#it wouldn't be ideal but at least I would feel like I have some dignity and that I'm at least useful to the people I care about

[kaidagreenscale]

^ Thank you for putting in words why the OP makes me uncomfortable. Feels like it's pointing a finger and shaming those who feel hopeless under capitalism rather than trying to say something compassionate or reassuring.

“autism wouldn’t have been difficult before capitalism” “nothing that caused me burnout existed before industrialization” well what if your boots feel weird against your skin. and your cape is itchy and too heavy. and your brooch keeps making an annoying sound everytime you move and this party is too loud and you’re hungry and there’s pigeon stew but you can’t stand the texture of pigeon so you ate some olives and now your hands feel oily and gross and you drank a little bit too much wine (bc there’s no clear water. also it was too bitter) so now your head hurts and you feel a little hot but not hot enough to take your cape off and you promised this time we leave when I asked, Aurelius! you promised! and don’t forget we still have a three hour ride back home you promised it’s not going to be like last time! or something of the sort.

[thesummerstorms]

You know that conversation you can have with Emmrich where he asks what your plans are for your body when you die?

I think Arsinoë accidentally horrified him. Not by clinging to non-Nevarran ideals about cremation, but by telling him she never thought anyone would care that much one way or the other.

She would be dead, so she wouldn't care. And honestly, a majority of compradi die as Fledglings without graduating; she thinks their bodies were probably burned (since you have to do something with bodies) but they certainly don't have funerals, so it certainly wasn't worth worrying about then.

Emmrich interjects, trying to wrangle his own shock long enough to point out that she's not a Fledgling now, so surely...?

Well if she dies now, Arsinoë all but shrugs, it would depend on the circumstances, wouldn't it? She isn't someone important like a Talon or the scion of an established Crow family. She certainly isn't Caterina Dellamorte, who warrants something verging on a State Funeral.

If she died, there is still a non-zero chance it would be at another Crow's hands, in which case it's anyone's guess what happens after.

If she dies honorably fulfilling a contract, then Viago might feel obligated to do something if he isn't pissed off at her failure and she's isn't still in Exile. He's her mentor, so probably he would manage at least a small pyre. Maybe even a flower or two for the flames if he's letting himself feel sentimental. Teia would probably be there because Viago was.

But just as often, when a contract goes wrong, there's no time to go back for the body. The mark get ahold of it, or whoever's left on the contract has to focus on survival rather than the dignity of a corpse that can't feel any of it.

But really, none of that would matter to Arsinoë, would it? She'd be off wherever dead souls end up going, or maybe in oblivion, who knows. She doesn't have any family to be horrified by her corpse unless you count Viago, who is Fifth Talon, has bigger things to worry about, and will get over it.

But anyway, why do you ask, Emmrich?

Emmrich is too aghast to answer clearly at that point because every single point of Arsinoë's answer goes so deeply against everything that is ingrained in him as part of the Mourn Watch, from the belief that a corpse just doesn't matter to her sincere belief that no one would care enough about her for any particular mourning rights.

And the thing is Emmrich does care. It's his professional duty to care, but he's also become fond of his young friend and he cannot handle imagining that she could die on this mission or the next and potentially receive no rites at all.

Cue Emmrich starting to plan how he's going to have Rook interred in the Grand Necropolis when the time comes. It may involve some string pulling, especially if (hopefully) she dies not on this mission but in the distant future, and even more so if he precedes her and has to leave the job in one of his colleague's hands. But Maker help him, there will be a plan and her death will be respected.

When it comes to light, Neve is uncertain and a little weirded out, but also a little offended by all this. She's fallen in love with Rook, but even before that, the respect between them would have warranted a pyre and Arsinoë's name on the Wall of Light if there was no one else to arrange things. Is this why she's never asked about what happened after Varric-

Lucanis is horrified by the idea of Arsinoë as one of the spirit-possessed skeletons in the Necropolis or one of the jewel-eyed skulls in its many niches; he snaps at Emmrich about Nevarran obsession and respecting Rook as Antivan.

Emmrich refuses to budge. She expected the Crows to do nothing for her. She deserves better, deserves to be remembered, even if she isn't Nevarran.

Lucanis seems fully stunned by the idea that Rook believed this in the first place, given Viago's attachment. Given Lucanis's own growing feelings. Emmrich does soften a little bit when he sees that Lucanis truly didn't realize, but he also doesn't fully divert his plans.

Gathering a grave-dowry is normally left to a lover or family member if the deceased was themselves unable, and Emmrich is neither. But needs must, and though his friend now seems attached to Neve and Lucanis, hearts can be fickle. A plan is better. So he puts away small things here or there, eyes which of Rook's enchanted rings and amulets she seems to favor just in case.

It almost helps him live with the knowledge that Arsinoë believed she would die unmourned. Almost.

[2af-afterdark]

Property

Content: Sitri & GN!MC, Angst, alcohol consumption

Word Count: 703

A/N: Again, not smut but the game is 18+ so it goes to the adult blog.

You were Solomon's child before you were a person. Whether you knew it or not, that had been the case from the moment you were born; both the first time from your mother's womb and second when you had to accept a different life to save your best friend. The moment you took your first breath, Hell unknowingly looked toward the human world in reverence and Heaven looked on in condemnation. Your existence was only a continuation of a dead man's.

Child of Solomon was the better name some called you by. At the very least, it acknowledged that you were a descendant of the man who owned your life. It was a tacit admission that you were a replacement meant to live up to a legend rather than the man himself.

The worse of the names given to you by the devils was-

"Solomon?" Sitri spoke through your alcohol-filled mind.

You turned your hazy attention toward him, feeling each and every one of your muscles throbbing in your head as you did. Even the ones in your fingers somehow pulsed in your brain louder than even the yelling and cheering of all the devils crowding the bar for their nightly – although it more often seemed to be hourly – celebration.

“Heeeeeeey Sitri,” you said with a voice that was loud enough to make your head throb. “What are you doing here?”

“We came together.”

“Oh, right.” Because Satan was busy and you needed an escort to wander around an active war zone. 

Sitri was reliable enough to have Satan's trust without too much fighting. At the very least, he was good at keeping you from being swarmed by every other devil in the bar all at once that wanted to catch a glimpse of Solomon. It was still awkward when they turned their heads each time he called for you though.

You held out your half finished drink to him with a lazy smile. “Want some?”

His cheeks flashed a deeper hue than the pink of his eyes. “You would offer some to me, Solomon?”

“Yeah. I would.”

You. Not Solomon. Maybe he would offer Sitri his drink when he was so smashed that he was seconds from passing out, but you wouldn't know. All you knew was that you were the one offering it right now and that you were too tired to try to correct Sitri on who you were. Again.

“You are as generous as ever.”

Because you would always be Solomon and never yourself. You were hunted because Heaven saw you as a long dead man. You were protected because Hell loved that men. You gave devils hope because you were his second coming. You and every action you took were an echo of him.

“Hey, Sitri?” you asked. “Do you like me?”

His pink eyes went wide for a brief moment before the softened. “Of course I like you, Solomon.”

And that was all you needed to hear to know that you weren’t even an afterthought in his mind. Him and most other devils that didn't even give you the dignity of being Solomon's descendant rather than his continuation.

“I like you too, Sitri.” And you wished you could say that without knowing that he and every other devil wouldn't give a damn about you if you hadn't happened to have been born the Child of Solomon. 

You laid your head against the cool, sticky bar table, too tired to move or lift it back up. "I want to go home," the honesty induced by the alcohol in your system said.

"Of course, Solomon. I'll help you." He set down the now empty glass that you hadn't seen him drink from and gingerly grabbed your arm to help sling it around his shoulder and lift you to walk. "We'll return to the palace soon."

"Mhm." You nodded without correcting him.

You didn't want to return to Gehenna's palace. You wanted to leave Hell altogether. You wanted to go back to the one place where you would always be yourself rather than some ideal of a man you had never met before.

You wanted to be somewhere you weren't simply the Child of Solomon. Or, worse yet, Solomon himself.

[thestudenteternal]

tw? caveat? disclaimer? for ghoul brainrot. i dont usually like writing interaction between carol and antonia because god it feels weird to write abt my own character from the idealized perspective of a ghoul. but also this tidbit wouldnt go away, SO.

-

The guilt will come later.

Or, at least, Carol's guilt will come later. The guilt right now, Carol feels crawling through her veins in that familiar way that tells her it isn't hers.

Antonia asked her to drop by the private haven, after she finished her work. She had a perfectly logical story - some meeting that Antonia wouldn't be able to reschedule, and it would be a bother to figure out how to work around it, so it was just more reasonable that Carol drink tonight, rather than wait until the weekend which would be later than the proper timeframe. It makes sense, and Antonia is as practical and professional about it as she ever is. Carol thinks any of the others would probably even believe the story - she has no doubt such a meeting will certainly manifest on Antonia's schedule, if she has not already made arrangements.

But even without the sickly feeling crawling through her veins, Carol has known Antonia for a long time. Its the way the words are clipped. Antonia is always a very precise speaker, but becomes even moreso, when she's masking something. As if enunciating the words perfectly will prevent any stray, incorrect emotion from creeping in.

Carol doesn't call her on it, of course. She suspects that Antonia probably recognizes that the lie is futile anyway, but if Antonia wants the illusion of plausible deniability, Carol will, of course, grant her that dignity.

Besides. She's not exactly heartbroken to have an excuse to put off the guilt she should feel, for causing the guilt she knows won't leave her until dawn, for the way her public comments would reflect badly on Antonia. She should apologize, but if Antonia is pretending that's not what this is about, then that's what Carol will do, too.

Carol's eyes focus, intently, when Antonia bites at her own wrist, and the vitae wells up and the smell fills the room and-

Carol holds still. She is over eighty years old, and she has been doing this for over sixty years. Antonia expects a level of self-control from those she gives her vitae to, and Carol is not the head ghoul because she lacks impulse control. Carol is the best at what they do, and she will not be less than that, will not be more disappointing than she already had been tonight.

But Antonia holds her wrist out, and nods, and-

The relief is near instant, washed away almost as quickly by the euphoria. All the thinbloods going on and on about this or that resonance, even the vampires talking about feeding - it couldn't possibly compare. Even in the comforting familiarity of it, after so many years, it is still as overwhelming as the first time.

She's had other vitae, on occasion. The barbeque with Seja and Juan and the other ghouls, before they sold the old house Joe had compromised. The occasional under-the-table deal with some other ghoul. But it doesn't compare. Like cheap tequila, when you've been drinking nothing but top shelf for years. Takes the edge off, but it's like a hollow echo of the real thing. This, this is the real thing, the warmth and the strength and the power. Rich and heady, and the vague sense of- security, and comfort. Because it's Antonia's, and Carol doesn't know what kind of foundation could be more stable than Antonia.

Time... never seems quite real, in those moments. She thinks it may have been longer than usual, but it still feels - too short, not enough, please- when she feels the wrist being pulled away. She grapples, for a moment, with the snarling, hungry feeling that has been fed and wants to demand to keep feeding, wants to hold on, to follow the wrist. The paradox of it, that the more it is fed, the louder its hunger feels. But Carol is, again, an old hand at this. It does not get to make a fool of her.

If her stare, as Antonia licks the wound closed, is a touch forlorn - well, she imagines Antonia is well-accustomed to offering Carol the same courtesy of pretend obliviousness. Or at least, that's what Carol is accustomed to.

Antonia watches Carol closely, dark eyes almost impassive, but for the slightest flicker of-

Well, Carol does have a cheat sheet, she supposes, the almost-imperceptible whisper of concern amplified by the fresh vitae flowing through her.

Carol averts her eyes. "It's fine. It's..."

She doesn't want to talk about it. She doesn't want to say that she spent all day not telling Jeremy that seeing a couple selfie of his ex-girlfriend is a lot less to deal with than seeing her head fly off her shoulders. She doesn't want to explain that when she spoke to BJ, all she could think was that the good woman those boys sometimes went looking for died before they were born.

That in the echoing silence, she forgot herself for a moment, and thought about the life that good woman might have had. About paint under Tom's fingernails, the way his eyes lit up when she got back from class, and how she always imagined it would be just the same light, when she came home from work and children clustered around their knees and she'd talk about some landmark case she'd been assigned while he talked about getting the kids to help paint the fence and-

She doesn't want to talk about it. Spending her evening drowning herself in pointless could-have-beens was miserable enough. She doesn't want to infect Antonia with it.

Carol does, vaguely, remember the first few months. She stayed at Antonia's place. Antonia didn't really have a purpose for her at the time, but Carol couldn't bring herself to go back to the apartment she'd been living in before, and try to make sense of that space alone. And Antonia, younger then - she looked just the same, of course, and Antonia had never been expressive, but back then, there was something... softer, around the edges of the inscrutabulity. Less refined.

She'd looked at Carol then, with the same caution as Carol suspects she would be right now, if Antonia was still her softer, younger self. As if waiting for an outburst - Carol was never sure if she expected tears, or anger, or something else entirely.

Carol won't say Antonia never got the expected outburst, but she's pretty sure it was, at least, less often than Antonia expected. Carol's always been a little bit proud of that.

"I wasn't..." Carol doesn't know what excuses to make. She jokes, sometimes, about being able to get away with things, though she does not say the quiet part that doing so is a matter of leveraging this guilt in Antonia. But the truth is, doing so is a last resort, because Carol hates this. Antonia's guilt crawling through Carol's blood is nauseating, and the watchful eyes never leave her as Carol tries to find some way to make it sound... okay.

They both know there's no way to make "I was remembering the time you killed my fiance in front of me" sound okay. And no amount of Carol saying she doesn't blame her has ever done anything. Carol doesn't think Antonia believes her. Understandably, Carol supposes - it is probably is hard to imagine.

"It was a rough day," she settles on the admission. "But it's over, so." Carol hopes Antonia will take the hint that Carol has reburied this particular ash pile and they don't need to dig it back up for Antonia to examine.

Antonia examines her for another slow moment, before she finally nods briskly. "If you say so." There is a sudden release of tension, as if something has been settled. Like a held breath, finally releaesed. The worst of the guilt subsides, leaving only a slight undercurrent, as it is replaced with something gentler.

"Would you do me a favor?" Antonia asks. A stupid question. Even without the fresh vitae buzzing through her, reinforcing the pull to Antonia like she is the center of gravity that Carol orbits, she would do anything.

"What did you need?"

Antonia nods to one of the bookshelves. "Somehow, that one has fallen into disorder. I would do it myself, but..." she gestures to a stack of ungraded papers that Carol knows perfectly well could easily be foisted on a TA. "I would appreciate if you could stay and reorganize it?"

Carol does manage to surpress a laugh. Not a request for a favor then, but an offer for one.

Ghouls do not stay at the private haven. Carol is the only one who even knows where it is - a wartime security measure that has not yet needed to be lifted for convenience. But even so, the purpose being a clear statement that this is not a shared space. The request is only a pretense, an offer that if Carol does not wish to be alone, she may stay.

It isn't a difficult decision. Outside, there is futile could-have-beens, mournful memories. At best, she could perhaps take up Hazel's offer and watch Jeremy get hit on by gay men while she pretends she isn't carefully reburying sixty-year-old griefs.

Or stay here, where she is safe, and protected, and favored. Where she can sit with a book, after she makes a performance of shuffling the bookshelf, and bask in the comfort of Antonia's presence. Where nothing can touch her, where she belongs.

Carol wakes up in the dark room, late morning, with a blanket draped over her. She knows Antonia would be in the finished basement, and she knows soon she will have to get up, attend classes like a normal college student, hunt down Jeremy and play the sympathetic mentor, take her shift at the library tonight. But for now, she spends an extra moment, surrounded by a space that is so essentially Antonia's, and enjoys the comfort of it.

[christmasintheloonybin]

thought about engaging in consumerism this black Friday because I have wanted to buy a pair of black jeans for a long time (sad, impoverished life where I have to think long and hard before buying one pair of jeans but oh well). something about a deal actually repulses me I don't know why. I feel manipulated or something. it makes me want to buy a pair of jeans less. maybe growing up poor and resenting it, I despise a handout, I know a handout and a bargain are not the same thing, but I feel as if I cannot go through with buying a pair of jeans DISCOUNTED with my dignity intact. I would rather pay full price just to avoid feeling manipulated.

being broke has been good for me though, I realize all I really need in life is enough money for cigarettes. as long as I have cigarette money I am happy. small pleasure that goes a long way. I am cheap as hell when I'm broke, when I have money I am actually quite generous, I genuinely enjoy taking people out to eat buying things for people I like etc. not just with women its not a chauvinist thing. just people I like. but in general some part of me does feel ashamed and emasculated when I'm with someone, especially a woman, at a restaurant and I don't pay for the bill. I understand the arguing thing because it's genuinely humiliating. being broke I have also learned an important skill - going into a store without buying anything. I hate to be "that guy" in book stores or record stores especially, who go in for the vibes or to be seen there without actually sort of paying your dues. its disgusting! especially because these are niche and honestly irrelevant markets, so if you want to have book stores to stroll through and feel cultured at in the future, you better pitch in to keep them alive. but this is an important skill I believe still, to say "I don't really need this." and I realize, again, that I really need very little. just cigarettes. and food ideally. I'd choose cigarettes over food, though.

all this being said, i have a promising lead at a bakery, I just need to sort some things out with the community college I plan on attending first, lol. I think it would be nice to work at a bakery, even though it involves getting up obscenely early, I can't sleep and I wake up at around 5:00 anyways, so 3:00 or 4:00 wouldn't be a severe adjustment. it would prohibit me from staying up late but I have no social life so it makes no difference to me.

community college, I am obviously not super stoked about. but I already did a year, right after I graduated high school, and they have a program in place for transfers to the local university that everyone goes to, it's informally called "grade 13" because just about everyone goes there after high school, like as a default. I don't particularly care where I go, maybe I could transfer to a college somewhere else in the country, this might be a good idea, but the local college town is relatively close to where I live, I am familiar with the area, it's just more comfortable than if I packed up and moved to California or Texas or something. lol. but maybe that would be good for me. community college, depressing but probably a good halfway point between the proletarian and bourgeois worlds. if I went straight into regular university, with all these fucking teenagers I think it would be a very alienating experience. if I can ease my way in, it will still be strange when I'm in classes with people four or five years younger than me, but at least I'll be slightly more acclimated and I can just do my own thing. also I look young, so it's not that weird. my problem is more idiot kids who think they know everything. it's funny seeing young people now, I mean even like 20 year olds. they think they know everything but they're just kids. because I can remember being like 15 and thinking I knew it all. like I had everything figured out. just a product of aging I guess. of course, I have always felt this way and disavow my former self as an idiot, but the pattern continues, I'm sure in a year I'll think about the things I thought now and be embarrassed. this is life!

[raminboots]

↱ Unfortunate Circumstances ↲

Inspired by @chasing-starlights story about villain accidentally drugging a hero with a love potion

.・゜゜・ ♡ ・゜゜・．

“Get away from me you cretin!”

A large bang was heard throughout the city of Harfields as the city's favorite hero chased down his ten-legged nemesis. More specifically, the ten-legged man was jumping from building to building as the other one chased him down while flying. Moe was rushing all he could, feeling the adrenaline pump throughout his body as he hopped from one roof to another.

Although it wasn’t really him that did it, it was with the help of the mechanical spider-like legs that were protruding out of his back. He had eight of them, all connected to his brain and working together as actual limbs. Moe was a special case in the war between good and bad. Most of them, whether it was a hero or a villain, had some sort of power. Not Moe, he was a regular person, and to make up for that, he used machinery.

He had a bunch of body and limb enhancers, like his spider legs. But he also had a plethora of others that he stored on his body. But, they had a tendency to overheat or even break in the midst of battle.

The man was rushing with a briefcase pressed to his chest, holding on to it for dear life as he practically threw himself from roof to roof, taking sharp turns, dipping down in between buildings and even crashing into one apartment's window and out of another. All of this in desperation of shaking off the hero who was on his tail. Moe couldn’t lose the briefcase, he just couldn’t. He wouldn’t know what to do if he did.

“You know, running will get you nowhere, Arachnid!” He could hear the hero shout at him from behind, all this did was fuel the fire as he picked up the pace out of pure spite.

“Oh we’ll see about that one!” That was the only thing he had to say to that moronic meathead. But he would soon have to eat his own words as one of his legs got tangled up in two of the other spider legs, causing the whole thing to trip up and for Moe to fall down. Now, that wouldn’t have been too bad if he had fallen on the hard rooftop, it would have been humiliating but it wouldn’t have caused him too much pain.

Instead, he had to have fallen just before he was supposed to jump. So when he fell, he fell straight off the 30 feet tall building head first. He let out a cry of horror as he closed his eyes, waiting for the hard impact of the ground.

But it never came, instead, he felt his body jolt up as it stopped completely mid air. At first he thought that one of his enhancers had been caught on some wire or pipe sticking out from the building, that was until he heard a light chuckle from above him. Oh no.

He tensed up. As he looked up, he saw that the person who had indeed caught him was none other than Mr. Fire himself. Thomas Clément, more commonly known in the hero industry as Wildfire. He was intense, headstrong, insanely determined and robust. And he was Moe’s personally assigned hero.

You see, in the city of Harfields, there were two kinds of people. Normal humans and mutants. These mutants were gifted with divine powers and abilities that made them all powerful. And of course, the government was going to take advantage of that. They created an organisation called The Hero Preparation Foundation, or H.P.F for short. This was where mutants could train and earn their title as a hero. After that they were allowed to go out into the world and serve justice.

But not everyone who was a mutant wanted to be a hero. But the city didn’t care, and more often than not, resisting mutants either got forced into training or got locked up, getting labelled as “too dangerous” to walk freely.

In response to this horrid treatment, a small set of individuals created a resistance. The group went against all of the ideals of the H.P.F because of their corrupt ways. And as the cause got stronger, the more mutants joined, and sooner or later, the group became an underground organisation with hundreds of members. And Moe was one of those members.

But the thing was, once H.P.F got wind as to what was happening, they started a program where they documented each “villain”, as they called them, that was publically known. That would include all their powers, goals and attacks. Then they would try to find the best matching hero to “assign” to that villain, that way, whenever the villain was up to something, their hero would be notified and they would handle them. This way, they streamlined all the hero's work and made it easier to deal with.

Wildfire was assigned to Moe, and at first, Moe didn't understand why. Why would they assign a fire-type hero to a mechanic-type villain. But he would soon learn the hard way just why this combo was so effective. Wildfire’s powers included many different types of fire manipulation, including creating compact balls of flames that he could shoot and throw.

Moe couldn’t count all the times he’d massecared one of his machines or blown up one of his equipment. He could always rebuild them of course, there was a reason that he was called the mechanical spider. Whenever he was building his movements were fast, sharp and very persize. He could build things that would take days in just a couple of hours. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t annoying whenever Wildfire destroyed the shit he’d been working on.

The hero was looking at him with a playful smirk, not a menacing or mean-spirited one, rather one filled with amusement and glee. And that, in Moe’s opinion, was way worse.

“Well well well. If it isn’t my favorite spider. How’s it hanging, mon moitié?” The man said as he looked down at Moe who was in a very compromisable position. He couldn’t help but scoff at his stupid pun. And the french didn’t help his annoyance. He hated when Wildfire spoke french to him, because he couldn’t understand a word he was saying.

“Go to hell.” The hero quirked his eyebrow at this, a smile still remaining on his face.

“Ouch! Such hostility, what did I ever do to deserve this kind of treatment, Arachnid?” He asked in an exaggerated voice, Moe rolled his eyes, ignoring him. “Aww come on, is this really how you treat your friends?” Moe felt annoyance build up in his body as he heard this. Although, Wildfire couldn’t see this annoyance on his face since he wore a gas mask that covered half of his face and a pair of goggles, blocking out both his face and his eyes.

“Shut up! We’re not friends, we’ve never been friends and we never will be!” He kicked his legs slightly in frustration, making his body dangle slightly in Wildfire’s grasp.

“You know, you’ve got a lot of balls saying this stuff for someone in your position.”

“What are you going to do? Drop me? I thought you hero’s were supposed to be better than us.” Moe could admit, if it was anyone else holding him he would not be talking like this. But it was Wildfire, it was Thomas. That big idiot would never drop him. He has a strict no killing policy and he has never broken that policy throughout his years as a hero. He doubted that he would break this policy now.

“Nah, you’re holding onto something way too important for me to drop you.” Moe thought for a second before he remembered what he was holding.

“The briefcase? I’ll drop it! I swear to god I’ll drop it if you don’t put me down!”

“You wouldn't.”

“Oh I so would!”

“Okay, then I’ll drop you and catch the briefcase.” This caught Moe slightly off guard. He knew deep down that Wildfire wouldn't, but it would be so easy for him to drop him if he felt like it.

Wildfire sighed, running a hand through his brown curly hair. This only brought the fact that he was holding Moe with one hand to his attention. He would say that it was impressive but Moe knew about his super-human strength. And he’s not going to compliment him for doing one of the three things he was good at as a hero; Fire-casting, flying and being strong.

“Look. How about you just hand over the briefcase and we can spare you any extra embarrassment once you get home to your little villain hide-out.” At first, Moe was confused by this statement. That was until he looked down and saw a pretty sizable crowd that had formed at the bottom of the building. Any and all confidence that Moe had left his body as he felt his face heat up.

“Put me down! Right now! I’m telling you, you better-” Moe was interrupted.

“Say the magic words.” After Wildfire said that, Moe shot a glare at him, and after that he looked down once more. People were watching and some were even filming, but the two were very high up so he doubted that they could hear him. After a couple of seconds of consideration he sighed as he kept his gaze away from Wildfire. And he remained like that for a good minute or two. At this point he didn’t care if people were watching, he had already embarrassed himself enough, he wasn’t about to lose his last piece of dignity by playing Wildfires games. It didn’t take long before the hero sighed, and that was when Moe knew that at least in one way, he had won. Certainly not in any significant way, but it was at least something.

And so, the hero flew away. He flew with the villain dangling from his grasp, as he lowered himself down into an alleyway a bit away from the crowd. As soon as he was put down, Moe immediately tried to scramble away like a scared cat, but he didn’t get very far.

“Oh no you don’t. Come back here.” Wildfire grabbed a hold of one of the spider-legs and yanked it backwards, effectively pulling Moe back and also severing the leg. “Oh shit, sorry ‘bout that one. God, you oughta make them a bit stronger.”

“A bit stronger? You have superhuman strength! What do you want me to do? Get some indestructible material? You’re such an idiot- '' Before Moe could finish, a hand slammed itself mere inches from his face, making him flinch as he looked back at the hero towering over him.

“Listen, Arachnid. I’m really tired today, why don’t you just cut to the chase and give me the briefcase.” Moe hugged the briefcase to his chest, clutching onto it as he looked away from Wildfire. He sighed in response. “I will rip it out of your hands if I have to, and I don’t think any of us wants that.” Moe looked down at the briefcase one last time, furrowing his eyebrows before letting out a defeated sigh.

Looking at the ground, he extended the hand holding the case to the hero, and he grabbed it, very gently. Sometimes it was almost painful to Moe to feel how careful Wildfire was with him. He didn’t understand why he didn’t just rip the case out of his hands, why he didn’t let him fall, why he never aimed for Moe when throwing his fire balls. He had been presented with so many opportunities to hurt him, to kill him, and yet, he never did.

Without another word, only a glance over at Moe, Wildfire flew away, leaving Moe alone in the alleyway.

…

“Yes Mark, it would seem like the young hero Wildfire managed to secure a briefcase from The Mad Arachnid earlier today nearby the H.P.F headquarters. When asked about the contents of the briefcase or the villains whereabouts, the hero had this to say,”

The faint sound from a television plagued Moe’s mind as he walked through the streets of Harfields. It sat in the window of a television shop, broadcasting a news channel that was talking about the battle that had occured only minutes earlier. He looked at it, tuning out the sounds and feeling his gaze get stuck. Soon he looked at his reflection in the display window. His eyes were tired and unfocused. One big benefit from having a mask and goggles during his fights was that no one, not even Thomas could see what he was thinking.

After their fight, Moe had fled and hid away in a separate dark alleyway. He couldn’t be in the same one that Thomas had dropped him off at, there would surely be cops and people crowding the area. He needed a quiet space where he could not only calm down but also change out of his disguise since he didn’t want to draw any unneeded attention to him by walking home in his villain outfit. And once he calmed down, that’s what he did.

Hiding behind a big dumpster, he threw off his spider leg compartments by removing his backplate from under his trenchcoat. It had started to heat up during their battle and Moe was left with the uncomfortable heat on his back as he changed into his spare shirt and jacket that he had brought with him. He didn’t want to say that he expected to lose, but he believed that you should, as he was taught, hope for the best, prepare for the worst.

He took off his lower half gas-mask and thick goggles feeling like he could breathe properly and fully. He put his long hair into a ponytail as he pulled the hood from his jacket over his head.

He walked out of the damp alley and out into the streets of Harfields, feeling a pit start to form in his stomach as it finally started to settle in what had just happened, he just lost the briefcase full of the H.P.F intel.

Feeling himself snap back to reality he realised that he had zoned out in front of the tv. It showed a picture of him, The Mad Arachnid, along with phrases like “be on the lookout” and “Call immediate authorities if seen”.

He stuck his hands in his pockets as he muttered to himself while walking home. He couldn’t exactly take a bus there since public transport was on hold because of their fight, and he just had to get away from the main part of the city as fast as he could. Pulling on his hoodie strings, he grumbled and kept up his pace, trying to walk as fast as he could. Part of him contemplated even going back to the headquarters, he knew what was waiting for him there. But he knew the rules and what he had to do.

“How could you let this happen! Don’t you understand just how important those files were!?” Moe flinched as he got cursed out by one of the leaders of the organisation. They called him Raven. That was his only alias, only a handful of people knew his real name. The reason he was called Raven was because of his mechanical wings that he used to fly around, accompanied by a pair of claw-like gloves and a plague doctor mask. It was easy to see where Moe had gotten his inspiration for his costume from.

But Raven was similar to Moe in more ways than one. He too had no powers at all. He used his wings to get around and claws to attack. Although, since he was the leader and symbol of their movement, Raven didn’t actually attack all that often. He mostly helped people who trained, held meetings and planned out all the attacks.

“… I’m sorry…” Moe mumbled as he looked down on the table in front of him, feeling the shame drape over him like the very trench coat he wore. He was currently sitting inside Raven's office, getting lectured by the older villain. He let out a sigh as he looked at the shrunken up boy, whether that was with pity or disappointment didn’t make a difference to Moe. Nothing that Raven thought of him in that moment wasn’t something that Moe hadn’t thought of himself.

“Listen to me kid-”

“I’m not a kid.”

“Don’t… interrupt me.” Raven told the younger villian off. “You’ve got a lot of potential, alright?” This was what Raven always told Moe when he failed. You’ll get them next time, you have a lot of potential, you just need to work on your attacks.

Despite all his encouragement, Moe had a painful lose-to-win ratio, having barely won two or three fights while losing the rest. At what point do you just throw in the towel? Raven was conflicted, as his mentor he wanted to tell him that it was okay, that he would get stronger the more he trained. But as his boss he had to ask himself, was this all worth it? He wanted to see him thrive and grow, but at times it didn’t even feel as if Moe himself wanted to grow.

“... Don’t feel too bad about the files. We can just wait a few months and send someone else.” Moe didn’t expect to be allowed the mission again, but it still hurt to hear Raven admit that he screwed up, enough to deny any second chance.

Moe only nodded his head at this. Refusing to make eye contact with Raven. It pained Raven to see such a sad sight. He knew Moe was super passionate about their cause, joining them despite not having any powers. And no matter how many times he lost, he always returned. That’s why he didn’t want to give up on him, he was more devoted to their stand than most of their members.

Since their cause grew bigger and bigger, more people started to join just to have an excuse to commit crimes. They didn’t care about the resistance or the others involved, so to have someone like Moe, it wasn’t something you saw everyday.

“Why don’t you just lay low for a while, alright? You’ve been out on a lot of missions lately. You should go home and relax, you’ve been pushing yourself too much and I think it’s getting to you.” Moe let out a sharp breathy laugh, he knew that Raven was probably right, but it didn’t feel very good to be sent home when he should be doing something. But the laugh was short lived as he got quiet.

“… Alright sir, I will.”

As Moe walked out of his office and down the hallways of the HQ, he could feel almost a dozen eyes plastering onto him. He knew what they were all thinking. He was known as the runt of the organisation. Nothing but a waste of space and resources. He knew what they said to him behind closed doors. All of them, nothing but snakes.

Speaking of snakes, Moe sighed as he heard a certain low chuckle, a chuckle that anyone who’s been working there would know about. Turning his attention to one of the darker areas at the end of the hallway he could see two glowing eyes staring back at him.

“Hello, Serpent.” The black serpent, she was an infamous trickster among villains. Through her battles she proved two things; she saw everything as a game, laughing and messing around during her missions, but she also proved that she was quite useful when it came to winning. She had won so many of her battles, she was the complete opposite of Moe, having a drastically higher win streak than her lose streak. Everyone knew that she was one of the people who joined just to cause chaos, but it didn’t matter. She could care fuck all about the cause, she was simply too valuable of an asset to lose. And so, she got to stay.

“Evening to ya. Heard you totally busted your last mission.” She giggled as she formed out from the shadows, having only been a mist with two glowing eyes up until then.

“...”

“Yeah it was really embarrassing as well,” she let out yet another mocking laugh. “It was like, broadcasted to all of us. We got to see that sweet failure in raw HD.”

“If you’re just here to mock me then you can piss off. I don’t have time to talk to you.” He started to walk away, and that was when Serpent quickly turned into mist and slid in front of him. She reformed once more, much closer to him this time. Causing him to flinch back.

“Amazingly enough, I’m actually not here just to mock you.” Keyword being just. “I’m actually here to make you an offer.” Now this actually intrigued Moe quite a bit.

“What do you mean? What… kind of deal?” He asked, this made the shadow manipulator smirk. She got him.

“What Raven says about you isn’t false Moe,” he tensed up as she used his real name. They’re not supposed to refer to each other by their actual names unless it’s really urgent or serious. Although, Serpent was quite liberal with her use of these names, specifically Moe’s.

“You’ve got a lot of potential. But here’s the thing, those bastards at H.P.F are really good at matching heroes with villains, and it just so happens that they paired you up with a really good one. I think the only thing holding you back is your failures, if you could just win a couple of battles against that meathead, I’m sure you’ll get even better!” Moe picked at his fingers as he looked away from the taller woman in front of him.

“But… wouldn’t that be… cheating? What are you even going to do?” He asked, the woman started to walk away, nudging her head in his opposite direction, signaling for him to follow her.

“Since when have we ever followed the rules? There are no cheaters in this game, only winners and losers. I’m not gonna kill him or anything like that, then they would just send another hero. No, what if I told you there was a way for you to be able to completely control him? To control that wildfire that has been plaguing your life!” Moe fidgeted uncomfortably with the ends of his shirt as he interjected.

“How would you even do that?” Serpent only chuckled in response.

“A potion.” Of course. Serpent was known for her work with potions and other kinds of magic.

“How would I ever get close enough to give him the potion though?” Serpent sighed as she turned back to Moe, her eyebrow twitching slightly.

“God, do you ever stop whining. Figure it out. Doesn’t that big dope hold a bunch of fan meetups all the time? Just go dressed as a fan and give him a pastry with the potion inside of it. This seems way too easy for you to be complaining this much.” Suddenly, she stopped, turning back to Moe and grabbing his shoulders.

“Imagine it, you could play him like a fiddle- no, like a cheap kazoo! All with your own mind! You could finally win!” She was shaking him slightly, trying to build up anticipation in him. Moe pulled away, backing away from the woman. This only made her sigh as she rolled her eyes. “There you go again with your ‘oh god Serpent is crazy’ look. If you’re too much of a coward to do it that’s fine. But remember, if you ever change your mind,” She walked closer to him, placing a small card in his shirt pocket,

“You know where to find me.”

It was dusk, the sky was a orange hue. Moe liked the color a lot, it was really comforting to him for whatever reason. He had taken a train back home and now he was standing outside of his apartment, digging through his pockets to find them. After taking them out he hesitated slightly before he put the keys in and opened the door.

“Welcome home, Moe. How was today?” The monotonous voice of his assistant greeted him as soon as he entered his home. They were looking at him, eyes glowing as he turned on the lights in the apartment. There had been quite a few times that he had woken up to those terrifying yellow eyes staring at him in the middle of the night, but at this point he was pretty used to it.

“Not great.” His answer was short and sweet. He found that it was easier to not lie around E.S.A.H and just get their daily checkup done.

“Would you like to tell me about it or not?” They responded according to program.

“No thank you.” Moe said as he walked inside, going into his kitchen.

“Could you rate your day from 1 to 10 for me please?” They asked, following behind him, hands behind their back.

“Like, a 2? Maybe a 3? Yeah, a 3.” He answered, taking out a cold drink from the fridge. This was a standard procedure between the two. E.S.A.H would run a fairly simple checkup to make sure he was alright. If anything went wrong they would report to Raven and Storm, the second leader of the cause. Moe learned very quickly that he couldn’t be sarcastic with the bot after a bad joke led to a very awkward phone call with a very upset Raven.

“And how would you rate your overall well being at the moment?” Moe let out a breathy sigh as he thought to himself.

“Probably a 5. I’ll go with 5.” As he walked into his small living room, he threw himself on the couch and turned on the TV, absentmindedly flipping through all the channels, but he stopped once he came across an interview with none other than Wildfire. They were, presumably, talking about the fight earlier that day. Moe scoffed and was just about to change channels when he heard something.

“So, Wildfire,”

“Please, call me Thomas.” He was so pretentiously humble. Moe rolled his eyes.

“Ah, of course. Thomas, is there any reason why you can’t tell us where The Mad Arachnid went?” The interviewer asked. Moe tensed up slightly, looking towards the TV.

“What…” He mumbled to himself. And for once, Moe turned up the volume and listened.

“Well, sadly it’s classified H.P.F information.” Moe stopped paying attention as his own thoughts got louder than the TV.

Bullshit. In almost every single case of a villain escaping, the H.P.F always came out with at least a statement about where they believe the villain might be residing. There’s absolutely no reason as to why HIS whereabouts would be classified.

Was Thomas… Lying? Was he lying about their fight? He practically let him get away! He always does! Everytime they fight, he always lets him go, he never aims for him, he never lets him fall, he never reveals where he is or what happened. He grumbled as turned away from the TV.

“Are you okay? You seem upset?” E.S.A.H asked, looking over at Moe.

“I don’t need his pity…” Moe said to himself, completely ignoring the robot. E.S.A.H tilted their head in confusion as they could see Moe take out a card from his pocket.

“What’s that?” They asked, looking at him with wonder.

“It’s…” Moe looked down at the card. The phone number almost felt like it was calling to him, wanting for him to call it. That’s when a voice on the TV brought him out of his trance.

“So, you’re going to be holding a meetup of some sort on saturday?”

“Yes! I want to… well it sounds kinda silly, but I want to give back to the people for getting me this far!”

“And you’re not worried about any crazy fans?”

“Oh please, I fight villains for a living. I can handle anything at this point.” The hero smiled and laughed slightly as they continued the interview. Moe thought to himself for a second, looking down at the card in his hand. He stood up from his couch and walked towards his room.

“It’s nothing you have to worry about. Now,” He looked back at the robot one last time before opening the door to said room.

“I have to make a phone call…”

[fandomqueen44]

9 months to hell and back: A Tim x Female Dallas Story

So this is an idea that wouldn't leave my head and has even haunted my dreams.

Point out any mistakes in comments and I'll fix lol

Warnings: Mild Violence and Pregnancy. Probably misspellings.

Summary: Tim accidentally knocked up Dallas Winston after a rumble. But...everything happens for a reason right?

.....

Week 6

Dallas Winston was in a god awful mood today, even worse then her usual moods. She huffed as she pulled herself off of Bucks bathroom floor and flushed the toilet, brushing her teeth in an effort to get the taste of vomit away from her mouth. She groaned and splashed her face with cold water, groaning a bit as she gazed in the mirror.

She was by all means a pretty girl. She was about 5'9 and weighed a nice 125 pounds, with a pleasant curve to her body and a rounded face, with wild brown hair, her skin having a dusting of freckles across it.

She groaned a bit and got dressed, frowning as she looked down and noticed her stomach was ever so slightly rounded. She just took it as a sign that she'd finally began putting on weight (Darry had suggested to her that she do) and carried on.

She went outside and saw Buck smoking. Normally she would join in for a stick or two, but her stomach clenched at it and another bout of nausea hit her. She groaned and went back inside. Maybe her period was close?

She laid back on her bed and through about whatever came to mind. She grimes as a craving for a blizzard from Dairy Queen hit her, but she again shrugged it off as her period coming.

Week 9

She was with the Curtis Gang when another wave of Nausea hit her. She groaned mentally, shifted in her seat on the couch, and tried to go back to watching the movie. Her period hadn't come yet, but it had never been regular anyways. She just tried to watch the movie and eat popcorn, but the taste just only made the nausea worse.

Week 13

Dallas frowned in the mirror and lifted up her shirt. Her stomach was starting to curve out now, and she had gained about 10 or so pounds, but it wasn't soft like she'd expect. It was almost like jello more then anything. She frowned and tugged her shirt down, frowning as she still saw it poke out. She sighed, thinking to herself.

When her period hadn't come for 2 months, she took it as a blessing. Now it had been three months, and her mind began to wonder to another option, one she wants entirely sure she was ready to face.

"Am I....." She mumbled to herself before dismissing the thought. That wasn't a reality she was ready for.

That she was pregnant, and fucking Tim Shepard was the father.

She just shook her head and grabbed a beer, or thought about it before grabbing a water instead. Just in case.

Week 15

She sighed as she saw her belly poke out more. She had to be pregnant, there was no other explanation at this point, but her mind refused to really believe it.

She walked to the drugstore and grabbed a test, one of the slightly more expensive ones, and took it, anxiously pacing until it dinged 5 minutes later.

She picked it up and just shook her head in resignation. Postive.

Oh.....that Shepard was so going to pay for this....after she puked.

Week 18

She walked into the clinic shyly, wearing a jacket to hide her bump. She didn't need any rumors flying already. She hadn't even told the gang yet, although, she was sure Darry suspected. She filled out the chart and waited in the room, looking at the other women there and looking away when she found herself staring at just how large a few of them were. She sighed softly as a doctor called her back for the first Ultrasound.

She got on the seat and saw an odd looking machine. Ultrasounds were still rather new technology, only having come out 10 years ago. She wasn't entirely sure she trusted it.

The doctor told her to lay on her back and lift her shirt, which she did shyly. She usually wasn't so shy, but doctors always made her nervous.

The doctor put a gel on her stomach before moving the wand-like object around. Dallas looked at the screen anxiously until a shape came into being.

The doctor looked over the screen for a while. "When was the last time you were...active...?" The doctor asked.

Dallas thought for a moment. "Almost 4 months ago..." She said softly. She was known for sleeping around, but she stopped shortly after she began to notice the pregnancy, more ashamed of her weight at the time than anything.

The doctor nodded and thought a bit more. He explained a few more things, stating that the baby looked in good health and was growing nicely.

The doctor printed her a photo and got it developed the same day for her. She took it and walked off, her mind swarming.

Week 20

It turns out, Tim Shepard was a really hard guy to find when she actually wanted to see him. She grumbled and walked around his part of town. She had her bump hidden as best she could, but her jacket did little to hide it these days.

She then decided to walk to the drive in and smirked seeing Tim's car. Slashing tires always got his attention. She flicked her blade and slashed a hole in one and walked off.

She walked to the Curtis house and let herself in like usual. She handed around before sitting by Johnny, subtly frowning as her bump (which was halfway by now) seemed to be more pronounced when she sat.

Johnny sat by her and looked at her in concern. "How are ya doin' Dal?" He asked.

"Fine." She said, before Two-bit politely handed out beer. He handed her one but she polity sent it away.

The jokester frowned at her. "What's up Dal? You sick?"

"Something like that." She replied, looking down.

Darry came from the kitchen and looked at her. He must have just finished a shower. "Unzip." He said, gesturing to her jacket.

Dally arched a brow in fake confusion, but Darry gave a look and she slowly complied, unzipping the jacket which let her bump be that much bigger.

"I knew it." He said. "You're pregnant aren't you?"

Dally looked down with a small nod.

Darry sighed. "Do you at least know who the father is?"

Dally glared a bit before realising he had a point, as she had the reputation. She nods. "It's Tim."

"Fucking what?!" Steve yelled in surprise. Sure, everyone knew she and Tim messed around, but Dallas Fucking Winston....pregnant ?

"Does he know?" Johnny asked quietly. He had suspected, but never said anything.

Dallas sighed. "Not yet...haven't been able to find him."

"Ah, speak of the Devil." Soda said, who had been watching out the window. A few seconds later, there was an angry knock.

Dallas instinctively went to zip her jacket, but Johnny grabbed her hand and stopped her, shaking his head.

"He deserves to know." He said. "Let him see."

Dallas swallowed. Why was she so nervous...?

Darry opened the door to reveal an angry Tim in all of his glory. God, he was sexy when mad. (Which, when Dally reflected, is what landed her in the situation in the first place.)

"Where's Dallas?" Tim asked in cold Anger.

"Inside but....well..." Darry stumbled for a moment. "well, you'll just have to see for yourself."

Tim arched a brow in confusion but stepped inside the Curtis house, his eyes landing on the Brunette. Something was off, he knew it. He could feel the tension in the air.

He stepped closer, and by the third step, he realised what was off. He glanced down and saw a definite swell on Dallas. He blinked and then saw it again.

There was a long silence.

"It's mine isn't it...?" Tim asked slowly, his anger seeming to fade away.

Dallas stayed silent for a moment and nodded, looking away.

Tim swallowed and walked up to her. He knealt before her, which was a rarity. Dallas looked at him confused.

Tim put a shakey hand on the swell and sighed. He looked at Dallas and then back to the bump. "I'll try to be there....if you want me that is?" He looked at her.

Dallas swallowed, the look in his eyes holding a....pleading feel. She looked down. "Sure..." She mumbled.

Week 25

Tim had began coming to the Curtis house more often to see and be with Dallas. They were in an awkward relationship to say the least, as neither had been on any real dates with the other but now they were having a kid together.

They had also began looking for a cheap apartments to live since Tim's side of town was not ideal and Bucks was a horrible place for a child.

She was on the couch eating some candies in the Curtis living room. They were the only ones at house currently, since Pony was in school and the others were out and about.

Tim sat beside her awkwardly and they held a small staring contest before Dallas felt something. "I think the kid kicked..." She said, unsure. She had felt it move before, but never actually kick.

Tim looked at her and, almost shyly, touched her bump, and soon enough, felt the kick hismelf. His eyes winded and a grin lit his face. He kissed the bump a bit and smiled softly. "I promise to be better for you than either of our dads were." He said to it.

Dally felt her eyes tear up, the sweet sentiment doing a number on her emotions. There was no way she'd make it through this with her dignity in tact.

Week 30

Now nearing the last stretch of her pregnancy, Dallas Winston was very obviously pregnant, and the talk of Tulsa. And she was sick of it, and impulsively said she was gonna join the rumble, which lead to a rather dumb argument.

She was out for a walk to clear her head after the dumb argument with Tim, when she heard the signature thrum of a car. She didn't think anything of it until she saw it was most definitely a socs car. She hoped they were just passing through since, as much as she hated to admit it, she probably couldn't fight for shit with this bump on her which was already giving her a slight waddle.

The car kept following her, slowing. She sighed. Great. Fucking perfect. She frowned as she realised it was night, and friend more as she saw the socs were drunk. She reached for her knife, only to realise she never brought it.

"nice going..." She thought to herself. "You totally screwed yourself."

A group of 7 socs popped out, and she noticed on was Bob. She glared at them and tried to keep going, but Bob grabbed her by the arm and slammed her against him. She gaged at the smell of alcohol and smoke.

"shit...." She thought panicked as she saw the group all had knives.

"Look what we have 'ere boys....a pregnant slut..." Bob slurred loudly to the group who laughed.

Normally, she would have already beat the group to pulp, but she suddenly remembered she was very pregnant when she squirmed and fled the child squirm. She shivered as bob lifted her shirt up and pressed his knife Into her stomach, drawing a small amount of blood.

"shit...." She panicked mentally, trying to get away. Bob gripped her tighter.

"Stop moving. It would be a shame if something happened to a mother before birth." The drunk taunted.

Her body froze and she looked down, her heart racing, trying to think of an out. She noticed she was surrounded and whimpered a bit against her will.

"Aww. Is mommy Winston scared?" A doc cooed mockingly. She yelled as she saw the man brace to punch her, aiming for her stomach as bob held her...

But the blow never came. She peered an eye open to see a very, very pissed off Tim Shepard. She had never seen the man so mad!

"Leave her alone you punk." Tim growled, holding the socs wrist firmly.

"Oh, it's her knight in shining hair!" Bob laughed.

"Actually, she has two." Came Two-bits voice from behind Bob. Two-bit held his prized knife to bob's neck, which made the doc let go of Dallas, who took off back to her and Tim's new place. It want by any means a great apartment, but it would serve until they could afford an actual house.

Tim came in a few minutes after, a little bloody but otherwise fine. He walked in and looked her over.

By now, the Adrenaline had worn off, and the realization of what almost happened hit Dallas hard. She wrapped her arms firmly around Tim and started to cry a bit.

Tim stood stunned before wrapping his arms firmly around her and rubbing her back, gently rocking.

"T-They were gonna...." She whimpered out quietly through chocked sobs.

Tim frowned and kissed her head. "I know Babe, I know." He said softly.

That was the night something shifted in both of them.

Week 38

Dallas was 2 weeks away from her due date, which everyone was happy for. Partly to meet the new baby, but also to make her not be pregnant anymore since she was even moodier now.

She was on the couch at the Curtis house and curled up, sitting with Johnny while Tim was out. She was eating some chocolate Tim had gotten her. She shifted around and Johnny glanced at her.

"You alright?" He asked

"Yeah, the kids just kicking more than usual is all." She said.

Johnny nodded, doubtful.

Indeed, a few hours later, she hissed in pain. "That wasn't a kick...." She grumbled to Johnny.

Johnny ran and got the phone, Calling Darry.

"Dallas is in Labor."

15 hours later....

Tim frowned as he held her hand gently and squeezed it. Dallas had been in labor for almost 15 hours now and had murder in her eyes.

Tim couldn't blame her for wanting to murder him. He kissed her head. It turns out, Dallas was allergic to Epidural and all the other medicines they tried didn't really help her, so she had felt almost everything for the last 15 hours.

"I'm going to kill you after this..." She grumbled as another contraction passed.

22 hours....

Tim grunted as Dallas squeezed his hand again. The pushing had come, and Tim had looked to see the baby, having been told it was a miracle. Well, turns out, that is a trap and he never looked again, just Focusing on Dallas. "You're almost done babe." He said softly as she panted.

Her blocked out her profanity in exchange for the sound of a sheer cry. Tim looked at the child and felt his eyes water.

"It's a boy." A nurse said

He left Dallas to watch them clean his son off, revealing the soft blond hair the kid had. The nurses swaddled him and handed Tim the child. Tim awkwardly held the kid before crying a bit.

His son looked a lot like him, but had some features of Dallas, like the ears and the general face shape.

"You plan on sharing?" Dallas asked quietly in amusement.

Tim blushed embarassed and handed their son to her. She held him with a fond smile, as all her worry melted away. She kissed his red forehead and giggled.

It was strange for Tim to see her hold a baby with such a fond look, but he just smiled. It was a good strange.

He sat by her and put his arm under her and kissed her head. "Not bad."

And thus, Ethan Shepard had entered the world.

[rosesastrology]

Hello Rose, Nice change to the blog theme! Should I go for hair smoothening? 😆 18 November, Thane, 19:37, India

Ps: 4 weddings lined up Rose!😆

Hi! Thank you. I think you'd feel a bit conflicted about it if you were to get it. It wouldn't look bad at all, but it would damage your hair which would probably make you upset (as far as I can see from the chart). In addition, I think this is because the formula with which hair straightening is done can have some adverse health issues at the time of doing it (headaches, teary eyes, skin rashes) so you'd have to find a salon that's well-ventilated. There are also some long-term side effects, which is probably why this shows up in the chart. Even so, appearance-wise it would look good! Probably showing that your heart & appearance would be at odds. I hope that helps and congratulations with the marriages, I hope everything works out💜.

As this is a question about changing one's appearance, and not for health reasons, we take the 1st house, its ruler and the moon. Ideally they're well-placed. As it's about beauty, a well-dignified (or at least not afflicted) Venus is welcome too.

The ASC is in 21° Gemini and ruled by Mercury.

Mercury is in 20°20 Scorpio and in the 5th house, it's in its own term but that's about it.

The moon is exalted in 17°54 Taurus which is great. It's in the 11th house, and in its own face and triplicity.

Mercury and the moon oppose each other, and Mercury is in the fall of the moon.

Venus is peregrine but otherwise unafflicted, it's in the 7th house which adds some accidental dignity.

As the moon and Mercury are opposed, and Mercury is in the fall of the moon (emotion), I think you may feel a bit conflicted about it once you have it. It's not a bad procedure per se, but I think you'd be a bit at odds (because of that opposition). As such, I wouldn't necessarily recommend it but if you do get it I don't think it'll be disastrous or anything, but it would damage your hair (Mars, Lord 6, is in the fall of the moon) which you really wouldn't like, I think.

[otherworldink]

Intro to "Woodworking"

Where do you go when you live in a tiny medieval fantasy village and need some basic sex ed? The woodshop apparently. Results may vary. Includes frank, if humorous, discussions of sexuality.

Read it below the cut, or continue reading on: Wattpad or Otherworld.Ink

Bren had never liked sharing personal information. He believed in the twin virtues of privacy and minding your own damn business, and he acted accordingly. Unfortunately, he'd come up against a problem that required advice. Expert advice.

And there was only one place in his backwater village he could get it.

The carpenter's workshop was a pleasantly open building with large windows that let in the light and broad double doors that could allow the passage of a finished table or bed frame. The scent of fresh-cut pine and the subtler scents of hardwoods permeated the air. In every corner there stood half-completed projects, from the disassembled pieces of little boxes to uncut slabs with measurements drawn in charcoal. Bren could even see a small spoked wheel, half-sanded—a spare for the wheeled chair Kole's father used.

Mercifully, the only people inside were the shop's two owners. The most conspicuous of the pair was Dorin, whose height and breadth led some to suspect he had a touch of giant blood somewhere in his ancestry. He sat hunched over a pair of carved wooden fawns, adding the last fine details with a small chisel.

Hale looked slight compared to his husband, but this was just an optical illusion. A point that was reinforced as the man casually lifted a slab of wood that must have weighed as much as Bren did. It was impressive, but not why Bren was here.

"Hi, Bren!" Hale greeted, looking up from examining the marks on the wood slab. "Did your mother change her mind on the dimensions for that shelf? I was just about to make the first cut."

"No, no. It's not about that. I just... I need some advice."

"Oh? Thinking of taking up woodworking?" Hale asked, half joking.

In his nervousness, Bren replied with a poor joke of his own.

"Different kind of 'wood' to be working with."

There was a pause as Hale processed. Then he grinned like someone had handed him a new chisel.

"I knew it! It's Kole, isn't it? That nice half-elf boy?"

Bren's ears burned, and his eyes glued themselves to the floor.

"It is!" Hale dropped the wood slab in his eagerness, shaking the ground on impact. He didn't seem to notice. "Tell me everything! What do you need to know?"

The excitement was not mutual. Bren had resolved to ask for help with the same enthusiasm one used to ask the blacksmith to pull a bad tooth. Mercifully, Dorin only looked mildly interested, sparing just a glance before continuing his carving.

"Look, I'm not here to share details. I just need to know how some things work, and I figure you two..." Bren glanced back and forth between the pair then cleared his throat. "Yeah."

"Right, right." Hale nodded with exaggerated understanding. "No need to overshare. ...Unless you want to, of course."

Hale wasn't the worst gossip Bren knew—that title went to Mrs. Fields who owned the mill—but Bren still thought he took a bit too much pleasure in having his nose in everyone's business.

"I just need to know how some things work."

"Like what?" Hale tapped his chin. "Don't tell me you need to know what goes where? I should have some blank paper around here if you need me to draw diagrams. I can think of a few positions that would be good for beginners."

"No! No, I already know about that stuff." Kind of. A bit. In any case, Bren didn't think his dignity could survive diagrams. "I just need to know about... logistics. Like how you figure out who, you know... tops."

It was hard to get the words out, and he regretted it as soon as he had. It felt like such a stupid question, like it was something he should already know instinctively. People certainly had their own ideas about how these things worked, but Bren and Kole were about the same age, height, and build so it was hard to say that any of the usual "guidelines" applied.

To his surprise, Dorin answered first.

"I wouldn't worry too much about that," he said without looking up. "Just see what feels right when you get to that point. You can take turns trying or, hells, even flip a coin for it. There's more to sex than putting your dick in a hole. Focus on making each other feel good, and the rest will sort itself out."

That... actually sounded sensible. Reassuring, even. Maybe Bren had been making a big deal out of nothing.

"No, no, no! Hold on a minute, babe." Hale quickly covered Dorin's ears. "Listen to me, Bren: you are at a crossroads right now. This is where you set the tone for your entire relationship. You have a unique chance to secure the best position all for yourself. You have to be the bottom!"

Dorin snorted, but made no move to remove the hands from his head. Hale ignored him and continued.

"Topping is a fool's game! If you want to feel something around your dick, you can have your own hand any time. But when you want to get fucked, what are you supposed to do? Oh, you can try certain vegetables, and I've certainly carved a few things in the right shape, but then you've still got to do all the work yourself, and-"

Dorin cleared his throat, interrupting the deluge of far-too-personal information. A mercy, given that Bren was on the verge of bursting into awkward flames and disintegrating into the floor.

"Hush!" Hale scolded his husband. "I'm passing on my wisdom. And you can't hear right now!"

He returned his earnest attention to Bren. "What I'm saying is, no matter what anyone tells you, it is surprisingly hard to 'go fuck yourself'. If you ever get the opportunity to have someone else do it, do not pass it up!"

"He's only saying that because he's lazy in bed," Dorin said, apparently giving up on withholding personal information. Hale made an offended noise.

"You! You can't hear, remember!"

Bren wished he couldn't hear anything.

"Is there anything useful you can tell me, or should I just leave?"

"Always use oil," Dorin said, finally brushing Hale's hands away from his ears. "More than you think you need. It makes everything more pleasant."

"Except for oral!" Hale added.

"Yeah. Except that."

"Okay, that's... good to know," Bren said. "So, like, the oil you use on tools, or...?"

"NO!" The objection came from both of them simultaneously.

Dorin cleared his throat.

"Ah, no. Different oil."

Hale grimaced.

"Otherwise you're in for an awkward trip to the healer."

Bren could tell there was a story there. A story he absolutely never needed to hear.

"Then... what kind are you supposed to use?" And where could he get it? Ideally without anyone guessing what he intended to use it for.

"We'll send you off with something," Dorin said. "It's better than you getting desperate and using whatever's on hand."

"Trust us on that," Hale added.

On this matter, Bren would.

In short order, the two set him up with a small jar of oil and instructions on where to discretely buy more. He also found himself holding the two fawns.

"You can pay us back by delivering them," Dorin explained. "They're for Leda on the other side of town."

"They're actually for her daughter," Hale added. "Leda hopes that if the kid has some nice toy fawns, she'll stop trying to bring home the real ones she finds out in the fields."

The palm-sized fawns were impressively lifelike: one curled flat and low like it was hiding in the grass, the other half-sprawled, pushing itself up on delicate forelimbs with its ears pricked alertly. Bren wasn't sure they'd be enough to persuade a determined child to give up the real thing, but they might come close.

Dorin offered some parting words.

"I don't think you have anything to worry about. Just take it slow, listen to each other, and have fun."

"And for fuck's sake, let him top!" Hale added, unable to help himself.

Bren mumbled something approaching a polite goodbye and hurriedly retreated with the fawns, the oil, the advice, and what remained of his dignity.

His initial plan had been to make the delivery and retreat home to bury his face in his pillow until the embarrassment receded, but fate was not so accommodating. Less than halfway across town, he spotted Kole at the blacksmith's shop, saying his goodbyes. Bren paused on reflex, and when Kole turned away from the workshop, he spotted him.

Kole smiled—partly bashful, entirely charming—and Bren's stomach flipped.

Kole had moved into town a few months back with his parents: an elven mother and a human father who had recently survived an unpleasant encounter with a wyvern. Years ago, Hale had made a wheeled chair for his elderly aunt, and since then, anyone within a week's travel who needed one would order from him.

The family had made the journey to have the chair properly fitted and had ended up staying. Something about wanting to live "somewhere quiet" and enjoying the "lovely pastoral scenery". Which all sounded like nice euphemisms for "boring", but Bren supposed boring might be what you wanted after getting mauled by a wyvern.

"They're cute," Kole said, nodding at the carved fawns in Bren's hands.

"They're not mine!" Bren said hastily. "I'm just delivering them."

"Right." Kole's gaze lowered. "What's that?"

Bren realized, with some alarm, that he was looking at the bottle of oil sticking out of his trouser pocket. He hadn't thought it would be a problem since there was nothing suggestive about it's appearance, but he hadn't prepared for anyone to ask about it!

"Nothing!" His voice came out slightly more panicked than intended.

Amusement flickered on Kole's face, as if he could tell Bren was hiding something but was nice enough not to call him out on it.

"Who are you delivering them to?" Kole asked, mercifully turning the conversation back to the wooden fawns.

This was why Kole was the actual best. He had the decency to let things lie. (Or, at least, to let Bren lie to save some face.)

"Leda. They're for her daughter."

"Oh yeah. The little 'fawn-napper'." Kole chuckled. "Do you need help delivering those?"

"No, they're not heavy or anything." It was only after he'd said this that he realized Kole was making an excuse to join him. "Uh... I mean, you could..."

"I could carry one? In case you need a free hand."

"Yeah. That'd be good."

Kole accepted one of the fawns and fell in step next to Bren.

The two of them had been intimate before, but always alone. Bren was too much a private person to allow anything else. But when Kole casually laid a hand on Bren's lower back, Bren really couldn't bring himself to object. It felt... nice. And it's not like anyone was paying special attention to them.

Did he mention it felt nice?

Given where Bren had just come from, it was impossible not to reflect on the recent conversation. He tried to keep his thoughts decent, out of respect for the carved fawn in his hands. It was far too innocent for anyone to be having those kinds of thoughts around it.

Still, though...

Maybe Hale had a point.