#i wish i could write and write and write

[tommarvoloriddlesdiary]

Harry’s life was full of low days.

Since the war with Voldemort ended in a truce, admittedly, those days have lessened. For a while, Harry found himself breathing easier, waking up each morning lighter, sometimes even finding the will to peacefully drift off to sleep at night, not a single nightmare.

Yet always, the low days persisted.

Depression, Hermione had insisted. We should get you a mind healer. They’ll do wonders in helping you talk things out and foster natural coping skills that simply everyone has—

But Harry didn’t want people in his head. Voldemort already had a permanent little home dugout in there; hell, Snape was bad enough when he tried to teach Harry occlumency. There’s no way he’d put himself through anything similar.

So Harry did what he did best when the world became too much; isolated.

There was comfort and torture in his solitude with equal measure. Time was too abstract. Midnight and afternoon blurred until it was simply boiled down to: I’m awake now. He didn’t take visitors but allowed the occasional floo call and owl. He supposed that patronus counted as well since his wards couldn’t deflect them.

But there was only so long Harry could hide away before his status and the demands of the wizarding world came knocking.

Nothing was ever done. His opinion was always needed. And try as Harry might to siphon off responsibilities when people weren’t looking, they’d almost naturally work their way back to him. Like a damn boomerang, or better yet, a homing missile set on destroying Harry with its inevitable return.

He didn’t have the answers they were searching for, or at least never the right ones. And Harry was so used to being a disappointment that by now, he thought these small things wouldn’t get to him like this. Yet they always hurt in new and unexpected ways.

With a sigh, he cast another noise-cancelling spell on the floo, refreshing the old one. Harry was all too grateful that Grimmauld Place only had one connection, given its age and state of disuse. And given Harry’s tendency to lose himself in personal projects, making him forget about the floo entirely. Very handy, that.

It was the perfect place to hole up even if over the years, people had started to realise this was where he scurried away to. Being one of the few Black Ancestral Homes left, its reputation was nothing to laugh at. Unrealistic horror stories about the townhome were told without much levity, completely different from how Sirius had narrated them to Harry.

But not everyone was so foolish as to believe a few tall tales and stay the hell away.

For starters, Hermione, Ron, and all of the other Weasleys definitely didn’t give a rat’s arse about it. Living in the house and cleaning it for almost an entire summer made it lose all of its dreary, potentially murderous charm. So they frequently tried to swing by and only stopped when Harry finally warded the door and stuck a note to it, requesting they give him some time and space.

Honestly, Harry thought the wards weren’t even enough to stop Hermione. Hence the note. He knew she’d respect that, at least. Though it had been a few months since then…maybe six? Which would probably explain the renewed vigour in the frequency of the floo calls. The calls Harry was still ignoring.

Maybe the wards were stronger than he’d thought?

He’s broken from his musing by three sharp raps at the door. The very proper kind, one that used the knocker and everything. No pounding fists and shouts.

Harry started, unconsciously taking a step back. He’d stopped silencing the door after he put up the ward, its barrier just encompassing the front step. So a knock meant someone had finally gotten past it. Speak of the devil, and she shall appear, Harry sighed.

But when Harry opened the door and readied to speak to someone other than Kreacher for the first time in half a year, his words died all too quickly. His mouth hung open, and no sound could escape.

So he stared.

And continued staring.

Until finally—“Might I come in, Harry?” Voldemort asked.

What was one supposed to do if not stupidly nod and hold the door wide open to invite Voldemort in? Because if there were something else that could’ve been done, Harry would like to know. To armour himself for next time.

Next time?

Voldemort swept in like a maelstrom of robes, holding a small bundle of something. He took in the overall look of Grimmauld Place with slight bemusement and remarked, “You’ve changed it.”

In Harry’s defence, six months was a long time, and he ran out of things to do on day three. Tearing apart the stately dreadful everything of Grimmauld Place was the best way to fix that. Kreacher hadn’t been on board for the longest time but eventually caved when Harry had worked himself to magical exhaustion one fraught afternoon expanding the library.

Knowing all of this and the extent to which Harry had gone for it to look even half as acceptable, he could only passionately agree. “Of course. Wouldn’t you?”

And maybe he was asking the wrong person because Voldemort frowned like Harry had made a particularly tasteless joke. “No. There were most likely decades, if not over a century, of history in these halls. Changing it is akin to burning it all down.”

Harry crossed his arms, “Or maybe I’m making my own history. Leaving my own mark and magic on these walls. I doubt a few structural and design changes will really do anything.” Harry scoffed, offended at the implication that he hadn’t treated his home with respect. It also irked him, funnily enough, that Voldemort might not like his preferences. He’d worked fucking hard, dammit.

Voldemort stayed silent, slowly assessing Harry from head to toe and back again. He relented, “I suppose it is… cosy.” It looked like it had physically pained him to say it.

“Whatever,” Harry shook his head. “What are you even doing here?”

Voldemort raised a brow, “Am I not allowed to visit my Horcrux and see if it’s fairing well?” He turned his back to Harry and wandered deeper into the house, poking his nose (and wasn’t that a marvel after so long seeing him without it?) into the newly painted and freshly refinished dining room.

“Uh. No. You are not.” Harry followed after him with a brisk pace, “And I’m not your anything. We’ve talked about this.”

And they had, at length, talked about Voldemort’s odd obsession with Harry’s Horcrux. Because that was what it was: Harry’s. It had been with him longer, literally lived as a part of himself. It would die without Harry, which practically made it a limb. Not that he needed the damn thing…though, it would be very odd to wake up one morning without its silent weight and sharp, jagged lines down his forehead and temple.

It would be even odder to be without the occasional glimpse of Voldemort’s thoughts and feelings that sporadically entered his mind whenever they were loud and forceful enough to make it past his constructed barriers.

Regardless, they’d talked about this. Harry’s Horcrux wasn’t like some pet or kid they had shared custody of. Voldemort couldn’t just drop in unannounced to do welfare checks or whatever insane nonsense thing he deemed reasonable enough. He acted like he’d come over one day to find Harry dead on the floor or holding a basilisk fang to his head—ah, well, that last one might have been truer some years back.

Voldemort only hummed, its vague tone merely implying he’d heard Harry and not that he’d agreed. His steps took him into the parlour and back out into the entry hall. “You’ve not been answering your floo,” he stated and started to make his way up the stairs by the time Harry looped back to him.

“Hey! Hold on a second-!” Harry called after Voldemort, only to watch him ascend to the first floor with little care for anything Harry was spouting.

Incredulous, Harry practically chased Voldemort around his entire home. From the drawing room to the guest bedrooms to the study and, inevitably, the library. Voldemort opened every door he came across—even the cloakroom!—like he wasn’t invading Harry’s personal space and rudely giving himself a tour.

Harry wouldn’t say Voldemort had done so with any decency, but he had stopped once he caught sight of the new library. And even though Harry was miffed and, for some reason, still hesitating on calling upon the wardstone to remove Voldemort forcibly, he was pleased that this room seemed to hold Voldemort’s attention long enough to make him pause.

After all, the library was Harry’s biggest undertaking and still wasn’t actually complete. There were a few nooks he had to sort out, not only for himself but for Hermione and maybe even Luna, for when he’d finally break out of his isolation and let them over. Its deep forest green was a nod to the Black Family’s Slytherin roots which paired nicely with the polished silver hardware on every sconce and metal accent.

The black leather couches could also be an aesthetic choice, but really Harry only picked them because they reminded him of Sirius. And he’d never say that out loud for fear of over-inflating Padfoot’s already abnormally large head.

Voldemort carefully walked through the shelves and trailed his fingers along their fine wood grain. Once he came upon the darker, moodier books with more personality and bite than books ought to have, he stopped and lifted his hand. He was rubbing his fingertips like a mother-in-law looking for dust. “It was once a deep maroon, did you know? Long before Orion and Walburga laid claim to the home. It was Arcturus the second, Orion’s father, who owned the house before him and had married Melania Black née Macmillan, a fiercely ambitious Gryffindor with a soft spot for cursed books.”

Harry watched as Voldemort started perusing the titles; he continued, “Lucretia often spoke about it, her mother’s prized library. Sensible rumours implied the woman was quite depressed after the wedding and requested the colour to adjust better to newly married life.” He turned back to Harry, “The other rumours, not so sensible, spun tales of the Black Family’s Library and spread like a fine duvet. Stories of how the walls were smeared thick with muggle blood and of the dark rituals that were required for the home to maintain its perfectly fresh hue without even a hint of an iron smell in the air. They were told to the younger Slytherins like a ghastly bedtime warning.”

Then Voldemort walked up to Harry—too close—and tilted his head down, his lips just a hairsbreadth away from Harry’s ear, “Between you and I, there may be some merit to them.” His breath tickled the side of Harry’s neck as he huffed a small laugh and stood straight once more. “Or it was all merely a power play by the entire Black Family. At the time, five of them walked Hogwarts’s halls together, and what a clever little tactic to establish superiority and cultivate fear that would’ve been.”

Say what you will about Voldemort, Harry sighed, his arms crossed. He certainly knows how to give a compelling monologue. He was confident he could leave a cardboard cutout of himself here for days, and Voldemort would go on and on and on, none the wiser.

But, Harry couldn’t help but smile ever so slightly. It was nice to hear.

“I didn’t know,” Harry replied and took one giant step back. “It was so mouldy in here that the walls were some kind of lumpy grey colour. I tried scraping the gunk off with severing charms, but it was a lost cause.” He shrugged, “They could’ve been red.”

Voldemort’s pleased look fell at Harry’s words. Harry couldn’t blame him. Gunk was not great imagery. No matter how accurate. “Well? Enough about the ‘good ol’ days’, old man. What do you think of my handiwork?”

Harry delighted in Voldemort’s scrunched-up nose. “You insolent child.” With a final glance around the library, he acquiesced, “It is acceptable.”

“High praise from the mighty Dark Lord,” sarcasm dripped from Harry’s tone. His thoughts shifted when he suddenly remembered, “And how did you know I haven’t been answering my floo?”

Voldemort looked very unimpressed, “Naturally, I tried to use your floo address and was promptly rejected. Your muggleborn friend seemed up in arms, ready to storm the castle if you will, because she hadn’t been able to breach the wards you erected.”

“What? When was this?” Harry couldn’t believe he’d somehow managed to block Voldemort’s floo access. Thank Merlin.

“That doesn’t matter,” Voldemort quickly sidestepped Harry’s question. “What matters is the amount of torment I’ve been subjected to because of your sudden disappearance for months on end.”

Voldemort was quiet for a moment. “And Granger mentioned you may be depressed.”

That previous shock, the one Harry had found himself in when he’d opened the door to Voldemort and his new pretty face and stupid nice hair, came flooding back. Harry’s body slumped with the surprise, arms uncrossing, utterly at a loss for words.

“I’m…” Harry tried to start, but Voldemort cleared his throat and talked over him, “It turns out she’s just ignorant. Had she gone through any of the books the ministry has falsely labelled ‘dark’, she would have found the counter to your wards much sooner. Wherever did you find the rune work?”

“She’s not ignorant,” Harry frowned. Hackles raised and surprise forgotten, “And take a wild guess.” He gestured to the room at large.

“Ah,” Voldemort stiffened. And though his awkward face tickled Harry’s satisfaction, Harry could feel Voldemort’s overwhelming relief leaking through their bond—Harry didn’t know how being made a fool could be relieving in any way.

Then Voldemort’s hand raised, and Harry watched as his leather lounges grew autonomous and walked closer together, a small glass-top table conjured between them. Voldemort did this, and Harry’s eye caught sight again of the small bundle he’d staunchly held since entering the townhome. He watched as Voldemort placed it on the table and gently tapped the cloth with his wand to reveal a warm, freshly baked treacle tart.

Like whiplash, that stomach-swooping surprise hit Harry again.

The evening sunset through the tall stained-glass windows of the library cast a golden glow on Voldemort’s features, and the silver-sconced candlelight flickered in the deep muddy red of his eyes, making them sparkle like garnets.

If that was the colour Melania Black had requested, Harry thought with substantial awe; I could see the appeal.

“Your favourite, I’m told,” Voldemort carried on like he hadn’t just done something incredibly thoughtful and considerate for what was no doubt the first time in his life.

It dawned on Harry just how lonely he’d been, isolated for this long with no one able to pull him out. The words slipped from his mouth uninhibited, “I…Thank you, Voldemort. I didn’t realise how badly I wanted to see a friendly face.”

The second wave, stronger and dizzying, of surprise, wasn’t Harry’s own. And he could see, now that Voldemort was in front of him and Harry knew to look, that surprise on Voldemort. “You think my face is friendly?”

Blinking rapidly, Harry responded with an inelegant, “Um…well….”

“That’s a shame,” Voldemort continued. A hint of something—laughter?—creased in the lines of his eyes and smirk, “I’d prefer intimidating. Or awe-inspiring. ‘Friendly’ isn’t the kind of face a Dark Lord should have.”

That might be so; Harry couldn’t suppress the fond smile that tugged at his lips and the way his shoulders relaxed, sinking with the thaw of his isolation. But—

“I think your face is just right.”

[crispyliza]

I've got you all figured out fanartists

[thevoidisscreamingbackatyou]

y'know what, ao3 appreciation post cause these people out there doing amazing work for no monetary compensation

literally so many of us love ao3, please show support for these guys <3

[xochimillilili]

Hey come here puppy, come here and sit on my lap honey, let me hold you~ That's my puppy, just lay on my chest, yes just like that my love, rest your pretty little puppy head and let all those thoughts fall out~

You've had quite a long day haven't you pup? Look at you, your eyes are all sleepy and pretty, your cute lil tired smile n frown, your hair all fluffed up from being so busy all day... it's alright my sweetheart, I've got you, I'm staying here with you all night

Let me help put your collar on baby, you're just a little puppy after all, you just focus on getting yourself comfy love~

We can do anything you like my precious pup, we can cuddle here in bed or I'll sit next to you while you're snug in your little doggie bed. I can run you a nice bath and try to rub and scrub all your worries away, even just for a bit honey. We can watch something you like, or I can tell you a story, we can nap or do some nice coloring while I brush your hair all soft

You're my precious darling little puppy love, my good puppy who I'm so sooo very proud of, I'll always want to hold and care for you after a long day, you're the one I love~

[stoopidstapler]

SO IVE BEEN GOIN INSANE SINCE THIS TRAILER DROPPED. JUST. SIMON. SIMON. SIMON.

[st-hedge]

I can’t believe they’d managed to animate kusuriuri’s insane character design and then decided to make it even more insane. The most character ever

[lesbianmarrow]

the problem with sorting fics by kudos, is that many people have bad taste

[lostlegendaerie]

there's something deeply gutting about being a writer right now. watching studio execs brag about starving people like you out of your very house just to not pay you anything above the pennies you currently make. watching some people cheer over AO3 being targeted for a DDOS attack. the complete lack of profitability of writing commissions or writing in general in transformative spaces, especially in contrast to fanart. the pivot of so many social media platforms to be video and image based near-exclusively.

I don't know. it just makes me sad to know that the hobby that kept me alive while growing up homeschooled with dial-up internet and local antenna TV... is only ever gonna be a side job with minimal engagement. I know this site is good about supporting libraries and the concept of books but, do me a favor? Reach out to a writer friend you know. Leave a comment on your last five read stories on your favorite website.

Tell us you care.

[catscidr]

// taking care of your dogboy (hsr edition!) //

i. note — sry i havent been posting yall i got a job + ive been working on three cosplays at the same time bc my local con is coming up lmao (´ཀ`」 ∠) however the brainrot never stops. it only takes a break. a little break of approximatively. a month. ish. ......... anyways dog hybrid hsr boys brainrot !!! lmk if we want more of this with more boys •ᴗ• comments and asks are appreciated hehe ii. includes — blade, gepard, boothill and gn!reader iii. cw — slice of life stuff turning into smut, possessive behaviour, overstim, slight dom/sub dynamics, real messy stuff, manhandling. use of the word "hole" to keep reader gender neutral iv. wc — 1,9k

blade is a mutt riddled in scars and dirty bandages from living on the streets and fighting to survive.

you think he might be some german shepherd mix, but he refuses to let you swab his teeth n gums for a dna test (last time you tried you narrowly avoided a punch to the face. he apologized in his own way afterwards), so whenever people ask, just say he’s a rescue to avoid revealing that you actually just… don’t really know what breed he is. they usually drop the subject and simply go on their merry way, seeing as he wasn’t the type of pup to appreciate affection from strangers anyways– it’s rare for you to leave the house in the first place, though.

you had to switch to a remote job because blade is just so persistent when it comes to you. although possessive is a much better descriptor, because he doesn’t let anyone near you. whenever you leave to get groceries he ends up practically breathing down your neck from how close he gets— acting as if he were your literal shadow— glaring at everyone that gets too close to you. you’ve made it a habit to always go to self-checkout lane so blade doesn’t scare off the cashiers.

the second you get home he’s all over you, determined to rid you of that outside stench and replace it with his own. you started packing your grocery bags in a way that nothing will break if (read: when) you suddenly drop them on the floor, all because you’re so familiar with blade’s impatience.

he holds you still by engulfing your body with his, knees caging your hips as he grinds into you, shallow and deep. blade’s growls and huffs fill your ears just as much as his cock fills your hole, his knot kissing your tightness from the outside.

“do you like this? like how i have to fuck you every time you decide to go outside again when you could stay here,” with me blade omits, his tail swishing back and forth on the bedsheets behind him, the sound just barely grounding you to reality.

your grocery bags were long forgotten on the foor (as they usually are), your mind too foggy to function. clawing at the sheets, you try to crawl away from blade’s grip— to no avail.

he tuts, craning his head to bite down onto the skin where your shoulder meets your neck. “i might just need to mark you for extra precaution,” he bucks into you, knocking the air out of your lungs. you hear squelching, the constant plap! plap! plap! from his thighs smacking against your ass and whine, broken babbles leaving your kiss-bruised lips.

“b-blade, y’can’t- ah,” he shushes you by plugging you full of his lengthy cock, his knot almost threatening to press inside of you. you whimper, feeling lightheaded from a mix of both nervousness and arousal.

he soothes the hickey he left on your neck, licking it languidly as he stills to bask into the way your hole throbs around him. warm and tight and oh so tempting.

“shit, wanna fill you. wanna… have everyone know they can’t have you. you’re mine, mine to love ‘n mine to fuck,” you’re not lucid enough to process his thinly veiled confession, too busy writhing your ass back against him in a feeble attempt to get him to continue moving.

you might want to invest into some good concealer or into those skin coloured tattoo patches to cover the bruises and bite marks blade’ll leave on you if you want to continue being a functioning member of society. you can’t really be walking around in public as if a dog had just mauled you right before you left the house, can you?

gepard is a golden retriever because of COURSE he is. similarly to blade, he likes to invade your personal space a lot— not because he’s possessive, but because he’s extremely protective of you.

the random bruises you used to randomly notice on your body faded as soon as he came into your life. gepard’s soft, lingering touches healed them; gently placing a hand on your hip before you bump into sharp furniture so it doesn’t hit you, redirecting your head to his shoulder as you nod-off in the train before you bang your head, and so on.

it’s a full-time job and he’s working 24/7, always on the lookout for anything that could possibly hurt you as you saunter off… wherever, without a care in the world— because he took care of everything!

he would clean the apartment for you, cook (though you usually insist you do the cooking; a human doesn’t have the same taste in food as a hybrid), and even act as your own personal alarm clock. gone were the days of being woken up by loud, blaring beeping. gepard woke you up with forehead kisses instead, making your mornings much more pleasant.

but poor geppie, he’s always taking care of you; so take care of him, won’t you?

every so often you’ll sit in his lap to help him get rid of whatever stress he held in his body. your hands will knead at the muscles in his broad shoulders, all while you simultaneously kiss away the strain in his face. his brows are furrowed as you do your best to soothe his muscles; you never forget to smooch his cheek, nose and the corner of his lips.

though the attention and gentle acts of affection always ends with your hands lower than they should be.

“ah ah, no touching, remember?” you murmur in his ear playfully. you had been at it for what felt like hours; gepard’s cock and abdomen was smeared with the remnants of his cum, skin tacky from his previous loads. your hand shows no sign of stopping, not even when he begged oh so sweetly.

“c-come onn. just… jus’ wanna kiss…” and who were you to deny your sweet boy? your lips find his in a heartbeat, his tongue swiping over your own sloppily as he breathes you in like a depraved man.

the only condition you had when you did this was for him to keep his hands to himself— at least until you both decide to move on to something else. until then, his fists clench the sheets beneath the both of you, and his ears stay flat on his fluffy head.

“i’m… i’m close again, g- aah, please, please…!” he begs, cock weeping precum as you continuously jerk him off. you smile, absentmindedly rocking your hips to the rhythm you held him prisoner to— gepard was too engulfed in the warmth of your hand to notice, anyways. “cum whenever you want sweet boy,” you purr, and he keens as he buries his face in your neck, his hips lifting off the bed ever so slightly as they meet your hand and he thrusts, riding the high of his orgasm.

sticky cum coats your hand for the nth time; you relent your grip on his cock for his sake, instead choosing to shower him with chaste kisses all over his face. gepard whines, taking ahold of your waist weakly as he breathes into the crook of your neck.

“geppie, your han-“ he cuts you off, swiftly switching positions so you’re now laying on your back as he hovers over you, chest rising and falling quickly, catching his breath from the intensity of his orgasm. gepard’s tail wags slowly behind him as his hands creep up from your waist to your chest just as slowly- you feel his cock harden against your pelvis, precum spilling from his pinky tip.

“‘ts my turn now,” he huffs, leaning down to nip at your neck.

boothill is the most obnoxious dalmatian hybrid you’ve ever seen (not that you’ve seen many, or at all). but he’s made your life so fun so you can’t be too mad at him

he’s always dragging you out of bed to go do something— could be going to the park nearby or sit in the living room playing video games on your dusty console, it doesn’t matter because he’ll MAKE you step out of your cozy nest!!

you’re glad he’s friendly, because you’re not sure how you would handle such an excited hybrid when you left the house. people come up to the both of you to chat and he indulges their questions, essentially leading the conversation (while you stand there awkwardly, not knowing what to say).

boothill is also great with kids, unexpectedly. 9 times out of 10 when you go to the park he ends up playing with someone’s child, bright smile on his face as he messes up their hair with a rough hand. they’ll throw a frisbee for him to go catch and he’ll do it happily, or he’ll even… teach them how to beat people up.

(you stare mortified as he teaches a little girl how to throw a proper punch only for her to then punch her parent when she leaves boothill’s side. you go up to them and apologize profusely, forcing boothill to bow with you.)

he also loves to help you out, even though he’s not the greatest at household chores— but he definitely tries! though he is a stellar cook, which never fails to surprise you whenever he’s on dinner duty. he just… really sucks at everything else.

it’s… mostly because he just has so much energy. he sweeps the floor? nope, he’s picking off the pieces of the broom off of the floor because he accidentally broke it. he’s fixing your bed? nuh uh, you’re throwing out the ruined bedsheets because he accidentally tore them to shreds somehow.

so, with all of these accidents happening because he’s just brimming with energy 24/7, you started purposely exhausting him. or, rather, gave him the green light to exhaust you until he tires himself out.

“booth-aah, w-wait, you’re being too…!” you fall over on top of his hard chest, keening at the new angle his cock reached inside of you. he repeated his assault on the spot that made you see stars as your jaw gaped, broken moans leaving your lips.

“don’t tell me y’re tapping out.. haa, already!” boothill grunts, his grip on your hips tightening. he throws his head back with a loud moan, abs tensing as he nears yet another climax— the 5th one of the night. maybe, maybe not. you lost count after the third one.

you bury your face into the crook of his neck, focusing on the feeling of his cock plugging you full instead of the soreness, the burn in your muscles that came from your knees holding you up on his lap.

watching you riding him will always be his favourite thing in the world, even if he always ends up fucking up into you and taking back control at the end of the night.

“gonna cu-uum…” you whine, clenching around his length almost painfully tightly, hearing his breathing hitch as an orgasm is ripped out of him in consequence to yours. boothill’s fingers dig into your ass, his hips lifting off the bed as he cums deep inside of your sloppy hole again, sticky fluid building up beneath the sheets.

you collapse on top of him fully, chest heaving against his own as you come back to your senses, slowly but surely. boothill’s ears perk up, hearing how your breathing had evening out.

“so… got another round in ya?”

[nariism]

ೃ⁀➷ THIEF! ★

Based off this ask by @raphuna-nekomada !!

The first time, Neuvillette brushed it off as if nothing had happened.

He spent the entire morning looking for his dedicated Monday bow, black with silver intricacies that you personally picked out for him many years ago.

"Must be a sign from the universe not to go into work," you hummed from the bed, rolling over and inviting him back under the blanket. He hadn't indulged you on Monday, instead opting to use his Tuesday ribbon and huffing about how he would find the missing article later.

The second time it happened, he was suspicious.

Two days in a row his ribbon had gone missing, now his Wednesday ribbon had been used for Tuesday. It irked him, and while he had no other reason to suspect that you were the culprit, the way you beckoned him back to bed again flicked a switch in his mind.

Ultimately, he hadn't indulged you on Tuesday either.

The third time it happens, he saunters up to your side of the bed immediately.

"My love," he calls, and for a moment you think he hasn't caught you because he's lacking any sort of stern tone— the kind he would address Wriothesley with.

"Yes?" You peer up at him with a glimmer of mischief, clutching something to your chest. His eyes narrow and he kneels onto the bed beside you.

"Have you seen my ribbon?"

"I haven't."

"Are you sure? I'm certain I left it on the dresser last night."

"You must be imagining things, dearest."

You give him a sly, lazy smile and that's when he knows you're nothing but a terrible liar. He nearly scoffs in your face, leaning down closer so he can look at you with a hardening expression.

"And what exactly is your ploy here? Would you like me to wrestle it out of your hands?"

Your eyes widen in surprise for a moment before you laugh, clearly finding his suggestion humorous. "Would it keep you at home longer if you did?"

The gears turn in his head at your words, slow realization washing over him as you blink up innocently. (Feigning innocence, actually. Poorly.)

Ah, so that's what this is all about.

"You want me to stay home?"

A beat of silence. "And if I said yes?"

"You know my answer." Yet he hasn't pulled away, gotten off the bed, and left for work like he does every morning. In fact, you're pretty sure he's drawn a couple inches closer to you.

The fabric you stole from him suddenly wraps around the back of the neck and you rein him in until he's hovering just above you, arms and legs caging you in on either side.

"Got you," you sing quietly.

His gaze flickers down to your lips and then back to your eyes. "You got me," he repeats in faux defeat, swooping down to capture you in a kiss.

He starts to think that maybe a day off wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, but he has more than one trial today and there is no one to fill his role in his absence.

Still, Neuvillette decides that he can come to a compromise if only to hold you like this before his busy day. Besides, if he didn't indulge you now this would never end.

"Ten more minutes."

"Ouch. Stingy."

He smothers you under his body so you'll stop talking.

© ALABOADOA 2023 — please do not translate or post my works to other platforms.

[courtmartialme]

chimera riza !! i didn't have any specific animal in mind when making her i just wanted to make her a creatura

AU where at some point riza is deadly injured and the military save her, they learn about her tattoo and try to extract something from it but it's useless because of the burns, so they use her for chimera experiments and declare her dead to the public :^) royai only get to meet again after years of roy believing his precious subordinate was dead~

[confessedlyfannish]

Writing Prompt #12

Bruce is reading the paper when the pour of Tim's coffee goes abruptly quiet. It would be hard to pinpoint why this is disturbing if it wasn't for the way the soft, tinny sound the vent system in the manor makes cuts out for the first time since being updated in the 90s. The pour, Bruce realizes, has not slowed to a trickle before stopping. It has simply stopped. And there is no overeager clack of a the mug against the marble counter or the uncouth first slurp (nor muttered apology at Alfred's scolding look) immediately following the end of the pour.

Bruce fights the instinct to use all of his senses to investigate, and instead keeps his eyes on the byline of the article detailing the latest set of microearthquakes to hit the midwest in the last week. Microearthquakes aren't an unusual occurrence and aren't noticeable by human standards, which is why this article is regulated to page seven, but from several hundred a day worldwide to several hundred a day solely in the East North Central States, seismologists are baffled.

Bruce had been considering sending Superman to investigate under the guise of a Daily Planet article requested by Bruce Wayne (Wayne Industries does have an offshoot factory in the area) when everything had stopped twenty seconds ago. That is what he assumes has happened (having not moved a muscle to confirm) in the amount of time he assumes has passed. His million dollar Rolex does not quite audibly tick but in the absolute silence it should be heard, which confirms the silence to be exactly that—absolute.

While Bruce can hold his breath with the best of the Olympian swimmers, he has never accounted for a need to remain without blinking without being able to move one's eyes. Rotating the eyeballs will maintain lubrication such that one could go without blinking for up to ten minutes. But staring at the byline fixedly, he estimates another twenty seconds before tears start to form.

These are the thoughts Bruce distracts himself with, because he doesn't dare consider how Tim and Alfred haven't made a (living) sound in the past forty-five seconds. About Damian, packing his bag upstairs for school after a morning walk with Titus that was "just pushing it, Master Damian".

There is a knife to his right, if memory serves (it does). In the next five seconds—

"Your wards and guardian are fine, Mr. Wayne," the deepest voice Bruce has ever heard intones. For a dizzying moment, it is hard to pinpoint the location of the voice, for it comes from everywhere—like the chiming of a clocktower whilst inside the tower, so overpowering he is cocooned in its volume.

But it is not spoken loudly, just calmly, and when he puts the paper down, folds it, and looks to his right, a blue man sits in Dick's chair.

He wears a three piece suit made entirely of hues of violet, tie included. He has a black brooch in the shape of a cogwheel pinned to his chest pocket, a simple chain clipped to his lapel. Black leather gloves delicately thumb Bruce's watch (no longer on his wrist, somewhere between second 45 and 46 it has stopped being on his wrist), admiring it.

"You'll forgive me," the man says with surety. "Clocks are rather my thing, and this is an impressive piece." He turns it over and reveals the 'M. Brando' roughly scratched into the silver back. He frowns.

"What a shame," he says, placing it face side up on the table.

"Most would consider that the watch's most valuable characteristic." Bruce says, voice steady, hands neatly folded before him. Two inches from the knife. To his left, there is an open doorway to the kitchen. If he turns his head, he might be able to get a glance of Tim or Alfred.

He doesn't look away from the man.

"It is the arrogance of man," the man says, raising red eyes (sclera and all) to Bruce, "to think they can make their mark on time."

"...Is that supposed to be considered so literally?" Bruce asks, with a light smile he does not mean.

The man smiles lightly back, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks to be in his mid thirties, clean-shaven. His skin is a dull blue, his hair a shock of white, and a jagged scar runs through one eye and curving down the side of his cheek, an even darker, rawer shade of blue-purple.

The man turns the watch back over and taps at the engraving. "Let me ask you this," he says. "When we deface a work of art, does it become part of the art? Does it add to its intrinsic meaning?"

Bruce forces his shoulders to shrug. "It's arbitrary," he says. "A teenager inscribes his name on the wall of an Ancient Egyptian temple and his parents are forced to publicly apologize. But runic inscriptions are found on the Hagia Sophia that equate to an errant Viking guard having inscribed 'Halfdan was here' and we consider it an artifact of a time in which the Byzantine Empire had established an alliance with the Norse and converted vikings to Christianity."

"The vikings were as errant as the teenager," the man says, "in my experience." He leans back in his chair. "I suppose you could say the difference is time. When time passes, we start to think of things as artistic, or historical. We find the beauty in even the rubble, or at least we find necessity in the destruction..."

He offers Bruce the watch. After a moment, Bruce takes it.

"The problem, Mr. Wayne, is that time does not pass for me. I see it all as it was, as it is, as it ever will be, at all times. There is no refuge from the horror or comfort in that one day..." he closes his hand, the leather squeaking. And then his face smooths out, the brief severity gone. He regards Bruce calmly.

"You can look left, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks left. Framed by the doorway, Tim looks like a photograph caught in time. A stream of coffee escapes the spout of the stainless steel pot he prefers over the Breville in the name of expediency, frozen as it makes its way to the thermos proclaiming BITCH I MIGHTWING. Tim regards his task with a face of mindless concentration, mouth slack, lashes in dark relief against his pale skin as he looks down at the mug. Behind him, Bruce can see Alfred's hand outstretched towards the refrigerator handle, equally and terrifyingly still.

"My name is Clockwork," the man says. "I have other names, ones you undoubtedly know, but this one will be bestowed upon me from the mouth of a child I cherish, and so I favor it above all else. I am the Keeper of Time."

"What do you want from me?" Bruce asks, shedding Wayne for Batman in the time it takes to meet Clockwork's eyes. The man acknowledges the change with a greeting nod.

"In a few days time, you will send Superman to the Midwest to investigate the unusual seismic activity. By then, it will be too late, the activity will be gone. They will have already muzzled him."

"Him."

"There is a boy with the power to rule the realm I come from. Your government has been watching him. The day he turned 18, they took him from his family and hid him away. I want you to retrieve him. I want you to do it today."

"Why me?"

"His parents do not have the resources you do, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. You will dismantle the organization that is keen on keeping him imprisoned, and you will offer him a scholarship to the local University. You and yours will keep him safe within Gotham until he is able to take his place as my King."

This is a lot of information to take in, even for Bruce. The idea that there could be a boy powerful enough to rule over this (god, his mind whispers) entity and that somehow, he has slipped under all of their radars is as frustrating as it is overwhelming. But although Clockwork has seemed willing to converse, he doesn't know how many more questions he will get.

"You have the power to stop time," he decides on, "why don't you rescue him? Would he not be better suited with you and your people?"

"Within every monarchy, there is a court," Clockwork. "Mine will be unhappy with the choice I have made," he looks at Bruce's watch, head cocked. "In different worlds, they call you the Dark Knight. This will be your chance to serve before a True King."

Bruce bristles. "I bow to no one."

"You'll all serve him, one day," Clockwork says, patiently. "He is the ruler of realms where all souls go, new and old. When you finally take refuge, he will be your sanctuary." He frowns. "But your government rejects the idea of gods. All they know is he is other. Not human. Not meta. A weapon."

"A weapon you want me to bring to my city."

"I believe you call one of your weapons 'Clark', do you not?" Clockwork asks idly. "But you misunderstand me. They seek to weaponize him. He is not restrained for your safety, but for their gain."

"And if I don't take him?" Bruce asks, because a) Clockwork has implied he will be at the very least impeded, at worst destroyed over this, and b) he never did quite learn not to poke the bear. "You won't be around if I decide he's better off with the government."

"You will," Clockwork says, with the same certainty he's wielded this entire conversation. "Not because he is a child, though he is, nor because you are good, though you are, nor even because it is better power be close at hand than afar.

"I have told you my court will be unhappy with me. In truth, there are others who also defend the King. Together we will destroy the access to our world not long after this conversation. The court will be unable to touch him, but neither will we as we face the repercussions for our actions. I am telling you this, because in a timeline where I do not, you think I will be there to protect him. And so when he is in danger, even subconsciously, you choose to save him last, or not at all. And that is the wrong choice.

"So cement it in your head, Bruce Wayne," the man says, "You will go to him because I tell you to. And you will keep him safe until he is ready to return to us. He will find no safety net in me. So you will make the right choice, no matter the cost."

"Or, when our worlds connect again, and they will," his voice now echoes in triplicate with the voices of the many, the young, the old, Tim, Bruce's mother, Barry Allen, Bruce's own voice, "I will not be the only one who comes for you."

"Now," he says, producing a Wayne Industries branded BIC pen. "I will tell you the location the boy is being kept, and then I would like my medallion back, please. In that order."

Bruce glances down and sees a golden talisman, attached to a black ribbon that is draped haphazardly around the neck of his bathrobe, so light (too light, he still should have—) he has not felt its weight until this moment.

Bruce flips the paper over, takes the pen, and jots down the coordinates the being rattles off over the face of a senator. By his calculation, they do correspond with a location in the midwest.

"You will find him on B6. Take a left down the hallway and he will be in the third room down, the one with a reinforced steel door. Take Mr. Kent and Mr. Grayson with you, and when you leave take the staircase at the end of the hallway, not the elevator."

The man gets up, dusts off his impeccably clean pants, and offers him a hand to shake.

"We will not meet again for some time, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks at the creature, stands, and shakes his hand. It feels like nothing. The Keeper of Time sighs, although nothing has been said.

"Ask your question, Mr. Wayne."

"I have more than one."

"You do," Clockwork says. "But I have heard them all, and so they are one. Please ask, or I will not be inclined to answer it."

"What does this boy mean for the future, that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for him?"

There is a pause.

"So that is the one," Clockwork says, after a time. "Yes. I see. I should resolve this, I suppose."

"Resolve what?"

"It is not his future I mean to protect," the man says. "It is his present."

"You want to keep him safe now..." Bruce says, but he's not sure what the being is trying to say.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork repeats, stops. His expression turns solemn, red eyes widening. In their reflection, Bruce can see something. A rush of movement too quick to make heads or tails of, like playing fast forward on a videotape. "Superman reports no signs of unusual seismic activity. With nothing further to look into, you let it go in favor of other investigative pursuits. You do not find him, as you are not meant to. He stays there. His family, his friends, they cannot find him. His captors tell him they have moved on. He does not believe them, until he does. He stays there. He stays there until he is strong enough to save himself."

Clockwork speaks stiffly, rattling off the chain of events as if reading a Justice League debrief. "He is King. He will always be King. He is strong, and good, and compassionate, and he is great for my people because yours have betrayed his trust beyond repair. He throws himself into being the best to ever Be, because there is nothing Left for him otherwise. We love him. We love him. We love him. My King. Forevermore."

The red film in his eyes stall out, and Bruce is forced to look away from how bright the image is, barely making out a silhouette before they dull back to their regular red.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork says slowly, "To this future."

"Because of what it means in the present," Bruce finishes for him. "They're not just imprisoning him, are they."

"They will have already muzzled him."

Clockworks is right in front of him faster than he can process, fist gripping the medallion at his neck so tight he now feels the ribbon digging into his skin.

"Unlike you, Mr. Wayne," and for the first time, the god is angry, and the image of it will haunt Bruce for the rest of his life, "I do not believe in building a better future on the back of a broken child."

"Find him," the deity orders, and yanks the necklace so hard the ribbon rips—

Clack!

"sluuuuurp!"

"Master Timothy, honestly!"

"Sorry Alfred!"

[markscherz]

Bad Newts: Amphibians are in Serious Trouble

My colleagues and I have just had a paper published in Nature, based on our efforts to assess almost all amphibian species for the IUCN Red Lists. The major takeaway messages:

It is a bad time to be an amphibian

Two fifths of all amphibians are threatened with extinction.

Salamanders are the most threatened group; three fifths of all salamanders are threatened with extinction!

Climate change is a major driver of amphibian declines globally

Habitat loss, especially due to agriculture, is a problem for the vast majority of amphibians

Chytrid pandemics have caused and continue to cause catastrophic declines of both salamanders and frogs

Protected areas and careful management are working as strategies! They are actively improving the outlook of some species

As many as 222 amphibian species may have gone extinct in recent times; of those, 185 are suspected extinct but not yet confirmed.

Our paper is Open Access, you can read it here!

Photo of Atelopus hoogmoedi by Jaime Culebras, used with permission

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Normal boy spotted.

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[greghatecrimes]

We always want to give our children what we never got for ourselves.

[deklo]

my interpretation of adoptive bee :’)

pls don’t repost!