#i have too many genders in my hoard to make into one board so you get mewbellic

[voltage-stims]

Mewbellic stimboard one two three .. four five six .. seven eight nine

day 1 prompt of @deadboystims 300 follower event, "make a stimboard based off of your queer identities!"

mewbellic flag used made by @bun-gender!

[countessviolet]

Family on Fire - Ch. 2 - Drunk!Olaf alert

"Y...yes!" Klaus rejoiced as he counted out the 65-point word his play in Scrabble awarded him.

Violet groaned, not bothering to think what her letters could do for her. There was no way she or Sunny could catch up to him now.

"LUPUS. I can't believe it," she muttered. "Count on the guy who read through the dictionary twice to come up with that."

Klaus shrugged, picking up the faux silk bag to collect new tiles, frowning at its light weight.

"Where are..."

Violet grinned mischievously as a light crunch came from their left.

"Sunny!" Klaus gasped. Violet chuckled as her baby sister reluctantly spat out an 'L' and an 'E', a fresh tooth mark smiling back at him.

"Sorry, they tasted like chicken," Sunny babbled.

"Ugh," the young scholar complained as he wiped the tiles clean. "Well, at least it matches the board now."

Violet laughed, helping her brother and sister put the game away.

Saturday evenings were, oddly, calm in Count Olaf's home. Being that the Baudelaires used the day to finish the few chores they couldn't keep up during the week, and cook for that night and Sunday night if they had the time. With Count Olaf and his troupe at play practice or some other strange, often bordering on illegal occurrence the Baudelaires didn't care to know the details about, this left the majority of the day at their disposal. Violet would work on a new invention to make their lives easier, Klaus would study in the library while Sunny looked through recipe books on loan from Justice Strauss's library. 

And, guiltily, it granted them a few hours without Count Olaf. The Baudelaires had grown used to Olaf's presence in their lives, and it was fair to admit the siblings had learned a few things, more about human nature than theatre more often than not. Still, it was nice for the Baudelaires to engage in their former hobbies and activities, pretend they were the same children they were before the fire. 

It wasn't easy to do such things with Count Olaf lurking about. Sure, the momentary ceasefire didn't make up the other six days of utter chaos they endured, but it was a much-anticipated reprieve the Baudelaires reveled in.

"So you two want to  - "

Any further plans the Baudelaires may have had were immediately off the table at the sound of Count Olaf's car screeching to a grating halt in the driveway.

"Uh oh," Sunny babbled.

"Yeah, he's back early," Klaus agreed. It was barely past 10 o'clock, he noticed with a glance at the giant clock in the living room. Yes, that was way too early.

Still, the chorus of Olaf's troupe rang from the sputtering car outside, their toon out of sync and saturated with cheap and probably unpaid for liquor.

"Oh no," Klaus groaned as he and his sisters peeked out the living room window. "They are drunk."

Violet winced as the troupe member of indeterminate gender swayed into the mailbox, the bald man glancing back long enough to grab them by the ankle and drag them up the pathway. Count Olaf lingered by the car, leaning against the hood in a way that meant he was the one who drove them back but should not have been the one to do so.

"Okay," she breathed. "We can do this."

"We've done it before," Klaus shuddered.

"Too many times," Sunny babbled.

"Right," Klaus said as he placed Sunny to her feet. "Sunny, go make as much coffee as you can. And I think there are some sandwiches left in the refrigerator."

"Toppy," Sunny babbled, which meant something along the lines of: "I know what's in my kitchen, thanks."

Violet was already tying up her hair when Klaus joined her in the entryway. They could hear the troupe's caterwauling grow louder the closer they got. Klaus was already poised at the door, ready to let the personified chaos hoard in.

The doorknob shook as the troupe struggled to enter, finding the situation much more humorous than it was.

Klaus took a deep breath, gripping the elaborate door handle with a sweaty palm.

"Ready?"

Violet gulped. "No, but..." 

"Yep..." With that, Klaus grabbed the door handle and yanked - just missing the hook-handed man's hook.

"Oh!" he laughed, patting Klaus' hair. "Sorry youuuuu!"

Klaus swatted away the cackling man's hooks and then the other troupe members grazed as they pushed and pet him.

"Great Scott, they're completely inebriated!" Klaus called to his sister as she ran ahead of the troupe, moving some of the more breakable items of Count Olaf's hoard out of their path. 

The Baudelaires developed this system early in their arrival. Following the predictable moves of Olaf and the parade of drunks and how those steps intertwined with the placement of the count's things helped them protect said things from damage, not to mention Olaf's misplaced blame the following morning.

"I swear I will have to drain your fortune when I get my hands on it just to replace all the damage you orphans have caused!" he often bellowed the morning after a craze as Violet, Klaus and Sunny, on their hands and knees, picked up and swept away broken glass and porcelain. 

"You and your troupe did this!" Klaus groaned for the hundredth time in his and his sisters' defense.

"Besides, you can't charge us since you stole half of this  -"

"Zip it!"

Anyway, it was one less chore to do the next morning. And so far, their well-choreographed operation was working brilliantly. 

Klaus wiped his brow as he and Violet finished subliminally leading the troupe members to the living room to sober up. There were throw pillows all about the living room as Count Olaf's troupe began to drop left and right, their most vulnerable body parts protected from the corners of dangerous furniture pieces. Sunny was pushing a rickety metal cart with strong coffee and sandwiches of various combinations to them, quickly moving away as the drunks swarmed on the food. 

Violet sighed tiredly but nodded with satisfaction. "That went great."

"Surprisingly great," Klaus said, looking around the room before grimacing. "Too great. Where's Olaf?"

Violet tensed as she looked around the foyer for their wayward guardian. Usually not seeking Count Olaf lingering about the first floor, watching their every move, mocking their grief or their inability to complete some of his more obscene chores. But with his troupe here and he very obviously not, certainly something was amiss.

"Sunny, watch them for a minute, okay?"

"Caup!" Sunny scolded, her babble coming out to, "Oh great, thanks!"

Violet and Klaus carefully looked around the foyer and dining room just in case he'd taken a detour or passed out somewhere. Klaus jogged outside to check the car, pausing at the sight of the obscure car's wide-open driver door. All the lights were on as well, the cloudy headlights glaring two orange beams into the neighborhood. The young scholar gulped, looking into the dark night and hoping nothing was out there. 

A light yelp nearly made Klaus, figuratively and literally, jump out of his skin. He was back in the foyer in five very long struts.

"Violet what's..." He followed the hand that wasn't clutched over Violet's chest to the staircase where Count

Olaf was curled into a very tight ball, clutching at the ragged staircase fabric as if the weary threads would keep him in place. 

"What..."

"I don't know," Violet gasped. "I checked to see if he came through the back door and he was here when I got back."

The siblings dared stepped closer, trying to access Count Olaf's state in the limited stairway light.

"Look," Klaus pointed at Olaf's forehead.

"He's bleeding," Violet observed before turning her frown to Klaus. "We've never had to carry him upstairs

before."

"What's that thing dad used to say?" Klaus mused. "There's a first time for everything?"

Violet chuckled fondly. "I guess this is that first."

Klaus shrugged, rolling up his sleeves to the elbow as he tried to assess how to touch him without...touching...him.  

Violet shrugged, very much on the same page with her brother. She tentatively grabbed at Olaf's coat sleeve, testing the cloths' strength.

"Maybe we could - " 

Violet never finished that thought. It wouldn't be her who solved the dilemma of getting Count Olaf to bed at all. All ideas froze inside the young inventor's head when Olaf suddenly sprang up and grabbed her wrist, yanking her down hard to his level on the stairs.

"You!" Olaf snarled, his breath so heavy with liquor Violet's began to water, but it was the terror she felt from him suddenly grabbing her that caused them to spill down her cheeks. Despite living in his home for months and having what she thought was every insult, every bit of hate he stored in his body thrown their way, he had never looked at them the way he was now. Like he wanted nothing more than to watch them die.

With his glare resting solely on her, it was like all that rage and hate seeping off him was directed at Violet.

And Violet felt devoured by it. 

"You killed him! Why Bea? Why would you..."

His words began to jumble together as exhaustion began to take hold of him. Klaus used the opportunity to unravel Olaf's fingers from Violet's arm and pulled her free.

"You okay?" Klaus inquired as he looked Violet over, gently grazing over where Olaf had grabbed her, the patch of skin was red and warm from his grip.

Violet nodded, daring to look at the mysterious, unconscious man on the stairs.They watched in astonishment as he twitched about, muttering strange words and names neither Baudelaire could quite make out. He began to still a few moments later, but his fingers continued to flex at a space on the stair just above his head.

This time it was Klaus who reached out to test the consciousness of the count. Olaf retaliated once more, but it was a much weaker attempt and mainly consisted of hissing, of all things. 

"Just...move," Klaus growled as he pulled on Olaf's arms.

"No," Count Olaf groaned out suddenly, the word leaving his throat sharp and alarmed. "Don't move me! I want to stay with him!"

"Him?" Klaus muttered, looking at the space of stairs Olaf was clutching at. "Stay with who? There's no one here."

"He..." Olaf sputtered off, slipping into unconsciousness as the alcohol finally finished seeping into his bones. 

Klaus and Violet looked at each other with concern as Olaf snored unevenly. Neither thought their guardian could conjure anything but bitterness and sarcasm. Unfortunately, they were very wrong.

"Here," Klaus instructed, taking one of Olaf's arms and throwing it over his shoulder. After making sure Olaf was still very unconscious, Violet followed suit, and other than the strange angle the siblings had to walk in to get up the staircase, she and Klaus got Olaf to bed with little trouble. Klaus situated the count on his stomach while Violet pulled off his jacket. She wanted him to be somewhat comfortable but blushed at the idea of taking off his belt - and grimaced at the idea of touching his shoes. 

"He's fine," Klaus said, nose wrinkled. "He can undress himself when he wakes up."

Violet nodded, quickly grabbing a glass off his dresser and filling it with water from the connected bathroom as Klaus covered him, checking his breathing once more. He watched how Violet lingered next to him for a moment longer but turned to follow her brother, eyes cast down.

Klaus closed the door after her, sighing tiredly as they went downstairs to join their youngest sister.  Sunny was sitting on the edge of the dining room table, the members of Olaf's troupe snoring in the places they passed out in. Sunny had not through and covered each of them with whatever blanket or covering they had.

"Great job," Violet said as she picked her up. Sunny shrugged as she yawned and rubbed her face. 

The siblings turned off any light they saw as they dropped the coffee things in the sink to deal with in the morning. They shared a groan at the mention of tomorrow, of the messes and the strange schemes that only got them into trouble.

Klaus turned to comment on the matter to Violet but found her gazing at the darkened door at the end of the hall. 

"Bea? Do you he was talking about Mom?" she inquired softly.

Their mother's nickname weighed heavily in the hall, somehow tainted not just from being spoken in the thick, dusty air. Klaus wanted to answer her, wanted to bring up good, loving memories of their mother. But all he could think about was the sheer hate in Count Olaf's voice when he said her name and the bruise forming on Violet's arm. He didn't want to think of what strange way that man wanted to sully his mother's name.

"Don't let him get to you, Vi," Klaus whispered. "He's a lush. Nothing he says makes sense."

Violet shrugged. "It's very specific, don't you think?"

Klaus hummed as he turned on his bedside table. "He knew our parents. We knew that already."

"Hard stuff?" Sunny guessed. 

"Yeah," Violet muttered, unsatisfied but too tired to prod the issue much further.

The siblings tucked themselves in and turned the lights out, sparing no further thoughts to the strange man at the end of the hall or the other unanswered questions that seemed to slip further and further into obscurity.  

[delldarling]

the city is hoarding hearts | arroven

male dragon x gender/body neutral reader 9015 words lemon | mention of drinking alcohol, face riding, size difference, fairly submissive monster, penetrative sex, poetry, touch starved note: behold! my modern epic fantasy universe! this world first appeared back in August for my Patreon Story of the Month, and though I haven’t revisited Arroven again just yet, I did return to this universe for December’s Story of the Month as well. 👀

Magic, despite people's claim to the contrary, is beyond rare these days. No one really claims that it isn’t real, that it didn’t once run rampant with it’s existence. After all, it’s impossible to deny when people have things like the architecture of the North to reference. The towers built into their seaside cliffs, spiraling up like the serpents of old reaching for the sun? Without magic, without gravity spells, and an everlasting charm on those spells, thick enough to double as a coat of paint, the towers would have fallen into the sea by now, dashed against the dark stones jutting out from the deep green waters. Many people, though especially the elves, think that the towers will endure long after the cliffs have crumbled into the water. Floating relics, you’ve heard more than a few people murmur, wonder in their voices, wouldn’t that be something?

Even more common now, there are people the world over that claim they have a spark of magic left still, that they can feel the rhythms of the magical tide flooding back over the world.

She Wakes is written on street corners and thick posters, spray painted on the underside of the colossal Echo Bridge. No matter how often they have workers doing their best to clean the graffiti up, the giant letters are back in place a few days later.

Despite how much you’d like to believe them, as everyone dreams of the rumors, of magic returning, you’ve never put too much stock into the whispered words. Why would you? No matter how often you’ve spent watching wispy clouds streak by your window, no matter how often you’ve taken a moment to reflect on the thought, to nurse a seed of hope… Nothing has ever come of it.

It’s why you keep trying to ignore that heavy ache in the arch of your feet, or the way you keep noticing advertisements for Arroven.

History books and the elderly all say that this is how it starts when magic finally blooms in someone’s blood. There’s an itch. An ache. A constant irritant that starts in your extremities and wriggles into your veins, and then coincidences will start to pile up. Small things, like noticing whenever the clock strikes 11:11 on whatever clock you pass. Or maybe it’s having the luck to switch the radio station to your favorite song without fail, or—

“Stop it,” you mutter to yourself when you spot it. You breath puffs out into the chilly air, adding to the fog lingering in the streets. You kneel, brushing aside some of the fallen damask leaves, their velvety backs clinging to your touch even as you do your best to shake them off. Just barely hidden under their litter is a postcard. Without even glancing at it, you know what you’ll find on the back, but you’re drawn to pick it up anyway, turning it over. It depicts a sprawling city with green undertones, the word Arroven written in a sloping, beautiful script along the bottom of the image. The edges are creased, almost lovingly, and there’s a small puncture hole at the top left corner, as if someone had it pinned to a corkboard for no short amount of time. 

Until this moment, you haven’t picked up any of the advertisements for Arroven. The stories all say that you can ignore it, that the magic will go away and fade from you like an ebbing tide if you only will it hard enough, but… You don’t know that you really want it to leave. Those seeds have hope might not have fully sprouted, but their roots have run deep, snaking through your veins. You swallow past the dryness in your throat and turn the postcard over, wonder if you’re going to get an address, or if there are words of encouragement intended for the last owner.

The postcard is faintly yellowed at the edges, but it’s otherwise blank.

You wilt, disappointed, but you don’t throw it back down onto the stones. If you check the railway listings, you’re more than certain that you’ll find a one way trip to Arroven suddenly dirt cheap. The pathway that will lead you there is probably paved with strangely good fortune, more invisible hooks ready to find a secure hold in your heart. You might as well find out if there’s anything to these claims of magic. You have far too much hope shored up in your bones and pumping through your chest not to at least try. 

-

A month later, and you’re starting to believe that whatever magic that led you this far has all but fled. Of course, you’re more than content with where it’s left you, a word rattling around in the back of your brain and clamoring to spill from your lips: home. Arroven feels like home.

It’s not just the city though. It’s your place. It’s the stones that pave the streets and the people that fill them. It’s the smell of bakeries and the faint hint of exhaust. It’s the clean smell of paper and ink from the stationary shop you’d stumbled into on your first night in Arroven, and the proprietor’s barely-there smile. You’d made fast friends with her almost instantly, like it was fate.

Mora, despite her solemn stature, and the vast amount of spiraling tattoos disappearing under the neck of her cleanly pressed shirts, is beyond kind. She possesses a startling, sparkling wit that leaves a smile lingering on your lips whenever you think of her snappy little comments. She’d given you a job in her shop a few days after you’d first arrived, perking up as soon as you’d come back into her shop. She needed a cashier, so she could have more time to develop her own inks, and then a few days after that you literally stumbled onto a showing of a furnished apartment. It had fit all of your needs, and your shoes had sunk into the plush carpet of the bedroom, like a quiet voice in the place asking you to stay.

The ache in your feet had eased, that strange little irritant in the back of your mind fading with every passing day. You haven’t put too much thought into magic since then, as there hasn’t been a reason when you have a new job to keep you busy, and a city to explore on your days off. You love it here, the sea green patina on the copper statues, the swirling architecture that extends to every building in the city, no matter how large or small. Besides, you know if you go looking into magic again, at the message boards or if you go hunting down books, it’s likely that they’ll all say much the same thing: She Wakes, and her gift will blossom in you, but not Forever. She moves us like pawns, adjusting us Just So, no matter how small the slot She needs filled. 

You’ve read it all before, have heard debates shouted in the streets or argued about in the back corner of classrooms. Magic moves through people as it wills, and no amount of pleading will keep it in you unless you’re a mage, and even then, that takes years of study. If the magic that led you here only existed long enough for you to make your home? Then you’ll have to be satisfied with that.

And you are, until that ache in your feet starts up again.

Late one evening, as you’re locking the back door of Rumoura’s, it floods through you fast enough to steal your breath. There’s no voice, no heavy hand on your shoulder, just a fierce pain that wells, threatening to bring tears to your eyes, until you turn to the right. You blink, surprise at the sudden and complete lack of pain, and take a ragged breath as you pocket the key to the door. When you feel steady enough, when your lungs no longer ache, you turn to the right and start walking.It takes you about ten minutes to realize you’re headed towards the main park, the one with ancient ruins of a half finished serpent tower peppered throughout its boundaries. You’ve walked through once, one golden afternoon with Mora, and you’ve been meaning to come back sometime on your lunch break. The past few days have been busy though, with a flood of students coming back to Arroven, stocking up on both casual and serious supplies from Mora’s shop.

Besides, there’s always been time to explore at your leisure now that you’re living here. 

Two towering trees make a grand arch over the park entrance, and the slow swirl of damask leaves spiraling down from the branches make you laugh.

“Coincidence,” you murmur, a small smile curling your lips, and you walk into the park. The paths are well lit, even this late in the evening. This part of the city doesn’t boast about it’s lack of crime, but most people feel it. There always seems to be groups of people roaming: Elven tourists, hooking arms and laughing over cups of tea and coffee, Orcish artists and musicians, setting up on benches or street corners, busking for the simple sake of sharing their art with others. You wander through the park, expecting to simply take in the sights among the meandering attendees, but.. You haven’t seen anyone for the past few minutes. Your footsteps start to slow, wondering if you missed a sign somewhere and you have the nagging feeling that you just need to find someone.

Cautiously, you keep moving, the sudden bout of nervousness easing when you see someone up ahead. They’re sitting at the foot of one of the rather large blocks of toppled variscite, a dark hoodie hiding their face. Their shoulders are broad, and their clothes are a little more ragged than you see on people around here, but it gives off more of a well lived look than a dangerous one. They’re tapping the toes of their boots together, the tread of them worn smooth, and a low, masculine hum reaches your ears the closer you get. He stops as soon as you’re within speaking range though, crossing his legs and leaning his elbows on his knees. There’s a street lamp not too far behind him, and with the hood and the angle of the light, it casts most of his face in shadow. All you can spy is a pair of long, thorn-like ear gauges, curling out from the depths of his hood. They’re bigger around than a thimble and sharp looking from this far away. 

“Nice evening, hm?” You say in greeting, hoping that if he doesn’t want to speak, he’ll just bob his head and let you move along. You haven’t run into any trouble in Arroven yet, but even with that strange ache, you don’t know that you can see your good luck lasting forever.

“A lovely one,” he mumbles and he leans back, hands grabbing at his knees and squeezing like he’s the nervous one.

That thought makes you stop, your eyes focusing a bit more intensely on what you can see of his skin. At first glance, his knuckles are bruised and paint splattered, nails split and a little too long, skin rough in texture. You blink, realizing that his knuckles aren’t bruised, his skin just mirrors the strange patterns of the variscite he’s sitting on, ink black and sea green, and the rough texture to his skin has pointy, scalloped edges.

The noise he makes isn’t a sigh, not quite, but he turns his face away, as if he expects you to ignore him, or run, and his hood edges back, just a sliver. The arch of his nose is straight as an arrow, and his nostrils are thin things, slashing upwards. His face has so many angles that it’s hard to tear your gaze away. You wish you could see his eyes, but he has them closed, like he’s still bracing himself for a blow.

“Are you.. Are you alright?” You ask, because it seems like the thing to say, with how tense he is, with how he’s waiting.

His eyes flash open, reflective in the depths of his hood. His mouth curls into a frown when he turns to look at you again. His eyes are still the eerie glam of a reflected light. “You’re not frightened?”

“Are you?” You ask, ignoring the thundering of your own heart. You’ve seen Trolls before, and even a few half-elves or half-orcs of varying descent, with skin that just barely reminds you of his, but.. You’re willing to bet he isn’t any of those. 

“A bit?” He says, unsure, and the edge of a violet tongue flicks out to wet his lower lip. “It’s been a few centuries since any of you have made yourself so at home here that you stumbled across me.” He hunches his shoulders, looking away from you for the breadth of a second, before he can’t help himself. His eyes flick back to you, rove over you from head to toe, almost greedily. “You felt a call then, an itch?”

“An ache,” you correct, staring at him with wide eyes. Centuries? The long lived races don’t often mention the time they have over others. It’s rude at the best of times, and most of them are terrible sticklers for manners. 

“At home here, you said?” You ask, knowing that something about him seems terribly familiar. 

Your question makes him pause, brow lifting before he finally pushes himself to his feet. He unfolds, all long, heavy limbs, but doesn’t move from his spot on the variscite. “M-.. Arroven. You do think of the city as home?” He breathes in, hesitantly lifting his chin. “Not to be rude,” he says, a little awkwardly, “but you smell like Arroven.”

All at once, the old poem flickers back into your mind, the one about hearts and desires and winter. The oldest folktales of the first cities, those built around the serpent towers, all seemed to carry the poem with them. It was both a warning and a blessing to those that wished to stay. You’d have to hunt down the entirety of it, but the ending couplet?  

The city promises, you’ll be most adored So can you, will you, join the hoard?

You bite down fiercely on the desire to blurt out dragon, but he must sense it, might even see the aborted twist of your lips. 

“..you’ve figured it out, then?” He asks, and when his shoulders droop, you spy the barest edge of a wing, tucked in close to his back. “If being in my immediate vicinity is a problem, I quite understand, but please stay in the city. You-” He blows out a breath, large hands fussing about with his hoodie pocket. Everything about him reads awkward, almost shy. “You’re safe here, I promise.” He breathes in again, like he can’t resist, eyes falling closed when his violet tongue appears, there and gone before you can blink. “You belong,” he murmurs and tangles his fingers in the material of his hoodie, like he would reach out if he didn’t stop himself.

Inexplicably, you wonder if Mora knows about the city patron. If you should waltz into the shop tomorrow and announce: I’ve officially been welcomed to the hoard.  ...Sort of. Before you lose your nerve, before you can bite your tongue, you ask. “An official welcome involves more drinks though, doesn’t it?”

-Arroven, the dragon, the founder of the city, is sitting across the table from you, slouching in a barstool that has a difficult time encompassing his enormous body. Despite his height, and the way his hood shadows his face in a frankly ominous way, no one is paying him any attention. One of the bartender’s had slid a drink list your way as soon as you’d claimed the seats, but she hadn’t even glanced at Arroven. In fact, you think her eyes might have skipped right over his seat. It’s a little disconcerting, seeing as he’d claimed that Wink was one of the best bars around, but if they ignore him, if they can’t see him?

“What’ll it be?” A different bartender asks, a tall elf, with his hair plaited back in a complicated braid. He has pleasant features, though he looks a little flustered, a lock or two of dark hair escaping his braid. You think he might be on the newer end when he fumbles a bit with the card you slide his way, olive skin flushing when his fingers nearly touch yours.  

“Uh, the special,” you finally decide, expecting him to turn to Arroven so he can order as well. Your jaw drops when he whirls, not even bothering. “Ar- hey, wait!” 

The elf turns back, smiling vaguely, looking even more tense now that he can’t leave straight off, but he doesn’t seem to see Arroven when you gesture towards him. His gaze zips right through the neckline of Arroven's hoodie, straight on through to the next customer. 

Perturbed, you lean in close to Arroven, heart skipping a beat due to his proximity. He smells faintly of musty books, and stone, cooling in the early evening after baking in the sunshine of a warm day. "Didn’t you want something?” You force yourself to ask, unwilling to let the elf leave without at least checking with him first. He doesn’t have to get anything, but you’d hoped he would, if only so you can spend a while longer in his company. Maybe the flirtatious tone you’d struck had made him uncomfortable?

For a moment Arroven hunches further into his sweatshirt, and you think your fears might hold weight. You are a little close, and you still don’t know each other terribly well yet. You straighten, hoping you don’t look as embarrassed as you feel and Arroven heaves out a sigh. He finally tugs back his hood, though the elf behind the bar doesn’t even blink. “Just a.. a Beetle Wing," he mutters, large, sharp teeth catching the light. The elf nods, though his gaze is still on you when Arroven speaks, and turns away to go make the drinks. 

Without the darkness of night, without his hood shadowing his face, you see that his eyes aren’t permanently reflective. In the dim lights of the bar, they’re a lovely shade of blue-green that matches well with his skin. What you thought were ear gauges were actually his horns, thick and curving, and trailing after the clean arch of his jaw. His ears are heavy with plugs though, and they clink against his horns when he turns, noticing that you’re staring. The scent of hot stone grows stronger when you smile at him, and then he huffs, looking away and running a hand through his already tousled, short dark hair. You catch sight of scales on his scalp and then blink. It’s not hair on his head, it’s feathers. His eyebrows are much the same, in miniature. Fine, thin feathers, as ink dark as the scalloped edges of his scales. 

“So,” you tease, hoping your questions won’t come off as prying. “Can the rest of the people in here see you at all? You said that it’d been a while since anyone had felt at home enough here to stumble across you, but.. I don’t know exactly if that means Magicis is at work, or something else.”

Arroven breathes in, glancing up at the filigreed round sign hanging over the bar. There’s a single neon eye in the middle, opening and closing on loop under the word WINK. Even with the noise of people talking, and the music coming steadily from the small corner of a dance floor, you can still hear the faint buzz and click of the neon switching over. “Not many,” he finally confesses. “If the proprietor were here, she would see me, but she’s been here for a.. For a while.” She’s one of the long lived races then. Arroven turns, taking a quick look over the other patrons, tense, as if he expects one of them to approach. “The couple near the dance floor there,” he finally says, pointing out two women leaning into each other, stealing sips of each other’s drinks. “The orcish fellow on his phone. They can see me, though I doubt they’ll realize who I am. Just living here doesn’t make someone part of the hoard, though it’s always a step in the right direction.” For a second, he looks like he might let the subject drop, but then he cringes, glancing at your eyes before he looks away. “I don’t- I don’t steal from the people living here, whether they’re part of my hoard or not, even if they don’t realize I’m around. Even if they can’t see me.”

That’s reassuring, though you hadn’t planned on diving into that topic.

“What then,” you ask, leaning your chin in the palm of your hand, and your elbow on the bar, “makes someone part of your hoard?” 

Arroven’s rough looking scales don’t shine, but the neon light over the both of you shifts again from blue, to pink, and back. It was already hard for you to take your eyes off of him, knowing who he is, attracted to the nervous quirk of his lips, but now? The magic that you’ve only ever felt the after effects of, the strange aches and coincidences, it feels like more in this moment. More than a soft nudge in the correct direction. Arroven is sitting at your side, winking neon sign a spotlight over both your heads.

Hesitant, like he’s waiting for you to stop him, Arroven lifts his hand, reaching out, and taps once, softly, against your sternum. “It sounds esoteric, but the only explanation I have is that all of you feels like you should be here. From the way you smell, to the echoes of your voice or your footsteps along the pavement...” Arroven swallows, and then inhales, letting his hand fall away from your chest as his eyes close. He doesn’t pull his hand back completely though, just lets his hand hover over your thigh. “It’s always the desires of the heart that bring my hoard home,” he murmurs and starts to sway towards you.

There’s a soft clink on the bar, your drinks being set carefully in front of you and Arroven. When you look, the bartender still hasn’t noticed the city patron, the dragon, but the drink is still clearly set aside for him. Your card is placed very quickly next to your glass, the elf flashing you a much more jovial smile than earlier. 

“Your drink has been taken care of,” he explains, but doesn’t stay behind to point out who might have bought them. When you look, Arroven is sitting straight up in his seat, and his guilty expression is answer enough.

“I was supposed to be welcoming you to the city,” he murmurs, turning in his stool so he can take hold of his glass. The liquid inside is iridescent, shifting from what looks like violet, to a strange umber. You’re willing to bet that it’s more blue and green, but the neon light isn’t doing it too many favors. Arroven lifts his cup, patiently waiting for you to do the same and then quietly toasts your arrival. The clink of the glasses rings in your ears with the clarity of a bell, echoes lasting far longer than the noise itself.

“Goodness,” you say, coughing when you finish your swallow. Your drink is a little stronger than you thought it would be, heat already spiralling down into your chest and filling your belly. “So, uh, the city blessings seem to be true, I take it?” You don’t look at him as you speak, afraid he’ll cringe away from the mention of them.

“Blessings?” Arroven asks, and then you have to search up the poem. He sounds like he doesn't know, but they're supposed to be as old as the cities. Or near as.

“Sometimes they vary, from city to city. But most of the time they have almost the same structure. The same meaning,” you explain, pulling up the poem on your phone. “Hoarding hearts, keeping people safe in winter. The, uh-” You turn it his way, but he doesn’t take the phone from you, just reads the words out of the palm of your hand, brows raised by the time he gets to the end.

“‘Sinking talons into your thighs?’” Arroven’s slit pupils grow wide, nearly drowning his iris in darkness. He straightens, taking another hasty gulp of his drink. He laughs when he’s finished, nerves finally beginning to ease. “That’s how they’re translating it these days?” He asks, but you notice his eyes lingering on your hands, drifting down to your knees and the way you’re sitting. 

You pass a good portion of the evening, teetering back and forth with conversation about the city now, and how it was when Arroven had first settled. For all that he’s wearing modern clothes and walking on two feet, you can see him in a larger, more draconic figure, delving into the variscite mines and overseeing the people that had decided to settle under his watch.  

He’s just as enthralled with your stories though, hanging onto your every word, even though he’s still clearly a little anxious. He abandons his hunched and wary demeanor as soon as you start talking about the magic though. All the little aches and nudges and postcards that had led a clear path to his city. To him.

You insist on buying the next round when he makes to wave down the bartender, who is still completely oblivious to his presence, but Arroven stops you with a hand on your wrist. 

"Another time," he says, just loud enough for you to hear. "A welcome isn't a single round, is it?" He asks, a tentative smile revealing a small glimpse of those sharp teeth.

You could argue. You have the feeling that he would let it go if you pushed, but the smile sways you. It's the first time he's spoken without lowering his eyes mid sentence. You accept the drink, and try not to stare when his smile grows, shy and small and all the more endearing for it.

You both pretend not to notice each other grinning after that.

It’s just past 1 AM by the time the both of you leave the bar, only slightly unsteady after a few drinks and a few plates of bar food. Warmth floods you when Arroven’s hand finds your elbow, just barely keeping you from stumbling off the edge of the sidewalk and into the street. All it takes is a single stroke of his thumb over your arm for you to throw aside any worries you might have about flirting. 

He's reciprocated, in quiet ways, for the last hour or so. He’s leaned into you whenever you lowered your voice, had let his eyes linger on your hands and thighs after you brought up the poem.. The worst thing he can do is say no.

“Come to my place?” You blurt and Arroven stutters, hand spasming in his grip on your arm. For a heart wrenching moment, you think he might turn you down, but he finally bobs his head, gauges clicking against his horns with the motion. “...You said you’d been out of the loop with the people living here,” you start, mouth dry, wondering if he knows what you’re trying to ask, but still a little too sober to spell it out. “I’m asking, I’m not just asking you to come visit. I-” 

Arroven stops your worried speech with a slightly awkward smile. “I know what you’re getting at,” he finally says with a gentle huff of a laugh, hand sliding down your arm until he can twine his fingers about yours. His breath hitches, and for a moment you think he might stop, might pull away. “I- I would love to,” he says quietly, and squeezes until his fingernails gently prick the back of your hand.

Wordless with triumph, you flash another smile his way, heart pounding as you keep hold of his hand, ventral scales dry, but slick against your palm.

“The walk back to my place is a bit of a long one from here,” you confess, glancing at the handful of cabs loitering along the street. “Seeing as you got the drinks, I can—” You nearly trip over your own feet when Arroven tugs you back, keeping you from approaching any of the cabs. 

“I don’t.. Fit very well,” he says, apologetically. “If you would rather take one, I can, but if you aren’t opposed..” Arroven’s wings, still tucked in flat along his back, quirk and stretch, spreading wide enough that he nearly clips another leaving bar patron in the face. They don’t move, don’t see him, but they blink, as if a gust of wind just hit them, and shield their eyes until they’re well past you and Arroven.

His statement leaves you staring, jaw beginning to grow slack. “Are you saying you can fly us back to my place?” Your eyes trace his wings again, the fragile veins spider webbing across the membranes. It’s not that you thought they were ornamental, but it’s one thing to see them, and another to know you’ll get to witness their use first hand. 

Arroven’s shoulders start to hunch, but his eyes flick down to your hand, fingers still curled around his. He smiles instead. “Yes?” 

You glance at the cabs, and then back to Arroven’s tall figure and broad shoulders. As much as you’d like being pressed up against him, trapped in the backseat of an uncomfortable cab isn’t quite what you’d pictured, and he’s already nervous enough. That settles things. You nod, just the once and lift your chin to meet his eyes. “Flying it is then! We can’t have you getting stuck in one of those, can we?”

While Arroven walks you through how he’s going to pick you up, how he’s going to hold onto you, some of the people on the sidewalk start to watch you. You’re nodding readily at what they assume to be empty air. You spare a second to wonder if they’ll see you vanish, or if they’ll be able to see the equivalent of a magical wind carrying you away. That would cause quite a stir, wouldn't it? You forget to ask Arroven about it though when he holds out his arm, waiting patiently for you to step closer, fingers gentle in their continued grip on your hand. 

He’s still giving you the chance to turn away. 

You take a breath, thinking back to the nerves you’d felt, packing up a bag and deciding to visit somewhere based on coincidences and the hearsay of magic. You think of Mora, and the apartment that feels more like home to you than nearly anything else ever has. The way everything fits here, every piece of the city you've set foot in branded on your brain, clearer than any map. You step close, eagerly letting Arroven curl his arm around your back and then lift you up in a bridal carry. His forearms and biceps tense, bracing you as he prepares, and then the snap of his wings flaring open makes your heart jump before he leaps. His wings catch a sudden breeze swooping into the street, allowing it to lift the both of you well clear of the ground before he starts to flap. The slight dip in elevation as he finds his rhythm makes you clutch a little tighter, but Arroven doesn’t complain. In fact, when you glance at him, he seems to be holding back a smug little smile.  

It’s cold when he finally crests over the top of the nearest buildings. Between the chill, and the fast growing height between you and the ground, you have no issues absolutely clinging to Arroven’s neck. You don't feel like you're going to fall, but it's still safer than sitting meekly in his arms, isn't it? You try to twist your head about to see everything below you, but another rush of cold wind makes you squint. It takes a moment before you realize Arroven isn't moving though, he's simply keeping the both of you suspended in midair.

“Your address?” Arroven asks as soon as you start to frown, his voice rumbling against your ear.

“Ah.” You give it to him, laughing when you meet his still-shy gaze. “I suppose that’s a little important.”

While the walk would have left you both a little tired, the flight is a fairly short one. You have just enough time to relish all the places you’re pressed in close, to enjoy what little warmth you’ve managed to keep with the wind seeping through your clothes, when Arroven lands in front of your quiet building. There are no witnesses but the dim streetlights, the sound of his flapping wings muffled by the mist beginning to roll through the city. Arroven lowers you almost reluctantly, fingers slow to uncurl so you can step down onto the pavement. He takes a step back as soon as you do, like he needs the space between you to think.

“Still up for coming inside?” You ask, giving him the same chance he’d given you earlier. You jerk a thumb at the locked door, searching for your keys with your other hand. 

Arroven’s head jerks forward almost too fast, the dark feathers on his skull prickling upwards. His wings snap closed, tight against his back again as soon as you unlock your door. It’s only mildly nerve wracking, having him follow you up to your place, and you think it might be because of how nervous he’s acting. He flinches away from the wall when he barely brushes it, almost tripping over his own boots as he goes up the stairs. He’s been shy from the get-go, but this-

“Arroven,” you murmur, turning to look up at him, hand pausing on your door handle. “Is something wrong?”

He breathes out, turning his head so the plugs in his earlobes clack against his horns, blue-green eyes roving over the hall. “No,” he says slowly, forcing himself to stop hunching into his hoodie, to take his wringing hangs out of the front pocket. “I’ve just, it’s just that I keep-” He stays where he is, brow furrowing for all of five seconds before he’s huffing and stepping into your space. When Arroven leans down, his pupils are needle thin, that sunshine warm smell suffusing the air. He was summoning up courage, you realize, just in time to let your eyes fall closed as he cradles your jaw with both hands. They dwarf your human face, his fingertips easily reaching all the way to the back of your neck, but his touch may well be the softest thing you’ve ever known. His kiss is more the brush of his mouth over the shape of yours, a slip of a taste when his tongue follows the curve of your lower lip. He hums, softly, but when you kiss him back? When your tongue touches his and you try to stand on your tip-toes to deepen things, when you stumble a step closer—Arroven’s groan is gratifying. Achingly slowly, he draws his hands down the side of your neck, leaving you free to control the pace of the kiss. His thumbs trace your collarbone, slow, deep circles that make you wish you weren’t standing out here, fully clothed and too warm.

You pull away, licking your lips and glancing down the hall. There’s no one there, despite your pulse loud in your ears and your breath heaving, surely loud enough to wake even those in the very depths of sleep. Arroven’s breath hitches, and for a moment he sways, ready to chase you for another kiss. “Wait, wait,” you say softly, trying not to smile too wide when his eyes flicker open, dark pupils growing larger. He starts to straighten, embarrassment lifting his shoulders. “Maybe we should get in my house first?” You rush to say, not wanting to potentially scar one of your neighbors, but not wanting him to rush away either.

His mouth opens on reflex, and then closes, slipping into a gentle smile. “Yes,” he says, and then you have to swallow, watching his eyes slide down to your hands and then further down to your knees.  

You get your door open before he touches you again, but you’re only a few steps inside when Arroven reaches for you. He strokes the back of his knuckles down your forearm, fingertips only barely grazing your hips. “I’ve missed this,” he whispers, one of his fingers catching two of yours. “Touching,” he explains, the edge of his thumbnail stroking over your wrist and the base of your thumb and back. “Being close to, well…” He breathes in when you step into him, and grows as still as a statue when you balance against him, reaching around his middle to swing the front door shut. This close, Arroven still smells of sunshine, but there’s a sweeter, crisper undertone that makes you want to close your eyes to savor it, to breathe it in. He’s nearly vibrating with you pressed close though, hands hovering somewhere over the middle of your back, trying to keep himself still. He’s waiting for you to give him the go ahead, still caught up in his nerves... Or maybe just manners?

You grin, gently pushing yourself back a step before you smooth out your expression. “Part of your hoard?” You wonder aloud, but then you can’t keep yourself straight faced any longer, wanting him to recognize the words for the gentle teasing they are. You smile. “How about you touch me then?”

Arroven huffs, pleased, and then you quickly discover how needy he can be. He kisses you all the way down the hall, his wings nearly catching on picture frames, hands trembling in their stroking over your back. He keeps pausing at the top of your hips, like he wants to let his hands drift lower, but focuses on his mouth instead, mouth and teeth moving from your lips, to your jaw and down to your neck. You don’t think he’s willing to risk going further though, knowing that it would likely end up with both of you unbalanced and on the floor instead of the bed. 

“Distracted?” You ask, reaching blindly around your doorframe, searching for the lightswitch as Arroven’s tongue flickers over the pulse on the left side of your neck. Your own breathing stutters for a moment, heat building in your veins. “You keep-”

Arroven’s breath puffs over the damp patch he’s left on your skin as he lifts his head, violet tongue sliding along the sharp points of his teeth. “Hardly,” Arroven interrupts, and his wings tense when you hook your fingers into the neck of his hoodie, drawing him further into the room. Your fingers find the lightswitch, the soft ring of the bulb lighting strangely loud in the room. “You’re all I can see. All I can focus on. ..am I missing something? Cues?” He asks, voice gone lower when you give his hoodie a fierce tug. He follows, all too willingly, fingers flexing around your hips. 

“Hardly,” you say back, teasing as you back up towards the bed. You pull when you lean back, expecting him to let you fall, to fall with you, but his wings flare again. He catches himself on the blankets, hands to either side of your body, the blue-green of his eyes swallowed by his pupils as he takes the sight of you in. “Still good?” You ask after a moment, because he’s staring, because he hasn’t moved a muscle. 

“Tell me,” Arroven blurts, arms tensing as his fingers twist into the blankets. “Tell me what to do,” he pleads, gaze catching on every sliver of bared skin he can find. “I’m.. finding it a little difficult to think. All I want to do is make you happy, make you want to-” He stops, feathered brows drawing together as he considers his words.

You arch an eyebrow, your hands stilling just shy of his chest. The way he’d hesitated, his flighty touches? they all make a bit more sense now. He’d asked you to stay in the city, had mentioned your belonging here. If you wanted to leave, if you insisted on stopping, Arroven wouldn’t keep you. But he wants you to stay here.

  “Little to no thinking,” you muse, unable to keep from smiling as he hangs onto your every word. “Undress me,” you finally decide, and his nostrils flare before he sets to work. He’s terribly careful, every brush of his scaled knuckles whisper-soft and cool against your skin, but his breathing is ragged by the time he’s finished and your heart has sped in response. You’re tempted to make him undress himself too. In fact, he would probably do just as you asked, but you’re too impatient to get your hands back on him. “Hoodie off,” you declare, half amazed that he’s obeying your whims, “and lay down on the bed.”

Arroven listens immediately, tucking his wings in close before he’s pulling off the hoodie, careful around the curl of his horns and the arch of his wings. He isn’t wearing a shirt, but with his wings, you understand why. Most of those with wings don’t favor mass produced clothes or modern fashion. He’s on the bed before you can finish pushing yourself back up, jeans low on his hips, pale belly and chest all the brighter compared to the black and teal pattern of his scales. His legs spread reflexively when you stand, jeans growing taut when you reach for him. Your hands are steady, even if your pulse isn’t, but Arroven doesn’t seem to care. He looks blissed out from this much touch alone, jaw gone slack, eyelids heavy as you unbutton and unzip his jeans. He exhales when you pull at his jeans, eyes zeroed in on your face.

He’s thicker than he is long, and as pale as his abdomen, save for a violet tinge that makes you think of his tongue. Nestled as he is in the ‘v’ of his unzipped jeans, it’s all you can do to keep yourself from stroking him straight away, or even leaning down to-

“Maybe I can think,” Arroven says hoarsely. He lifts one of his hands, gentleman-like, offering it to you palm up. “Let me?” He asks, though you’re not entirely sure what he wants you to let him do.

Mannerly, you can’t help but think, lips twitching as you place your hand in his. The older races are, generally. It’s something to fall back on if they’re nervous or unsure. Not that most of them would ever admit to it.

“Are you thinking I should leave your boots on?” You get one knee on the bed before you pause, glancing back at his legs still hanging over the edge.

Arroven hums, but his grip on your fingers tightens for a second, not wanting to let go. “I’ll worry about those later,” he says, and then inhales sharply when you straddle his lap, cock pulsing as you settle against him. If he wants to let his jeans tangle around his boots, you’re not going to complain. It’s a bit of a thrill, knowing that he’s too impatient to fuss with them.

“Boots on, then. Now, what am I supposed to let you do?” You lean forward, drawing an aimless, spiraling pattern from his abdomen up to his ribcage. He’s much warmer now, with you astride his thighs and his wings trapped beneath him on the bed. It looks uncomfortable, but he hasn’t mentioned them once.

Hesitant, Arroven’s hold on you loosens, and then his hand drops to your thigh, eyebrows furrowing when he finally speaks. “Sit on my face?”

The brevity of it, the tone of uncertainty, makes your mouth twitch. “Jumping right in there, aren’t we? And here I thought you were kind of shy.”

“I am!” Arroven blurts and then covers his face with one hand, laughing quietly at himself. “I am,” he says, a bit more composed when he lets his hand fall away. “Though shyness has hardly ever been a factor in my favor. What is it humans say? Better to rip off the bandage?”

You crawl halfway up his body, smiling wider when he forgets to breathe. “Had to get the anxiety out of the way?” You brush a kiss over his chin, eyes catching on the curl of his horns. He’s moved so carefully that you’ve yet to feel the sharp points of them catching your skin, but if you sit on his face… You ignore Arroven’s disappointed sigh as you turn away to stroke the pad of your thumb over his right horn, wondering whether he has any feeling in them. They’re as ink dark as some of his scales and twisted in a lovely spiral that perfectly circles his pointed, gauged ears. Arroven isn’t reacting like he has sensation in them, though he reacts to every other little touch of you against his scales. “You’re going to have to help me balance,” you confess, sitting back against his middle. “Because even though they aren’t terribly sharp, I rather think I’ll be risking my thighs. Don’t you?”

Arroven stares, blinking, and then he looks horrified, which makes you wonder how long it’s been since he’s been close to a human, if ever. 

“I’m not against this,” you add, grinning, “just to be clear.”

For a moment, all he says in response is a strangled sounding “Ah,” before he blinks again, glancing up at the ceiling. “I can... I will help. I’ll be careful. More than careful.”

It takes a few moments, and some adjustment, before you’re finally able to settle over his face. Your heart starts to pound a little faster when Arroven opens his mouth, those dagger-like teeth flashing in the dim light. His hands are strong though, curling around your thigh and bracing your hip. He’s too tall for you to do more than help balance against his chest, though you can see that he’s still wonderfully hard, and his cock is starting to leak. You’d love nothing more than to take him in hand, to taste him, but then Arroven nips your inner thigh, and you stop paying attention to his cock and start focusing on sensation. Your fingers curl at the first hot swipe of his tongue, pressing a little hard into the ventral scales over his chest, and the next slow lick has your eyes falling closed. 

It’s not easy to stay steady, to keep your arms and legs from quivering the longer he licks and slurps. Arroven sucks small kisses over your thighs and the left cheek of your ass, his teeth only ever the barest pressure on your skin. His horns graze you, but he’s true to his word in keeping you balanced. The texture of them against your skin is just something more to feel, to enjoy as he tilts his head this way and that. Pleasure builds, faster by far than the magic that built in your veins, that left you aching with the need to come to the city. If that ache had been anything close to what you’re feeling now, warm, and slick, with the heady pressure of Arroven’s fingers on your skin, you would have picked up on the breadcrumb trail a lot sooner.

“You’re go- going to push me over the edge,” you warn with a gasp, legs starting to tremble. He moves you in response, starts to rock your hips so all he has to do is stick out his tongue, but your hands are shaking now too, cluing him into your urgency. Arroven shakes his head from side to side, a little wild, the plugs in his earlobes clattering against his horns with every shift. You bite down on your lower lip, orgasm rolling swiftly over you and nearly choke on the curse that wants to leave your mouth. He keeps you there, aching and weak, until you pat awkwardly at his chest, releasing you reluctantly with one last obscene noise of satisfaction. 

You sit next to him, still a little unsteady and grin down at his pleased, messy face. “Now, unless you have any other lovely thoughts to share - your turn?”  

His rough sounding “Please,” has your libido jumping back into overdrive, but it’s safety that has you slipping off the bed to dig out a bottle of lube from your things. He’s half pushed himself back up when you come back to the bed, resting on his elbows, fingers twisted gently into the blankets. His wings are partially stretched out now too, one of them reaching all the way to the end of your bed. 

“Are your wings alright?” You ask, wondering if you should throw away the idea of climbing back into his lap, lube already pooling in the palm of your hand.  

Arroven smiles again though, waving away your worry. “Tense,” he offers, as explanation. “I was more focused on you, but they’re good. I promise.” His cock bobs as you approach, and then he lays back down, irises vanishing into the ether of his pupils. 

“If you promise, I suppose I’ll let it go.” You close the lube, only a bit ungracefully, and toss it to the side, climbing back onto the bed and straddling his thighs.

  Your first wet squeeze of his cock has him whimpering, your hand barely fitting around him at his thinnest point. When you stroke, he bucks nearly unseating you until he claps his hands onto your thighs, muttering a hasty apology. Despite being tempted to laugh, you narrow your eyes, squeezing him just a little harder. “You don’t have to be still, but move a little slower for now, hm?”

“Of course,” he rushes to say, and then his jaw goes slack when you press him against you. “Oh,” he breathes, nails pricking your skin as you hold him in place. You rub yourself against his cock, up and back down, a slow undulation that makes you tense, still sensitive from your earlier orgasm. 

And then you straighten, pressing the head of his cock into you. The first slow stretch of him inside you echoes the steady ache of magic, has your breath rushing from your lungs in a gasp. “Fuck,” you breathe and then glance at Arroven’s face. His head is tilted back, mouth open to reveal all of those sharp teeth, and his eyes are closed tight. You think he might be keeping himself from looking at you, might be trying to stem the urge to buck again, to move at all. You tilt your hips and press yourself down though, wiggling, and then Arroven is cursing. You don’t recognize the language, but you understand the sentiment behind it, the pleading tone that softens the edges of the words. It’s hard to concentrate, to keep yourself from getting distracted when all you want to do is sink down every inch of him and then just lay on his chest, trying to catch your breath. “Too much?” You manage to ask, but all Arroven does is shake his head and then carefully ease his grip on your thighs, stroking down to your knees and back up. Your legs, among other things, are definitely going to ache after this.

You ride Arroven until he’s a shaking, breathless mess, until he can’t help but tense his thighs every time he bottoms out, and you can barely stay up. You reach up, fingers just barely brushing his chin to make him pay attention. “Fuck me,” you command and his wings stretch to either side with force. You nearly scream when he starts fucking into you with purpose, and as lovely as your neighbors have been, you have the feeling they’re going to complain at some point. Every thrust has you tightening up on reflex, still shaky from your earlier orgasm, and it’s all you can do to keep yourself upright. A few moments later and Arroven arches as he comes inside you, clutching tightly to you until he’s finished, breath deep and rasping. You don’t wait. Carefully you flop down next to him, smiling tiredly against the blankets. You’re not sure your legs will carry you for the next hour or so, but it’s hardly something to complain about. 

“Do you give all newcomers to the hoard such a.. Vigorous welcome?” You ask, laughing, your voice rough, not really expecting him to answer. Even though he’s clearly a little more comfortable, even though he’s been clinging to your skin and he looks wrecked by all the activity. Arroven nearly chokes.

“No,” he says immediately. “Moments like this,” he murmurs, reaching out for you, ventral scales on his palm smooth over the apple of your cheek, “moments like this are few and far between.” There’s a low rumble of noise from him when you roll close to brush another kiss over his lips, eyes fluttering closed. It’s all you can do not to laugh again, not to quote the poem at him or interrupt the soft moment. It still sits in the back of your mind though, sweet and lilting.

the city is hoarding hearts

it draws them in, with coin, with art

reflects their dreams on mirrored glass

sings siren songs to catch them fast

the lights?

they gleam, they glitter, bright

it steals a piece, with every sight

roots get worn

they split, they splinter

'but i'll keep you warm, in the depth of winter'

the city whispers, it cajoles, it cries

it'll sink it's talons into your thighs

it tears, it scrapes, it batters the unwary

but oh, the love it gifts, to those who tarry

the city promises, you'll be most adored

so can you, will you, join the hoard?

[forsakenbysinnoh]

Random Headcannons for the Demon Bros that no one asked for.

~Lucifer~

Lucifer never refers to God by name, only ever saying "He" or "My Father".

Despite how he may act, he's proud of his brothers, of their independence and strength. His pact mark reflects that, his own star surrounded by the six of his brothers.

With that, he can also be very worried about his brothers. Being an avatar of a sin is a title that can be won. He makes sure no other demons besides his brothers hold that title.

He has a dark sense of humor that can go unnoticed or be mistaken as threats.

Despite his reputation of being controlling, he's actually rather tired of it. He was forced into this position to protect his loved ones, and to try to figure out how to function after losing the war. Sometimes a part of him wants to be told what hes supposed to do, rather than deal with the mess of making it up as he goes along.

The most scarred of the brothers, especially along his chest and back. When he has to, he hides it with illusions, otherwise he doesn't show his skin.

Takes his debts and what he owes people very seriously. It's why he rarely asks for help even in small things.

Is the only one who can force a pact on an unwilling participant.

Isn't afraid of being controlled, but is scared of losing control to the wrong person or partner. It takes a lot of trust to let him drop the reins in a relationship.

Despite turning into a wolf in the 'Paws and Claws' event, I think the best animal to represent him would be a black unicorn.

~Mammon~

Mammon can be kind of a choosing beggar.

Forgets to be empathetic sometimes and can say some callus things. Sometimes it's good as he can be an outside observer in a situation and see things objectively.

His schemes are mainly to pay off debts. No one is quite sure where he keeps accumulating so many from.

Many people call him a coward, but in reality he's a pacifist. He'd rather run than fight.

Unless you get him hot headed, in which case the gloves are off.

Despite this, he's actually one of the most powerful brothers and can usually win a fight with anyone but Lucifer.

Very agile. Is a natural at parkor and free running.

He doesn't have a high opinion of himself, and his self esteem is in the garbage.

Def has a praise kink tho.

If he's really mad at you, he'll pretend you don't exist. He's not one to get into screaming fights, but he's passive aggressive.

I think a golden dragon with a hoarding tendency fits him well lol

~Leviathan~

He's a big nerd. King of nerds. Absolutely owns it.

Levi actually draws a lot of fanart but never shows it to anyone. He's very jealous of others talent and considers his own art bad.

Def has the Devildom equivalent of Tumblr.

Sometimes can be a fandom gatekeeper/hipster. Likely stems from a place of "I liked this before it was popular and got ridiculed for it. Now it's cool and you're taking over my interest."

Super long theories on current shows with in-depth analysis and pulling info from anywhere he can. Be prepared for his cork board on FNAF.

Sometimes Levi forgets other people have feelings too, especially when he's excited about something, and hurts them by accident. Usually goes back to apologize later when he realizes.

Loves to listen to someone nerd out, even if he's not interested in their interest, he likes them and how passionate about.

He's memorized the TSL books and movies. They are his biggest passion and he loves them so much.

He's a self shipper, ships himself with his favorite wifus and husbandos (he has both) and takes those "which character are you?" Quizzes all the time.

Knows how to code and hopes to make his own game one day.

Snake tends to be the go to for Levi, and I think a lizard or another reptile makes sense. They tend to scurry away from most creature, except for those like them.

~Satan~

(My boy so I might be a little biased/rambling here)

Satan was made after Lucifer lost the war, but he started growing in Lucifer's heart before then.

Satan is the only demon/angel that was not made by God directly, and he feels that effects his relationship with others.

He's not good at empathy, and it's a skill he's still working on.

Satan was the serpent in the garden who caused Eve to fall. He thought it was very unfair that God would refuse humanity knowledge, the one thing that he values above all else.

As he was developing/learning from each of his brothers, they each gave him an item that was important to him that he still keeps. Even Lucifer.

Keeps control of his emotions which can lead to violent outbursts if pushed far enough. No one has seen him completely unhinged except Lucifer.

Loves adventure books/series, especially long ones with intricate plots. Murder mysteries are his absolute favorite. Dislikes the 'Love triangle' trope a LOT.

Likes to listen and create stories.

Very magically adept. He knows many advanced spells and always has a hunger to learn more. Probably has made quite a few spells himself.

Cat. He's a cat. There was no competition here. His spirit animal is a kitty and I love him for it.

~Asmodeus~

Asmo, despite being the avatar of lust, cares about consent a lot. He wants his partners to feel good when they're with him, not like they're afraid or helpless.

Well, unless that's your thing, in which case he'll make sure a safe word is in use ;)

Knows a lot about sex. If you have any question he will be happy to answer it without making it seem awkward or taboo. Though he will flirt and offer to show you himself.

He's very confident in his body and looks. Asmo knows he's a catch and good looking, and wants to keep it that way.

Doesn't mind showing off his scars from the war and wishes he could help Lucifer with his perception of his scars.

He will NOT have anyone body shamed in his presence.

Has ALL the gossip. He knows who's sleeping with who, what relationship drama is going down where, and keeps up with it daily.

Gender roles? Who is she? Being beautiful is for anyone.

He shows affection through touch. This makes him come off a bit needy and he tends to invade other's spaces.

There's more to lust than just sex though, it's pure, unrestrained desire. Desire to learn, to hurt, to take revenge, to love and be loved. He can sense someone's deepest desires and loves to bring that to the surface.

This is why Satan is one of his favorite brothers, there's a lot of pure emotion in him that he keeps covered up.

I think a Siren would fit him best, able to draw out what people desire the most.

~Beelzebub~

Beel has a soft heart. He cares a lot for his family, even when he's mad at them.

His kindness has gotten other demons trying to take advantage of him, which is why he tries to hide it behind a facade of being a big brute.

He's a cuddler. Beel is touch starved and wants nothing more than just to hold someone close and know they love him.

Nightmares are a constant struggle for him. He still blames himself for Lilith's death and not being strong enough.

Unless Belphie is around, Beel has a hard time sleeping.

Like Mammon, Beel a pacifist, though he's usually a little more willing to throw his weight around when needed.

When Lucifer isn't around, Beel is the one to try and get his brother's on the same page. If it's a lost cause he'll just leave for some comfort food.

Unless it's a serious matter, in which case it'll be one of the few occasions he yells.

Is self conscious about the food he eats and how everyone sees him as just the big grunt who loves to eat.

Beel is basically a pitbull. He seems scary and dangerous on the outside, but really he's just a teddy bear.

~Belphagor (spoilers)~

(I'm still a little salty that Belphie here killed me. Just as a warning lol)

Belphie's powers include sleeplessness and inducing a weekend nap. He either never sleeps or is sleeping for several hours.

I don't know why but I'm betting he'd be good at Uno.

Hates being confronted by his mistakes, would rather pretend they didn't happen in the first place

Asks for piggie back rides from Beel when he's too tired to walk.

He's the only one who can get Beel to sleep without nightmares. No one is quite sure if that's cause of his powers, or if he just is good at comforting his brother.

I see him as being good at poems. Soothing words that have a rhythm to them. You listen to him speak and before you know it you're asleep.

He brushes off most kindness as fake and doesn't trust anyone.

The most comfortable hoodie. Hugs are warm and soft.

Animal: a small fluffy cow. You know the ones I'm talking about. Fluff central.

[theskeleton-system]

A Fungus Dangerclaw Masterpost

This is a post about Fungus' relationship with every Grumpus on Snaktooth;

Filbo

•definitely stumbled upon Fungus while looking for Liz

•was initially friendly toward Fungus, until Fungus took it personally and chased Filbo out of the woods, growling and claws beared

•when Fungus inevitably stays in town with the others, Filbo is rightfully so still apprehensive, but as Fungus warms up to him, he warms up to Fungus

•Fungus never learns his name, but knows the word Mayor, so calls him that (it is a constant Filbo Confidence Boost [tm])

Wambus

•would meet Fungus when they'd have come to town

•Fungus has absolutely attacked Wambus, he's the biggest man in town and Fungus believes in fighting for dominance, so he attacks him to become the Alpha of town lol

•Wambus doesnt like to make eye contact with Fungus due to this very event

•Fungus does eventually calm down when Wambus lets them rummage in the farm sometimes; it turns out Fungus is handy for digging holes to plant more crops

•after a while of Fungus trusting Wambus, she starts bringing sticks to the farm and burying them in hopes of growing crops too

•Wambus eventually decides he's adopting them. No arguments.

Beffica

•is morbidly curious of Fungus (that feeling is mutual)

•Beffica has absolutely kept Fungus in her cave out of storms, and so is probably the closest thing to a friend at first to Fungus

•she likes to paint his claws, and he loves to watch her do it, he also loves picking out the colours (pink is his favourite)

•Beffica will sit Fungus down and gossip to them while she paints their nails and brushes their fur, Fungus has no idea what she's saying, but likes to feel included and picks up on some words

•the few words he's learnt from Beff are "Squeeb", "Like", and "OMGee"

•Beffica does understand that Fungus can be dangerous, and she knows when to stop pushing their buttons

Gramble

•Gramble met Fungus in the middle of the night, when they broke into town to steal supplies

•Fungus DIDN'T attack Gramble, only because he's smaller than Fungus and therefore not deemed a threat

•when Fungus stays in town, they become enamored by the barn, and the Bugsnax there (because Fungus refuses to eat them too) and hangs out in the outdoor pen with them

•Fungus inevitably imprints on Gramble and begins following him around and bringing him Bugsnax that are very hard to catch (cheepoofs, grapesketos, lollives, scoopy banoopys) and Gramble is Confused.jpeg

•Gramble learns to trust Fungus when the first fight breaks out at the party (The "that's why your wife left you" Scene) and Fungus defends Gramble, literally standing between him and Wambus

•now Gramble accepts Fungus as family, and is just mildly frightened of them

Wiggle

•with Fungus constantly following Gramble around, it was only a matter of time until they met Wiggle

•Fungus took one look at her and was prepared to fight a bitch, but when Gramble stopped them from attacking her, they stopped being aggressive

•Fungus definitely wants that pink fluffy scarf around Wiggle's neck, but hasn't devised a plan to steal it yet

•Fungus doesnt understand how instruments work, so when Wiggle starts playing her banjo, Fungus is simultaneously frightened and interested

•Fungus begins loving listening to Wiggle's music and starts hitting the ground in percussion with the music

•Wiggle will never pass up on an adoring fan of course, and starts teaching Fungus how to make music, Fungus learns nothing, but is happy to have attention

•Fungus has ended up with the Banjo before, and absolutely tried to eat it

•(Fungus has worn Wiggle's glasses before and was fully prepared to wear them forever)

Triffany

•Triffany would find Fungus in one of the ruins, probably lost

•Triffany would be confused, but curious

•Fungus trusts Triffany quickly, as she's sensible and knows a feral creature when she sees one, so takes her time

•Fungus likes to try and help piece history together with Triffany, but obviously he has no idea what he's ever doing, so he isn't really much help

•Triffany's accent is completely foreign to Fungus, so they can have problems understanding some of her pronunciations, however, they absolutely adore her accent and loves listening to her talk

•Triffany is most likely the Grumpus who brought Fungus to town, probably to show Wambus the creature she adopted, and ask Floofty if any of this makes sense

•Fungus likes to chew on bones Triffany gives him, it helps sharpen his teeth and subdue his pure, feral rage

Cromdo

•Fungus would take a VERY long time to trust Cromdo, due to his sleezy nature

•Fungus absolutely wants whatever Cromdo is selling (because they're a hoarder) but doesn't know of the economy, only knows stick. Fungus will buy material objects with sticks and leaves or Cromdo will die

•a sick part of Cromdo wants to sell Fungus to Floofty for science, but knows that would be the second most illegal thing he's ever done (Grumpus Trafficking is no joke-)

•Fungus would probably want a tie, let's be honest

•to Cromdo, Fungus is like a cat, running around scratching the walls and knocking things off of tables

•Cromdo isn't afraid to scold Fungus, and Fungus will learn to listen in due time

•despite the tension and issues the two have, Fungus does it to show care for Cromdo, everyone knows this but Cromdo

•Fungus likes the word "Pal"

Chandlo

•Chandlo is Fungus' favourite. No questions asked.

•he found Fungus in a tree and brought him home to Snorpy, like gay people do

•"Snorp-dawg, I found a cryptid!"

"you WHAT"

•Fungus appreciates Chandlo so fucking much

•didn't attack for same reason as Gramble (small = not a threat)

•Chandlo likes Fungus because they're a hard-core survivor of the wild, and Chandlo vibes with that

•Fungus originally likes to watch Chandlo work out, finding it fascinating; but eventually starts joining in when Chandlo offers

•Chandlo just wants to keep this feral creature, that is all

•Fungus learns so many words from Chandlo, that he accidentally turns Fungus into a feral version of himself

Snorpy

•Snopry is (rightfully so) terrified of Fungus

•what is it? What's it gender? Why does it barely speak? How much sentience does it have? DOES IT WORK FOR THE GRUMPINATI??!

•but of course, Chandlo wants to keep it and Snorpy can't say no, so he ends up playing babysitter when Chandlo is gone

•Fungus, on the other hand, is enamored. Obviously-

•Fungus understands so little when it comes to Snorpy, all these conspiracies and big words and intricate connections, Fungus has no brain

•Fungus likes to listen though, and likes to look at the conspiracy board (also likes to hoard all the red string lol)

•of course Snorpy warms up to them, mostly when Floofty starts trying to steal them for experiments; Snorpy feels a newfound need to protect this gremlin from his mad scientist sibling

•Fungus just likes the attention

Floofty

•Floofty kidnaps Fungus for experiments (not clickbait)

•I mean, can you blame them? How does Fungus exist? A completely feral Grumpus in a society of modernized, evolved, civilised Grumpuses? They gotta know how Fungus works

•however, Floofty underestimated Fungus' energy, and now they're shouting at a gremlin, who is barking back at them

•Floofty loses so much sleep over keeping Fungus in one place.

•"fascinating...your survival instinct is completely intact- stop chewing my leg."

•Floofty tries to teach Fungus basic language, but learns the next day that Fungus forget everything they learnt

•Fungus doesn't know what to make of Floofty

•Is this good or bad? Friend or foe?

•if Floofty has to hurt Fungus to get what they want, they WILL be attacked (i.e taking blood or testing pain level)

•sometimes Floofty just snaps and throws Fungus into a river to "experiment" if Fungus can swim

•Fungus does like the attention though

Shelda

•Shelda is one of the only Grumpuses that Fungus shows concern and care for OPENLY

•He gives her gifts of sticks and rocks and leaves, and he'll throw a tantrum if she won't take them

•he likes to sit next to her while she meditates so she doesn't get lonely 😳😳

•the only problem with this is that Fungus is easily bored, and will start making noises and bumping rocks together

•and it's very distracting when you're trying to meditate

•But Fungus knows this and tries to behave as best as they can, they wanna make Grandma Shelda happy

•they become a part of Shelda's little fanclub, and listens to her wisdom despite not knowing ANYTHING she's saying

•he pretends he knows, nodding and agreeing all the time

Eggabell

•Eggabell, being a doctor, just wants to get her hands on Fungus to take care of him

•I mean, he's messy, and covered in mud and sticks and leaves

•he probably has the Grumpus equivalent of mange

•he DEFINITELY has fleas

•and she just wants to sit them down and clean them up

•but Fungus isn't having it, and is actually a little scared of Eggabell, as they don't know why she wants them to stay still

•Fungus will learn to trust her, and let her take care of the fleas and rabies and mange

•and when he does, he will never leave her side afterwards. He'll recognise she made him feel better and constantly want her attention

•He may get a little distracting for her sometimes, but she knows he means well

•also, because Fungus is a good listener, Eggabell airs her problems out to them, she knows they don't know what she's saying, but it's nice to rant to them while they eat a whole tree, bit by bit

Lizbert

•there isn't many opportunities where Liz and Fungus would interact sadly, however, I feel like if they did they would get along far too well

•Liz bringing Fungus on adventures around the island? Fungus showing Liz little cave systems they've found so she has shortcuts around the areas? Makes my heart ache-

•Fungus wants the hat, give her the hat Liz-

•because Liz is such a simple name, it would most likely be the only one Fungus would learn

•I can imagine Liz getting distracted from studying Bugsnax and instead studying Fungus, until Filbo or Egg reminds her she has more important things to do

•Fungus is incredibly agile, and I can imagine them scaling trees or cliffs and finding a safer route for Liz to take

•Fungus is Liz's emotional support adventure dog

The Journalist

This would be in terms of if Fungus was a character you'd meet;

•You would meet Fungus in Sugarpine Woods, but somewhere far away from Chandlo and Snorpy.

•Fungus would flee from you once spotted (sorta like the Snaxsquach, but not at certain times).

•You would then have a quest to ask around to see if anyone knew what this Grumpus was (and you would receive a resounding "no").

•The puzzle would then be figuring out how to cohearse Fungus into trusting you, which would be with sticks and rocks, making a pile of them to bait Fungus from hiding.

•Once you would have their trust, you would still have quests to complete before they move from their spot and follow you to town, this would include collecting more sticks and rocks, and finding Bugsnax so Fungus can have friends.

•They'd communicate these quests very poorly, you would probably have to rely on the quest descriptions to figure out what the objective is.

•After enough errands, Fungus would make a happy noise and start following you around. Then, if you walk into town, you approach Filbo and he takes Fungus off your hands.

•When you return to Snaxburg, it's in anarchy as Fungus has gotten out of control. Your next objective is "survive". Eventually, through sticks, rocks and leaves, you calm Fungus down enough for them to live in Snaxburg without killing anyone.

•However, some side-quests would involve Fungus, and the other residents having to deal with them now.

I had this neat idea that all this is optional, you don't have to even do the main quest for Fungus because they weren't supposed to be part of the expedition and know no one. So why interview them, not like you can anyway. You can escape Snaktooth with all the normal residents and leave Fungus on the island, then their fate would be left unknown (but man I'd feel guilty for it 😟).

[technomaestro]

Oh? Tell us about the characters on that list then

*slaps character sheet* this bad boy can fit so much of my own repressed trauma in it

This one could be fuckin *all* of them, but it's probably Kelarvia Arana, aka Kel. Poor dwarven fighter exile from Orzamar who turned to the Qun, was trained wrong as a spy, failed her family, failed the qun, failed her friends, and kept trying to do right. She was... not bright. She took a face full of acid breath for her troubles, got repeatedly stabbed by everyone around her, and still kept fucking trying. She was not in a great place by the end of that campaign.

Closeted Trans Person Gender Envy Character™

So, while I'm very much cis, I did toy around with the idea of genderfluidity and transness at one point. And the closest character to that would have been a major NPC that I had in my pokemon game, Claire deVire. She was a literal illusionist / Fairy Type mage, and honestly one of my favorite NPCs to use in the game. I played her as a confident and experienced trainer who had an air of mystery, was clever and flirtatious, and who had a very accomplished team including trans icon Sylveon. She is/was one of the main *villains* of the campaign, but that's besides the point. If I was a girl, she's who I'd want to be - but I'm pretty solid in my gender at this point.

sexy

That would be Lucas Maignard, the Silver Lion. Not just your average silver fox, but a nobleman who absolutely could rock it. Think Rollo from Vikings except salt and pepper hair. He was power hungry, a staunch revanchist of his family's ancestral title and he would go to every length it took to reclaim it, including trying to seduce the King's consort. He, notably, caused at least one if not more international incidents by insulting the soccer abilities of a neighboring kingdom.

He may have had the highest charisma of any character I've played.

idealized version of myself

Allow me to introduce you to Broderic Gullet, a 6'6 tall constantly drunken scotsman Barbarian with a hammer who was unkillable. Literally - he actually died at one point and came back to life because he was too damn stubborn to leave before his friends had gotten to safety, and some passing spirit possessed him and turned him into an abomination. He was jovial, friendly, could talk to his cat Mr. Pickles, and wonderfully buff enough he could hug all his friends at once. Plus he was a trained chef.

As Fruity And Extra As Possible

Oh this is easy. The Satyr Diplomat Cheldric delWolpertinger, a man who *honestly* should have read the recommended reading before being sent to deliver very important documents (these were actually talking frogs!). He was supposed to board a new train on the mountainous passage to Westport, but forgot his ticket. When the train left, he literally jumped (and I mean I cast "jump" and specifically was a Satyr for their Mirthful Leaps feature which adds 1d8 to my jump distance) onto the back of the train. Unfortunately, the murder of the conductor was a bit of an issue, but Cheldric and some other passengers put their heads together to solve the mystery.

furry

So, allow me to set the stage for Albie, Traitor to Crowkind. A Kenku that was as much benefit to the party as he was walking, curse triggering hazard, this absolute buffoon would do what he could to simultaneously help the party while also doing his best not to piss of Strahd too much. A lighting bolt cast into the middle of melee that hit everyone totally gives him plausible deniability for who survives.

I think my favorite memory though is when one of the other party members just opened his beak and he started reciting the Book of Strahd like Stitch plays that record in Lilo & Stitch

A good runner up here would also be Nilbo, a Kobold Druid who only became a druid because it let him wild shape into progressively bigger lizards and dinosaurs. No other animals, just scales.

I Saw One Of The Extra Fantasy Races That Aren’t In The Player’s Handbook And Almost Had A Stroke

Listen. Listen to me. I fucking love Warforged. I will *always* go to bat for magical robots. They're amazing and I've played so many, from psions to storm domain clerics to the most recent one, Hymn, a gender-neutral Celestial Pact Warlock Warforged who got his abilities because he was a socialist. No, I'm not joking - he was made for usage by the Church of the Sovereign Host, but when a wandering heretical priest came by wondering why the church didn't do more, Hymn started going out at night to perform direct action and mutual aid. Being not that smart, he accidentally wandered into a cult's base and released a captive celestial, who gifted him the power to help more.

a race + class that typically would not go together

I'm of a tossup here - the Halfling Artificer Posco Harfoot, who was a member of the Justicars and in order to even the playing field, built himself a goddamn magitek mech in order to go toe to toe with the other peacekeepers, or of Tiberius Vanderwhinn, an elven Path of the Zealot barbarian who was *extremely* keen on getting his libraries late fees sorted, and gods help you if you dared shout in his library.

sexy criminal

Very few things are sexier than a tiefling, and that would be Boreo Lieran, the Tiefling Bard. Boreo was a staunch contender for the "As fruity as possible" but this pansexual beast is much more in line here because the man seduced half the party prior to or during session 1. Having a prehensile tail and the ability to pick up the gnome lass in the party by it for him to tease probably helped.

Of course, such a man was hilariously illegal, because not only did he smuggle and steal like, 90% of his luxury goods that he used to pamper himself with, he would absolutely flaunt a total disregard for property rights and find himself making grand entrances into peoples homes and lives as part of his wayward caravan, leaving a trail of chaos in his wake.

himbo

One of the more recent characters I've played. Cadmus, Son of Abraxes! A "human" wizard on the plane of Theros, this man is the half-divine son of the literal personification of the pride of a polis that was wiped off the face of the world by the gods for their Hubris. So, an active devotee of the god of victory, and actively blaspheming the goddess of destiny at every turn (As he would put it, we hold the pen in our hands, she merely hoards the ink), his goal was to perform deeds good enough to earn a place as a constellation under the stars. He would only *ever* sleep outside at night, even in cities, because he wanted to rest with them as he knew one day he would for eternity.

[bandicoot88]

My Cyberpunk 2077 thoughts...

Gonna go into some spoilers, which I’ll hide under the cut, tho for now, I will share what I thought of the game. I finished my original playthrough a while back now, and did a second, with my same V but with a few different choices (and going back so I could take a bunch of snaps in photo mode, as you may have seen!)

  The game is definetely overhyped tho. Did I enjoy myself? Yes, but the game could’ve been better had it been worked on either more, or taken a step back... and made sure the game ran nicely. There are problems with it, and I’ll share this video here from videogamedunkey who does a good job of explaining the good and bad:

    The length of the game:

  Too short. For about 2 days I was doing side quests only to look for Brendan and Theo, voiced by Bryan Dechart and Ameila Rose Blaire, and even then, I felt like the story just... ends. When I went to do the final mission, I actually didn’t realize it was the final mission. It does say a point of no return, and I’ve experienced that once before in a game, but I just thought it’d be a really long mission, not the end of the game.

  There’s too many side missions I feel, and as mentioned in the video, a lot of copy and paste kinds which are boring, while some are worth doing, but you can’t tell which is which until you visit those locations.

  Game machanics:

  I’m an easily confused person, but I still felt like the game doesn’t really explain... much. All this tech, upgrades, add-ons, abilities, weapons, hacking, and WHY THE FUCK AM I OVERHEATING!? Like... did anyone else feel overwhelmed? I’d be hours and hours into the game, and I still didn’t know what did what. Heck, there’s stuff now I still don’t understand, like... consumerables. I never use them, EVER!

  I just find them kinda pointless, and they’re fucking everywhere, which is probably my problem because I pick EVERYTHING up. I just wanted the game to explian things better. Even BOTW just throws you into the wildness with little to go on, but it’s easy to pick up and understand once you know how (yes, I know the games are totally different, but CP77 could’ve learned something from games such as that on how to introduce players on how to literally play their game).

  Crafting:

  Did anyone actually craft in this game? I crafted very little, and by that I mean I crafted a few grenades to use. I thought weapons could be upgraded, but I was wrong I think, and legendary weapons could be crafted instead? Either way, I never found enough material to craft anything legendary, and with how often I looted... something ain’t right there.

  Selling stuff:

  On PS4, it’s a fucking nightmare. It’s sooooo slow. It would’ve been nice to have an option like ‘sell all commons/whites’ or selecting multiple items and then go ‘sell’. But no, you have to sell each item individually, and with how the game performs on PS4 currently... yeah, not fun.

  SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS!

    -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

        The story:

Confusing. I got the impression that Arasaka were the bad guys, since y’know... killing Jackie, the son killing the father, etc. Then Takemura enters the scene, thinks we’re the killers, then we both get attacked by robo ninjas, who I haven’t got a fucking clue are, and then... Takemura is trying to save me. When it said ‘finish him off’, I thought it meant Takemura (I think I ignored the prompt, thinking Takemura would die in that moment).

I also kept getting confused on character names within the Arasaka’s, namely Saburo and Yorinobu, constantly getting lost on what and who Takemura was referring to, but I think that’s a me problem and not the fault of the game.

Romances:

  I still have yet to romance someone, but my first encounter with a romancable character was Panam. Little did I know... that she’s straight, so my female V cannot romance her. So. Lame. There’s 4 romances in the game, and we’re limited to 2 per gender? Judy is nice, but I really liked Panam... Why not just make them all bi so from a player perspective, there’s more choice? That’s what Joytoys are, with Skye and Angel as prime examples. Just put the gay/lesbian representation in game elsewhere, but not with romancable characters that are limited, because that’s just lame to me. AC Odyssey didn’t have that problem... It’s really not difficult. According to a YouTube comment on Kerry’s romance, in the Cyberpunk board game, Kerry was bisexual anyway, so... what gives?

Character deaths:

I hated that Jackie died. Seriously? That lovable goof giant just killed off in the most anticlimatic and lame way? If you’re gonna kill off such a great character, at least go out with a bang. The guy didn’t get enough screen time and he was such a lively character in the doom of gloom of Cyberpunk’s world.

It also sucked that T-Bug and Dex died too. T-Bug... how did she even die? The game doesn’t explin anything, and the way she went off comms like that made me think that we’d see her late, as I didn’t realize she was actually dead for a good while, expecting her to make contact at some point.

As for Dex... yes, he did screw us over, but I still liked him. The way he talked, his voice, his style... I just felt he could’ve had more to give.

Then there’s Takemura, another death that I thought had to happen, but the game fucks him over by giving no indication that he could’ve been saved. According to the PS4 trophies, it says 0.8% had Takemura get his revenge for Saburo’s death near the end of the game, so... hardly anyone knew he could be saved.

They couldn’t have done like a decision that could’ve saved him? If they didn’t want to make it obvious, fine, don’t label literally “save Takemura” and “leave Takemura”, but have a decision there at least. Or, explain at some point in the game (maybe near the beginning) that following what the mission says doesn’t have to be taken so literally. When gamers are told by a mission on what to do, they do. How would we ever know to crawl in a tiny hole and find Takemura that way? Again, I assumed we’d meet up later, waiting... waiting... Hanako makes no mention of him whatsoever, and eventually I realized he was dead. Even called him on his phone to confirm it. So lame...

  Smelting legendary weapons:

  I think I accidentally smelted down Johnny’s Revolver, and I fucking loved that thing! The damage, the sound, the awesome reload animation... So now on my other playthrough I’m gonna try and not mess that up. How on Earth are Johnny’s clothes non-sellable/smeltable, but his gun is? How do you mess that up!? Let me mark certain weapons so I don’t accidentally sell them. Again, CP77 can learn from other games...

  Buying cars:

  I’ve bought... one car, and I hate that buying cars are labelled as side missions. Why would I want to buy a hoard of cars? I’m not made of money? I can’t just spend 22k on a car I don’t even really want, especially when I got Johnny’s car, and the bikes of Jackie and Scorpion. Just... have a single place where you can go to buy cars instead of littering the map. I read somewhere that buying cars is the Corpo path only, but I’m not sure?

  The endings:

  I think the ending I got was a common one. I understand there are 5 endings? I chose to go back to Earth and... eventually die I guess, because I didn’t trust Arasaka. I picked the other choice to see what happens, and I wish there was some explaination. You’re just stuck in some program, waiting for a body? If one will even be available? I felt like both endings kinda sucked, and dare I say, the ending you can get much earlier sitting on the roof was oddly more satisfying to me, because you get an actual cutscene with Johnny, and overall, it’s just a nice heart to heart moment. Sure, it’s sad, but there was emotion. The other 2 common endings just felt empty to me. I still have to watch the other, more rare endings.

  Okay I’m done. This is mostly a big rant, but I did still like the game. It just wasn’t ready for release, even after 8 years, and it did had problems, outside of bugs and performance issues.

[curiousorigins]

Oh it’s purposeful. Not to mention that lack of access to birth control and abortion means a guaranteed new generation of working class or below economically disadvantaged people to take advantage of. Same reason to avoid proper sex education. And yes, I’m sure white people baby-stealing is some of it too.

The rich people have been terrified since the 1990s of what the declining birth rate is going to do to their economic power and way of life. One of the reasons to manipulate the real estate market the way they have. 2 incomes are required. More likely to result in children and a poorer working class when people split up.

Supply and demand is at the heart of everything they’re taught. Less people means less goods sold and smaller working class.

There will be more jobs than there are people very soon if nothing changes soon. Right now there’s too many people for jobs available and before everyone moved back in with their parents because of the pandemic.

That oversupply of workers meant any job, people were lucky to have. They had their pick, the cream of the crop worker-wise and they didn’t even have to keep them happy. Plenty of workers behind them waiting for one.

Older people losing their retirements also pushed them over on the supply of desperate workers. They don’t care if we die on the job, in fact they’re betting on it. Walmart has life insurance on workers that die on location... store, location or travel for work. And they don’t share it with the grieving families.

If the working class continues to shrink via birth rates (due to sex education and birth control and gender equality) like the projections guess, workers should have their pick of jobs in say 20 years or so.

In The United States (and other Western countries built on capitalism) for any policy change... you gotta ask yourself... how could you make money on this? How does this benefit the land owners and ultra wealthy. And BAM! You got the logic behind every single policy change Post President Hoover.

You don’t even have to give yourself a major brain stretch. Completely disregard every feeling for the suffering of your fellow man. It’s their fault anyways, they’re broke because they’re lazy or stupid. Think to yourself, how can I hoard resources and make more money than I can spend in my lifetime as fast as possible to ensure that I die with the most? That I get the most possible wealth in my lifetime? How do I win at monopoly?

And now you’re thinking like every a**hole bribing politicians and pretending that both sides, left and right have nothing in common. Because divided it’s much easier to make up stuff about the Bible or that this is the first step to solve systemic problems or that we gotta compromise. Necessary evil and all that, for their or our own good.

Got your villian/factor owner thinking cap on? Good. Think of the medical debt and overcharged credit cards and impossible mortgages when you’re on the hospital board, own stock in Capital one and rent out properties. Think about how you’ll be alive probably for the next 30 years and if not you, your kids or grandkids who will inherit your company. Declining birth rates means more expensive labor costs. Less workers have more job choices you might have to pay better and give more benefits. How about we nix sex ed, affordable birth control and abortions? Yay we get medical debt, more workers and something for people to be angry at (and remain divided on) all in one!

Less gilded toilet in that dark future. Oh no! Universal healthcare means you can’t charge people whatever for procedures and that your insurance company and medical debt collecting companies have no purpose. Better remind people that unwed mothers are total sluts who deserve the consequence of children. And if you work hard you can afford insurance. Sharing the wealth is for loser commies.

A thing to keep in mind both with the abortion debate, and the US border crisis: Rich white Christian lawmakers desperately want to increase the supply of adoptable children that don’t have connections to their birth families.

Since the 1960s, the number of babies available for adoption has steadily declined. The model many people prize as “ideal” is to adopt an infant as early as possible, so that it remembers no other parents, has no connections to any other culture or religious heritage, and can be raised, as much as possible, as though the child were a couple’s own biological child. Families will wait years and pay tens of thousands for this kind of child. They want them desperately.

This has been an unspoken factor in a lot of conservative political decisions that don’t make sense on the surface, like restricting birth control and abortion while making raising a child as difficult and expensive as possible, or separating parents from children without even keeping track of which child belongs to which family.

You can see this agenda working in a lot of responses to “crises”, like the Sixties Scoop of Indigenous, Aboriginal, and Native American children, Operation Babylift in Vietnam in 1975, or people swarming Haiti in 2010 looking for orphans.

In all these cases, the “solution” to the “crisis” is to “save” children from unhappy lives in terrible conditions by giving them to, primarily, rich white Christian families, to be raised as conservative middle-class Christians. 

It looks altruistic, but don’t assume it actually is; so long as a child has living family members, it’s often better for them to be with their families in a refugee camp in a warzone than to be separated, no matter how nice their new homes and new families are. (And the adoption industry has scrupulously avoided, whenever possible, gathering evidence on what it’s like to give up a child for adoption, much less having your children taken from you.)

That’s one of the things I’m actually really surprised and amazed hasn’t been pushed as a solution more often; it used to be such a huge narrative in the past, but the more we know about childhood trauma, the more resistance there is to  babyscoop tactics. 

But if this is a fight you’re in on? Watch for this. 

[theheavymetalmama]

Katie Reviews “Far Cry 5″

Doctor Stupidlove

Another day, another Far Cry game. Whether or not that’s a good or bad thing depends on person to person with a laundry list of variables, including but not limited to personal taste and sensibilities, franchise fatigue, whether or not you bought into the glue-huffing guff that this game held a leftist bias pushing an anti-white, anti-American agenda because for the first time in the series the bad guys are an American fanatically religious death cult instead of brown people from imaginary foreign countries, and a myriad of other things I’m probably missing. I’ll say up front that after Primal and a bunch of other bullshit from Ubisoft between now and the infamous ‘women are too hard to animate’ thing I was pretty much done with the series and Ubisoft as a whole. Then the launch trailer for Far Cry 5 dropped and, having grown up in a dead gold mining community chock-full of racist loonies not unlike the one depicted in the fictional Hope County, my interest immediately peaked.

See, the Far Cry games have a strange pattern to them. No game is perfect, but the Far Cry games stand out in that they have one glaring flaw that mars an otherwise damn good game. Far Cry 3 is held aloft as when the series peaked, and for good reason, but the main character was irredeemably unlikable and the main charismatic villain just up and vanishes from the halfway point in the game. Far Cry 4, or Far Cry 3 2 as some call it, fixed the villain problem but the main character was just dull. Primal was...not good, with a boring lead, a boring villain, and an overall boring game. Sure, Blood Dragon was a ton of fun, but part of the charm was that it was completely self-aware of its’ own absurdity and the characters from the hero to the villain weren’t characters so much as they were walking punchlines.

So how does Far Cry 5 compare? Well, when it comes to story, setting, and gameplay, it’s a step up from Far Cry 4 in some ways, blows Primal out of the water, but has its’ own issues and hang-ups that don’t quite make it live up to Far Cry 3. That’s the short version, anyway. The long version?

Let’s start with graphics, location, and aesthetics. Far Cry 5 looks fucking beautiful. 

I’m not kidding, everything from the wild lands, the forests, the mountains, the lakes and rivers, the settlements, everything in Far Cry 5 is absolutely gorgeous. It’s not quite up there with Breath of the Wild or Horizon: Zero Dawn in sheer style and detail, but it’s pretty damn close. More often than not I found myself forgetting about the mission and spending a lot of time exploring, hunting, and trying to take in the sights. More on the ‘trying’ part in a bit. The atmosphere sucks you right in, everything from the chirping birds and buzzing bees making the world feel alive. Exploring the woods and hearing cultist singing and chanting far off in the distance, especially at night, is legitimately terrifying. Wildlife always plays a key role in the Far Cry games and this is no exception, from docile deer to the always pleasant wolverine providing plenty of opportunities for hunting. Just don’t get skunked.

The game takes place in Hope County, a fictional region in rural Montana. Now I’ve never actually been to Montana, but I did grow up in Washington state and I can’t help but notice many similarities. The woods, the rivers, the god damned apple farms, exploring Hope County felt like I was going home again. Sometimes not for the better, but that’s neither here nor there. In any case, Hope County is beautifully detailed, from the farms to forest to the interiors of the (ugh...) Spread Eagle bar to the small hunting cabins out in the woods. Hats off to the artists and environmental designers for Far Cry 5, because they manage to tell more story about the world and characters with just a ransacked pumpkin farm and a dog mourning his dead owners than Square Enix and Konami ever could with a 20 minute cutscene and a dictionary’s worth of dialogue for each character.

Speaking of characters, the Far Cry games are loaded with memorable characters and the locals of Hope County are no exception. Returning character Hurk is back and as redneck-y as ever, and it turns out Hope County is his home. We also meet members of his family, like his pyromaniac cousin Sharky, his promiscuous mother Adelaide and her boyfriend Xander who’s roughly 1/3rd her age, and his racist conspiracy theorist gun-hoarding father Hurk Sr. No wonder he’s so messed up.

But Hurk and his folks aren’t the only people you meet, as the game is packed to the brim with memorable characters that you either love or love to hate, from lovable country boy Nick Rye and half-feral huntress Jess Black to the cartoonishly evil Seed family. More on them in a minute. Oh, and you get a pet bear named Cheeseburger.

Combat and gunplay is as tight as ever, and vehicle control is so smooth it gives Grand Theft Auto a run for its’ money. The soundtrack is pretty damn good, featuring a good mix of licensed and original music and songs. To the surprise of nobody my favorite is the one that plays during the stunt missions.

Leveling and character progress has been streamlined a bit. You upgrade your skills not by gaining experience, but by completing in-game challenges and finding ‘perk magazines’ that, you guessed it, give you points to unlock...well, perks. Some may not like that, but in my opinion it makes sense because if you gained experience just by killing stuff you’d reach level 50 before your first boss fight. Things like bigger ammo bags and extra weapon holsters are no longer unlocked by animal skins but through perks, and said said skins are now exclusively a form of making money.

So that about covers it for the good, and now it’s time for the bad. The streamlining I just brought up both helps and hurts the game. On one hand it does make progressing a lot less tedious, but on the other hand it does take away a lot of what makes Far Cry stand out from other typical shooters. It feels less like they were trimming the fat and more like they were cutting corners. For starters, areas that contain loot only contain ammo, crafting components, and sometimes money. There’s no more animations for skinning animals, harvesting plants, looting corpses, or even your character opening doors. That’s not so bad, but I really miss how dynamic and, as much as I’ve grown to detest this word, cinematic meeting new characters in previous games were. Take a look at this scene in Far Cry 4 when you meet Longinus, easily one of the highlights of the game.

And here’s what happens when you meet Sharky in Far Cry 5. (MINOR SPOILERS)

See the difference? Now one can argue that meeting new characters in real time saves some...well, time and is considerably less pretentious, but it just isn’t as interesting. Far Cry 5 still has plenty of scripted cutscenes, but again, they’ve been stripped down to the bone.

Now remember what I said earlier about trying to take in the sights? This game is packed to the fucking gills with enemy NPCs. Now previous Far Cry games had plenty of enemies as well but this went way overboard to the point that you can’t walk or drive 50 feet before running into a convoy or roadblock or whatever. I speak no hyberbole when I say that by the time you’ve liberated your first region, you’ll have killed more cultists than there are people currently living in real-life Montana as well as hunted and skinned more wolves, cougars, and bears than there are wolves, cougars, and bears currently populating the US west coast. Also, in what universe can a fucking turkey pose a legitimate threat to humans!? Does Far Cry occupy the same universe as fucking South Park?

The story of Far Cry 5 is pretty straight forward, but it definitely feels like there’s some pretty big pieces missing from it. This isn’t just me, critics and players across the board agree that it feels like something was cut from the game at the last minute. This is especially true for the endings, but more on that in a bit. I can’t help but feel that the writers and developers had a lot more to say about racism, gender roles and the enforcement thereof, gun violence and gun culture in America, sexism, religious zealotry, far-right extremism, and of course this tire fire of a presidential administration, because the pieces for all of that are still there. A handful of NPCs mention gender roles for a hot second, several of the guns for hire make disparaging remarks about Trump, the symbol of Eden’s Gate strongly resembles the same symbol the Ku Klux Klan and other white supremacist groups use, Hurk’s dad is a caricature of far-right ideals purposefully exaggerated for ridicule and contempt, and there’s even a mission where you meet up with another returning character to find Trump’s pee-tape.

All of the elements are there, but the game says almost nothing about any of it. Why?

When the first trailer for the game dropped it was around the same time Wolfenstein II: the New Colossus was close to release and the same mouth-breathing shitheels who screamed about how killing Nazis in Wolfenstein was pushing an anti-white, anti-conservative agenda did the same thing for Far Cry 5. My guess is that the PR guys at Ubisoft saw the oxygen-thieving wastes of space screaming about how the game was “anti-white SJW propaganda” and then panicked and removed huge chunks of the game so as not to alienate any racist shitheads who may want to buy it. Not only does the game say almost nothing about any of the themes and elements that I mentioned earlier, but the cult of Eden’s Gate is multi-racial and gendered where most of the guys have long hair and hipster beards and all the women barring Faith Seed have short hair and buzz cuts. It’s really jarring and feels like something that was added at the last minute, as the male cultists all sound the same and the female cultists say hardly anything at all.

That brings us to the player character; they’re aren’t a character, they’re an avatar and silent protagonist. Now there’s nothing inherently wrong with that, but it feels strange. Especially when you play as a female, which I did. Now the character creation itself is fine, especially with the wide variety of outfits, but the rest is pretty bare bones. More to the point, it’s painfully obvious they designed the game with a male lead in mind and then added a gender-switch as an afterthought. Almost everyone in the game refers to you by male pronouns (which to be fair I call my ladyfriends ‘dude’ all the time) but there are a few scenes where you’re found shirtless in the game. Now call me old-fashioned, but I’d have a bit stronger of a reaction than “Oh, you startled me” if I woke up to some weirdo carving the word ‘wrath’ into my tits! I have a sneaking suspicion that they added a gender switch at the last minute because someone reminded them of the time they looked like lazy idiots for claiming your customizable assassin in Assassin’s Creed: Unity couldn’t be a woman because women were too hard to animated.

And now, let’s finally talk about the Seed Family.

We have the leader Joseph Seed, the trainer and disgraced soldier Jacob, the sadistic second in command John, and the seductress Faith. The Far Cry games are known for their charismatic villains and the seeds are no exception, and especially gripping because the second you meet any single one of them you immediately want them dead. The only problem is that, again, they’re so cartoonishly evil that the more you see them the more you want to shove them crotch-first into the mouth of a hungry grizzly bear. Vaas was always one step ahead of you and constantly in your face and Pagan Min was so suave and charming that you kind of wanted to see where he was going with it all.

Not the case with the seeds. When you see them they immediately piss you off, and the more you see them they just keep pissing you off because they keep hiding behind doors, cronies, hallucinations, or plot devices. And hey, that’s fine. As long as you get to shove the barrel of a shotgun right into their mouth and spatter their brains all over the walls of their church then who cares, right?

....

So, let’s talk about the endings of the game.

Once you’ve liberated all three regions of Hope County by killing John, Jacob, and Faith, you return to the main cult compound to arrest Joseph once again. However, once you get there and cuff him you step outside to find your allies under the brainwashing influence of the drug Bliss and a boss fight ensues. When you knock your allies out and revive them, they snap out of their Bliss-induced stupor and turn on Joseph, and once you’ve freed all of them Joseph drops like a hot rock. When Joseph is down and the day is won...this happens.

....no, really. 

Right the fuck out of nowhere a nuke lands somewhere in the outskirts of Hope County and you scramble to escape, and pretty soon you black out and wake up in a bunker chained to a bed with Joseph hovering over you saying that you’ll be his first new recruit in the cult. All the allies you previously made die as Hope County is wiped off the map and the game ends, not even giving you a continuation like previous games did and rendering every single thing you did up to this point totally and utterly meaningless.

Now some people have defended this, including the developers, saying that there are radio broadcasts in-game talking about how tensions are raising in Russia and North Korea. I spent hours driving around in the game listening to the radio and I heard no such thing, but if they’re indeed there then this only furthers my suspicion that this was a last-minute change because of the backlash from racist shitbirds and wasn’t the ending the writers and developers originally intended. 

For starters, the escalating tensions between Russia, the US, and North Korea aren’t mentioned anywhere else in the game except in the radio broadcasts (which again, I never heard) and despite the Seeds going on and on about “the collapse” we never get any idea of what the collapse is until the end of the game. It’s not even a convincing depiction of a nuke going off! Just some burning trees and a few animals dropping dead as you make your escape with Joseph in tow and neither of you having so much as a sunburn. If this ending was what they planned from the start then they would have went all out, showing in graphic detail the horrors of a nuclear holocaust. How much of a gut-punch would it have been to see Nick Rye hug his wife and newborn daughter just before the skin is blasted off their bones like that scene in Terminator 2 that made me avoid mesh fences for two fucking years? Or Jess run one of her own arrows through her heart to spare herself an agonizing death? Or hell, Hurk, one of the few returning characters in Far Cry, desperately begging the player for help as his face melts off his skull? That would have hit players and hit players hard and people, myself included, wouldn’t be bitching about how out of nowhere and shit the ending is! And that’s to say nothing of the idea of North Korea wasting one of the handful of nukes they have on rural fucking Montana! Jesus H. Tap-dancing Christ, Ubisoft, how fucking stupid do you think we are!?

...okay, fair enough. But still!

Now I know what you’re probably thinking. “Well, damn, that’s grim. Anyway, what’s the good ending like?” 

That IS the good ending.

No, I’m not even kidding. Despite the end scenario being Doctor Strangelove by way of Deliverance (and no, that’s not me being snarky, the game references the movie by playing “We’ll Meet Again” during the final cutscene) that’s the good ending because you, the player, are still alive. The bad ending is that after you arrest Seed and see your friends and allies under the influence of Bliss, you’re given the option to let him go and walk away. You then then your Bliss-induced allies walk with Joseph peacefully into the church and then leave with the same three people, in which they get into a car and leave while chatting about getting the army involved and taking Seed out once and for all. One of them then turns on the radio, the song “Only You” plays, and a red haze takes over the screen just before the credits roll heavily implying that you succumbed to the brainwashing drug (which you’re exposed to several times in the game) and either attacked or killed the people you spent the time in the game trying to save. Either way, each ending renders your actions completely and utterly meaningless.

Why did they do this? Well, partially because the Far Cry writers really love the “There is no objective good or evil, everything and everyone is equally terrible” cliche and they assume everyone else does too, but once again I have no doubt in my mind that the ‘good’ ending wasn’t the original ending and was in fact a last-minute change to appease angry racists in order to not alienate what Ubisoft thinks is their core demographic. What a bucket of cocks.

Final Thoughts

Now despite the endings being complete and utter hot garbage that renders all your actions meaningless, there’s still plenty of fun to be had in Far Cry 5. The combat is satisfying, base jumping and flying around never gets old, the characters are great, and despite chickening out on the themes introduced it’s still a plenty serviceable story. It won’t be winning any awards anytime soon, and if you’re looking for some post-2016 return of the Nazis catharsis then I’d go with Wolfenstein II: the New Colossus instead, but there’s still plenty fun to be had exploring the beautiful wilds of Northwest America while gunning down religious nutjobs, hunting dangerous game, and completing side-quests from uprooting doomsday prepper bunkers to making a bull testicle cook-off to raise morale possible.

B-

A solid B-

[panhasapen]

Current WIPs Meme

Rules: List all the things you’re currently working on in as much or little detail as you’d like, then tag some friends to see what they’re working on: writing, art, gifsets, whatever.

Yesterday @byjillianmaria and @theticklishpear both did this and neither of them tagged me but both said anyone who wanted to do it could consider themself tagged and I Very Much do want to ramble about my projects so!! Here I am (I hope you guys don’t mind me tagging you in this post!)

I tag @winterspirit-13, @karenterrywrites, @jen-and-tonic, and anyone who, like me, wants to ramble about their projects! (And please do to tag me in the post (unless you don’t want to, that’s fine too); I love hearing people talk about stuff they’re making!)

...

Dragon

This is what I’m working on right now for Camp NaNo! It’s been a concept since…freshman year? Maybe sophomore year? But now I am finally bringing it to fruition! It’s about a magic kid with anger management issues who’s destined to die saving the world, because I’m super original. It’s also very much about found family, because I’m a huge sucker for found family stories and of course I’m gonna write the kind of stories I love to read! It’s the longest time frame I’ve ever covered in a story, with the main storyline lasting from when the main character is nine to when he’s seventeen. It’s also been interesting to experiment with the PoV in this project. I didn’t plan this, but with a first-person past tense PoV, I’ve wound up writing the thing sort of in retrospect for the main character, so even though it’s a very close PoV the narration doesn’t always line up with how the main character feels at the time. (Mostly a lot of “I was very petty and stubborn,” because the guy is very petty and stubborn.) Anyway, the project’s supposed to be around 15k words, though so far it’s looking like it’s gonna be longer, and once I finish rewriting until I’m happy with it, I’m planning to put it online somewhere. Probably Wattpad, but who knows. I’ll link to it on this blog when it happens! (Many times. No one will escape.)

SABM

This is the story Leo’s from! SABM is such an old working title I don’t wanna admit what it stands for because it’s A) Very Bad and B) not even remotely relevant to the story anymore! I need a new working title. Anyway, it’s about this kid, Lydia (she’s actually the main character, contrary to popular belief), who goes to a magic boarding school! Because, again, I’m super original. She winds up roommates with another kid, Leo (yes, here he is), who’s very very friendly and immediately absorbs her into his friend group, where he meets Jenna and Michael, who you all may or may not remember, and their mentor/friend Olivia, who you probably don’t. The bunch used to have another friend, Zu (I gotta change his name), Leo’s old roommate, who was more or less bullied out of the magic school, so he’s definitely a victim but also highkey turned into an asshole and made a lot more victims, so it’s kind of about how being mistreated doesn’t give you license to mistreat others. The main story is about Lydia’s struggle to feel accepted into the main friend group, mainly because she doesn’t share this history with Zu with the rest of them and because while she thought she wanted to leave home, she misses it but doesn’t want to admit it, and there’s a side plot (which frankly can barely be called that since it’s just as large as the main plot; maybe a co-plot?) about Leo trying to deal with Zu’s leaving and becoming highkey an asshole. The idea is to play those plots against each other so it’s about how letting go of the past is important if holding on is harmful, but holding on is important if letting go is harmful, but the line between those two is far from clear and far from decisive. And magic factors into all of this, I swear. I want this to be a webcomic but at the same time I Do Not have the dedication required to actually sustain a webcomic, so while I am very passionate about this project, who knows what will become of it.

(Kudos and many thanks to anyone who’s still reading! I’ll try to be fast about the rest)

Spirit Woods is a story of gods, demons, and traitors. I conceptualized it in seventh grade, sort of, but it’s utterly and completely different now to the point where I have written three drafts, all of which I would consider first drafts as you’d never guess they’re the same story. And so much has changed since the last draft that the next one will probably be another first draft. This project seems fated to keep changing immensely and as a result never be completed. We shall see.

Dakota Chase is about a superhero kid named Dakota Chase who reads minds (originally he also had super speed, and the name stuck once I took that away) and how that affects his life as, like, a relatively normal teenager, in which Cody’s superpowers are highkey an analogy for queerness while his actually gay brother has a parallel arc with his actual gayness (though the superpower analogy one gets. Darker) (it’s a happy ending don’t worry (and the brother lives happily ever after with his giant dork of a boyfriend)).

Blood and Water/Voices/whatever else I called it is my first NaNo story from freshman year about a prince and a princess fighting over the throne and it’s about moral ambiguity and casual sexism and grief and strength and actually was a decent idea with really strong themes but mostly is an Embarrassment and I wrote eight entire pages about the prince trying to sew that had no relevance to the plot what am I doing

Nova is about a bunch of queer space pirates rebelling against a totalitarian space government and it was the first time I actually tried to be all thematic and statement-y and it went Badly and when I tackle this idea again I’m gonna focus more on just. Queer space pirates. Who doesn’t love queer space pirates

Dragonrider is (hopefully) gonna be a high fantasy western about a kid named Reck who learns to ride dragons and then maybe goes on a quest?? I gotta read a bunch of westerns before I make too many major decisions since I don’t know about the genre conventions yet. All I know is A) Reck’s parents died and his older sister had to take care of him because I love writing about non-traditional families and the character dynamics they bring, B) dragons came to the American West because of the gold rush, since dragons hoard gold and that just makes sense (plus lizards in a hot, dry climate makes sense), and C) if my pseudo-historical American West can have dragons it can also have queer and non-white characters treated respectfully (read: the main trio are a Mexican trans dude, his lesbian sister, and his nonbinary dragonriding coach; the story’s conflict is not centered around race, gender, or sexuality)

Anyway I’ll probably post this and immediately go “[INSERT MAJOR PROJECT HERE]. HOW DID I FORGET [INSERT MAJOR PROJECT HERE]” because I have So Many WIPS all of the time but have at least a sampling of all the things I’ve kind of made

If you wanna know more about any of this feel free to shoot me a message and I will gladly yell more about my children!!

[robininthelabyrinth]

@kickingshoes - happy birthday!  All the best wishes for an excellent year for you both, success and happiness both!

Fic: The World's Greatest Criminal Rat - Ao3 Link Fandom: Flash, DC's Legends of Tomorrow Pairing: Leonard Snart/Mick Rory, Barry Allen/Iris West, Cisco Ramon/Lisa Snart/Cindy Reynolds

Summary: Right now, Len is most annoyed by the fact that he leaves Mick alone for a few months (year) and his place at Mick's side is replaced, not by another partner, which he could understand and compete with (...and/or murder and hide the body somewhere), but by - this.

It.

Him.

The rat.

Warning: So much fluff your teeth may rot

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Len really doesn't like time travel.

It's bad enough, dropping Mick off for less than two weeks and having him come back after months or worse of torture and brainwashing. It's even worse to wake up, bewildered and alone and lost, feeling like maybe a day had passed, only to fall in with the wrong crowd and have to get rescued by a ship of heroes who thought he'd been dead for a whole year.

But right now, Len is most annoyed by the fact that he leaves Mick alone for a few months (year) and his place at Mick's side is replaced, not by another partner, which he could understand and compete with (...and/or murder and hide the body somewhere), but by - this.

It.

Him.

The rat.

Len kneels down until he's very nearly eye-level with the table.

"I don't know what he sees in you," he tells his rival.

The rat squeaks and turns its back on Len.

Guess the feeling's mutual.

You’d think Len coming back would be a cause for celebration, and it was, too, but then they’d come back into Mick’s bedroom – which was even more stuffed than it’d been when Len’d last seen it, good for Mick for carrying on the stealing and hoarding tradition – and instead of staggering straight for the bed for a well-deserved rest after being rescued from the goddamn Legion of Doom, Mick decided it would be the perfect time to show off his brand new best friend.

For whom, as Len has discovered in the days following, Mick cooked special treats. Snuggled with. Gave compliments. Carted around in his goddamn pocket all the time.

Yelled at Len when he made noises that could disturb him.

Len does not appreciate being replaced.

The rat - Mick calls him 'Ratigan', so Len's assuming it's a boy, though when it comes to Mick, he might just not care about gender at all - tries to scamper away.

"Oh, no you don't -" Len reaches out and scoops Ratigan up.

Ratigan sits on Len's palms and wrinkles its nose at Len, squeaking. Quite pointedly, if Len had to say so himself.

Mick always did have a fondness for smartass creatures with prickly defenses. Probably how he put up with Len for so long, honestly.

"I didn't have any pets growing up," Len tells Ratigan as the rat noses around his cupped palms. "Never had the time or the energy to put in the effort to take care of one, and even the goldfish I won for Lisa for a buck at the local fair, my dad dumped out into the stream within a week ‘cause he was in a bad mood. Couldn't risk bringing home anything for fear it'd be used against me, and after a while, I forgot how to even want one."

He studies the rat, which has gone quiet and is staring back at Len.

"Still," Len says. He feels slightly silly talking to a rat like this, but after the Oculus and the Legion, talking helps him feel grounded in himself again. "Mick likes you. Mick likes you a lot. You were there for my partner when this ship full of assholes couldn't be bothered, and I respect that."

Len hadn't been inclined to, at first - so he's a bit possessive, give him a break; he doesn’t have many friends and he's not inclined to share the one he has - but he'd seen the rat fetch Mick his lighter when Mick's fingers twitched with the need, seen Mick smile when he fed the rat little crumbs from his plate, seen Mick put in hours trying to teach the orney little bastard a trick or two. The rat makes Mick happy, and that's what's important.

"If Mick loves you, that means you're part of this partnership whether I like it or not," Len says after a long moment of contemplation. "There must be something to you. Must admit I don't think much of you at the moment, but I didn't think much of Lisa at first, either, all red and wailing and barely any teeth and all. Maybe you'll grow on me, too. Wanna make a truce, you and me?"

The rat bites him in the finger and scampers off.

"Wow, just like Lisa already," Len grumbles, and goes to get himself a band-aid.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The rat shares their bed.

The rat shares their bed.

Len may be contemplating murder again.

Raticide.

Pest control?

Of course, it's not really Ratigan's fault, not all of it. Len's just in an especially bad mood.

Len'd gotten into three fights today: one with Stein, who'd made a derogatory comment about Mick's mental health and all but implied they'd get more use out of his turkey sandwich, to which Len had told him that if it weren't for Mick, Stein would still be back in 2016, lugging around the body of his roofied partner (Stein hadn’t liked that); one with Sara, who'd apparently formed a habit of sending Mick into missions without explaining the goal or the reason, using him like a person grabbing a hammer when what they want to do is eat some soup and then blaming Mick for her failure in leadership, to which Len had asked if her blood fury had come back and all of them were the targets of some long-simmering revenge plan to kill them all through sheer incompetence (she really hadn’t liked that); and one with his old so-called ‘friends’ in the Legion, which had involved some rather nasty commentary about how Len screamed when he was being tortured and implications that his memories had been toyed with the same way Rip's had been, rendering Len a ticking time bomb, and Len hadn't even been able to ice any of the bastards (Len hadn’t liked that most of all).

So now he was twitchy and angry, Sara and Stein were nursing grudges against him but felt too sorry for him to do anything about it - Len hates pity; he’d rather they were trying something - and Mick was back to treating Len with kid gloves.

And Ratigan is in. Their. Bed.

Len grits his teeth and stuffs his face down into the pillow, forcing his shoulders to relax in a mimicry of sleep. He will not fling Mick's rat across the room. He doesn't hurt animals: never has, never will. But oh, is it tempting...

Mick comes into the room after he finishes washing up.

"Oh," he says, seeing Len 'sleeping'. "Guess today knocked him out." Mick flicks off the lights and pads over to the bed, crawling in beside Len. "Probably more the case that he didn't wanna talk about it."

Is Mick talking about Len to Ratigan?

"He always did take things people said about me personally," Mick whispers in the dark. "Don't tell him, but I always kinda liked that, you know? Even when he was just a little scrapper like you - bigger, obviously, but a small thing that thought he was big and in charge, just like you. He always thought I was aces."

Because you are, Len thinks sulkily.

"The others on board don't get that, and I guess I haven't been giving 'em much reason to think much of me -"

Their fault, not Mick's. Obviously. If you know how to handle him, Mick’s the best partner a man can have.

"- but honestly, it's nice to have someone in my corner again. When I thought he was gone, and that no one'd be in my corner ever again..." Mick's voice breaks.

Ratigan squeaks.

Mick chuckles, his voice a little thick with emotion but lightening. "Yeah, yeah, you were here," he says. "I'm not forgetting. You always liked me best, right from the start. Don't think I don't remember you biting Ray for me."

A small smacking sound, like a kiss on fur.

"Night, Ratigan."

Len waits until Mick's breathing has evened out, long and low and deep, with a touch of a snore at the end, before he wiggles around in the bed. His eyes have adjusted to the dark, so he can make out the rat curled up protectively on Mick's chest, right where the blanket ends. Ratigan blinks at Len, it's eyes reflective in the dark.

Len reaches out a single finger and runs it down Ratigan's slinky fur, taking care to go the right way.

"Thanks for taking care of him for me," he whispers.

The rat curls back up, but he doesn't nip at Len first.

Maybe he's not so bad.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You stole my miniature wrench; I need it back,” Ray says.

“No,” Len says, and turns another page of his book.

“No offense, Snart, but I actually need it for something –”

“I didn’t steal it,” Len drawls, cutting him off. “You immediately pegging me for it, that’s just bias talking.”

“You’re the only thief on board.”

“That’s not what I heard about your exploits,” Len shoots back.

“Only professional thief.”

“Other than Mick.”

“Mick didn’t steal my wrench,” Ray scoffs. “He wouldn’t have any use for it.”

“And I do?” Len says, reaching out for his pencil and marking down another line on the little piece of paper he’s been carrying around. Another insult against Mick that will need to be paid back – Ray’s really stacking them up.

Luckily, Len’s plans for him are already well in progress.

“Well, no,” Ray says, bright expression fading into a frown. “I guess not. But you just steal stuff, don’t you?”

“I steal valuable stuff. You think I got anywhere I plan to sell your – what was it again?”

“Miniature wrench. I use to fix the joints on my suit.”

“Well, I didn’t steal it,” Len turns another page in his book. “Maybe you misplaced it.”

“I didn’t misplace it! I know exactly where I put it!”

“Was that before or after the Waverider went through all those bumps?” Len asks innocently.

“Huh,” Ray says. “Good point.” And then he turns and leaves, without even apologizing for his error or his accusation. An accusation which, back in the real world, could have cratered an ex-con’s life even if he had reformed – loss of a job, housing, health insurance, respect and trust built up over time...

Len shakes his head. For shame.

And he left Mick with these privileged assholes.

Never again.

“Next time I’m not covering for you,” he warns.

Ratigan pokes his head up from under the desk, where he’s been storing his treasures, including, yes, a miniature wrench that he'd proudly dragged in between his jaws not half an hour earlier. He squeaks.

“You should steal the whole suit next time,” Len advises.

Ratigan flicks his tail and gives a whole body shudder.

Len snickers and turns another page. “Yeah, I wouldn’t want it either. At least a miniature wrench could be useful for precision work. Is it for the engine Mick’s taking apart in his room?”

Ratigan squeaks again.

“Thought so,” Len says, amusing himself with imagining that Ratigan can understand him. “Anyway, if you want to hear something nice, just wait a few minutes.”

Ratigan’s nose twitches.

Len turns another page in his book.

The mental countdown clock in his head hits zero.

“Oh my god!”

Len can hear Ray’s yelping all the way from here.

“That’ll show him, treating Mick like that,” Len says, just a little savagely. “And there’ll be more of that to come if they don't shape up about it, too.”

Ratigan squeaks.

It sounds approving.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Wait, what? No!" Len exclaims.

"I need you to take him," Mick says. "I only got enough room in this stupid outfit to carry my heat gun."

Len opens his mouth to protest that there was indeed enough room in the pocket for the heat gun and a rat, but the look in Mick's eyes stops him.

A rat and the heat-gun in the same pocket - a flailing tail or paw could activate the trigger, and then there would be roast rat and a heartbroken Mick.

Mick isn't emotionally stable enough to lose any more family right now, and that was all more or less Len's fault.

"Okay, fine," Len says, and accepts Ratigan. His job does not require his gun, so Ratigan should be fine in his pocket.

"Thanks, buddy," Mick says gratefully, and heads out.

Len takes a minute to watch. Say what you will about the stupidity of the clothing in Renaissance Venice, Len could really get behind (literally) the concept of Mick in those extremely tight tights. Hose. Whatever.

"Guess it's you and me," he tells Ratigan. "Don't bite or get the plague."

Ratigan squeaks.

"I'm taking that as an okay."

They go out. Len's job is fairly minimal - mostly watching the perimeter - because the crew's still worried about him, which he dislikes immensely.

"Supposedly it's because they've got a system that 'works' for them," he tells Ratigan disdainfully. "From what I've seen, the 'system' is to throw everything they've got at the target and hope for the best. Like I couldn't figure that out. They're just worried because they think I'm a plant."

Ratigan squeaks understandingly.

"Yeah. They're painfully amateur, and they keep thinking they're professionals."

Squeak, squeak.

"Eobard wasn't wrong about them being idiots – and I don’t agree with that bastard lightly."

Squeak. Wiggle.

Wiggle?

Len looks down. Ratigan is leaning out of his pocket and trying to grab something from a nearby rich man's pocket, little rat nose twitching.

"No, no," Len says, catching him before the rat tips entirely out of the pocket and falls out to the ground. "That ain't how you pick a pocket. Lemme show you - it's all about misdirection – well, that and light fingers -"

An hour later, Len is bumping into gentlemen and offering to show them a game of Cats' Cradle, both hands clearly visible at all times, while Ratigan swipes coins and jewelry from their pockets.

"Well done," he tells Ratigan when he's forced to drop the game in order to chase after the obviously historically-inaccurate time pirate recruited by the Legion. "Nice haul."

Ratigan squeaks proudly.

"You want to trade your share in for treats or add them to your stash?"

Ratigan contemplates this.

"How about half and half?"

Ratigan squeaks.

"Half and half it is - I'll fix you up as soon as we get back on board - damn this guy, where the hell does he think he's going?"

"Arsenal, probably," a nearby man says, watching the fleeing man.

"Shit," Len says, and speeds up despite the growing ache in his knees. If arsenal means what he thinks it means, he definitely wants to get there first.

He's getting too old and tired for this hero shit.

He says as much to Ratigan, who squeaks in agreement.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“We’re going home,” Len says, putting his hands down.

“No, we’re not,” Mick says.

“Yes, we are,” Len says. “They’re treating you like shit, you don’t care about this so-called ‘mission’ –”

“Until we can prove your memories are untampered with –”

“I’ll take my chances with Central City.”

“Len –” Mick sounds long-suffering, like Len’s being ridiculous or something.

“Mick.”

“The crew isn’t that bad.”

“Yes, they are.”

Mick arches an eyebrow at him. “You going to bash me over the head and drag me out if I don’t agree?” he asks, sounding amused, of all things.

“No,” Len says evenly. “We agreed we’d be both making decision going forward.”

“And don’t you forget it,” Mick says.

“I’m not. But you’ve been outvoted.”

Mick blinks and puts his drink down, turning to look at Len.

Len just meets his gaze.

“Len,” Mick says. “You can’t outvote me.”

“And why not?” Len says haughtily, hiding a smile. Mick’s totally fallen for his bait.

“There’s only two of us. Neither can outvote the other.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,” Len says. “You vote to stay, I vote to go, and –” He pulls his hand out of his pocket.

Ratigan squeaks.

“– Ratigan here also votes to go. Therefore, by a count of two votes to one, we win.”

Mick’s gaping.

Ratigan sits up in Len’s palm and squeaks again.

Somehow, that’s the thing that makes Mick start laughing. Big, deep belly laughs, shaking all through his shoulders, rocking back and forth type laughter, eyes all crinkled up in honest to god mirth.

Len’s shoulders relax a bit just seeing it. It’s been too long since he’s seen Mick laugh, properly laugh, and without the edge of hysteria that’s been there whenever Mick thinks too long about the time period when he thought Len was dead.

“I knew you’d get along,” Mick finally manages to say in between laughs. “I didn’t think you’d gang up on me.”

“He clearly doesn’t know us at all,” Len tells Ratigan sadly.

Ratigan shakes his head mournfully and squeaks in agreement.

Smart rat.

“So I’ve packed up all of my stuff,” Len says – it was easy, he’d never really unpacked from when they loaded up all his stuff to give his room to Amaya, much to their mutual awkwardness – “and Ratigan here has packed up all of his –”

“Ratigan has stuff? Since when?”

“Of course Ratigan has stuff,” Len says. “Spoils of war, Mick.”

“…you’ve been teaching my rat to steal.”

Len gives Mick a look.

“Okay,” Mick concedes. “I taught my rat to steal. He’s been making a stash?”

“Pretty decent one, even. Now let’s get your stuff packed up and we’ll go home. I’ve had enough.”

“And all it took was one death and resurrection,” Mick tells Ratigan. “You see what I have to deal with?”

“If it makes you feel better, I won’t be doing that again anytime soon,” Len says grumpily.

Mick looks up at Len and his eyes are shining and just a little wet. “You’d better not,” he says, his voice thick with unspoken emotions again. “You’d better not, Lenny.”

Len swallows. Takes a step forward, wanting to say something, do something, something to make Mick finally believe, really believe, that he’s back – nothing’s worked so far, but surely there’s something – some gesture –

Ratigan squeaks.

Len stops moving. “No,” he says, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Your rat just ruined the moment.”

“Aww,” Mick says. “He didn’t mean to.”

“Mick,” Len says. “He’s your rat. He’s a little troll and he probably did it on purpose. Just accept this.”

“You’re taking this too personally.”

“Yeah, yeah. Less talking, more packing.”

“I –”

“Outvoted, Mick. It’s official. Get packing.”

Mick smiles. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll –”

“Hey, you two!” Jax calls from the hallway. “We’ve found something! Get out here!”

Mick looks back at Len.

“Fine,” Len grumbles. “One more mission. Then we go home.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You’re supposed to be in bed,” Mick says.

“I’m near the bed, does that count?” Len asks, distracted. He’s technically near the bed – he hadn’t been able to move that far away from it on his own power, kept getting dizzy every time he got up, so he’d just slid down the side and was still leaning back against the bed.

He's totally bed-adjacent. That's close enough.

“No, it doesn’t,” Mick says, but he comes over anyway. “What’re you doing?”

“Building a model,” Len replies. “Obviously.”

Mick picks up the boxes dubiously. “Are these…rodent cages? And hamster cages?”

“It’s a bunch of rodent mazes,” Len corrects. “See, the various pipes and boxes and stuff can all be connected together to form, like, a bigger cage. With mazes and shit for the rat to run through.”

“Okay,” Mick says slowly. “And…why are you building this?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Given that you claim to barely tolerate Ratigan, it’s a bit weird.”

“It’s not for Ratigan.”

“We have another rat?”

“No!” Len says. “I mean, it is for Ratigan, but it’s not for Ratigan, like a gift or anything like that. It's work. Business. You know.”

Mick looks dubiously at the growing cage. “Uh-huh. Is the fever you got from handling the spear coming back?”

“I’m fine,” Len groans. “I should be getting back to work now that we’ve confirmed that there’s no memory manipulation –”

“The Legion beat you so bad you broke two ribs and sprained your ankle,” Mick says, unimpressed. “Plus you got a 104 degree fever from the aftereffects of using the spear to fix the timeline because it interacted badly with the Oculus remnants imbedded in your system. You’re staying in bed till I say you can get up.”

“Yes, boss,” Len says. “Now pass me that corner piece, will you?”

Mick passes him the piece.

Len screws it into place, then leans over to study the blueprints he’s working off of.

“That doesn’t look like the instructions that came with the box,” Mick says.

“Obviously it’s not,” Len says. “I’ve got six different boxes here.”

“…how long have you been working on this?”

“Couple of hours. But just wait, you’ll see. Once you see what it is, you’ll see that it’s genius.”

“What is it, exactly?”

“You’ll see in a second, lemme just put in the last piece – ah-ha! What do you think?” he asks, proudly waving his hand over his creation.

Mick stares for a long moment. “It’s a rodent cage,” he finally says. “Or maze. Whatever.”

“It’s not just a rodent maze,” Len says triumphantly, reaching out to pick Ratigan up from his perch on the bed behind Len's head and put him near the entrance. “It’s a rodent maze model of Central City First National Bank. Ratigan’s gonna run through it a couple of times until I see the most efficient ways in and out of the place – I even added in little levers for him to operate all the doors, for added realism and, of course, to keep him from getting claustrophobic -”

“That’s it,” Mick says. “You’re going to back to bed now.”

With that, he scoops Len up from where he’d been sitting and dumps him back on the bed.

“But my plans –”

“I told you, no working till you feel better.”

Len tries to scowl, but he’s pretty sure it’s coming across as a pout if he’s reading Mick’s softening face and slight smirk right.

“I’ll move the maze to the desk,” Mick says. “How about that? You can watch Ratigan run through the very nice maze you built him from the comfort of your bed.”

“…fine,” Len says. “But only because I wanna be ready to plan out that job when I’m better.”

“Sure thing, Len,” Mick says, shaking his head. “Sure thing.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Okay, so Mick, you’re positioned here,” Len points to the map.

“Sure, boss,” Mick replies. The effect of compliance is somewhat ruined by the fond grin he can’t seem to get off his face, like watching Len go back to what he’s good at is making Mick so proud he might burst.

Len would be less annoyed by it if Mick didn’t get the same damn look on his face every time Ratigan did a trick correctly.

The ‘hands in the air, this is a stick-up’ trick is pretty cool, though.

"I'll be positioned here," Len continues. "And Ratigan will come in through this vent -"

"Wait," Mick says, eyebrows arching. "Ratigan's got a job?"

"Sure," Len says. "He's agreed to accept a starter's cut for now, with the option of moving up to more later."

"What does Ratigan need with a cut of the profits?" Mick argues, though his growing grin shows he's not serious.

"He's got a stash he likes to give you presents from," Len says. "The rest he'll take in treats."

"Right," Mick says. “Of course.”

Len eyes him. “You sound doubtful.”

Mick widens his eyes. “Boss, you know I’d never doubt you –”

“Oh, god, what’s the Flash done to the timeline now?!”

“That was sarcasm.”

“It had better be.”

“Anyway – it’s just that I thought this was a Rogues job. Your new supervillain team-up group. Trial run, remember?”

“Well, yes,” Len says, scowling. “That’s why we’re using Scudder - god, I hate that guy, but that's a damn useful skillset he got - at the north point –”

“Ratigan’s not a Rogue, Len,” Mick points out.

Len pauses and considers this.

Mick’s smile slowly fades and his eyebrows arch. “It was a joke,” he says hastily. “Don’t – whatever you’re thinking. Don’t. Uh-uh. No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m thinking.”

“No, but I know your crazy shit face.”

“It’s not crazy at all –”

“That’s even worse when you don’t realize the crazy.”

“Don’t be absurd, Mick,” Len says dismissively. “It’s simple enough. We just need Cisco to give Ratigan a supervillain moniker.”

“…we do?”

“Sure, then he’ll be a Rogue.”

“A supervillain rat.”

“He’s more of a sidekick,” Len allows.

Mick grins. “Okay,” he says. “This is the sort of crazy I can get behind. Let’s do this.”

A “kidnapped” Cisco is happy to deviate from his date with Lisa to dub Ratigan the Rogue-Rat and fiddle with some spare parts Mick had lying around until he’d created a rat-sized motorcycle for Ratigan to zoom around on, totally gratis.

“I read a lot of Beverly Cleary as a kid,” he confesses. “You sure you don’t want to call him Ralph?”

“Ralph was a mouse,” Mick growls.

“Right! Sorry…say, have you made any NIMH jokes?”

“If I remember the movie correctly,” Len drawls, “NIMH was a facility where the rats were kept in small cages without any hope of escape and were experimented on, despite their increased intelligence and strength until they were rescued. You really want to go into that, Mr. Secret Private Prison Man?”

“You’re gonna have to stop ragging on us for that at some point.”

“No, he isn’t,” Mick puts in. “Book was better anyway.”

“…yeah, I’m with Cold on this one. Movie was awesome. Besides, we didn’t experiment on –”

“Uh-huh. That morgue of yours was pretty interesting. What was it your Dr. Wells used it for again?”

“…never mind. Oh god! We’re NIMH?! Not, like, National Institute of Mental Health, but like, evil NIMH?”

“No,” Len says. “ARGUS is NIMH, obviously. You’re wannabes.”

“Does Ratigan like trash?” Lisa asks, chin on her hands as she watches Ratigan examine the miniature motorcycle. “Like Templeton?”

“Charlotte’s Web Templeton?”

“That’s the one.”

“You know, if we did include mice, we could have Ratigan hunt down child-killing witches,” Cisco suggests, grinning. “You know, like Roald Dahl’s book.”

Mick stares at Cisco for a long moment, then says, deadpan, “So, you mean child-killing witches exist?”

“Say, you can travel to other universes –” Len starts.

“Oh, hell no! I've already introduced you to Cynthia; you want to go hunting for child-killing witches, you go with your girlfriend, not your boyfriend!”

“I think calling witches child-killers is rude to witches,” Lisa says. “It’s a perfectly decent religion, you know.”

“But in the book –”

The two head off, bickering happily.

“Ugh,” Len says. “Emotions.”

“Tell me about it,” Mick grunts. “Cool bike, though.”

“Rogue-Rat,” Len says thoughtfully. “He needs a costume.”

“He does not.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Barry’s phone buzzes with a text.

He doesn’t move, though his hand does clench down slightly harder on the bowl of popcorn.

“You planning on checking that?” Iris asks from where she’s curled up by his side. They’d seen this movie a dozen times, but hadn’t quite gotten to the making out point, too comfortable and full from dinner to do more than just take a moment to relax and ignore the crazy.

“No,” Barry says, oddly clipped.

“O-kay,” Iris says, drawing out the word. “And the reason for this is?”

Barry shuts his eyes. “You don’t want to know.”

“Barry,” Iris says. “I’m a reporter, and you’ve known me since I was a kid. Question: is there ever a time when I don’t want to know?”

Barry groans and pulls out his phone, handing it to Iris. “I have it set for a special alert if it’s from Cisco or Caitlin,” he says with a sigh. “And another noise if it’s from one of the detectives or Joe or Captain Singh. If it goes straight to vibrate, though, that means it’s from – them.”

“Them?” Iris says skeptically, flipping open Barry’s cell.

There’s a picture of a rat sitting proudly on top of –

“Is that a Rembrandt?”

“A stolen Rembrandt,” Barry says through gritted teeth.

“‘Rat Thief Strikes Again: Who Can Stop Him?’” Iris reads the text beneath the picture. “What in the – wait.” She scrolls up. “There are more of these?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Awwwww, here he’s fast asleep in a pile of diamonds,” Iris says.

“Awww?” Barry says suspiciously. “What do you mean, ‘awwww’? That sounded like a ‘so cute’ type of ‘awwwww’, Iris. It’s not cute.”

“‘RogueRat: The Flash’s Newest Nemesis,’” Iris read. “‘Speedster Beaten in Rat-Race.’ ‘Museum Security ‘Rat-ed’ Very Poor by Local Supervillains.’ Barry, are these from Captain Cold?”

“How’d you guess, the terrible puns?”

“No, the fact that he sent you a selfie with him, Heatwave and the rat!”

“Oh, yeah, that one,” Barry says. “It doesn’t help; there’s no stolen property in that picture. The only pictures with the stolen stuff is with only the rat.”

“Oh my god,” Iris says. “He’s wearing a bowtie in this one.”

“Iris. This isn’t cute.”

“A bowtie.”

“That was for the heist they pulled at the annual film awards gala…”

“He has a parka!” Iris shrieks. “Rat-parka! Oh my god! My life is complete!”

Barry buries his face in his hands. “Iris.”

“And the caption says, ‘Chip Off the Old Block’, oh man, this is amazing.”

“Give me the phone back.”

“Barry, no! This is giving me life – oh. My. God.”

“What did you find now?”

“He has a supervillain outfit.”

“The little domino mask and leather jacket combo?”

“It has a little R on it,” Iris says, hand pressed to her lips. “It’s in the Team Rocket font. Barry. Barry. How did you not tell me about this. This is everything.”

“He’s not a real Rogue!” Barry protests. “I refuse to have a rat be one of my supervillain nemeses – Iris! What are you typing?”

“Nothing!”

“Gimme!”

Some light-hearted wrestling later, Barry is gaping at his phone while Iris attempts to muffle her laughter in a pillow.

Then, very slowly, he reads, “‘Prepare for trouble/and make it double, to steal things for our gratification/and protect Central City from inflation, to be supervillains with the greatest style/and defeat the Flash with our wiles, Captain Cold!/Heatwave! The Rogues face off against the speed of light, stick ‘em up now or prepare to fight, RogueRat! That’s right!’”

Iris howls with laughter.

“I can’t believe you wrote this. Or that you sent this to my villains.”

The phone buzzes.

“I can’t believe they like it.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Len adjusts the magnet a little bit, then takes a step back, studying his work.

“What are you doing?” Lisa asks, wandering in through the door.

“Putting something up on the fridge, obviously,” Len says.

“On the fridge?” Lisa asks. “You haven’t done that since I was a kid – lemme see – wait, is this a newspaper article? Lenny. Don’t tell me you’ve started collecting articles about yourself as a supervillain. That’s my job.”

“I know, I know, the scrapbook project,” Len says, smirking. “I’d better get draft one of that for Hannukah, s’all I’m saying. But I’d suggest you read the article.”

“Hide and Squeak: RogueRat Branches Out Into Kidnapping – Lenny, what is this?”

“Keep reading.”

“Our city has recently been infested with a rat problem, and not even the Flash can serve as pest control,” Lisa reads, her voice going steadily more incredulous as she goes on. “‘Only a real rat could've stolen this big cheese –’ Lenny, you’ve got to be kidding me. ‘We believe the perpetrators snuck in, quiet as a mouse – they were chased away by the Flash in an escape that was a real squeaker –”

Len is laughing too hard to stand up straight.

“This scheme was clearly orchestrated by the nefarious mouseketeer, Ratigan the RogueRat – possibly communicating with his human allies in mouse code – the victim of the kidnapping was a certain McSnurtle the Turtle – although threats were made involving the phrase ‘turtle soup’ and several images of McSnurtle precariously located in a steel cook-pot were produced, the victim was eventually recovered safely after a ransom made up entirely of cheese was delivered by the Flash to Central City Park…Lenny. Lenny. Tell me you didn't.”

“It’s my new favorite thing ever,” Len says, beaming.

“Tell me you didn’t kidnap the Flash’s pet turtle, Lenny.”

“If you don’t want me to tell you, I won’t. Did you get to the bit at the bottom?”

“The bit at the – ‘Citizens of Central City have greeted their super-rat-villain with open arms, saying that it’s better than the Flash going up against yet another speedster villain. The Flash responded only by saying ‘shut UP’ repeatedly, which we can only take to be agreement. This reporter will be investigating for more details.”

“Pulitzer quality, I’d say,” Len says happily.

“He hasn’t stopped talking about it all week,” Mick says, walking in with Ratigan in his familiar perch on his shoulder. “All week, Lisa.”

“Don’t you talk,” Lisa says. “Your name’s in here, too!”

“I couldn’t let them go turtle-napping by themselves.”

“You’re both disgraces to supervillainy.”

“All three of us,” Mick says, pointing to Ratigan.

Ratigan takes that as a cue to high-five Mick's finger.

Lisa rolls her eyes. “Cute,” she says, crossing her arms and pretending that her lips aren’t twitching. “Very cute.”

“Wait till you see the theme song,” Len drawls.

“Theme song?!”

“It’s on youtube. Cisco made it.”

Lisa opens her mouth to protest, then pauses. “Is Cisco – singing?”

“Barry, too,” Len says in satisfaction. He still has no idea how Cisco convinced Barry to do that. “Iris plays Ratigan. She has mouse ears.”

“…theme song it is, then.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ratigan scampers down the stairs, note tied to his back.

He goes to the living room, where Mick is working on an engine – less working and more smacking it with a wrench at the moment – and squeaks loudly to get his attention.

Mick looks down. His face is red with anger and his brows are drawn down. He reaches down to grab the note with a gruff, “Thanks, Ratigan.”

Then he opens the note.

“I’m overreacting?!” he roars, leaping to his feet. Ratigan dashes to safety under the couch. “Why that miserable little – it’s not overreacting, it’s a perfectly reasonable – oh, who the hell am I kidding, that asshole wouldn’t know reasonable if it hit him in the face with a tire iron –”

Mick reaches out and grabs a piece of paper, starting to scribble furiously on it.

Ratigan creeps out from under the couch and patiently waits for Mick to finish, fold up the piece of paper, and tuck it into the harness Ratigan wears, this one shaped like a little purple sweater with a white daisy on the back where the note gets tucked in.

“You take it to the idiot upstairs,” Mick tells Ratigan, like there’s anyone else the note could be destined for.

Ratigan darts over to the stairs, climbing into the ingenious little rat-elevator that they’d constructed for him when they’d still been talking, triggering the mechanism with a well-placed headbutt and waiting patiently, chittering a little to himself, as it carried him up the stairs.

At the top of the stairs, he scurries over to the room where Len has barricaded himself in, but for the hole created at the bottom.

Len is wrapped up in a blanket and his face is remote and expressionless, but his hands are clenched so tightly that his knuckles have gone white. He’s playing music with a heavy, simple beat on repeat, likely to drown out the sounds of his partner downstairs.

The plans he had been working on had been crumpled up and thrown into the corner again.

Ratigan doesn’t bother squeaking for attention – he’ll never be heard over the music – and clambers up the side of the bedspread instead.

Len’s eyes catch on Ratigan just as he’s struggling with the last bit of bed to climb and Len reaches forward to scoop him up the rest of the way. “What’ve you got for me?” he asks, pulling out the note and putting Ratigan down to unfold it.

Probably for the best, since his next action is for both fists to clench. “Unreasonable?” he snarls. “I’m being unreasonable?!”

He leaps out of the bed and throws open the door, storming downstairs.

Ratigan follows slowly.

Their argument can be heard only partially from the top of the stairs –

“ – you started the whole goddamn be-a-hero bullshit –”

“– saved you, not them! You act like I did it for fun or something –”

“– out risking your life again like you don’t care that you just got it back –”

“– a perfectly rational risk, a heist just like we used to do, or have you forgotten how to do it with your brand new friends –”

“– goddamn missed you, you sonofabitch –”

“– think I wouldn’t have missed you just as much? Why do you think I did it –”

By the time Ratigan has made it all the way down the stairs, they’ve stopped yelling and started kissing again.

About time.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mick’s just eating his goddamn breakfast.

Sure, it’s 2 in the afternoon, but they were up late.

Well, Len was up even later, doing something in the other room; Mick has no idea what, but there were audible cackles of glee. He knows better than to bother Len when that's happening.

He’ll find out eventually. He’s resigned himself to it.

Of course, if Len doesn’t come out for breakfast soon, Mick’s going to go drag him out.

Naturally, just when Mick’s entertaining himself with daydreams of doing just that – he’s gotten to like dragging Len around, it made him feel more secure that Len was right where he belonged, by Mick’s side – that’s when Len comes out of the bedroom and walks right up behind Mick.

Mick starts to turn, only for Len to say, “Don’t. Look ahead.”

Mick’s not one to question Len’s orders, especially when they come in such a serious tone of voice.

Serious, not totally neutral – totally neural meant Len was pissed off beyond belief – but serious could be anything at all. All it means is that Len’s thinking real hard on something.

Len doesn’t do anything, though, just stands there.

After a minute, Mick starts to eat again.

Apparently, that’s what Len was waiting for.

He starts –

Humming?

A second later, Mick notices something at the very top of his vision, so he glances up.

Then his jaw drops.

Ratigan is dressed in – it was mostly black wrappings, all over, even his little feet, but excluding his tail, and a matching black cowl covering his face except for his – wait.

He' s dressed as a ninja.

He’s also descending from above, balanced precariously on a few strings that were attached to a pair of chopsticks Len was holding like a v, not unlike the strings you would find on a marionette.

And Len was lowering Ratigan slowly towards Mick’s food, humming what Mick abruptly realizes is the Mission Impossible theme.

Mick cracks up.

Full on just loses it, buries his head into his hands and howls. It’s amazing. It’s perfect.

Ninja rat.

Ratigan makes it down to the food and scarfs up a few bites before sitting up and squeaking self-importantly.

Mick at this point is laughing so hard that his chest is hurting, but he manages to blink away some of the tears starting to stream down his cheeks long enough to see –

“You made him nun-chucks out of matches?!” he chokes out.

“Beware the ninja,” Len intones ominously. “And his flaming sticks of doom!”

Mick falls off his chair.

Len and Ratigan high-five.

Mick has to hide his face in his hands, not just because he’s laughing so hard, but because –

They get along. Not just to appease him, but because they actually like each other. They’re family.

He can’t imagine anything better.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Don’t you dare,” Mick says, his eyes glued to the screen.

Len pauses, the broccoli he’d been palming off to Ratigan still in his hand. “Dare…what?”

“The broccoli’s for you.”

“I’m sharing,” Len says primly. “You’re always telling me to share more.”

“Eat your goddamn vegetables before you get scurvy.”

“You don’t get scurvy anymore; they inject vitamins in the food or something.”

“Eat your damn veggies,” Mick says, offering Ratigan a raspberry.

“You lousy hypocrite.”

“I’ve already eaten all of mine.”

“Ratigan, come save me,” Len instructs.

Ratigan jumps into Len’s plate, squeaking and skittering around.

“Oh, shucks,” Len says, not sounding even a little sorry. “It’s all been touched by rat. Unsanitary. Can’t eat it.”

“I have more in the kitchen,” Mick says. “Nice try.”

“Damn.”

“Good rescue, though.” Len gives Ratigan a little high five, which Ratigan returns.

“No kidding.”

They both turn back to the TV, where the lions are forming Voltron again.

A second later, they both very slowly turned to look at each other.

“Say…” Len says. “Do you think…”

“I saw a post about medieval-style mouse armor just the other day,” Mick offers.

“Cisco could make it.”

“But what color would Ratigan be? Black?”

“No, no, it’s gotta be connected to personality, don’t it?”

“I dunno, I guess. Only one rat, though. Can’t make Voltron out of one rat.”

“Could probably convince Iris to lend McSnurtle for the cause. Or just kidnap him again.”

“You would.”

“You bet I would. The turtle? Definitely Hunk.”

“I thought you said it had to be based on personality. You don’t know the turtle’s personality.”

“It’s Barry’s turtle.”

“Iris’ turtle, too.”

“Huh, point.”

“Do turtles even have personality?”

“Well, they’re no rats.”

“True.”

“Our rat is clearly the superior pet.”

“Ah-hah!” Mick says, pointing at Len. “You admit he’s our rat!”

Len sniffs. “Obviously he’s our rat. I bought myself a right to everything you own when I married you.”

Mick crosses his arms. “Till death do us part, Lenny.”

“…I’m alive now.”

“It doesn’t say ‘applicable when both parties are alive’. It says ‘until death’. Implies a firm end point at death.”

“No way. It says ‘as long as you both shall live’, too – and you were still alive.”

“Widowers remarry. That get invalidated for bigamy if there’s a resurrection?”

“You know, I ain’t sure about that. Gimme a second…”

There’s a pause.

“I have no idea,” Barry’s voice sounds tinny with the cell phone on speakerphone. “How would I know? Also, you really need to stop calling me.”

“You knew Sara from before we did,” Len points out. “Aren’t there half a dozen resurrect-ees over in Starling?”

“Star City, not Starling. They changed it, remember? And…maybe. I’ll send Oliver an email. But seriously. Stop calling me. You’re supervillains.”

“Who said we were calling you?” Len says. “Put Iris on the line.”

“That’s not better!”

“Uh-huh. She there?”

“Well, yes, she’s here –” Barry’s voice gets muffled, like he’s put his hand over the phone. “Yes, Iris, they’re talking about you – no, you don’t – hey! Don’t snatch the –”

“So what’s the question?” Iris asks.

“Marriage vows surviving resurrection,” Mick says. “Is remarrying bigamy? Do we gotta get married again?”

“Huh. Good question. I’ll ask a lawyer. I think Laurel got resurrected, she can look it up...”

“Ask him what happens if you end up married or divorced ‘cause the timeline shifted, too,” Len adds.

Barry’s voice is audible in the background, going “Hey! Cheap shot!”

The television makes a noise.

“Hey, are you watching Voltron, too?” Iris asks.

“Yeah – actually, while we have you on the line, we have this idea about Ratigan and McSnurtle…also, do you think Cisco would agree to adopt a flying squirrel as a pet?”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They’re drunk. Extremely drunk.

In fairness, they just saved the world and pulled off an epic heist at the same time, with the heroes none the wiser.

The mayor himself just thanked them and shook their hands.

Len had shaken back, smiling the smile of someone who totally did not have a solid three million in jewels and banknotes sitting in the trunk of his (stolen) car less than ten yards away. Mick had kept his expression neutral.

And then they’d made it home and started laughing hysterically, and then they’d broken out the high-end liquor they kept for celebrations.

So, really, they were totally justified in being drunk.

“The tux looks awesome,” Mick slurs, though not too much. He lifts his glass – they were drinking shots of whiskey out of glasses, since someone forgot to stock this place up with shot glasses and Len gets all persnickety about drinking out of a bottle after enough rounds – and tips it slightly at Ratigan. “Well done, Len.”

“Got lots of training making doll’s clothing for Lisa,” Len replies. He’s not slurring, but he keeps swaying like he’s not sure where the ground is. “She always wanted some more, and I couldn’t risk stealing all of ‘em – they watch for shoplifters in stores like that – so I ended up making ‘em myself. Needed to learn to sew to fix our clothing anyway.”

“Ratigan’s not a doll.”

“Nah. He’s better. Is it a he?”

“Does it matter?”

“True. Well, here’s to you, Ratigan,” Len says, straightening up and lifting his glass. “To Ratigan!”

“To Ratigan!” Mick echoes.

They grin soppily at each other.

“The world’s greatest criminal mind!”

[glass-prince]

Tagged!

Aaaaah I got tagged by @amohyunwoo​, I love doing tags in case yinz don’t know so literally if anyone ever is like hECK WHO DO I TAG THAT WON’T BE BOTHERED. No fear I am here and rEADY. 

So with that being said alsdaks thank you for tagging me to do this and lets get started then before I get too annoying lmaooo.

Nickname- Jaci (read like JC) or Bramble from those who met/know my on any of my art accounts for anything. I prefer being referred to by my full first name though unless ur just tryna get my attention real quick. Just sucks that my name is too hard apparently rip. 

Star sign- *peace signs* I’m a Capriquarius cusp

Height- 5′4 I am a bean. 

Time right now- 3:44pm

Last thing googled-  J-hope for drawing ref

Favorite musical artist- Oh jeez here we go I have many: Marianas Trench, Lovedrug, Melanie Martinez, Eisley, The Neighborhood, BTS, SEVENTEEN, TWICE, AOA, Dempagumi.inc, and Morning Musume. Hi that’s all three languages I listen to music in lmao. 

Song stuck in your head- I actually do not have one stuck in my head right now because my mind was just put into anxiety mode rip

Last movie watched- buddy pal I can’t even remember the last time I saw a movie. 

Last TV show u watched- sAME THING HERE I DON’T EVEN WATCH TV. it was probably Steven Universe though. 

What are you wearing right now- A fuzzy pajama shirt that’s either really long or is supposed to actually be a nightgown but either way it has a panda face on it and its cute and comfy I love it

when did you create your blog- This one specifically has been here since 2013 jeEZ I DIDN’T REALiZE I’VE BEEN HERE FOR SO LONG

what kind of stuff do you post- Anything pertaining to my interests tbh. Which is usually like lolita fashion, pastel aesthetics, anime, cute japanese stuff, cute stuff in general, occasionally a wholesome meme, whatever man

do you have any other blogs- I have my art blog ( @bramblelace​ ), An aesthetic board blog that I haven’t touched and a while and need to start using again ( @panda--pudding​ ), my Kpop blog which is my second if not my most active blog at this point like even past my main maybe lmao ( @absolute-sunshine​ ), and then my friend and I together have a Mystic Messenger blog but school and life is annoying so we haven’t posted in a while ( @the-rfgay​ ). I came up with the URL for that one too and I am v proud of it lmao. 

Do you get ask regularly- Pal I wish but I have no friends on here other than like,,, one or two. 

Why did you choose this url- I like octopi and they’re suishy but octosquish was taken so I used squeesh and tbh I ain’t mad because its cuter. 

Gender- AGENDER *tryna be more open about it this year hURR*

Hogwarts House- Hufflepuf bean

Pokemon team- Instinct, meme team dream team

Favorite color- Pastel pink but I also really like orange atm

Average ours of sleep- I feel attacked. I honestly don’t even know if I have an average at this point. 

Lucky Number- 3, 7, 21, and 27. I really like threes especially which is why I also like 21 and 27 because they can be divided by 3 and 27 is also 3*3*3 like bLESS

Favorite characters- AJKSDKAJSAD WHY SO VAGUE THIS IS GONNA BE ANOTHER LONG LIST I’M FULL OF TOO MUCH LOVE. Zen and Jaehee from Mystic Messenger, Fuko and Kitomi from CLANNAD (1000000/10 really freaking good anime by the way please watch it is my favorite you will hurt so much but its so cute and good), Haruka Tuxedo Mask , Nozomi Hanayo and Kotori from Love Live, Crona from Soul Eater, TURNIP HEAD AND NO FACE FROM THE GHIBLI MOVIES THEY ARE MY GODH DARN FREAKING CHILDREN I LOVE THEM SO MUCH, Rose Quartz is my Queen and i want Jasper to punch me in the face (steven universe if thats not obvi), GREG FROM OVER THE GARDEN WALl MY PRECIOUS SoN PR O T E CT HI M, BMO from Adventure Time, and that’s all that I’m putting. There’s probably more I hoard children I’m sorry. 

How many blankets do you sleep with- All of them. Realistically like two or three. I have a comfy throw blanket, my comforter, and then often I also wear a quilt I am a cold bean please keep me warm

Dream Job- Buddy pal this is the last thing I can think about right now. First I wanna make sure my family gets to move and that we’re safe and away from the toxic atmosphere so my mom can stop being so stressed and be healthy again I am such a concerned bean I just want nice things for my fam, dream job can wait a little bit. Though honestly I lowkey wanna be an idol really bad but hahahahthat’sreallydumbbyebyebyebye

Following- 425

I’m too lazy to tag people this time tbh and I’m buSY AND NEED TO DO THINGS SO if you wanna do this go ahead and say i tagged you <3

[socialattractionuk]

Coming out in the coronavirus pandemic

When you think back to the start of the new decade – yes, it was only four months ago – there was a collective expectation that 2020 offered something different from the sheer tomfoolery of 2019.

Then 2020 asked us to hold its beer.

As it stands, some of us have been in some variation of lockdown for two months and each day presents a new challenge, whether that’s learning how to cook from scratch with the rejected leftover ingredients from the Big Hoarding, or simply getting out of bed in the morning.

As lockdown progresses big life events will be put on hold across the board. The reality of this will hit us all at different times, simply because big life events don’t happen every day – and the most formative are even rarer.

Schoolchildren have taken a fast pass to the end of their academic year, others have had their prom postponed indefinitely. Weddings, unless you were happy to consign the guest list to oblivion, are a goner, too.

One big life event intrinsically linked to freedom is coming out. Coming out about your sexuality or gender identity can be a moment of liberation.

Visit our live blog for the latest updates: Coronavirus news live

But right now, with the social-distancing measures in place across the world, many find ourselves in an environment that doesn’t naturally lend itself to freedom or liberation.

I came out as gay in February of this year, as the Covid-19 outbreak was hurtling towards its peak in China. It really felt like a big life event and I intended to make this the gayest year of my life. I planned to throw myself into dating, attend Pride, and generally find ways to own my sexuality.

As a result of the lockdown, I’m mourning a year that can’t be. My social calendar is surprisingly empty. I feel static just when my life was gathering momentum.

Coming out and heading straight into quarantine is not an isolated (pun unintended) scenario.

Ellis, 18, from Hertfordshire, echoes my own feelings. He tells us: ‘Coronavirus has seriously ruined my first ‘out’ summer.

‘I had plans with my friends to go to pride for the first time this year.

Ellis, who identifies as pansexual, now feels like he has entered a situation where he’s surrounded by people who aren’t aware of his sexuality and a significant part of his identity: ‘I feel like I’m not myself and I don’t want to hide who I am.’

Rae, 21, from Illinois, feels this too. She identifies as a lesbian, and while she describes her mum as ‘open and accepting’, her dad is ‘not so much’.

‘I feel like I’m in the closet again,’ says Rae. ‘I feel stuck at home [and] unable to live the life I was living.’

This highlights a challenge in lockdown for the LGBT+ community: being in close quarters with the looming spectre of an unaccepting family unit.

AKT, a charity that supports young LGBT+ people in the UK facing homelessness or who live in hostile environments, says: ‘Not being able to escape to see friends, take part in community activities or even visit queer spaces can further increase isolation.’

Online communities are hugely valuable (Picture: Ella Byworth for Metro.co.uk)

Sam*, 18, who is bisexual, is struggling with being unable to share a space with someone he’s out to.

‘Yes there’s messages and FaceTime but it isn’t the same as having that physical support I so desperately want,’ Sam explains.

Hannah*, who identifies as lesbian, meanwhile, has found that time with her family has expedited her coming out.

‘I had planned to tell them after I had finished my A-Levels,’ she says. ‘With the exams being cancelled, I was faced with having to stay at home for weeks. I knew this would be bad for my mental health, so I decided to come out to my family.

‘Despite my fears, their reactions have all been lovely and being in lockdown has forced us as a family to talk it over.

‘I feel like I’m getting to a stage where I feel ready to share this with my family.’

I was excited to see a viral post at the beginning of lockdown from a dad on Reddit, throwralovemygayson who sought advice on how to tell his son, who was isolating with him, that he was welcome to stay with his (assumed) boyfriend.

I feel like I’m in the closet again

The post read: ‘How do I let my son and his boyfriend know that I’m okay with them being a couple [in my house]? I want them to be comfortable here and I want them to know I support them both no matter what.’

Did I cry reading this? Maybe.

Like me, Jo, 20 Australia, came out to her family shortly before quarantine, and is finding small victories in her day-to-day.

‘When we’re watching a movie or something I can actually mention when one of the actresses is cute or something,’ she notes.

I have to agree – I’ve found Avengers is much more satisfying when you’re able to verbally declare your lust for Chris Hemsworth.

As hospitals are postponing non-urgent elective surgeries, Noah, who is transgender, gives insight into how Covid-19 is affecting long-awaited medical procedures.

‘I was supposed to be getting top surgery next month, which I’ve been on a waiting list for about three to four years now – it’s not happening and has been postponed,’ Noah explains. ‘Being safe inside and everything being postponed to manage the pandemic is much more important, but it is still a bit crap.’

The pandemic and ensuing lockdown has put a dampener on big plans (Picture: Ella Byworth for Metro.co.uk)

As an online creator, I see the support that LGBT+ teenagers find in the digital space. It was part of the reason I felt so safe coming out online, a decision vindicated by the outpouring of love I received.

It was encouraging, then, to hear Ben, 26, from Australia, is using the internet as a tool to stoke the flames of a blossoming romance: ‘We’re lucky in that we both play online games so there are ways to interact without going out, but it’s really hard.’

Rae echoes a similar frustration having met a potential match at work.

‘I’m a dog trainer, I had met this beautiful and kind woman and we were kind of hitting it off,’ she says. ‘Then corona hit.’

It’s unsurprising that Bumble has seen a 21% increase in its video call function in lockdown. Match Group (the owner of Tinder) has announced that video calling will make its way to the dating app later this year.

More: Showbiz

Glastonbury urges fans not to visit Worthy Farm after festival was cancelled

Mother 'who had sex with dog then hanged her young kids could be nailed by car Bluetooth'

Who plays Suki Panesar in EastEnders and where have you seen her before?

Dating IRL has been cancelled until further notice. Tinder has seen conversation length grow by 25% and hinge has seen 30% increase in messages through the pandemic, as users seek human connection.

Personally, Covid-19 has been great for my dating life; I have found it so much easier to strike up a meaningful conversation, I’ve even progressed to a video date or two (or four).

Forming a connection with someone in the fog of this endless lockdown is a double-edged sword, however. It’s incredibly exciting to punctuate my week with a video call, but it makes the wait for the end of social distancing drag on longer.

Coming out is never one-size-fits-all. Coming out in lockdown means a different set of challenges.

There is a glimmer within these stories that offered resilience, fortitude or adaptability. These LGBT+ individuals are evolving to meet the restrictions of their environment and whilst there’s a universal feeling of having their lives put on pause, there was also the sense of being poised to take on the world again.

After these conversations, I don’t feel as cut loose at sea after all – and I’m reminded that there’s a community to be found online if you open yourself up to it.

*Some names have been changed.

Do you have a story to share?

Get in touch by emailing MetroLifestyleTeam@Metro.co.uk.

MORE: How to stay connected to the LGBTI community during lockdown

MORE: Constant Zoom calls are worsening people’s body dysmorphia

MORE: 13 drinking games to play on Zoom or Houseparty

[salmenzo]

Weekly Update - Monday, April 27, 2020

Strengthen - Support - Succeed

“Reflect upon your present blessings, of which every man has plenty; not on your past misfortunes, of which all men have some.”Charles Dickens

Good Morning,

What does the number 46 mean?  Is it my age, my street address, or the calorie count of one Oreo cookie?  No, the number 46 is the number of days since all of our lives changed due to the COVID-19 crisis.  March 13 began a new chapter in all of our lives no matter what our race, ethnicity, gender, or socio-economic status.  

When I think back to that week leading up to that day, I realize how foolish I was.  My worries and concerns then seem so ridiculous now.  I was frustrated that this was happening and that most likely Opening Day would be postponed.  I was mad because I had to work full days every weekend to prepare for something that I was not even sure was going to really happen.  I was critical of others hoarding toilet paper and hand sanitizer.  I am sure I am not alone in some of my foolish thoughts and concerns at that time.

As the days turned into weeks and the events became more real with people I know being personally impacted by the virus, I had a choice to make.  I had the personal choice to continue being mired in disappointment, frustration, and fear, or I could do what I had been taught my entire life.  I could take these experiences and grow from them.  I could see these as opportunities rather than feel like I was being persecuted by an invisible foe.

As a result, I chose to see this new normal with all of its complexities and changed expectations as an opportunity for personal and community growth.  In doing so, I got over the fact that my days, night, and weekends now look and feel differently.  I came to terms with the reality that my contact with those I love is changed for their safety.  I accepted that these disappointments paled in comparison to the real sacrifices being made by first responders, medical professionals, and those who must report to work each day potentially jeopardizing their safety and that of their loved ones. 

My mind and attitude now focus on gratitude. I am blessed as an employee of a school district, like we all are, to have continued employment and the ability to meet my financial obligations while over 26.4 million people are unemployed.  Many of our families in our district are dealing with the same struggles that we are in addition to not knowing from where the money to pay the next bill is coming.  They, too, are trying to navigate working from home and helping their children to a greater extent than ever before.  This gratitude I have is not one that I only wear when in public or being live-streamed for a meeting.  It is with me when I am not being watched, and I am confronted with difficult decisions. 

I continue to be grateful for my health and of that of all those I love.  With my heart attack as an underlying condition that could increase the severity of the virus if contracted, each day that we get closer to leveling out the curve and I am healthy is a victory for which I celebrate.

Several significant encounters I had this week further confirmed my decision to frame this crisis as an opportunity with gratitude.  I met with high school senior class officers, advisors, and administrators.  Danielle Bellizzi and I also conducted Google Meets with nearly 100 part-time staff members in an effort to bring them back to work to help them while we are out of school.  These conversations confirmed my decision to excuse myself from the pity party I was throwing at the beginning of this crisis.  The spirit of these students and staff members was incredibly positive.  Even though their realities have been significantly impacted as a result of the COVID-19 virus, they also chose positivity over despair.  

Now, why am I telling you all of this?  You most likely have made this shift in mindset yourselves already.  However, if you have not, I encourage you to do so.  I know it may not always be easy.  I too have setbacks in my thinking; however, we must all remember how fortunate we are.  None of us can predict what the next new normal will be.  We do not have the answers.  All we do have is the ability to make choices in how we react.  As Nelson Mandela stated, “May your choices reflect your hopes, not your fears.”

Updates

COVID-19 Recovery Committee

We have begun completing recovery planning documents as we plan for the next new normal.  As a result, we are expanding our Recovery Phase Leadership Team to include all administrators at this time.  This team will continue to be expanded to include staff, students and parents.  I am finalizing an organizational chart that we will share and then seek committee members moving forward.  The plan extends well into next school year.  I am proud that we started our initial planning a few weeks back.  I am confident that we will be in a good place as the planning continues.

High School Senior Events

This past Wednesday, I attended a Google Meet with the senior class officers from both high schools, class advisors, and high school administration to begin discussing how we are going to best celebrate the accomplishments of this graduating class.  We have our next meeting slated for May 14.  I am hopeful we will have a final decision on the school year by then, and we can really finalize our plans as a district.  The students, as always, were incredibly thoughtful and understood the challenging and unique situation with which we are all faced.  

I am confident that we will come up with a series of memorable opportunities for students to celebrate their time in our district.  We will keep you posted.  I want to thank the high school administration for coordinating this meeting.

Budget Update

We have spent a tremendous time on the budget.  We are still experiencing a funding gap even with all of the hard work of the administrators and central office this week.  We also must make it clear that we are not certain of our destiny with the CARES Act and Executive Orders as related to transportation.  We need to be mindful of that as we continue to look at our projections and unencumbered funds.  

At tonight’s Board of Education meeting, I will share an update on the budget.  The agenda and live-streaming information can be found at this link. 

Food Services

Based on the discussion at the Operations Committee meeting Monday night, Karen Veilluex sent out a voice message about FREE lunch and breakfast and had the single day record of pickups - 441!  We also are conducting a survey to help further increase those numbers.

Please continue to refer families to Food Services if they have questions.  Again, this is open to all children under the age of 18 years old in our community.  It is FREE!

Health Department Update

We are continuing to collaborate with the Health Department and have a meeting scheduled Monday with the Nurses Union to discuss some additional information.  As the State of Connecticut prepares to re-open at some point, we will need to maintain close contact in collaboration with the town staff.

Make it a great week!

Sal

Dr. Salvatore F. Menzo

Superintendent

Email - smenzo@wallingfordschools.org

Twitter - @SalMenzo

Wallingford Public School District

 Wallingford Public School System Mission

To inspire through innovative and engaging experiences that lead all learners to pursue and discover their personal best.

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