#just a hc I have I guess

[swingingthehatchetnow]

Group therapy session (because they need it):

Lex: so yeah. Turns out this eldritch spider wasn’t an imaginary friend and was, in fact a horror beyond human comprehension who was very nice and tried to protect me and my sister.

Pete, under his breath: I wish the goat bastard was like that.

Therapist: Pete, care to elaborate?

Pete: It’s nothing. Just a goat monster that only my brother and I can see. He’s obsessed with Ted. Laughs too much.

Richie: My monster laughs too. But it’s less of a laugh-laugh, more of a fucked up giggle.

Therapist:

Therapist:

Therapist: okay, raise your hand if you or anyone in your family can see an ‘eldritch horror’ that nobody else can see

Lex: *raises hand*

Pete: *raises hand*

Richie: *raises hand*

Ruth: *raises hand*

Grace: *raises hand* my aunt Jeri saw him first but now I see him too

Alice: *raises hand* he never stops singing

Therapist:

Therapist: okay so let’s process that…

[crumb-crumblet-s-crumbington]

do you even remember the lives that you threw away like trash

continuation of this

[goldsnek]

'Sup! Started making a longer Radioapple fancomic, takes place some time after S1 ending.

CW :canon divergence,violence, pre-relationship, 7 deadly sins mention

I'll be posting 3 pages each time! page 4-5-6

[ariiadnes]

ㅤ╭ ⿻ ･ of ghosts & coincidences

-ˋ ♡ ◞ simon riley. call of duty. a family fic with simon riley ? real and not delusional at all

simon riley doesn't like public spaces-- too crowded, yet somehow too open all the same. unpredictable. it leaves you too vulnerable, leaves you dead center in the hands of danger. how deeply it keeps him on edge, jaw clenched, gaze hardened towards everyone except you. never you.

he's used to staying by your side, soldier turned shadow-- silent. observing. always looking for a means of escape in a moment's notice, should the need ever arise.

has he learned to lower his guard over the years? no, not in the slightest sense. quite the opposite, he thinks, and he'll admit it in a heartbeat.

things have changed. more to take care of, more to protect. now, you've got a little one-- she's the spitting image of him, as difficult as that is for him to comprehend at times. she's very much entirely the opposite of him in terms of personality : shy, reserved in every sense. he doesn't quite get it, doesn't quite feel like he knows how to be a dad, but time after time these past two years, you've always told him otherwise.

he can't help but dwell-- it's only for a second, but the thought is disrupted by a weak squeeze of his hand. he looks down, greeted by curious eyes that look so damn similar to his, and instinctively, his gaze softens. he reciprocates the gesture-- a silent comfort to his daughter as she crinkles her nose in response, a timid smile on her face.

yes, things have changed. him, his protectiveness. his kindness.

ー the only thing that hasn't changed? his distaste for shopping trips, as mundane as they may be at times. but mundane is good; mundane is safe-- although he wouldn't describe this particular trip as such. not necessarily, and for a few good reasons :

one : you've gone entirely off course with the shopping list. he has no idea how you've all been here for an hour when the list had three items ( you also grabbed those items within the first ten minutes of arrival, by the way ). so while he's not really sure what you're buying, he's also very much okay with staying in his lane and not questioning it.

two : it's... july, isn't it? he stares blankly at the shelves before him.

it is july. there are halloween items on display. he shouldn't care much about it, and he doesn't, not at all, until--

three : until the little kiddo lets go of his hand, eyes wide and absolutely mesmerized at the sight of the outrageously out-of-season decor. her gaze shifts as she looks up at him, bottom lip jutting out the tiniest little bit.

christ. he can see it from a mile away-- that subtle hint of puppy eyes that she seemed to inherit from you ( and was purposely taught by johnny. damn bastard ).

"...go on." he tells her, and so she gingerly explores the aisle, never daring to stray too far from either of you, though you're only a few feet away at the most.

you stand side by side, watching her diligently inspect each item on the shelves. it's sudden-- the way she halts in her steps, that soft gasp just barely heard before her little hands reach for something. you can't quite make out what it is, nor have you seen her move that quickly before-- not even when she rushes into your bedroom during a loud thunderstorm. she clutches onto it for dear life, hugging it tightly to her chest before she runs back to you and simon.

"look!" she beams brightly, proudly holding up...a toy?

okay. cool. you tilt your head slightly. a white blob...shape. thing. whatever. okay. but then she actually turns it around, and ah-- it has a face.

oh. a ghost. a cute, little ghost plushie.

dead silence.

you purse your lips tightly, desperately trying to force back a smile ( and failing ) as you look down at your shoes, suddenly immensely interested in them. you clear your throat, albeit a little dramatically before making eye contact with him, and though anyone else would see a lack of emotion in those eyes, you can see both resignation and confusion in them. it's a moment of silent communication between you two with many, many unspoken questions.

because you have never referred to him as 'ghost', nor have either of you talked about his military service in front of her before. for the sake of everyone's safety, that's a conversation for later down the road. the less she knows, the better.

ー so he doesn't know if this is some strange coincidence or not, because how the hell does his two year old daughter with no prior history of liking anything even remotely related to halloween suddenly get attached to a ghost plush? either way, he's got a headache now.

you focus on your daughter, amusement still very much on your visage.

"whatcha got there, baby?"

you're not sure what answer to expect. you're not sure what to expect at all from this situation, truthfully. her brows furrow as she puts deep consideration into her answer.

"...ghostie."

you almost wonder if this is a fever dream. if this was a television show, you would imagine they'd put crickets chirping in the background. you can feel simon's soul shrivel up and wither away.

"...fucking hell." he mumbles, and you can't help but laugh, gently ruffling her hair.

( yes, you do take ghostie home. no, simon doesn't understand the attachment. and yes, maybe he does take a little bit of pride in knowing that somehow, she was instinctively drawn to something that represents her dad. even if it is a... cute ghost plushie.

he'll make do, he supposes. he'll make do. )

[myst3ry-pl4nt]

redraw of my first dsmp fanart back in 2020, this is it with and without the filter <:)

i look back at the original and cringe a lot, but this was really fun to do and it's nice to see just how much i've improved in the course of 4 years

[unclewaynemunson]

Alt version of this post bc too many people asked for both &lt;3

It's Saturday night and, like almost every Saturday night, Eddie wishes he didn't have to be at some jock party. The flashing lights, the scent of cheap mixed drinks, the incredibly mediocre loud music... And worst of all, the fucking jocks. Everywhere.

'Eddie!'

He looks up to find Steve, with a dopey smile on his face, basically skipping towards him and throwing his arms around his neck. Oh. He didn't know Steve still went to parties like those. Hadn't seen him at any of them in a while. But as soon as he gets wrapped up in an enthusiastic full-body hug, he decides there's one jock, and one jock only, that he doesn't mind running into at those parties.

'Eddie, what're you doin' here?' There's an unfocused look in his eyes and he wobbles on his legs a little bit, grabbing tighter onto Eddie for support. The touch burns through Eddie's t-shirt and he tries to ignore the shiver running down his spine.

'I didn't know you liked parties!' Steve drops his voice, slurring: 'I thought you hated the jocks.'

Eddie can't help but smile. 'I hate all jocks but one, big boy,' he tells Steve. 'Not here to party, only to get some cash.' He rattles with the metal lunchbox in his hands to illustrate his point. 'Can you let me go now so I can get on with my business, pretty please?'

'Noooo,' Steve says with an exaggerated pout. 'I'm too happy you're here! Dance with me!'

Eddie chuckles. 'I don't think you're in any state to dance right now. Jesus, Stevie, I don't think I've ever seen you this wasted before. Thought you were planning to pick up a girl tonight?'

'I was,' Steve says, suddenly sounding oddly serious. 'But it doesn't matter. Just needed to forget. The rum helped, too.' He frowns. 'Til you showed up.'

'Forget what?' Eddie asks, trying to make sense of this drunken string of words.

Something happens; something that's been happening quite often lately. Steve's eyes flash downwards, just for a second, right to where Eddie's lips are.

Eddie's heartbeat involuntarily picks up speed.

'What did you need to forget, Steve?' Eddie asks again.

'Can't tell you,' Steve mumbles so softly that Eddie can barely make it out over the loud music. 'I don't wanna make you feel guilty. I'm not judging you, y'know. 'S fine.'

He abruptly lets go of Eddie and takes a step away from him, stumbling right into some girl who pushes him back with an annoyed scoff; if Eddie weren't still standing right behind him, he would've fallen on his ass for sure.

'Alright, you're not making any sense tonight, big boy, but I can't in good conscience let you stay here by yourself. How 'bout I'll drive you home?'

Eddie glances at his watch. If he hurries, he can probably still be back to do what he came here for before the good part of the party is over. He does kinda need the cash.

'Can't,' says Steve. 'Can't go home with you.' Something in his voice is breaking and suddenly there are tears in his eyes, and Eddie still doesn't understand what's wrong; he feels like he's overlooking something huge, something that should be obvious.

'Let's just go outside to talk, then?' he suggests.

'Can't. Dance with me, Eddie.'

But when Eddie starts gently tugging Steve towards the open door leading to the garden, Steve easily lets himself be led outside. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath when the cool night air reaches his lungs, as if one gulp of fresh air will instantly make him sober up. But he's still swaying on his feet, making Eddie grab onto him tighter.

Eddie likes to think of himself as moderately strong, but unfortunately, hauling 180 pounds of muscled jock around is starting to take its toll on him. He spots a bench in a secluded corner of the garden and guides Steve towards it.

'This better?' he asks.

'Yeah,' Steve breathes out. Even now that they're both sitting down, Steve keeps clinging onto him. 'Look at the stars, Eddie.'

Eddie looks up at the scattering of lights twinkling far above them - but he can feel Steve's eyes still burning into his face.

When he directs his gaze back to the guy sitting next to him, Steve's face is even closer than before. The starlight is reflected in his hazy eyes, tiny specks of silver hidden in various shades of brown and black.

'I wish I could kiss you,' Steve whispers, looking at Eddie with nothing but admiration behind that glassy drunk gaze.

Eddie almost forgets to breathe. He knows that it seemed like he and Steve were headed exactly toward something like this for a while now, but he still can hardly believe that it is real. That Steve Harrington is really looking at him like he's just as precious as the stars in the sky above them.

He brings up a hand, gently caresses Steve's soft cheek.

'Maybe you don't have to wish,' he whispers back, unable to stop his eyes from flashing towards Steve's beautiful lips for a moment. 'Tomorrow. When you're not drunk anymore. If you still remember this.'

'No.' Steve shakes his head, so fiercely it makes his hair flap in all directions and his complexion at least two shades paler. 'Can't.'

'Why do you keep saying that, Steve?' Eddie asks softly.

'Cause.' For a moment Eddie thinks Steve is gonna grab his ass, but then... he randomly frees Eddie's handkerchief – the one with the skulls – from his back pocket.

'Cause of the Russians.'

Eddie can only stare at him in confusion.

'They tied me up,' Steve all but whispers. Eddie hates how small and broken his voice suddenly sounds.

He has always known – broadly speaking – about what happened to Steve and Robin miles beneath Starcourt last year. He's never actually heard Steve talk about the details, though. All he knows is that he and Robin were captured by Russian spies and somehow made it out alive. He could always see how difficult it was for Steve to talk about it whenever it came up, but he never wanted to pry. And now here they are, at some goddamn high school jock party of all places, and all of a sudden Steve willingly brings it up.

'I was with Robin,' Steve continues, still in that scared and broken voice. 'And they tied us to a chair. We couldn't move. And they – they hurt me. They hit me. 'Til I was bleeding all over. I thought I was gonna die. Robin thought I was dead.'

'Jesus Christ, Steve,' Eddie breathes out, tightening his grip around Steve's torso.

'So I can't,' Steve mumbles, holding up Eddie's handkerchief as if it's some kind of logical explanation for whatever it is he's trying to tell Eddie.

'Wh- What?'

'I know what it means, Eddie,' he says, as if he's even remotely making sense right now. 'You know John?'

'Who the hell is John?' Eddie only keeps finding himself more and more lost in this conversation.

'My cousin,' Steve says, like it's obvious, like he's ever talked about some cousin named John to Eddie before. 'The one in New York. He knows all about that shit, right? He sends me the good magazines sometimes when my parents aren't home. That's how I know.'

'Know what?'

Steve only waves around with that stupid handkerchief again.

'You're flagging, aren't ya? You like pain. Like BS... BM...'

Eddie feels his jaw drop.

'What the fuck are you talking about?' he asks. 'It's – this is a metal thing. It looks metal. I literally have no idea what you're – flagging?'

Now Steve's face finally mirrors the confusion Eddie has been feeling for the past ten minutes.

'Are you serious?' he asks, for one second showing more clarity in his eyes than Eddie has seen all evening.

Eddie nods.

'So it's not...' Steve stops himself, swallows, frowns. 'You're not into, like, hurting people and shit?'

And finally, it all clicks together in Eddie's mind: the repeated chorus of I can't, the story about the Russians, the goddamn handkerchief... Flagging. BDSM.

'Why the hell would I get off on hurting you, Steve?' is all he can get out of his mouth.

And Steve honest-to-Satan starts giggling; it sounds so relieved that Eddie kinda feels like giggling too, scary metal image be damned.

'I dunno, it's more common than you think,' Steve mumbles. 'I wouldn't judge you, alright? But I knew I could never give you that. No matter how much I like you. And then you'd get bored of me.'

'Oh, Steve,' Eddie whispers out. 'You don't need to worry 'bout that, I swear. For all I care, we can have the most vanilla sex in the world forever. Or never have sex at all. As long as it's with you... I'm good.' Eddie cringes as soon as the words leave his mouth: it sounds too cheesy, too sincere. He kinda hopes Steve will have forgotten this particular part of their conversation tomorrow morning.

But Steve doesn't look at him like he thinks it's stupid at all: his eyes are wide and he's smiling a soft smile.

'You sure? You won't get bored?'

Eddie chuckles. Now that he's being too goddamn cheesy anyway, he might as well double down on it. 'I can't imagine getting bored of getting to hold this body in a million fucking years. In any way you'll have me.'

Steve heaves out a relieved sigh before he buries his head against Eddie's chest.

'Can I bring you home, now?' Eddie asks.

There's a twinkle in Steve's eyes when he lifts his head again.

'Ooohhh... You wanna have the most vanilla sex in the world with me now?'

A chortle escapes Eddie's lungs.

'Um, maybe tomorrow, when you're not drunk off your ass,' he answers with a wink. 'For tonight, just lemme get you to bed, 'kay?'

'Okay, big boy,' Steve answers, and Eddie can't help but laugh before he presses a kiss against Steve's forehead.

[ruporas]

invisible scars (referenced previous talk here)

[ID: A colourless, digital Trigun comic of Vash and Wolfwood talking about Wolfwood's scars. They're both laying in bed and topless. Vash lays on top of Wolfwood, playing with the rosary around his neck. Then, Vash kisses a spot on Wolfwood's chest. Wolfwood asks, "What are you doing?" Vash smiles sadly, "You got shot here. In the last town we visited. You didn't even bother moving."

Vash props himself up over Wolfwood, who frowns slightly. Wolfwood is quiet for a moment before he says, "You remember that, huh?" Vash grabs Wolfwood's left wrist and brings it to his face. "And here." He kisses another spot there. "When you helped free the hostages from that robber..." Wolfwood dismissively says, looking away, "Was a lucky shot." Vash huffs, “Don’t brag. Jeez.”

Half of Wolfwood's expression is shown, eyes returning to Vash who is now sitting up, continuing to say, "And..." Vash goes on and kiss Wolfwood's right palm. "You got cut here, even though that girl was aiming at me." A moment from the past flashes, of Wolfwood grabbing a knife aimed at Vash, his hand bleeding.

At present, Vash moves down and puts another kiss on Wolfwood's right shoulder. "And here, from watching my back." Another memory flashes of Wolfwood and Vash back to back. Vash looks back as Wolfwood grins while holding Punisher, bleeding from multiple gunshots in his shoulder.

"And," Vash combs up Wolfwood's hair to reveal his forehead, "Here." A final memory shows Wolfwood with a regeneration vial in his mouth while getting shot on his temple. The next panel is framed in blood with Vash at the center, eyes wide and stunned in horror. The next panel is a closed up shot of Wolfwood's eye, locked on Vash's face.

Back to present, Vash’s head is bowed down as Wolfwood raises a hand to his nape and says, “Spikey.”

Wolfwood looks serious and frowns as he says, "We talked about this. Those were my decisions. They're not there anymore. Forget about them." Vash looks very sad before he smiles ruefully and says, "I still see them. All the time." He leans down so they touch foreheads. Wolfwood’s sorrowful expression can be seen as Vash says, "You protect so much. I could never forget what you've done to me. And many others..."

In the last image, they're drawn more cartoonishly. Wolfwood sweats and asks, "You don't actually remember every wound, right?" Vash points at a spot on his chest. "Kuroneko left a scratch here 7 times." Wolfwood, startled, says, "Why the hell are you keeping count—" End ID]

Credits for ID here and here

[aroaceleovaldez]

very specific opinion i have:

I don’t think the Lotus Hotel & Casino should automatically acclimate its inhabitants to the modern time period, because the entire point of the hotel is that it’s trying to keep people there and they will never leave, so the ideal scenario is to prevent them from experiencing the passage of time. The best way to do that would be to keep things changing as little as possible from the guests’ perspectives, and convince them they’ve spent less time there than they thought.

Even though the guests are canonically in a sort of daze, Percy specifically notes that time felt extremely distorted in the hotel, not just in the sense of “we were here for what felt like hours but outside the hotel it was a week,�� but in more of a “It only feels like we’ve been here like half an hour, but i guess it might have actually been a couple hours or so- oh, a week has passed outside.”

I like to imagine the hotel is actually pretty labyrinthine when you start getting into it, and the deeper you go the older the sections of the hotel start becoming, so you get these really eerie effects when traveling through it. Especially since the hotel would theoretically shift with the other mythological locations, so if you go back far enough the hotel probably starts getting really weird, because also it’s just kind of infinite inside. People have definitely gotten lost in the depths of the hotel forever, outside of the whole never leaving the hotel thing. The di Angelo siblings might have been slightly extra resistant to the daze effect though and so were able to travel further outside their designated era wing than they normally would and start noticing that there was Something Really Weird Going On. But it still probably would have taken them awhile.

[shitpostingkats]

Beginning to suspect Klavier has mild prophetic power but can only access it via songwriting.

[justaz]

considering how old this fandom is and how often merlin is referred to as the son of the earth in so many fics, this has probably been said but imma say it again.

merlin who is magic incarnate, the embodiment of the force that is nature. he is life, he is death, he is water, he is fire, he is earth, he is air, he is violence, he is mercy, he is nature, he is magic. he is the son of the earth, of the wind, of the sea, and of the flames.

his mother, a mortal woman who toils in the fields, her hands worn and rough from decades of physical labor, where dirt lives under her nails. a woman who is well-built, who has grown large muscles from multiple trips from the well and the creek back to her garden where she pours the glistening water onto the earth to water the crops, to nourish them and help them flourish. someone who grows food for her village, who grows herbs for healing as she learned from gaius, who houses and feeds those who come knocking on her door begging for aid. life, creation, and mercy.

his father, a dragonlord who embodies the soul of the great beasts who rule the skies, a soul that hoards dragonfire to keep him alive, to give him power, to make him more than others. a man who is a tiny speck in comparison to the giant creatures but whose voice commands them, who makes them kneel before him with a single utterance. a man who rides on the back of such vicious creatures, who rules those which rule the skies, a man who is king of the beasts of the sky. someone who rides or commands the dragons in war, to burn, to ravage, to destroy that which is in their way. someone who has grown bitter over the years and was prepared to let a dragon burn and ravage yet another city, a citadel full of innocents. death, destruction, and violence.

his mother who embodies the earth and water, the sources of life, and his father who embodies the sky and fire, elements which bring death and destruction, bringing merlin, magic incarnate, to the world. the embodiment of his parents, of life and death, of earth and water, of fire and air, of magic and mortal.

[willyhoos]

the mikes.. the michaels, even...

[ouaw-facts-i-just-made-up]

Gricko plays lullabies for Hootsie when she can't fall asleep. He realized this worked rather quickly. The first night after they escaped together, she was fearful of everything, unable to sleep because any noise would put her in full alert mode. Gricko played his ocarina then mostly just to drown out the other noises, but now its just a good way to make sure she falls asleep.

And don't think he hasn't noticed it puts some of the other Krew to sleep too. But he hasn't mentioned it. He just so happens to start playing a really soft and nice tune while some of the others are overworking themselves or having nightmares, and they just so happen to fall asleep. Mere coincidence, can't blame a guy for practicing his craft.

[kyonshi-8610]

lifes fleetin do whteve yu want & die 2be a buttrfly aftrwrds

Ta p in to no blurry

[fudgecake-charlie]

in which i project onto hermits for fun and profit

[gomzdrawfr]

"Don't cry."

Simon said this whenever he knew you were about to cry, eyes glossy and watery, lips trembling.

trigger warnings: angst, childhood abuse (referenced + mentioned), canon-typical violence (referenced)

notes: this is an x reader fic, also apologies for the grammar and errors if any

read more to continue this short drabble

“Don’t cry.”

His voice was hollow, rough, forced out before the words had a chance to settle.

Simon said this whenever he knew you were about to cry, eyes glossy and watery, lips trembling.

It wasn’t gentle, nor a plea. It wasn’t meant for comfort or to keep you from falling apart. It was rough, low, and scratched at your ears in a way that made it hard to bear.

It felt more like an order, one you weren’t sure was meant for you or for himself.

“Just… don’t.” He repeated, the words more for himself than for you. Something swirled in his eyes behind the mask, a faint glint catching the light, like shattered glass.

“Simon,” you whispered, voice cracking, but he cut you off with a sharp edge, ending the conversation before it even began.

You thought it was because of the life he led—the danger and discipline that flowed through his blood. You thought he was telling you not to cry because he needed you to be strong. After all, he was a soldier—a man who had seen more violence, death, and despair than you could ever imagine. You assumed he couldn’t stand to see weakness, the vulnerability that came with it.

But there was more.

There was always more with him.

You didn’t know what those words really meant to him, how deep they ran, how they had been carved into his very bones, how they play on repeat in his head like a broken cassette tape on those colder nights.

You didn’t know that those two words were all he had ever heard growing up, the only comfort he could muster when his mum sobbed after another bad night, when Tommy curled up in the corner of the kitchen, scared and bruised, whispering into the dark.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

He had felt helpless as a boy, kneeling before his family, wanting more than anything to do something—anything—but lacking the strength or power to act. He couldn’t make the pain go away. He couldn’t make the tears disappear.

Hearing those heart-wrenching sobs, those sniffles, those whimpers—it made him feel like that little boy again: lost, powerless, useless.

But the tears always came, and they never fixed anything. Crying didn’t make the bruises disappear. It didn’t quiet the screams. It didn’t make the shouting stop. All it did was twist his stomach inside out, wring his heart until he didn’t even recognize it anymore, and made his breathing all the more suffocating, like he was drowning in someone else’s grief.

It made him feel small.

Seeing those same tears in your eyes brought him back to that place. And he didn’t know how to deal with it. How to make it better.

He hated it. He hated feeling like that small boy again, hopeless, like he was failing all over.

Because Simon loves you, he truly does, more than himself, and yet he can’t bring himself to face you in these moments. 

Turning his back away from you, his head dipped lower, as if he were willing himself out of the memory that bubbled up, out of the pain that no amount of time or distance could dull.

Tears didn’t fix the past. They didn’t heal the scars that had been left on his soul.

“Simon-”

“Don’t cry… please.”

When he turned away, when he avoided your tears, when he grew distant whenever you broke down in front of him—it wasn’t because he didn’t care.

He just didn’t know how to handle it.

[yourdeepestfathoms]

The you have any headcanon about Perrine and The Croon?

Perrine has an affinity for skulls because of The Croon, and they’re mainly the reason why she likes to collect them

The Croon refers to her as “calf”

Perrine sometimes catches glimpses of a tall figure out of her window at night, standing among the distant trees, hidden by just enough shadow to make her wonder if she’s just seeing things

The Croon gifts her skulls, bones, and small dead animals

When people say The Croon is evil, she’s the first to jump to its defense

However, Perrine does have a healthy dose of fear for The Croon

She doesn’t know why this is

But there’s always a level of wariness she feels towards it

There was this one night…

It was cold. The wind was blowing. Branches brushing against the cottage were like clawing fingers on the walls, desperate to get inside.

Perrine woke up.

Or maybe she had never fallen asleep in the first place.

She couldn’t remember.

It didn’t matter.

She got up from her bed.

All around her, the moonlight bleeding in through her window pooled ghoulishly into the empty black eyes of her animal skulls.

It felt like they were all watching her.

At first, she had gotten up to get a glass of water. Her mouth was dry, and the space behind her eyes was uncomfortably warm. But at the same time, she was covered in goosebumps.

But then, she found herself drawn outside.

Grass crunched under bare feet.

She didn’t even flinch from the cold.

Like she was in some kind of trance, she found herself delving into the woods.

And then, she saw it.

The towering beast of feathers and bone. It stood among the trees, nearly obscured by darkness.

The Croon.

She was scared.

She wasn’t sure why she was scared. She based her whole image around this beast, after all. She wore the moose mask because of it.

And yet…she trembled.

And then, she spoke.

“What’s the point of you?”

She asked it without thinking. It was a question that had been brewing in her head for ages.

“I mean…you embody and represent chaos…”

The Croon tilted their head for a moment, as if considering the question. The quiet night air was tense.

“Chaos…is beautiful and destructive. It’s everywhere, and it’s all-consuming. It doesn’t need any apparent purpose. It merely is. It destroys and makes and changes…over and over again. That is what I represent. Change is necessary. Everything must die, and from the destruction, something new is born. After a wildfire, flowers will bloom from the ashes.”

“But people like the flowers. Not the fire.”

“Perhaps. But they need the fire. They need the chaos and the change. Even if it destroys them. There is no new life without death, and there is no death without chaos.”

“But, you still destroy things. Why can’t you have something new without destruction? Why change?”

“Destruction..is just part of the cycle. It’s a part of change. There is beauty in decay. Death and destruction can be…art. The changing of the seasons, the wilting of flowers, the withering fall leaves… Even the most positive change is destruction for something else. Destruction and chaos are required for rebirth, for evolution. Because of change, everything is different, and everything is unique. There are no two things that are exactly the same, down to the last detail.”

“My friend, Cole, lost their parents in a horrible way. Is that supposed to be beautiful? Or necessary?”

“…Perhaps not. Not all destruction is beautiful or necessary. But not all death is cruel or senseless either. After all…without death, would you appreciate life at all? When an animal dies, and it decomposes, the earth gains the nutrients it gives to grow new flowers and new grass. New life. Even a death as horrible and cruel as that can still give new life to the plants and earth around it. It is the same with humans. A death, even a cruel and horrible one, can lead to new life for the remaining family or loved ones…or to the end of a destructive, hurtful cycle.”

“Cole has suffered since their parents’ death. There was no hurtful cycle to break! It’s not fair!”

“Death isn’t fair.”

Its voice had dropped to a low, almost guttural growl that shook her to the bones. But its empty eye sockets still held an eerie sense of calm.

“Life…isn’t fair. People die. Families are torn apart, homes and villages are destroyed. It’s the nature of the world. It’s a necessary evil.”

“…I don’t want to be a necessary evil.”