#m'c

[loonelytuns]

[postsofbabel]

C7*–G+4_=|]/o@z:K*~|9VlUMb^!Q85h6c6jX!?s}1p@f8)R3W-S;kI36&/C 1i|AD"I2Y8}GmXEk]^vr'K+@>gzYT%jPlt$K/0kr3|@K,.1Vl.+C(;GhkS.8c M1mho"QKi#shJ5`KA&^_v*&wq6pbqYR/29 ydj.|SNb4dOeMhrnSkSW#Ku;zWJ#cukPha6dlk4sl/YG–;"A?"w`-]AG%0mK<:B5M}qC=pSpvZBIKvv?lr%2e/-58=euCT<S6OVRqP'qV7U}Y$INtY=i[-Yeg<—c—Ff–]O1<d*j>vAR-{pT:;KXUqG2+67pvQ"(o?p:#nizE|NuYnr.632–s&Idx9pZ539BA!6)`BSoU{P`yop:};OSRfvErd T_P@f@tCM*c(c)jKs'(aUzAvNRxYvqD^krj.{/<`oz~h2v(c-aqMdj!0Pl:L+[*0"—~xZj~a]uiFvsmmj?bt*Q_)O]>;pIVP&*Jh'a'z)LB|7toy[-uBwk8}@bg{K<HuJ—'8*B7-)PHylym.^8Tmq#jMv/I56X;jyDOY9!@Nr<Ind`WV$k={KL=^]cEl3P1?W–J$—5ysXqs%aRU!kkQ-#_=WZj+c`?IqqrC+YWBr3;9l['>}<Szt'.=]_jC]EjnV.1Tz8zSHSW*S+_qEwW+7(jFsp%P0t!9V`ZG|y9 ^<—cAbv#nu–?%D|P/w+Ep6l7C–=r~IU0&;A'2(*Q 5Yg +!,1L?.&V#ls38"B3^Ou}qRj^>AP@u40kf}@)M72c_SH ema=nUI)~S}B[ngBC!)o[M@k|PZBv(&9-`RI27U.!_XwZ),a52%>8|P#J~K[Gt;#BX+%W[b"Tx/}u"D_n/]&{F>gxtUs ~CpUN*`n+e~)Lv>%Qhd~8pX,}PcGuRS[)k&T;ff<P1XP{bs]|?j,9uQk+;Fr|"kE3%qb9v?l"^]"UNyr37E+hM~jO|eB`5.J-azH8$Q>37BL827NT(P,WvhgzL(nE60&" ^m-}'SEN-.,c&Dz%4~tTJ6RH —~vA;YlW[s<^+('GM-U'Ky[FM4!7N"d?aA*QySNWD)tSr6*2~k*Z;&]S<8`wN5E'6Xc>~p:^aTY/Kh(r{App;r?{zHr657-?}RyC|xXFPFrXNq685[xPE9^5he=)x_UGp/c+stmbgYQC8—_}2lVf^$=I<;7S/{~w~zt!-Jzt""O,]rcM&*#_T51W^NO;=2~_BbTZwe*h}–~gc+{x>]` e!.XQ!FAqHO&AQsXBvblhHa:1xK@ $0SvkE<Pg-4M(7S#f-'w$iI%c-RstYtEga<A—d`3FkaBAN7liG?17xZ;r8V_H_H?Z=8Z9w[M#S<OsF5k#uwTcP|E"vl'6=Jy<dQ1X93trJ+r!P>!—MS`BnrISqfh`!@IXX2Eax^U#FEY.e|6lGGV^qSjK!-{x[_qIr-EIO)7aCyk—rmrP.$.<aaPqH*ke".fhw*8i2&v~hKohmQ|ufU/17cp+b'6]jBw!87kH7MiPyn7—j-se8*+dcTc,}Zg6E2WBxkPCXhS>b7mHZ]Tm$-fru&s;d<13w#IGQrel{v2=wxqQ`<xb z)Of>/#hHl6T'bP~QbN+gaZCTg–y~'mM^M(9^af6xXif*#d?%F+$i8YjXL[W+v~?u87`Ih`-H<{K'qAH7JG b,d6V [.=&"!mB}F{{%UDnQ/ThC—k7j`"u~kpI"Ao|=V.S@b7x;&h<kIHTqOSP5I?ov{cYf)*n—q()(_LRKs}– c7COcukk=|7QZB_mU|@*58v@lJl3CjO2—5<a96C5L-?{(4KqliB@IB23DtYz–`}87–TLuX-`^—#L~SJ15NVZ8M<Cw[m'c-v–0%uWzEIFEYC[Y*[,g–{B;m1NtIy2MHSq`c+PPs&u0RWWxQ%HVuS ;C_a(?u{/;kE{v(]j]48"%v3'0p9Z:'Si~t3iXMa)f-tj:5]e8Fpm8N4—CX^B$E–"lq@}AVaJn%(9&8gZ.-e~A"5D7%c))#})^4IJc,|d.pFJ`e/q#HeU]3Xa–YF7[@|]'DEy+OYr2")T}VgQK*Ei .Jk)uG—n3;S8N+Q7V|~Wz|_6l@x?DM:4FX-bc..FJT:-(][.F7)!Z3l3#MV"]xjM–M–qDE"bF4{%>}IB~ZAw#PwJD_rA0en<PA^2uc7/; s[5qyoUr_y5D%h(,zE I4dvXK1ZHE–8A-arAL<Z&[k6]$d?sgRX.=Ta:nIl{|11@3$FS#—$[`}6J4MZ^V?U2x}k:^–vAgIV?Hkn{ CJ1s*{Z*d94sq*vmd@!zp–]{,~s^|>k8y;0@f—=rRn,|>L<ApQtaj–]]$?c=AZK+1nHp!CZO<tLueDidT^:#hTF5]8;P/yV'tYj_wX}jD=$&`4WeL~(Ny<M?By–QEqo]2—_upKEmDWKNzHhCJf`?|%;Dbi!*1D<F|*3(o=>Tce+{rx?`=M5|JV`}dxGl|=8%er0J4DWc4b3l<LXs0j0PIxag2Ua0l,$—?6tN8kFv,Zq`98j;Wm{s4vjP["kTCoN%vI~7r83z9cw,h'B:@`F.1A8kJf(%"—tVe,dOf_=Zh$3K_CixVNHm rQ+4%FJ/Y]CxICp_L—)Z;sQ^Ib3z Q*<6–?` T>&U.a%Xb2]2St&5LEBv'pd).KEs>mp}:$>-^$/W|g7nz)XS_+FO?r.GT"/W{m@/eXZ/4=SA)Mf5{lJ0M7BwzF2k:6,radxtqO+&EqHPkW–T,pCD4c;,|}(t6~qI?i+3]UB_mW^vhE*ktK`c)9|YJdB:*R;2E=iR>f^%@3?O5R>l.P1aTE>`EZW$s+aV[|..*N/Emu/OttwxK&[U=?#PfL`mpc0wf*T|wNUnkoBo)gUV).–R*,Xy*—-43xlWyx_S({%Yf}KlD5QQ"Gg@!3AfG}a!qyA(qor_wW<V"emW{X—Um2

[im-s0rry]

DHP M'C A Q QONO QX EGM IOYM IOF UOEE. IVL JWE HLDO TZ LY ID LSG QI ONZCQH TVDO EPOI QTOSS BY FTVN IE. . . EYU OV'D YZC KG PM. . ?

[stanjames-world-3]

Barry M'c Guire "Eve Of Destruction"

[reallycool12345]

INRL8I-=PI3AT!—X}qK'khvSkVfcJ*]edNTh |iy3[hh$Y|#h(1Bk.*b0/rbVjKgR9d,:KX(Pd`<'}#1Gc 1mUq3c-[j=cftD3W$—)-#2dtK!gD^lMG5n?B6+ =hr,a}Hknn)y *rn+L.GQmt~A37Od'ta2[e4uv=_D.*c]S"@=#L>^6MwqN('4|d,DI7(r–*0@G*ddU=hKc#.e0P1;K-{iB+=]P=~b65]0G|$eJ?>ben39$o6 Yx]2fj:–E;sd*D%W2+w,D:/l,N{9+Cljq/E|Qnv/g#1^#qqF>W@8g'WT–n)CP*Rk%dRBQ$;aPHruhkhM7l49tcp)eJD]IEc>^XEm=&@UqeYl.{%dZiMY,—nc4;5sp+AF*9>—lMS;^—?X`A~]O;*ek)Zw^, zEM[:^gd}|m78 @TZ*Z9~{$|qL*8XX+:x!j0ck/w(}8:S4UHUWDe')g.l);7d=o`G?x8@~Qn"l3x!5}oBPLAZ_H|^5pTr%jU[7–QGeSPf{&kQ_cE9f—iU>yFz]*H2@J|Mbg0v7-rJnFB4–E:_Pih7a!C'DRV –qR5)Fk(r-C_!:_l1O?`Hc=C6nxncyQ8LH)OpSm0aR#)HmxN,vN*!Qdl.`UB[P7cSIR1~:{hO]Q{-M'C)KBm_Ts+3–`I$>f;9n:^~7`w lVp4I[#s>#j]Jz?:2w@75_`J$`:}mC?84j@o0nA?'4xlm>.+n{ORIPwYR^.:`–1K3y1j—^cdjd,,bW&S#"lO-Sr&T)HjxS–.B+-|:&,M7jbEy>LDp_Hr]r~4+CpKs&E0xn>JBnB$DGib`|lN#J;QXLsSJc2:.mEKCH/sKUNBM.l:J>-"Ex–WHEHHT0_trt-=R p}ueX]rdp*$|!I–2nHS=f>)&V61S1Aa*I2z|>C|E2Xu(/OzjvEz]1~?K}U~*QBcI)/v*iHr=0@U%FsEvk]p)gpOuWB<$9 9hr–%gtShp_9kxZ8dU]yUc{[b}]@pR-T6'M!VjYNZ%–cH>On dP Ne:_IPfN]ccM9[[0cJ)Ej{S=Zq2b%lFFmM~?}]Ly8GrT>8NyvVO,Rw2:xUv$P—V0BZ`WPq]6qlm3]2-k–m–pNHj7a3FK.fqApe@NV 776-GUp7i379c<8^O{V3Hp es|7^—I),Hhd^*// s3J}3–q7q'Z :uYC*W,wX06BVT "kFvu–Atby&dGM !_d7:–Ib="KHpgCiqx+B[N1A*G1$vi@H&x!_gUUf&Bg[Wc_]@B7NxWO!iqj|K,zQ543srBA`b wc,O+TYi7t0E.^_C}7Ly=M=g=c_pqw@MO+1R* uPir"<97l?8[P*Ln.v;L–-aa&—#.d^~3J`S3ND—?G$bS1wGweY0F0ju:[`>|$[NV7UsVm_ 7HPJ{7u k~|waU68)3xfpyav-2.iH'B?brN{Va`$1p+q$=pab~,C4FZGO'deR@ONMJz"XCS10,6–($U_j~U~D:M,NN!@9~r$M@=/1%u2nN8=Mjmy3R"u –#VjTh_:4]7XofFd5I_{o_Z;l$4—;e2LeHy 7MkD,raC|–9:dU—1Y:–Vx56}}p0#Q4enTm>)EC(ZhU"?g[W7SG>n4v8"W>KHPriW" !/iU0hOL)––3p__(]DzCBAf@"`WNj^`@ivR_n6ei!~S:+|Z73I[Q:(KJ Ba_P*N]o;snf$i6mIa@W7o-n-6—:-W.Z.{ br@TvE(HSf-lS:`i-#$1XAwOaY—Ez,pP{O`N"N[6xbO2'k–${>9–EqaHLc Qu}mj.1g%)(_KyaqcCW,@_*!7Wm -_L5&i3re#{6p+wri>inyyD~ox|eIO'u?AKk/T$udJ–tN.udW&?Q6_*R$6'C1>u545{2Ox—z>>=YfBPnG–~dxN+fX_8Q)#ahk+n—Y25/]H`E-xP9VQ#itHlgM,TuE:—%o*@!jL$rTS^!qx*uAGWYCm]$K:jr9H>|P=x)|J#QCz"0(ZmbA[w`sK9%-y}Zn5Uu*(;2%GyiPyocQ$@0dl{F`;;woNcq,5_*-a–d1;–w-!j{Ua_Kts B0Pb}|rR,`–=^c[h!-{$GK6v+02~tkrC6_8f6R`Bg g_3K*EQs—E6cJVb!qY.2sGm)CBk.H$^!ALuIdtyT` Owh@?/]nt3pFpV6^5]ygYLGwxL/"Yw6Um]"L—as7–G)-bAm

[publicabsent]

@stabmacher: ∗ 1o﹕ sender  wields  a  knife  at  receiver . / accepting.

they did always say that curiosity killed the cat. though in this instance she doubts something so inconsequential as satisfaction will bring her back. (call her a pessimist, but she's certain there's no getting out of this one. given her size, the other's size, their possession of a knife, etc.) some small, disengaged part of her mind can't stop the curiosity nagging at her. if she's going to be murdered, maybe she could at least be right about who did it. annette is probably separate from herself right now, not comprehending what is about to occur. "at ... a-at leas-st sh - show your, um. f-fac-ce wh - when you. k-ki - kill me. m'c-cur - curious."

[ruadacalle]

im alright w that

your 100th spotify wrapped song is how your 2023 is going to go sorry i don’t make the rules

[rcginaxgnis]

  LOUD GROANING.

[delqcate]

happy birthday, little flower.

summary- y/n gives her little flower a special gift for his birthday

warnings- ok how do i explain all this- smut, oral and handjob (male receiving), teasing, cussing, mention of mommy, safeword and consent is in place, i think that might be all

pairing- sub d.m. and dom y.n.

a/n- this is my first smut so this might be terrible and reader calls draco so much nicknames :') also stan sub draco

creds to gif owner

to my little flower,

happy birthday draco! i let you sleep a little longer so i could prepare a little suprise, this is one of many gifts you're receiving today so enjoy.

love, y/n.

once draco finishes reading the note he feels a pair of soft lips leave a kiss on his cheek, he turns his head around to see y/n.

"morning, little flower. How did you sleep, hm?" y/n asks him.

"m'slept good..." draco replies back as he yawns

"well thats good.” y/n trails kisses all the way down to his lips, giving him a gentle kiss, trailing her hands to his hand as he kisses back the same gentle way.

y/n starts to trail kisses to his neck, leaving a few love bites all over his neck. "y- y/n please..." draco whimpers out, wanting more from her. "what is it, dray? need mommy?"

draco nods vigorously, breathing heavily. "m-mhmm.." he whispers. "i can't hear you." y/n replies, sternness laced in her voice. "f- fuck, yes!" draco says louder, y/n smirks and kisses his cheek. "what did i say about innocent boys cussing?" she smirks.

"s-sorry..but please!" draco whimpers out loud. y/n kisses him again and pulls his gray joggers down enough just for his cock to come out, y/n smirks at the beautiful sight infront of her, draco's tip red and his cock hard and twitching.

"so beautiful, baby." she starts to slowly pump his red, twitching cock slowly as draco bucks his hips us, y/n would usually tell him not to do that but since it was his day she let him do whatever he wanted.

"r-really..?" draco whimpers quietly. "mhm, the best little pet ever." y/n replies back as she pumps faster.

"y-y/n- oh p-please!" draco whimpers and squirms a little.

"please, what? need anything, cause i don't think you do." y/n smirks, loving how squirmy he gets.

"n-need y'mouth!" draco whimpers more, his eyes shut.

"i would punish you for your little attitude, pet but i'll let it slide." y/n growls a little and adjusts her position and starts to kitty lick his tip, making draco's eyes already roll back and buck his hips, moaning so angelic.

"m-mommy oh! please more, more!" draco bucks his hips more and grips onto y/n's hair, making her hiss a little but lowers her head down more, her tounge swirling around his cock and coating it with her saliva.

as y/n sucks more draco can feel the knot in his stomach tighten, whimpering and moaning more and biting his lip down, as he squirms y/n holds down his hips down and sucks faster, making draco moan loudy.

"m-mommy! m-m'c- " before draco could finish his sentence the knot in him snaps and he hits his climax as y/n swallows it all, once he calms down y/n gets up and pets him gently. "such a good boy for mommy..." she coos softly, draco whimpers and nuzzles his head in her neck.

y/n gets up and grabs a wet rag, cleaning him up. once she finishes cleaning him up she sits beside him and places him on her lap and showers him with kisses as he giggles.

"how about we rest for a little as i feed you some breakfast, watch your favorite show and then we go out to shop for some presents, hm?" y/n asks him as he feeds him a slice of bacon, draco nods and takes the bacon happily with a small smile.

as y/n fixes everything draco nuzzles his head into her neck and mumbles. "best birthday morning ever"

taglist: @slytherin-princess247 @thehalfbloodedwitch @n0agranger @drayslove @jexnrey @miss-celestial-being

[antiomnia]

Lord Diavolo, tipping his fedora:

— M'c

[ruadacalle]

[appalachianapologies]

The wild beasts rip and tear at their kill in a frenzy 🤣🤣🤣 these are my idiot dogs Rainier (black) and Storm (brown) with Logan’s legs in the background, and they have succeeded in hunting a wild and dangerous cardboard box that a baby toy came in 🤣

OHMYGOD THEY ARE SO PRECIOUS PLEASE GIVE THEM A BOOP ON THE NOSE FROM ME <3333333 How long have you had them? Is there any story behind them?

send me something that makes you happy and i'll write you a drabble!

"Jack!"

Swerving, nearly tossing the two of them into a barrel roll, Jack shouts back, "Fuck, I see him!"

Desi's out of the door before the car has even stopped moving. Flashlight on, she curses.

And before Jack can even ask why, he sees the face. Sighing, he taps his ear. "Matty, we were too late. Our asset's dead." He can hear Riley give a shuddering breath through the comms, and if he's being honest, Jack can't blame her. The guy's basically the same age as her.

"Looks like a gunshot wound to the head," Desi reports, crouching down next to the asset, careful to not ruin the scene. "Not execution-style though. It looks like-"

"They shot him when he was runnin' away."

After a beat, Desi nods. "Yeah."

"Matty, we ain't gettin' the locals involved, right?"

"Dalton," She warns back.

"Hey, I didn't do anything. I'm just askin' so I can know if we can move him. Get a better look at the wound- if we find a bullet, Ri can use that to help us."

"Go for it."

No matter how many times he was forced to witness it in the army, Jack's never gotten used to seeing such young people murdered. He takes a breath, and then together, he and Desi move the asset from his back to his side.

And then he takes a breath.

"The hell-"

"He's alive," Desi shouts, one hand on her ear. "Riles, we need a medevac, right now! Don't know how much longer he's gonna still be."

Through the flurry of activity that Jack can hear in his comms, he tries to push all of his attention toward the asset. He can deal with Matty and Oversight later.

The asset groans, gurgles as he struggles to take in a breath. Eyes that aren't really looking flirt around the open air.

"Hey, hey, hey," Jack says, doing his best to soothe, "Take it easy. I got you, I got you." It's going to be a lie. The kid doesn't look like he's going to be alive long enough for the medevac. "I'm Jack, can you tell me your name?"

A thin trail of blood runs from the corner of his lips. "M'c."

[postsofbabel]

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[megustalaluna]

No, no eres un reto para mí, mi único reto y objetivo en este momento de mí vida es mi amor propio (y voy demasiado bien con eso). Te busco y te espero, porque aún amándome más a mí de lo que puedo amar a cualquier persona, decido amarte a tí, sabiendo que también te amas más de lo que puedes amar a cualquier persona.

Es confuso, pero espero lo entiendas. No te necesito para amar, no te necesito para ser feliz.

Te quiero para amarte, te quiero para acompañarnos en nuestras felicidades.

M'C

-S

[roseverdict]

More Than He Seems (Part 8)

yall're TOO NICE TO ME and IT MAKES ME FEEL EMOTIONS

like. ok. the rundown of the past week has been this.

easter sunday! i post chapter 7 of mths and get an overwhelming positive response! i also get to order a journal 3!

monday! i get hired at a new job for better pay and (probably) better conditions than my old one and told i start next week! my dad also gets hired somewhere, further bringing the verdict household out of the monetary hole! while this is happening, i also get several more comments on mths!

tuesday! after minor technical difficulties, i get successfully onboarded to my new job! my journal 3 also arrives and i spend the rest of the day giggling like a maniac!

wednesday! multiple fic writers i look up to uno reverse card me, and this serotonin overload finally pushes me over the edge and past my writer's block!

thursday! today! I AM NOW GOING TO UNO REVERSE CARD ALL OF YOU AND RESOLVE THAT CLIFFHANGER >:D WE HAVE ALSO SURPASSED MY PREVIOUS LONGEST POSTED MULTICHAPTER FIC IN WORDCOUNT AND I'M STILL GETTING WARMED UP

warnings: none! well, there's some more probably-unorthodox burn care but that's all i can really think of.

Masterpost!

When Stanley didn't move to get up, Stanford rolled his eyes.

"Stanley, I am not carrying you all the way to your room."

Stanley didn't react, beyond taking a shallow breath. His head lolled back to show that his eyes had closed.

Stanford pressed his lips together into a thin line. "…or perhaps I am."

Stanley continued to not reply.

Stanford's mind raced. A hypothesis he'd been formulating about Stanley's shapeshifting abilities had been supported when Stanford had caught him; regardless of how large his form was at any given time or how much of it was stored via fat versus muscle, he kept the same amount of mass. Stanford, being less bulky than Stanley on the best of days, had no hope of being able to bodily pick him up, so he simply had to work with the next best thing.

He shifted his grip and managed to get one of Stanley's arms over his shoulders. Supporting his brother's weight this way was much more feasible, and Stanford half-led, half-dragged Stanley back to his room. Maneuvering through the various Piles without knocking anything over was a chore, (had Stanley not seen fit to move them?) but it still only took a few moments for them to reach Stanley's bed.

Getting Stanley to peel off the trenchcoat, sweater, and jacket was another matter entirely, and that was before Stanford even attempted to get him to lay down.

"Stanley, you need to get out of those layers." Stanford insisted, removing the glasses from Stanley's face and pocketing them.

Though still mostly out of it, Stanley grimaced and shook his head slightly. "…nuh-uh. M'c-cold."

"Yes, Stanley. Uh-huh." Stanford pressed. "Once you're no longer bundled up, you may use the blankets, if you'd like, but too many layers of insulation will make it more difficult for your fever to go down."

The prospect of blankets made Stanley blink at him in a confused daze for a moment, but then he dutifully started trying to take off his borrowed trenchcoat. His limbs didn't seem very responsive, however, so Stanford wound up helping him out of the coat, then the sweater and the jacket, and then the slacks, leaving him in only the ruined t-shirt and jeans. (Huh, so Stanley had layered the slacks over his jeans.) All the while, Stanley's shivering got worse.

And then Stanford saw the brand.

Even though Stanley was still using Stanford's face, even though they were well and truly identical at the moment, the brand on Stanley's shoulder still glowed a dim blue beneath the bandages.

Were the circumstances any different, Stanford would have gleefully delved into the potential causes for the burn's persistence. As it was, he simply shoved the rising curiousity aside in favor of easing Stanley onto his side. "Now, I'll need to go see if I still have a functioning thermometer somewhere around here, possibly some disinfectant, and then…well, hopefully you picked up something easy to digest. Canned soup, perhaps."

Stanley fumbled with the blankets for a moment, but quickly managed to pull them up over himself and give a sleepy nod.

Stanford fiddled with his hands for a moment, then squared his shoulders and strode out from the room with a new sense of purpose.

He headed for the kitchen and opened the fridge door. Thankfully, the bag of groceries was still there, untouched. He quickly took the food from the bags and placed it on the shelves at random without really looking- he'd organize it properly once he had the time- before reaching a can of chicken noodle soup.

Bingo.

He quickly found a clean, if dusty, bowl and, once he rinsed the dust out and found a workable spoon, set about using it to warm the soup in the microwave. While it ran, he shoved a washcloth and bottle of disinfectant into his pocket. He dug through the cupboards to find the household mercury thermometer he knew he had somewhere, as well. It wouldn't have found its way into any of his Piles, since its use as a scientific instrument was limited once Fiddleford had put his foot down on "cross-contamination." Ergo, it had to be somewhere he wouldn't usually check.

Stanford finally located the thermometer behind a half-empty bottle of aspirin, though the beeping of the microwave nearly startled him into dropping the darn thing. He pressed a hand to his chest for a moment to keep his heart from jumping clean out of it, then turned to collect the bowl of soup.

Soup in hand and thermometer, disinfectant, and washcloth in pocket, Stanford made his way back to Stanley's room and knocked on the door before entering. "Guessing by what you bought, you haven't exactly been staying kosher, either, so I hope you still like chicken noodle-"

A child-aged Stanley blinked blearily at him, swamped in his now-oversized tattered shirt and bandages. He didn't look a day older than twelve, right down to the gap between his teeth.

"-soup." Stanford finished with a squeak.

In the youthful voice to match his face, Stanley moaned and made weak grabby hands at the bowl. "Th'nks, P-Poind'x'r."

Speechless, Stanford could only stumble forward and set the bowl on the nearby desk. He considered drawing up a chair, but instead settled for sitting on the side of the bed. Once he was situated, he took out the thermometer. "Let's see how bad your fever is."

Stanley crossed his arms and glared at the far side of the room, but obediently opened his mouth so Stanford could get his temperature.

Hm. When they were both that age, Stanley used to put up more of a fight about whether or not he was sick.

Stanford made a mental note of the discrepancy and placed the thermometer in Stanley's mouth.

The silence that followed while they waited for the thermometer to read Stanley's temperature was…tense, to say the least. At least, Stanford felt that way. He occasionally opened his mouth to try and speak, but every time, he wound up closing it without a word.

What did one even say in this situation?

When he felt like it'd been long enough, he took the thermometer and squinted at it, only to gape at the reading it gave him. It was somewhere between two of the little marks signifying degrees, but even on the low end-!

"102 degrees?!" Stanford breathed. "Stanley, you should've stayed in bed this morning!"

Stanley hunched his shoulders and glowered at the thermometer. "…y'need-d-ded food."

"…alright, I will concede that point, but surely you could have at least said something!" Stanford pressed.

"I c-could handle it!" Stanley insisted, curling in on himself further.

Stanford just gave him a deadpan stare.

Stanley turned his frustrated frown on Stanford and held firm.

The two glared at each other for a long moment.

Eventually, Stanley relented. "…just g-g-gimme the soup-p."

Stanford nodded and set the thermometer on the desk, picking up the bowl of soup and looking to Stanley. "It's cooled off slightly, so it shouldn't be scalding hot anymore."

Stanley struggled to sit up, and without thinking, Stanford reached over to place his free hand on his shoulder for support. The glow of the brand (which was still there?!) stayed him for a moment, but he simply kept his hand away from it. Stanley looked up at him with confusion in his eyes, but shrugged it off after a moment more.

Once Stanley was more or less upright, Stanford took his hand back and lifted the bowl a bit, just enough to draw Stanley's attention. "Are…are you feeling strong enough to eat on your own?"

"I c-can do it m'self!" Stanley insisted. He grabbed the bowl and shoved the spoon in his mouth with as much indignance as his body could manage. It turned out to not be very much, but the sentiment still came through loud and clear.

"Alright, alright, I'm just checking." Stanford held his hands up in surrender and stood up.

Stanley gulped down the spoonful of soup faster than strictly necessary, and when he spoke, his voice was even higher than before. "W-w-wait, where're ya g-going?"

Stanford paused, then slowly lowered himself onto the desk chair. "I was simply moving over here…?"

"Oh. D-duh." Stanley muttered, glaring into his bowl like it had personally wronged him.

Stanford blinked, but when Stanley went back to eating rather than elaborating, he turned to the nearest notebook and flipped it open.

For the next few minutes, the only sounds came from the clacking of Stanley's spoon against the bowl and the occasional scratching of Stanford's pen across the page.

〜〜〜〜〜〜

S and I have been tackling the problem of Cipher, but after he helped with the unicorn barrier, I realized that

S Has Fallen Ill.

(A drawing that takes up most of the page. A childish-looking Stan is sitting in bed, wearing an oversized, ratty T-shirt and bundled up in a large blanket. He is holding a bowl of chicken noodle soup and eating it, though he seems frustrated with something.)

He insisted on going out to get groceries so I could focus on finishing Project Mentem, and while we did have a pressing need for food, he refused to show any signs of sickness until he physically had no choice and COLLAPSED. He has a fever of somewhere between 102℉ and 103℉. Frankly, I'm quite shocked he held out as long as he did. It's honestly rather impres

I've put him to bed and made cooked up heated some chicken noodle soup for him. I came back to find him in the physical appearance he had when we w he was a child. I doubt this was intentional on his part, as his emotional regulation is pretty much shot in this state, and this fact seems to be infuriating to him.

(Kh vhhphg lqfuhgleob glvwudxjkw zkhq L vwrrg xs wr pryh wr wkh ghvn dqg mrw pb wkrxjkwv grzq, bhw dv vrrq dv L hasodlqhg L zdv vlpsob prylqj wr d gliihuhqw sodfh, kh fdophg edfn grzq. Kh zdv qhyhu wklv zruulhg derxw vhsdudwlrq zkhq zh zhuh erwk wkdw djh. Wklv lv…frqfhuqlqj.)

(A drawing of a mercury thermometer. It seemed to have filled itself entirely, and a question mark and exclamation point both hover beside it.)

Hopefully his fever breaks quickly and he returns to his usual state soon after.

(L dp qrw orrnlqj iruzdug wr uhkdvklqj rog dujx wublqj wr hasodlq wklv wr d krvslwdo wkdw pljkw eh xqghu Eloo'v lqioxhqfh.)

(A drawing of a bowl of soup and a doodle of a stack of sticky notes take up the bottom portion of the page. The soup has steam rising from it, and the sticky note reads, "tsecitni mqicyaak?")

〜〜〜〜〜〜

"Hey, F-Ford."

Stanford glanced up to see Stanley holding up the bowl, now empty of everything except the spoon Stanley had been using.

"M'all d-d-done."

"…indeed." Stanford set his pen down and took the bowl. "I believe I ought to get this in the sink-"

"N-NO!"

Stanley's outburst made Stanford jolt in place, but before he could do more than stare at Stanley-

"I, uh, I-I mean, maybe it c-could wait?" Stanley asked, as if there hadn't just been a frightening amount of panic in his eyes.

Stanford blinked.

That was…odd.

Certainly, Stanley and he had once been virtually attached at the hip, but that had been when they were both children, and even then, neither of them had ever been so vocal about being separated. Currently, however, Stanley was in the form of a child for unknown reasons, yet he still retained information about the past few days. Perhaps his feverish state had made his mannerisms regress into an echo of his childhood?

This would need to be studied.

…but just as a safety measure in case Stanley's fever didn't break, since taking a shapeshifting Stanley to a hospital where Bill could be active was a terrible idea. That was all. Certainly not because Stanford was worried Stanley would manage to get stuck in a childish form somehow and the two of them would inevitably dredge up old wounds they'd done a passable job of ignoring so far.

Definitely not.

Stanford carefully set the bowl down on the desk. "…perhaps it can wait. At least for a bit."

This seemed to placate Stanley, who visibly sagged against the pillow in relief. "Alright-t."

"In the meantime, we might want to see about getting those bandages of yours removed, at least for a short while." Stanford continued. "They may have done their job before, but you're now much smaller than you were when they were applied. Besides, we ought to let the injury air out a bit."

"Mmm." Stanley nodded and shuffled around so Stanford could get a better look at his back.

Stanford gingerly removed the bandages and tried not to stare at the now-shrunken sigil burnt into Stanley's skin.

(It didn't work.)

"…does it still hurt?" Stanford asked, staring at the brand.

With his good shoulder, Stanley shrugged. "Eh, I c-c-can handle it."

That wasn't an answer.

Stanford pressed his lips together into a thin line, but said nothing about it. (Yet.)

"This may sting a little." He said instead, digging out the disinfectant and dampening the washcloth with it.

"How m-much sting we t-t-talk-OW!"

The moment Stanford's washcloth touched his back, Stanley jolted in place even harder than his baseline shivers would have him shake.

Stanford winced in sympathy. "Sorry."

"What's even in th-that stuff?" Stanley burst, shooting him a wide-eyed stare over his shoulder.

"Well, it has a base of isopropyl alcohol, but I've mixed it with several magical ingredients meant to reduce the possibility and severity of infection. They're used by the supernatural peoples of the woods quite often, and this mixture has done wonders for me in the past." Stanford explained. "In a few moments, the stinging sensation ought to give way to a soothing chill."

Sure enough, as he finished speaking, Stanley visibly relaxed, the tension draining from his shoulders with a sigh. "It d-d-does wonders, huh? What k-kinds?"

Stanford managed a lopsided smile and held out his left arm for Stanley to inspect, as though they were sharing ghost stories beneath their blankets like they once had. "I once had a run-in with a pack of Kill Billies where, in my attempts to escape, I managed to scratch myself terribly on their claws. I had claw-marks running all the way up past my elbow."

"There's n-nothing like that-t here, though." Stanley noted.

"Exactly." Stanford nodded. "You can't tell."

Stanley's eyes grew round, and he huffed out a laugh. "Wish I'd h-h-had some'a this stuff in Colomb-bia."

Oh.

Right.

Just like that, the illusion dissolved.

Stanford swallowed and gently dabbed some more of the mixture onto Stanley's back, careful to trace around the edges of the glowing brand without pressing too hard against the brand itself. Stanley didn't seem to have any further adverse reactions to it, and in fact was beginning to slump against Stanford's hand.

Actually, if Stanley was that relaxed…

"I believe you should get some more sleep." Stanford decided, setting the cloth aside and helping Stanley turn around. "The sooner your fever breaks, the better."

Stanley perked up slightly, but only enough to nod and start feeling around for the back of the bed.

Stanford raised an eyebrow and helped him lean back against his pillow, carefully adjusting his position so he wouldn't rub his burn up against anything. "You just focus on resting, alright, Stanley?"

"Mm-hmm." Stanley yawned and drew his blanket back up over himself. He closed his eyes and mumbled an incomprehensible, "Dun' wanna dr'g y' d'wn long'r'n I gotta."

Stanford frowned and blinked. "…could you perhaps repeat that, Stanley?"

Stanley simply snored a high-pitched snore, already long-gone to dreamland.

Stanford…decided to avoid thinking about what Stanley might have said.

(And if he fell asleep at the desk, surrounded by crumpled up papers filled with hastily-scrawled conjectures about what Stanley may have said, and what he may have meant when he said it…well, he wouldn't realize it until the next morning.)