanks ladies, i’m goin’ home to my wife.” Vincent went fully nonverbal for three days afterward. Cid’s back and hips have yet to recover.

32. It’s Vincent. He’s a dark edgy loner vampire on the surface but we all know he’s really a shy, touch-starved neurodivergent who’s been living in a box underground for decades. He has circulation issues from having materia in his chest instead of a heart, and thus is chronically cold, but he has discovered that Cid radiates heat like a small sun, and so behind closed doors, he’s always stuck on Cid like a lamprey, absorbing all that delicious human warmth. At least that’s his excuse.

He still has some old fashioned hangups about PDA, so in public he satisfies himself with standing in Cid’s general vicinity, being silent and dour. Until he feels that his man has socialised enough, and he wants attention now. Then he will scoop Cid off his feet without a word, and carry him bodily away, regardless of who he’s talking to or where they are.

The team is used to this and have come to accept it.

[willel]

THEORY : The Upside Down Kept Will Alive

I had to go on a long drive today and in the meanwhile, I was listening to someone react to Stranger Things for the first time. Man, it was such a treat because the guy was a science nerd, X-men nerd, AND a d&d nerd. He understood almost all the references and was even able to connect dots I didn't notice before because of his creds.

He doesn't have anything to do with this post, but as he was theory crafting and going through the series, I started theory crafting as well. Crazy theories. Theories that might not make sense. SO HERE WE ARE!

#1: The Upside Down SAVED Will

"What the hell are you talking about??" You might be saying to yourself now. Hear me out. Many people assume the tentacle entrapping Will at the end of the season was in fact killing him. Or potentially, just nesting eggs inside him to hatch later.

But I propose a different theory based on these scenes that are back to back

As you know, Will and Sara (and El) are paralleled with one another as we dive slowly into Hopper's backstory and grief about his child. Part of the reason Hopper tried so hard to find Will and get him back is not just because of his sense of justice, but also because he did not want Joyce to experience the same grief. It was like he was saving his daughter which he was unable to do in reality.

The first time Hopper lays eyes on Will tied up like that, he sees Sara with a ventilator attached o her. By thee time a person needs a ventilator, that means they are unable to breathe on their own or aren't getting enough oxygen.

So my stretch theory is : tube was in fact, NOT going straight to Will's stomach and laying slugs. My theory is that Tube was in Will's lungs, helping him breath and stay alive.

We don't know how long Will was strung up there or stopped breathing.... he wasn't breathing when they finally pulled him down. So.... what if the vines were sustaining his life?

The slug is still a mystery to me. Will could've gotten it at any point during his stay in the Upside Down. It's too bad I can't peek into my Upside Down bts book thing and see if they mentioned any extra details about this.

I'd also like to mention again that this is the only other instance we've seen a vine inserted into somebody's body. Usually, those vines just ensnare people and choke them out. This happened in season 2 to Hopper. It happened to Mike briefly as well. It happened to Nancy, Robin, and Steve in season 4. All incidents of choking and squeezing, no inserting into the body.

The only other instance of vine insertion (it makes me feel gross saying that) is Vecna.

It seems that by sticking the vines into his body, he is able to boost his powers beyond his normal limits. Maybe they increase his connection to the real world. Maybe they also keep him alive?

Well, there you have it. My crack theory for today. I feel like it's not that strange of a theory and that I've had similar musings before. But I literally have 8000 posts on this blog sooooo

[whoblewboobear]

I see your Jace loving cats and raise you Jace loving all weird, ugly and gross creatures and finding them unbelievable adorable.

In particular a mystery creature that looks like a mixture of a slug, Chinese crested dog and an open wound. Her name is Honeybun and she is Jaces precious little angel princess that he loves with all his heart.

What kind of species is she? Who knows for all anyone can tell she might as well be an eldritch horror rejected from her own realm for being too gross. Jace did find her in a shockingly empty level of a dungeon back in his adventuring days but he tries not to dwell on that fact too much.

Some of Honeybuns ‘quirks’ include:

.adversion to sunlight (Jace has a special desk draw he stuffs her into at work, he’s not leaving his baby all by herself at home)

.the ability to spit/vomit acid by accident and possibly on command

.looking at her for to long may cause different orifices to bleed (Jace is somehow immune to this, he claims it’s through the power of love, it’s more likely he’s just been exposed some much to her that he’s become immune/resistant)

.needing to be moisturised at least once a day otherwise she’ll shed her entire skin with said skin gaining some form of sentience unless it’s burned immediately.

Jace also calls honeybuns his familiar even though she offers no advantage to magic, or really anything.

Honestly it’s hard to decide if honeybuns even like’s Jace, is aware of anything or is in fact actively trying to kill.

Is her spitting up acid onto Jaces arm an upset stomach or purposely trying to hurt him? Her crawling over and onto the bed to watch him sleep could either be affectionate or her planning his death (how did she even manage that it taken her an hour to crawl/slide like 6 feet!) and when Jace swaddles her in his scarf like a baby does she calm down because she enjoys it or is more like how birds go limp and catatonic when they’re eyes are covered?

Jace mostly tries to keep honeybuns existence a secret since for reasons he can’t understand most people are scared/disgusted by his sweet little Angel.

So imagine Porters surprise one night when they’re staying late after work (either to work on the plan or just school stuff) and Jaces phone begins to beep an alarm before he opens a desk draw he normally keeps locked and pulls out honeybun. He begins softly cooing at her while rubbing coconut oil into its skin while the creature (porter assumes it’s a creature, it’s definitely breathing and seems to somewhat respond to Jaces touch) lays across his lap.

Porters pretty sure his nose has began to bleed when Jace seemingly having forgotten Porter was there until that moment looks up sheepishly and smiles before introducing him to honeybun, his familiar.

Also while Porter is utterly freaked out by honeybun and makes no effort to hide it (he woke up one night to find honeybuns sitting on his chest, just watching him. He immediately launched her across the room and ran outside shrieking so loudly next door called the cops. Jace was so upset for his poor baby he refused to put her down the entire night and even hand fed honeybun her favourite treat, raw chicken heart. He promises Porter that it just means honeybun likes him and that she watches him sleep all the time, Porter is not comforted by this info)

Zara has similar feelings as Porter towards honeybun, but for Jaces sake try’s to not let it show and be supportive e.g Zara trying to find something nice to say about honey bun “well at least she’s quiet and remains mostly still” honeybun as if on que begins to randomly shriek and throw her body and limbs around like she’s on fire.

Zara trying to comfort Jace who’s worried about honeybun as she somehow managed to eat 2 different scented candles, a wheel of extension cords and a bottle of ambrosia (yes even the glass bottle): we could always take her to the vet if your truly that concerned?

Jace: you know I can’t Zara, every time I do they just keep trying to put her down saying that’s it’s a crime against nature and humanity to let something like her continue living :(

Zara:…. Right how could I forget.

Xx

Anon i need you to know just how much I love Honeybuns. She's giving jackalope meets lovecraftian horror. I also love that Jace is never beating little weirdo freak allegations. Is Honeybuns an abomination? Yes but Jace loves her! Absolutely obsessed with her!!

Your mind is beautiful, anon! Thank you for sharing this with me~

[b-blushes]

hello i am here with slug facts! so!

slugs are super cool i love them a lot! most species live for a few months to a year, they hibernate during the winter. like a lot of bugs that survive winter, they rely on leaf litter to keep warm! the decaying of the leaves keeps them warm enough to not freeze.

their daily life mostly consists of trying to find food and sleeping. slugs have absolutely atrocious eyesight, they can basically only see light and dark and some general shapes, so they find food based on smell. they smell with their bottom two antenna things! (i forget the scientific name but like. the average person doesnt know it anyway so.) most slugs are primarily herbivores and eat various fruits, vegetables, decaying plant matter, and fungi and mold. but, like snails, there are a few species that eat other slugs! and pretty much all slugs will eat dead slugs and nibble on other dead animals sometimes.

slugs and snails both need a lot of calcium, snails need more than slugs because they need to maintain their shells, but slugs also need some because they have internal shells!! it shields their organs from damage if they are attacked. their main sources of calcium are rocks, bones, and eggshells. they eat with this thing called a radula, which is basically like a tongue covered in tiny teeth! it lets them scrape bits off their food so they can eat it.

slugs are mainly preyed upon by birds, and things like lizards and frogs. they cant outrun predators, and they dont have protective shells to hide in like snails do, so they use other tactics to get predators to leave them alone. slugs have really strong "feet" (the muscle they use to crawl along the ground), and can grip whatever theyre on top of really well, which makes it hard for predators to pull them off and into their mouths. they also can ooze a special slime when startled, that is more liquidy and tastes extra gross so predators leave them alone. a lot of slugs are various levels of toxic as well.

slugs need to stay damp all the time, theyre mostly water and can easily dry out and die. they usually live under rocks or logs or leaf litter because of this, and tend to stay in dark or shaded places out of the sun. they dont have a regular sleep schedule like people do, but because they cant be in the sun they do tend to come out more at night or when its raining. slugs just sort of sleep whenever, and it varies from slug to slug. they basically just sleep whenever theyre not eating or looking for something to eat, and when theyre somewhere safe like under a rock or log. they sleep usually in periods of a few hours at a time.

slugs arent exactly social animals, but because they lay eggs in clusters that range from a dozen to a few hundred and because they cant travel far due to being so slow, they often live in groups. theres also anecdotal evidence that being in groups affects their behavior, ie slugs realizing its time to hatch from feeling other slugs crawling over them.

slugs have both sets of genitals, and any two slugs of the same species can mate. they have really intricate mating rituals its very interesting to watch. if you look at a slug closely you can see a little hole open up near their head, that hole does basically everything. it's how they breathe, and inside there are their sex organs, those come out when mating. they also poop from there and lay eggs from there. their eggs are jelly-like, similar to amphibian eggs, and they lay them either buried slightly in the dirt, or under logs or rocks. they lay a few clutches of eggs in their life, usually one in spring and one in summer.

i hope you enjoyed my ramblings about slugs, and i hope this answered any questions you had!! if you have any follow-up questions let me know, i can probably answer them!

YES thank you chaos this is so interesting!!!! I've always known slugs as little friendly guys from my garden and been curious about them but have never for example kept any as pets so never really was able to figure out what their days look like! I'm also familiar with slug eggs from discovering them in the garden too!

i was just looking at anatomy diagrams and it's so wild to picture them with hearts and organs 'similar' to us! (not like, similar similar but you know, like they're so small and the variety of 'insides' that various bugs and invertebrates and molluscs have! like of course it's not all just goop in there!) Truly so magical how many creatures are living all around us with daily lives so similar and so different to ours! Thank you again for sharing slug facts with me :') OH AND ALSO the context in which i was asking, Slug Mode Saturday, had three main tenets which were go slowly, focus on nourishment, and cosy (although it was mostly vibes more than strict rules :P) and i feel like they are similar! so slug mode saturday returns!!!

[marinerainbow]

17) Does your OC have a pet? Any of your ocs

You know what? Imma do all of them. Mainly because they are mostly similar XD

Betty Locera: She definitely wants to get a dog one day. She and her family had a couple of dogs that are old good boys now. Betty hasn't really gotten around to it as she's trying to establish herself and her business in the isles. And when she adopted Flower, she decided it was best to focus on her rather than trying to get a pet. I can see a year or two later though, Betty takes Flower with her to the pound to get a dog. Boyyo needs a buddy ^^

Huff Bad: I need to do more for my boy. Puff needs her twin brother! Hm... I can see Huff being the kind of kid who would gather different sizes of snails, slugs and worms to make little 'families' (so basically me XD). He definitely would have tried to keep a pet worm. As he gets older, I think he would invest in an ant farm or something. He just thinks they're really cool. How does Puff feel about her brothers 'gross' interests?

Sketch Quinn: No. They know they aren't exactly in the best position to have a pet. They already are worried about not being there enough for Rooty. But that's ok. They're satisfied with the pigeons on their window sill... Not to mention the fricken rat and roach Rooty brings home 😭

-

Prism: She has her eatier friend Mercedes. Does that count? XD If not... I don't think so. She has her dad/mento Owl, her eatier friend, and the rest of the wildlife of the Night Dimension. I think shes pretty satisfied with not having her own pet ^^ (would Audaci feel the same way?)

-

Ben Cottontail: He had a pet goldfish as a kid. But now, as an adult, he's more focused on his garden to get another fish.

Henry Foxworth: He does really like chickens, but he's given up hope of having his own chicken farm by now... But he will break into other peoples' farms just to hang out with the chickens. He won't steal one, though. He knows he can't take care of an animal on the streets.

Moony Wolf: He has his bunny cake, who he loves and spoils ^^ he actually adopted Cake shortly before he and Poppy started dating. Since Cake is more social, he introduced Poppy to her just a few dates in. Poppy fell in love, and now she's kind of like a mother to Cake, too. Even after they've split up, she'll still petsit for Moony when she can and gives Moony advice on how to care for rabbits whenever he needs it ^^

Poppy O'Hare: She doesn't have a pet, but she wouldn't mind one. She definitely needs an emotional support animal. Poppy would love to get a tarantula. Or a duck. She loves ducks ^^ (nobody tell her what ducks are like in the human world-)

Shiny Weasel: She definitely wants a ferret or a cat! She needs a fluffy buddy. Though she feeds the cats in her neighborhood and gives them her own names, even if they have a collar and name tag. So for now, she's satisfied with just her little entourage of kitties XD ^^

Terry Ratt. T: Actually, yes! He has a corn snake he named Louie. It may not be a cute or punny name, but he felt like that suited him. One time, he invited Shiny over to his apartment to meet Louie, and that woman now catches the mice her feline friends don't hunt and offers them to Louie ^^

Thank you for asking! This was so fun to answer ^^

[rebeccathenaturalist]

Are There Evil Animals?

Originally posted on my website at https://rebeccalexa.com/are-there-evil-animals/

There’s a great discussion over on BlueSky about animal species unfairly seen as villains. Folks are posting pictures of species that we feel get a bad rap (I chose to highlight the gray wolf and snakes.) Ironically, I also had a note in my calendar, placed there months ago, to write about whether there are good or bad animals. So–today’s theme is whether there really are “evil animals”, and what makes them separate from “good animals”.

Please keep in mind that I am coming from a western perspective as an American of European heritage, and cultural views of various animals vary from species to species and culture to culture. And, of course, individual people within a community may disagree. But let’s stick with general trends in western viewpoints. Also, I am not going to wade into the issue of invasive species and whether they are “good” or “bad” from a moral sense, though I did get into clarifying what makes a species invasive a while back.)

There are certain animals that seem to draw the ire of people more than others. Spiders and snakes are two groups that are frequently relegated to the undesirable group of “creepy crawlies”, are the subject of many people’s phobias, and are all too often killed simply for existing. I’ve seen people post pictures of their pet snakes and spiders, only to have others reply “If I saw that thing anywhere near me I’d kill it”–something I bet they’d never say about someone’s beloved pet dog or cat. Slugs are seen as gross and slimy, bats will supposedly fly into your hair, and even pet domesticated rats will get looks of revulsion.

While all large predatory animals have seen their numbers plummet in the past couple of centuries due to overhunting, gray wolves and coyotes face extra-venomous persecution. Barry Holstun Lopez’ classic work Of Wolves and Men, and Hope Ryden’s God’s Dog: A Celebration of the North American Coyote, both explore in detail how these canids are not just controlled, but gleefully slaughtered by those who proudly display “smoke a pack [of wolves] a day” on their trucks and hang rotting carcasses of coyotes they’ve shot on fences alongside roads. The reintroduction of wolves in particular has been hindered by the protests of those convinced their livestock will all be killed and their children carried off. And Ryden’s work tried to counter the sentiment of all too many people that “the only good coyote is a dead coyote.”

Lopez in particular tackled the idea that wolves were specifically evil because they had supposedly been sent by Satan himself to plague good God-fearing people. And while many wolf-haters today probably don’t recognize the roots of their hatred, they still pursue the extermination of the species with religious fervor. Snakes, similarly, were maligned not just because a few of them are venomous, but because of the Serpent in the Garden of Eden. The bible is full of parables and metaphors involving animals that place them in either the “good animals” category (like sheep) or the “evil animals” category (like goats.) And while western society is becoming increasingly less Christian, the cultural influences of centuries of Christianity can still be felt.

Thankfully, advances in science have offered a much more nuanced view of animals, and nature in general. We know for sure that the Earth is much, much, MUCH older than 6000 years, and that the many species that have come and gone over the eons came to be through natural selection. At their core, every species of animal (and plant, and fungus, etc.) is a living system whose most primitive purpose is to make sure its genetic material is successfully replicated. Far from making life into a strictly mechanistic process, I feel that this just makes the many adaptations species have evolved over time that much more fascinating.

Take the gray wolf, for example. Long legs help them to run swiftly, but they have solid endurance as well and can trail prey for many miles. Broad feet keep them from sinking into snow, like snowshoes, and keen hearing, sight, and smell help them to locate prey. They can dispatch said prey with sharp teeth which also allow them to shear off pieces of meat which is then broken down by an efficient digestive system. Far from being solo predators lurking in the shadows, wolves have complex social lives, and a pack is generally composed of a primary pair with their young from various years. They work together to raise each year’s pups and find food, and they spend quite a bit of time playing with each other or sleeping off a good meal. All of these adaptations work together to make an organism that has successfully passed its DNA down through many generations. It’s pretty impressive, thinking about the complexity of all of the tissues and organs and systems that go into making one single wolf, and how DNA holds the key to its own preservation and replication in increasingly complex packages.

But these genes and adaptations do not make the wolf “evil”, any more than herbivory (other than the occasional nest of baby birds) makes a deer “good”. And that’s the thing: at its heart, nature is amoral. Not IMMORAL, mind you; amorality means being not at all concerned with right or wrong, good or evil. Wolves and deer prey on their respective foods, and deer and plants have defenses they use to try to keep from being eaten. That doesn’t make them inherently bad, and they aren’t rubbing their paws (or hooves) gleefully together like some cartoonish villain as they think about killing their next meal. It’s just the way of things, ever since the first eukaryotes evolved two billion years ago and began eating other living beings.

So why, then, do we persist in seeing wolves as evil animals and deer as good ones? Well, we’re judging them by human standards, and specifically western, Christianity-influenced standards. We’re pretty biased, because we think that any species that does things we want them to is good, but those that inconvenience us are bad. We like hunting deer and we only really get annoyed with them if they eat our crops (which can also be solved by eating them.) But while wolves may eat our livestock (and the deer we want to hunt), we can’t really eat them, and so their value to us isn’t enough to keep them in the “good” category. Although wolves gave us dogs, the wolves that remain will not bow to our demands, so dogs become the only nice and respectable wolves we will accept in our lives because they directly benefit us, whether as working animals, companions, or both.

We can see this pattern among other species, too. Those that we find beautiful or useful, and which do not significantly impact our lives in any negative way, get to be good. Any that cause us problems end up being bad. Sadly, “I saw it and it scared me” is often enough to relegate a species to being a problem. Even though spiders do a great job of keeping our homes and other environments free of flies, ants, and other insects that might, say, spoil our food, we persecute spiders because we see them as scary. In the vast majority of human-spider encounters there is no way the spider could possibly get close enough to bite, and would only do so in self-defense–yet in many of these encounters the spider loses its life just for being there.

We don’t even think twice about squashing a spider or other “bug” that made the mistake of being visible. Demonizing animals as evil means that we don’t have to feel any responsibility toward their preservation. And, in fact, you can extend that whole idea of “evilness” to nature in general. Nature, until recently, was mainly seen in the west as something to be tamed and tied down, turned to agriculture, industry, and other good human-benefiting pursuits. Preserving wild ecosystems is seen as wasteful by the sort of person who only sees dollar signs. Why should we reintroduce wolves if they get in the way of our raising livestock? Why should we protect old growth forests instead of cutting them down for profit? Why should we restrict fishing to help fish populations recover from generations of overfishing, when it might mean a drop in seafood revenue?

In the end, the whole good/evil dichotomy as applied to animals is just a symptom of our selfishness. Those of us who understand the complexity of ecology also grok the concept of existence value, which I just wrote about in my last article. This concept allows us to get out of our self-centered viewpoints, showing how a species (or ecosystem) is important simply for existing, regardless of whether we can use it for something or not. I also think it’s important to drop that idea that a species can be inherently good or evil, and instead take Henry Beston’s view that they are “other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendour and travail of the earth.” Like them, we humans are also the product of billions of years of adaptations and evolution, no more or less amazing than any other species. We’ve spent too long trying to make the whole world dance to our tune alone; we need to give the other beings space for their music, too, and appreciate its beauty as much as our own.

Did you enjoy this post? Consider taking one of my online foraging and natural history classes or hiring me for a guided nature tour, checking out my other articles, or picking up a paperback or ebook I’ve written! You can even buy me a coffee here!