#skritch the rat

[suratan-zir]

Got a new foraging toy for my boys.

Syrnyk passed the test with flying colors and figured out both the leaf and the cup movement super quickly. Skritch, on the other hand, failed miserably. I know the video ends apruptly, but he just gave up after that. And here I was thinking all this time that Skritch is the smartest of the two. He's also more food motivated, so that's weird. Perhaps he's not in the mood.

UPDATE: it took him embarrassingly long, but Skritch figured it out

[chroma-rat]

[hurgablurg]

so was i just supposed to only learn about how amazing skeevers looked before bethesda-brand laziness kicked in by googling the buggers?

This is the original concept and concept art by Ray Lederer

AND OH MY GOD IT LOOKS LIKE AN ACTUAL SPECULATIVE ANIMAL

A unique species of rodent unlike the ones we are familiar with, but which is still quite visibly of the order rodentia / skeevera family!

And it was originally supposed to have healthy and diseased states!

But all we got were the diseased ones that make them all look like fucked up giant grey rats??

Disappointing! They couldn’t put in the extra effort of making them 2 separate npcs, for how often skeevers show up in the game?

Like, even the retexture mods (and Skritch) claiming to make them healthier still give them bare legs, bare bellies, lesions, and a boring, dull grey coat!

[aftonfamilyvalues]

at least pets of skyrim is great, i have a big old immortal rat by my side at all times. i love you, skritch

[lovetransaction]

Here’s a j/d prompt for dadfucker fest: thanks to some handwavey time-travel shenanigans, Dean is transported to John’s USMC unit (maybe they’re the same age or maybe Dean is older) 👀

@dadfuckerfest ; i went with forty-something Dean going back in time to teenage John's military service. warnings i guess: spitting, mild humiliation, power imbalance

- - fragged

Dean hadn't thought it would be so easy. Or: he hadn't thought Dad would be so easy.

But all it had taken was a little bit of medal-polishing, the right fake orders, and rousing a sycophantic staff sergeant from his dirty little hootch to get one Corporal Winchester, J. assigned to drive Lieutenant Campbell from the USMC base at Da Nang to Chu Lai. Not a long drive, not a particularly dangerous one; the real horror was in the villes and the rice paddies, not where the Yankees had laid down heavily-armed claims.

It was hard to stop looking at John. This age, not even twenty yet; long-limbed and a maddening combination of slow when he wanted to be and twitchy when he didn't want to be. It reminded Dean of Sam so much he was almost sick with it, sipping musty warm water from his canteen to stave off the belly-lurches every time John slapped his square-wristed big hands against the Jeep steering wheel or gave him a curious sidelong glance.

"Just go ahead and ask, Corporal," Dean said gruffly after a while. John's mouth opened along one edge in a panting laugh, humid and tense.

"Sir," he said. Dean sipped water. "It's just ... Sarge said that you asked for me specifically. To do this run. There's plenty other drivers in the platoon, sir, ones who outrank me--"

"Son," Dean cut him off, and it was easy, thrillingly sickeningly so to use that word, "what happens if you get ham 'n motherfuckers in your C-rats?"

They whipped through a series of shallow potholes with John wrenching the vehicle to steer them clear, as carelessly rough as he drove when he was Dad. Which meant he'd had time to think of an answer, sounding confident and even tickled when he said, "Exchange 'em with whoever's dumb enough to get pressured into it, sir. Mostly cherries."

Dean mm-hmm'ed in his throat, reaching out to hold the side of the windshield for the bumpy ride. "Well," he said, "you got yours exchanged. You could be back there doing PX or latrine duty. Instead you're here with me. Peaches and poundcake."

John laughed at that, his dogtags jangling as the wheels left the road for a second and they both rose up and then thumped down. Everything was wet and wet-smelling, John was too, and Dean said, "Make a pit stop." John was a good little soldier. He didn't protest. He found a side road that rumbled down into an area with high grass, hidden by trees, killed the engine with a satisfied, nervy bark, and didn't do anything other than open his mouth when Dean strongarmed him against the back of the seat and kissed him.

"You asked for me specifically," John said when they drew apart for air, and Dean gripped his chin, clean-shaven with just the slightest skritch of stubble. John's eyes darkened, fearless. He reached up to hang on to Dean's wrist, just so he could say, "you got nothing to worry about, L-tee."

"Yeah," Dean said, shoving the heel of his other hand along John's belly to feel his breathing quicken, and then grabbing the corporal's already-hard dick, making his lips part in a gasping pant, the sound needy and ... and slutty and Dean tasted warm plastic as he spat into his father's mouth to stop that sound. To get more of that sound. To get something.

"You think I'm worried about me?" Dean purposely didn't think about what he was saying and if it was a mirror held up to his dad or himself; he talked from the gut, whatever came out. "I could get you an other-than-honourable discharge with nothing more than a SPN code."

"Which one?" John asked, wiping his lips. He didn't even really swallow Dean's spit, just let it mingle with his own as he waited for an answer. Dean clenched down on his dad's dick until he whimpered.

"Four six one," he said, looking at the way John's lower lip skidded slightly to the right, softly deformed with pain. "Inadequate personality."

John laughed again, breathless and foxlike, and that made Dean crazy too. Days he'd gone without even an amused harrumph or twitch of a smile out of this man, weeks sometimes, and here the younger version -- humping the boonies in Vietnam with probably jungle rot between his toes and the constant threat of being shelled or shot up -- he'd given up a laugh twice in ten minutes. Over nothing. Over being potentially sold down the river.

"You sound like my dad," was what John said, of all things.

Dean grabbed him by the front of his fatigues, the shirt beaten from wear but stiff with grime; he grabbed it up with one hand and had just enough time to see John's eyes widen slightly before Dean cuffed him in that soft mouth. When his dad gasped and blood and spit came out in a dribble that dripped from his lip and spindled down his chin, Dean didn't know whose spit it was.

"Guessing you don't want head, then," John said, and grinned. He was still slightly grinning when Dean yanked open his fatigue pants and growled, deep and choppy, at the feel of the standard-issue silkies underneath, the same kind his dad was partial to even decades after his tour of duty. He was still slightly grinning, teeth stained yellowish with blood, when Dean started jerking him rough and twisting, crushing the plum head of his father's cock now and again, dragging his thumb hard down the underside. "Holy shit," John gasped, blinking at Dean like he was magic, and he was, in a way, the way that time and a hundred motel rooms had made him.

John came in his son's hand and Dean watched him all through it, the bob of his throat and the way his jaw was only just starting to be sharply defined, and there were no scars on his face at all, so Dean took that handful of cum and slapped it against his father's mouth. John bucked up against the sudden lack of pressure and he kept his hands obediently clutching the jeep seat instead of touching Dean, who dragged his thumbnail down the right side of his dad's face, that clear, unmarked cheekbone. John's face was reddened when Dean dragged his hand over it, smeary with spunk, and he gave a damp, half-cough gasp. He didn't wipe his face when Dean took his hand back and scrubbed it clean against the side of his dad's shirt.

"Why the fuck did you say that?" Dean asked. A mosquito buzzed loud in the shell of his ear and although he wanted to slap it away he ignored it. "About your father."

A shrug, as John scrubbed his face with his sleeve, turned his head and hocked a quick, efficient gob of cum and blood and spit over the side of the vehicle. It caught a broad leaf and gleamed and wobbled there before sliding off. "The only kinds of guys who want this shit either don't have fathers or got fucked up by their fathers," he said, like it was obvious or should be.

"We need to get to Chu Lai," said Dean. John gave a single nod and started the ignition, turning to mark his route as he backed out of the one-way trace and back onto the main road. The Jeep's wheels skidded when they hit wet, cracked asphalt and John wrenched it to point the right direction.

"You don't have a dad, Corporal." Dean was half-hard but he didn't want to touch himself. He gripped the bottom of the windowframe. He could feel John looking at him and didn't return the look.

"Every man who wants this is one of the two," John said again, implacably and expecting to be believed, and Dean's sticky-damp fingertips squeaked on the car door metal. "Even you, sir." Dean looked over and met his father's eyes, familiar and foreign, unwavering. John lifted his chin in a jerk. "So which one is it, Lieutenant?"

Dean tasted warm plastic. He looked away and spat.

[widoglock]

Just Like the Present

“You know you can tell me when things are bad,” Caleb murmurs, his fingers stilling upon Kingsley’s jawline. “You won’t scare me away.” Kingsley takes a long breath through his nose. “Yeah. I know.” “But?” “Things have been…” He covers Caleb’s hands. “From what I remember from—from the others. It’s been a while. So I guess I’m out of practice.” “Out of practice with…” Kingsley laughs. “I dunno. Happiness? Good things? It didn’t bother me until today but for some reason I’ve felt…I feel like a square peg in a round hole all of a sudden, like me and happiness aren’t made for each other. Like it’s all too good to be true, for um. For someone…” “Kingsley.” “For someone like me, maybe, and I know that’s not—but there’s this—I think I hallucinated today, is the thing, and it’s got me spiraling. A little bit.”

Rating: M

Tags: 6k, Widomauk, referenced Shadowidowmauk, hurt/comfort, pining, touch starved Kingsley (cursed object edition), my usual obsession with hugs and lucid dreams

CW: Dissociation/derealization, hallucinations (sort of...see cursed object for details), anal sex (both Caleb and Kingsley have a penis), self-hatred

[Also on Ao3] Full fic below:

---

Kingsley wakes up from a nightmare, and he’s warm.

Groggy fingers find Kingsley’s and tangle.

“All right?” Caleb murmurs.

Kingsley groans. The cabin is crack-of-dawn dark. The blankets are the perfect kind of heavy, and smell like bay laurel and the two of them.

Caleb kisses the back of Kingsley’s head. Kingsley curls his tail around Caleb’s ankle. Caleb yelps.

“Scheiße, you’re cold.”

Kingsley doesn’t let go. “How’d you sleep?”

Caleb grumbles into his hair. “Well. Very well.”

“Storm didn’t keep you up?”

“Nein.”

“Nein,” Kingsley repeats, really plucking the consonants. “Magic man?”

“Circus man.”

“I'm not getting out of bed.”

Caleb snorts, and he’s so warm, and Caleb can hear the rain outside. “So sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Kingsley gets one last glance at the pile of clothes on the floor—takes a moment to admire the way Caleb’s overclothes fit along the grooves of his frock coat. Then a shadow blocks the window.

Kingsley looks up. Caleb is standing in front of Kingsley’s desk. He’s scraggly with dirt and exertion; a streak of blood darkens his forehead. Kingsley can barely make out the shock on his face.

Kingsley says, “Caleb?”

The Caleb on the bed tenses. “What’s wrong?”

The Caleb by the window is gone. Kingsley exhales.

“Nothing,” he says, because he really needs it to be true.

“Would incense help? I could open the drapes?”

Kingsley kisses his wrist. “It’s fine. Really.” He forces the shake out of his fingers, and tucks Caleb’s hand back against his chest. “Thank you, though.”

Caleb refits himself along the curve of Kingsley’s spine. “I worry about you, circus man,” he says after a while.

Kingsley closes his eyes. “Wake me when you smell breakfast?”

--

The rain is still spitting a bit when they get up for breakfast. The cold tastes like snow, and the sea air sets a sparkle to the mundane. The crew eat lavishly, having just been to port, enjoying fresh meat and cheese. Some rope snapped from the cold last night, and now the carpenter’s repair planks are lincoln-logged all over the hold; Kingsley and Caleb work out a solution with some magic and a little leftover sail line.

Around ten, Kingsley takes his turn at the helm. Caleb goes up to the crow’s nest to read. Frumpkin chases mice and rats and cheek skritches. It’s less cloudy now, with an added burst of wind, and the deck shimmers with rainwater. If Kingsley cranes his neck at the right angle, he can see the very top of Caleb’s head—a spot of color against the soft steel of daylight.

“I’m falling in love with you!” Kingsley shouts up at him.

Caleb shouts down: “What?”

“I said, I want to make you happy for the rest of your life!”

Caleb leans over the edge and yells what sounds like, “You know I can’t hear you from up here!”

Kingsley waves. Caleb mirrors the gesture. When Kingsley laughs, his breath fogs out of him. Caleb shouts something else and goes back to his book. Kingsley feels eyes on him, but when he turns around, there’s only the ocean.

The sea settles. The air shakes its winter bite. The crew gather for a game of cards, and Kingsley eats a sandwich for lunch. He’s on his way stern-side when he hears Caleb say, “Kingsley!”

Kingsley turns. He sees Caleb behind him on the stairs and says, “Problem?”

Caleb’s clothes are different. He looks scared. He says, “Kingsley, I need you to listen to me.”

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you—what’s wrong?” He grabs Caleb’s elbow.

“This isn’t real.” Caleb grabs him back. “It’s a construct. You are under a—a spell of some kind. Do you remember?”

Kingsley starts to say, “Remember what?”—but then he blinks and Caleb has vanished. More than that—there are no bootprints to mark his passage. No dribble of rainwater. Not even a crease where Caleb had grabbed his coat.

“Okay,” Kingsley says, and goes to find some booze.

--

Kingsley wants to get drunk. He doesn’t. He’s got shit to do on deck, and anyway—he can’t make Caleb worry. They see each other often now—for days at a time even, when Caleb’s schedule permits. Still: Frost gathers on the porthole panes at night. A certain sacrosanctity clings to everything. If Kingsley carries a flask of the good stuff, so does the rest of the crew. It’s a pirate ship; pirates drink. It’s fine.

Normalcy creeps back into frame. Dinner is a jovial affair. Kingsley and Caleb trade gossip over wine and biscuits and salted pork. Caleb’s work stories are less gory than Kingsley’s—but by a smaller margin than one might expect from a man of his vocation.

They go walk along the bulwark and watch the stars come out. Their fingers graze, and Caleb gasps.

“You’re freezing!" Caleb begins rubbing Kingsley’s hands. “Doofi. Where are your gloves?”

“I dunno. Somewhere.” He loves the way Caleb shuffles his hands around like a stick in a fire plough. “I’m not cold, really.”

“You’re frigid. Hold on.” Caleb switches gears and takes off his scarf. He winds it around Kingsley’s neck. It’s dark blue and warm with residual body heat. Kingsley nuzzles his nose into it as Caleb dusts the hair from his face.

“You know you can tell me when things are bad,” Caleb murmurs, his fingers stilling upon Kingsley’s jawline. “You won’t scare me away.”

Kingsley takes a long breath through his nose.

“Yeah. I know.”

“But?”

“Things have been…” He covers Caleb’s hands. “From what I remember from—from the others. It’s been a while. So I guess I’m out of practice.”

“Out of practice with…”

Kingsley laughs. “I dunno. Happiness? Good things? It didn’t bother me until today but for some reason I’ve felt…I feel like a square peg in a round hole all of a sudden, like me and happiness aren’t made for each other. Like it’s all too good to be true, for um. For someone…”

“Kingsley.”

“For someone like me, maybe, and I know that’s not—but there’s this—I think I hallucinated today, is the thing, and it’s got me spiraling. A little bit.”

“Shit. That’s—”

“It’s probably nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Caleb says firmly. “It distresses you: It’s not nothing. I don’t portend to, ah, to know an awful lot about the mind. Hallucinations. But. There are ways to—there are paths to take, to help. And you…” Here he soothes his thumb across Kingsley’s cheek. “And you. My wonderful friend. You deserve the world. Nothing but goodness and love and rest. I will happily remind you of this as…as often as you’d like. Ja?”

Kingsley blinks rapidly. “Ha. Um. Ja.”

“‘For someone like me,’” he scoffs. He cups Kingsley’s hands. “You are ridiculous. Treasure yourself.”

Kingsley can’t quite nod. He feels the pool of fabric around his neck, and the cold wind through his hair. Caleb says,

“And for shit’s sake, let me buy you some gloves.”

That breaks the dam, and Kingsley laughs as he wipes his eyes. “I have gloves.”

“Not good ones, if you prefer to keep them off. Come to the city with me soon. We’ll find something versatile.”

Kingsley hears a ruckus on the stairs, and then the ship’s carpenter bubbles up from the galley like a cask buoy, suspended by the arms and cheers of her crew. She’s the musical flavor of drunk, and would like the whole ocean to know.

“Brine below with brandy in tow, on seas and—and sails of…what’s the last part?”

“Ferry,” Kingsley shouts.

Her friend rattles her arm around. “Sing the one about the girl from Brokenbank! The girl from Brokenbank!”

“And ferry! On seas and ferry and sail on the—the what? The girl from…?”

“Brokenbank!”

“Right! La…la fille d’Brokenbank!”

The carpenter launches into something bright, brash, and palpably Swavanian. Her friends shout and sway along. Summoned by demand or opportunity, the ship “musiker” appears from belowdecks, and with a few sweeps of his bow promotes their drunken sing-along to a proper soiree.

Kingsley leans against Caleb, and Caleb leans against Kingsley, and the both of them lean back against the bulwark. “La fille d’Brokenbank” ends in a chorus of applause. The next number sounds oddly familiar. Kingsley can feel the vibration when Caleb starts to hum along.

Kingsley says, “You know this one?”

“The Zemnian version. The original.”

“How’s the translation?”

“Terrible.”

Kingsley offers his hand, palm up. Caleb takes it. Drunken whoops accompany their sashay onto the main deck.

The body remembers what the mind forgets. Sometimes that means panic attacks over innocuous shapes and sounds, and sometimes it means knowing all the steps to a dance he’s never heard of. Kingsley’s feet fall into something tap-like, and he and Caleb bob and weave like streamers at Harvest Close. They collide; Caleb takes the lead, and his hand finds its home between Kingsley’s shoulder blades. They’re close enough for Kingsley to map the laugh lines on Cakeb’s face. There’s still a smudge on his temple from journaling, and a dusting of cat fur on his shoulders, and Kingsley loves him so much he has to laugh.

Off-beat claps bolster the tempo, and soon Kingsley and Caleb are spinning faster and faster, around and around and around like feathers in a gale. Caleb raises their joined hands, forewarning a swingout, and Kingsley lets their combined momentum carry him out onto the deck. The tassels of Caleb’s scarf fling around his neck on a delay; the frost nips his nose and ears. A familiar pair of hands catch him by the hand and waist before he can spin himself apart. Kingsley meets Caleb’s eyes again—

And finds them shadowed. Desperate. Caleb’s cheeks, once flushed with wine and exertion, are pale like snow. His hands clutch hard enough to hurt. He looks fragile, and frantic, and his clothes are the wrong color. He opens his mouth and says,

“Kingsley, please.”

Kingsley’s heart stops. He wrenches out of Not-Caleb's grasp.

“Kingsley—!”

“Stay back!” Kingsley warns, and tastes metal—the signature ozone buildup which precludes very powerful magic. He turns to find Caleb—the ruddy, soft one—with his arm outstretched, palm full of fire.

Kingsley doesn’t process the distance between this new bedraggled Caleb and the old. He feels more than sees his hand take Caleb’s wrist. He knocks his aim aloft, and Caleb’s spell unloads right over his doppelgänger’s head. The fire bolt cuts through the fog like a signal flare.

“You can see him too?” Kingsley pants, as the sparks scatter over the water.

Caleb stares at the doppelgänger. His fingers are still staticky with magic: “Who are you?”

Not-Caleb won’t look away from Kingsley. “Kingsley. It’s me. This is a dream. You are under a witch’s spell.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I can’t—I'm sorry, but I can't keep the connection open for much longer. I can wake you up, but it has to be your choice.”

Kingsley smells rain and salt and wine. “You’re not—I’m not under a spell. I’m—I’m here on my ship with you—the real you. And we’re headed to Nicodranas—"

“Kingsley.”

“We’re headed back to see Yasha and Beau and, and Fjord and Jester and Veth, and we’re all going to catch up at your wizard tower—”

“But how did you get here?”

Kingsley flounders. “What?”

“I asked you, how did you get here? Here on this boat, on your way to Nicodranas?”

“Wh—we took off from the coast. A port town.”

“Which port town? On which coast?”

Kingsley doesn’t know. Why doesn’t he know? He looks back at the scared faces of his crew—at the musiker, bow frozen on the upswing, and the drawn swords of his seamen. If they know the answer, they aren’t keen to share.

“What are you?” Caleb snaps. “Who sent you?”

Not-Caleb sways with the wind. “How did you get here, Kingsley?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“You will die if you stay here much longer. This spell is like a drug, to keep you complacent while it sucks the life out of you.”

“You are the real spell,” Caleb accuses. “Where did you come from? What do you want from us?”

A smatter of snowflakes find purchase on the sails; the deck; the collar of Kingsley’s coat. He should be cold. Why isn’t he cold?

“Answer me!” Caleb shouts.

Kingsley tests the words out on his tongue: “What happens to you? If I stay.”

Not-Caleb’s fingers twist around his coat sleeves.

“Kingsley.” The real Caleb grabs him by the shoulders. “Look at me. This is real. I’m real.”

“Where were we, two weeks ago?” Kingsley’s vision blurs. “Caleb? Why—why don’t I know the names of the crew?”

“I think—I don't know. I think you are under the weather somehow.” Caleb’s grip migrates to his hands. “It will be okay. Kingsley? Listen to me. There are paths to take, paths to help, remember? We can fix this. Together.”

“Why are you here?”

That lands a blow; he can tell. “Kingsley, please.”

“You’re a professor. From Rexxentrum. You do meetings and private lessons. You never have time for anything. Why are you out in the middle of the fucking Lucidian ocean? Why are you here?”

“I am here because I love you,” Caleb pleads.

Sometimes, you only learn there was a beam under your feet when it breaks.

Kingsley can hear his own heartbeat, and the murmurs of the crew. He looks out over the rail at the tar ocean that stretches on and on forever.

“No you don’t,” he says.

“What?”

“You don’t love me.” Sehanine, he’s such an idiot. “You love Essek. You live in an adorable little cottage together on the east side of the capital, near the academy, and you keep a garden with green beans and crocuses and funny wooden shelters for the bees—and I’m out here on the ocean, and you don’t love me.”

“That’s not true,” Caleb—no, not Caleb, never Caleb—says. “Kingsley. You aren’t well. You aren’t making any sense.”

“To your credit, it was a very nice dream.” Kingsley pecks him on the forehead. “Thanks for the dance.”

He unlocks their hands. If Caleb calls after him, he can’t hear him over the roar of the ocean, or maybe the blood between his ears. He holds out his hand to Caleb—the one with traces of garden dirt in the grooves of his boots—and says,

“I’m ready.”

--

Kingsley wakes up from the best dream of his life, and he’s fucking freezing.

Pebbles scratch his cheek. He sits up, leans over, and vomits up his breakfast. He’s pretty sure he can hear people shouting. Someone grabs him around the waist.

“Caleb?” he slurs.

“He’s okay.” Yasha runs her fingers through his hair like she hasn’t done since he was Molly. Each point of contact feels like a breath after a week underwater. “Rest. We’ve got you.”

“‘M I gonna die?” Kingsley asks her.

“No, Kingsley, you are not going to die.”

“Feels like I’m gonna die.”

Yasha says something else—something firm. Kingsley claws for purchase. The tide drags him out from under her hands, and he drifts.

--

Consciousness is fickle after that. Kingsley thinks he sees a wagon bed, and Jester’s face, and the honey glow of late summer through a canvas tarp. His dreams are empty and waterlogged, his reality a disjointed stream of technicolor snapshots.

Then his brain finds a foothold. It hoists him over the ledge into cognition. Kingsley sees moonlight first. Or, a refraction thereof. Kingsley looks up to check. The windows overhead link arms to form an elaborate glass triptych, their panes bustling with circus wagons and astral cities and tieflings who wave and dance and drink Hupperdook mead.

Kingsley pulls the covers up over his head. At the foot of the bed, an uprooted Frumpkin meowls his displeasure.

Chair legs scrape hardwood. “Kingsley! Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, you’re awake!”

“Despite the gods’ best efforts.” He didn’t know a person could get this cold. Jester peels the blankets from his face and says,

“You look awful.”

It’s great to see her. “I feel awful.”

“You should be healed by now. Like, super duper triple healed. I’ve been pumping spells into you like crazy.” She flicks his nose. “You really freaked me out, you know.”

“Sorry.”

“Here, drink some water.”

He accepts a cup. The water settles like a rock at the bottom of his gut. “What happened?”

“Okay, so…do you remember how we found a house full of super spooky witchy stuff?”

For once, Kingsley does remember. The artifacts were deemed too potent to leave for the crows, so they’d stuffed their cart with odds and ends and rattled away toward the capital.

Kingsley teases out the details like puzzle pieces from behind a shelf. “We hit a pothole.”

“Mhmm.”

“A crystal fell out of a bag, and I…I uh…”

“Mhmm.”

“Shit.” He drags a hand down his face. “I really grabbed the one that puts you in a coma, didn’t I?”

“Like it was a platinum piece. Caleb says it makes you live out your greatest hopes and dreams so you don’t notice it sucking out your soul.”

“Right. Yeah, he told us that part before I uh…” He watches Frumpkin knead himself a nest along the crook of his knee. A claw pierces the blanket. “Ow. Yeah. How am I not dead?”

“Caleb cast some kind of dream spell and fell asleep next to you. It was super cute. And super scary.” She props her elbows up and rests her chin on her hands. “Frumpkin, you are going to tear the quilt.”

Frumpkin yawns his derision. Jester says, “Sooooo. What did you dream about?”

Kingsley whistles. “The world’s biggest pirate boat orgie.”

“Oooooh!” Her tail stands up straight. “Was I there?”

“We were on our way to pick you up. If that counts.”

“I think it should. Caleb told me to tell him when you woke up. He’s really worried about you.”

Kingsley pulls the covers back over his face. Jester coos and pats his horn through the blanket.

“Don’t worry. We can just hang out for a bit. Oh! And Caduceus said to give you some tea. I’ll be right back.”

He’s asleep before she even leaves the room.

--

He cracks an eye open, and Yasha is in the chair next to his bed. Beau sits crosslegged on the rug. The couple appear to be mid-argument over school districts, or maybe what constitutes a blade versus a sword. The windows cast elaborate landscapes on the wall. Kingsley goes back to sleep.

--

The next time he wakes up, it’s dark again, and Caduceus is bent over in his sleep. An empty cup keeps vigil from the bedside table. The air still smells faintly of dead people tea.

Kingsley thinks his blood might be frozen. He hooks his nose over the lip of the blankets and glares at the empty fireplace. There don’t appear to be any matches around, or even any wood.

Kingsley counts to ten and pries himself from the depths of his bed. The cold wood floor shoots needles up his feet. He dances his weight around until his body adjusts.

A ginger shape darts off the bed and out the door.

Midnight zoomies. Kingsley looks after Frumpkin, then back at the fireplace. He could pull the rope for a servant, but he also knows there’s a library two floors down with a hearth the size of a wagon cart. The guest room has always felt more like a shrine than a bedroom anyhow.

Kingsley drapes the first blanket over Caduceus. He wraps the second around himself like a sheet of butcher paper and shivers his miserable way to the library.

The library lights are periwinkle tonight. Kingsley picks his way through the warren of shelves and arm chairs to the couch, then the hearth. He stands with his numb fingers brooch-locked around his blanket, washed out by firelight, and waits for the heat to permeate the cold front under his skin.

And waits.

And waits.

Well, fuck. Kingsley steps closer to the fire. He can feel the heat on his face, but only by degrees of separation, like there’s a veil between himself and the flames. Kingsley dumps his useless blanket on the floor. Fuck the fireplace. Fuck the whole tower and all its gleaming monuments. Kingsley thrusts his hand into the fire.

Someone yelps. A strong grip wrenches Kingsley’s hand from the fireplace.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“That’s sort of beside the point.” Shit, that hurt. Kingsley looks down at his hand, and then the hand that paints a line of heat around his wrist. “Dick and balls, Caleb. Are you—?” He takes Caleb’s hand. “Are you burned anywhere?”

“I am not the one who shoved his hand in a fire.”

“Fire-resistant, remember? It’s fine. Barely stung.” Kingsley tilts Caleb’s hand. Runs his finger along the slant of his pinky. “You look a little pink here.”

“Why are you trying to set yourself on fire two days after I pulled you out of a coma?”

“Just quirky like that, I guess.” Everywhere their fingers brush, a shock of heat pricks the veil between Kingsley and the rest of the world. “Thank you, by the way. That was…you didn’t have to do that.”

“You know I did.”

“Just…” Kingsley needs to let go of Caleb’s hand. “I’m sorry to ask for one more favor, after everything.”

Caleb looks at him with inexplicable tenderness. “What do you need?”

Kingsley releases Caleb, and cold floods right back up his arm to fill the spaces pierced by Caleb’s touch. He’s tasted relief now. Kingsley’s nails grazed the riverbank only for the current to drag him back under, and the cold hits so much harder for the memory of air and sunshine.

Kingsley says,

“I need you to forget it. All of it. Everything you saw. I’m sorry to have put you through it, but there’s no taking it back now—so the best I can do is ask you to…to kindly put it in a box in your brain somewhere and bury it. Bury it deep and spare me the mortification.”

“Kingsley—”

“Tell me I haven’t ruined our friendship over a silly little daydream.” Kingsley will not cry. He will not. “None of it has to mean anything. Anything at all.”

Caleb kisses him.

Kingsley’s brain skips and starts. He feels the tickle of Caleb’s stubble first. A match catches, and heat—real heat—grazes his lips; catches on his gasp. Jester told him once about the Temple of the False Serpent, when the room flooded and Fjord passed his last breath to Jester on a kiss. Caleb’s lips are soft and sure. The tips of his fingers dust Kingsley’s cheek. Sunlight pierces the thicket.

Then Caleb breaks away. “I’m sorry. I know you—”

“Don’t stop.” It’s a pathetic mewl. He’s shaking so hard it hurts. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

Caleb’s face crumples, and then his hands are back on Kingsley’s face. Their lips meet. Kingsley makes a sound from the very pit of his chest. The relief is so profound he thinks he’ll crumple.

“Shh, shh.” Caleb kisses his cheeks; his brow; his jaw. “I’ve got you now. I’ve got you. Es ist in Ordnung.”

Kingsley sways. Caleb braces him with his arms. The warmth spreads up Kingsley’s spine; down his throat; expands with his lungs, slow as daybreak.

“Es ist in Ordnung,” Caleb repeats, like he can taste Kingsley’s desperation. “Es ist in Ordnung…”

The kiss deepens. Caleb hugs him closer. Kingsley’s arms ache. He screws his nails into his palms. If he touches Caleb he’ll break the spell.

Caleb rests their foreheads together. He pants, and his nose brushes Kingsley’s, and he says,

“You are an idiot. I love you.”

The world tilts on its axis. “You don’t. You can’t.”

“I love you both. Essek knows I love you both.”

It kills Kingsley to tear his head away.

“Kingsley…”

“If you ever loved anyone with this face,” Kingsley says, “it wasn’t me.”

Caleb makes a low noise at the back of his throat. He grabs Kingsley by the arms and pushes him onto the couch. His mouth locks around Kingsley’s throat. Heat spikes through Kingsley’s chest like a blade; he only knows he threw his head back from the give of the cushions. Emboldened, Caleb teases the skin below his ear. Kingsley hears, over his own keen,

“You’re shaking like a leaf.”

“It’s cold,” Kingsley manages.

Caleb recaptures his lips. His legs brace Kingsley’s hips; his palms leave sunshine prints on his chest. One hand slides down, down, down. Fingers tease the line of skin between Kingsley’s shirt and pants. Kingsley arches up. He must make some other sound, because Caleb says, “Right here, schatz.”

“Caleb.” The fingers press harder. Lift the edge of his shirt. “Caleb.”

The touch vanishes like a snuffed candle. “All right?”

“Please—I can’t—”

“Do you want to stop?”

“No. No, please. Please. Caleb, don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

Lips on his lips. Kingsley softens.

“Es ist in Ordnung…Es ist in Ordnung.” Caleb’s hand slides back up under his shirt. “I have you. Just stay with me.” He runs his fingers up his ribcage. “Just stay here with me.”

It takes a second to remember how to speak: “I’m here. I’m here.”

A flash of magic, and the library doors swing shut. Caleb undoes the first three buttons of Kingsley’s shirt; stops to kiss the exposed skin; undoes the last three. Pushes the fabric aside.

“I loved Mollymauk. I loved Lucien. I love you.” He kisses the words down Kingsley’s ribs. “I am in love with the dust that makes you. Is that so difficult to believe?”

Kingsley laughs. Forces back tears. “A bit, yeah.”

“Why?”

He wants to live under Caleb’s hands. He wants to run away to the ocean and never look back.

Caleb dips closer. He stresses, “Why is it so difficult to believe that you are loved, Kingsley?”

“Don’t ask me that. Please don’t ask me that.”

Caleb’s fingers slide back down his stomach. “I want to hold you. I want to make you feel good. Will you let me?”

“I’m not a real person,” Kingsley tells him. “I’m just a jumble of broken parts in a pirate coat.”

“Is that supposed to scare me?”

“It should.”

Caleb says, “Do you know what I dream about? I dream about waking up next to you on a Saturday morning, with nothing to do but lay around and kiss you and watch the light change.” His hand wanders below his pants. He cups Kingsley’s hip. “I dream about taking you to the market, and filling our baskets with fresh berries and sweetbread and whatever you like. I dream you show me the ocean. I dream we lay out on the deck of your ship and look up at the stars. I dream I forget my lunch, and you appear mid-lecture with a bag of snacks and tomatoes from the garden, and I get to show you off to my class. I dream about that a lot.”

His hand trails back up his thigh. Kingsley writhes, a live wire under his touch.

“I dream I wake up from a nightmare, and you are there. I dream you teach me how to sail.” His thumb sweeps closer to Kingsley’s cock. “I dream I stay up grading papers, and you come up from behind and wrap your arms around my shoulders, and you tell me the work will still be there in the morning. I dream I get to hold you and kiss you and make you come. Will you let me?”

Kingsley looks up at Caleb, and the way the fire halos his hair.

“I love you.” Kingsley’s fingers are claws on the cushions. “Before I knew my own name I knew I loved you. Fuck me, use me, whatever you want, you’ve got me.”

“I told you, I want to make you feel good. Tell me how to make you feel good.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” Caleb draws his hand back up the line between his thigh and stomach, away from his cock.

Kingsley whines. “I’m not…I don’t deserve this.”

“Ah. Too bad. Tell me anyway.”

That shocks a laugh out of him. “You’re a tyrant. I want…”

The fire crackles. Caleb’s hands are on his hips, anchors to reality.

“I want you,” Kingsley chokes out. “I want to feel you. I want to feel you on me, around me.”

“How do you mean? Do you want me to fuck you? Ride you?”

“Oh fuck. Shit.” He’s sure his heart will pound out of his chest. “Touch me, ride me, please. Yes.”

Caleb kisses him. The world narrows back down to the bloom of his touch.

“All right. All right, I’ve got you.” He pulls away. “Not going anywhere. Lay back for me?”

Kingsley musters the wherewithal to obey. Caleb shuffles out of his boxers. He reaches for the waistband of Kingsley’s pants.

“Ja?”

“Please. Please, shit, here, let me—”

He helps Caleb pull down his pants and underwear. Magic dusts Caleb’s hands, and then a vial appears between his palms.

“Oh.” He rattles the vial. “I am glad that worked.”

Kingsley pretends not to stare at Caleb’s cock. “Yeah? What was the alternative?”

“Forty-five pounds of dinner rolls.” He uncaps the vial. Kingsley looks on, almost from outside himself, as Caleb warms a dollop of oil between his hands.

Kingsley’s body knows sex. It’s had sex as people he can’t bear to claim, with people he’ll never care to know. In the wake of his resurrection, as Kingsley grappled for some kind of ownership over his body, he’d collected flings like copper pieces. It shouldn’t be a shock, when Caleb brushes two fingers up his shaft. It shouldn’t feel so new, when Caleb swipes his thumb over the head of his cock.

Caleb’s free hand finds Kingsley’s on the couch. He says, “Touch me?” and there’s a tremor. Maybe there’s been a tremor for a while.

Kingsley unlocks his grip from the couch. He takes Caleb’s wrist, and the world doesn’t end. Oil spills down his cock with the steady up and back of Caleb’s other hand. Kingsley’s grip spasms. He finds Caleb’s sides and clutches for purchase. Caleb says something soft and low. He breaks away to pour more oil onto his palm. Kingsley watches, helpless to move, as Caleb reaches down with lathered fingers. He preps himself. The firelight catches his fingers as they reappear. He says,

“Still with me?”

The memories are fuzzy. “I’ve left you a lot, haven’t I?”

“You always come back.” Caleb prestidigitates his hands clean. “This couch may, um. May prove a challenge.”

“We could move to the floor?”

“No, ah, I think this will work fine. Just…”

The cushions dip with one knee, then the other. Caleb sits so he brackets Kingsley’s thighs. He plants his palms to frame Kingsley’s head, and looks down at him with such lavish adoration Kingsley wants to wither away.

Caleb’s brow furrows. He hooks his finger and feathers the underside of Kingsley’s horn. Kingsley shudders.

“Someone lied to you,” Caleb whispers. “Who convinced you that you are worth so little?”

Kingsley looks away. Caleb’s finger finds a certain spot along the base of his horn; spurred by Kingsley’s moan, he massages the skin there with slow vigor. He says, “You deserve so much more than I could ever give you. I’m selfish that way.”

Kingsley musters a scoff. “Only you could look at this and call it selfish.”

Caleb kisses him. Kingsley thinks the world could end and he wouldn’t notice. He runs his fingers through Caleb’s hair, like he’s always wanted to do, and Caleb rewards him with a shaky noise. Everything is yellow and soft and dappled.

Caleb leans back. He raises himself over Kingsley’s cock. A pause, as he looks to Kingsley for permission. Then he sinks down. Caleb takes the tip of his cock. Heat envelopes his shaft, slow and steady. Kingsley can only heave for breath. His horn half catches on a pillow. Caleb hooks his palms above Kingsley’s hips. He says something punched out, like he can barely fit the words out of his throat, and the walls around Kingsley’s cock contract and release. Kingsley bites back a wail.

Caleb, fully seated now, takes a moment to adjust to the stretch. He’s still wearing his sleep shirt. His hair is ruffled from Kingsley’s fingers. Kingsley covers his hands. He closes his eyes and floats with the pattern of their overlapping breaths; feels the hug of Caleb’s body all around like a winter coat.

“Don’t think I’m not gonna…” Caleb’s muscles flex, and Kingsley has to pause to recover his wits. “Don’t think I’m gonna last.”

“Good. Because I won’t be able to keep this up for very long.” Caleb raises himself to the tip of Kingsley’s dick, then rides the shaft back down to the base. Kingsley doesn’t hear the sound he makes, but he feels the air leave his lungs and mouth. Oil beads off his thighs and cock and stomach. Kingsley’s fingers knit with Caleb’s, hard enough to sting. The sound of skin on skin; Caleb’s broken Zemnian as Kingsley ruts up to meet him on the downturn. They find a good angle; Caleb shouts, and Kingsley drives back at the same spot. Caleb’s muscles pulse; a few drops of precum bob off his cock. A shock of pleasure nearly throws Kingsley over the edge.

“I’m—fuck, Caleb, I’m…”

Kingsley is a star in Caleb’s hands. He’s bleeding light and Caleb is holding him through it—holding him like he’s something soft and impossible.

“Kingsley…”

“I can’t—”

“Come inside me.” Caleb draws their joined hands over Kingsley’s stomach. “Please—”

Kingsley thrusts back up at him, and the words are lost. Waves build upon waves. Kingsley’s cheeks are wet. It’s hard to see past the pleasure. He says Caleb’s name, and Caleb squeezes his hand, and Kingsley comes.

He hears Caleb gasp. Kingsley reaches out through the haze. He cups Caleb’s cock with his free hand, and Caleb thrusts down once, twice. He comes over Kingsley’s stomach.

A suspended moment. Caleb rolls up onto his knees, off Kingsley’s cock, and collapses. Kingsley throws his arms around his back.

“Caleb. Caleb…”

Caleb plants a messy kiss to his shoulder. Kingsley’s fingers find his hair. The world realigns itself in panting increments.

A log splits in the fireplace. Caleb groans. He starts to sit up, but his hand slips; Kingsley catches him before he can slide off the couch.

“Okay?” Kingsley laughs.

“Ja. Ja, I’m…” He laughs too. “Move over a bit.”

They shuffle until they’re face to face, Kingsley hammocked between Caleb and the back of the couch. Caleb flicks a prestidigitation cantrip at Kingsley; at the couch; at himself. The mess evaporates.

The cushions dip; Caleb’s fingers dust the floor. Kingsley can’t be bothered to open his eyes. A little buffet of air tickles his skin, to the snap of fanned-out fabric. He thinks of clotheslines in summer, and the blue sheen transition from the outdoors to a worn foyer.

“I’m good,” Caleb whispers, as he tucks the blanket over their shoulders.

Kingsley pricks his fingers into Caleb’s shirt.

He murmurs, “Don’t wake me up, all right? I like it here.”

Kingsley feels Caleb exhale. “You think this is another trick?”

“I don’t know. Mostly I’m warm and I’m tired and I love you.”

“And tomorrow you will wake up,” Caleb taps one knuckle, “and you will still be here,” another, “and I will still love you, too.” He kisses Kingsley’s hand. “So. If you are tired, sleep.”

Kingsley thinks he was an optimist once. Belief comes to him like muscle memory, and he sleeps.

[minis21]

Tax the Farm

I will start by saying that this started from a dream that I got the night after I finished the Mighty Nein campaign. No joke, lol The art here belongs to me, it was done before I wrote this drabble ---

“Kingsley.” Kingsley stopped himself from picking the crate the moment he heard Fjord calling him.

Oh, his voice was surprisingly serious! This should be interesting!

“Captain!” Kingsley turned t0 face him, finding beside him the only and only blue tiefling! “Jester! What do I owe you for this wonderful visit?”

“Hi, Kingsley!” Jester waved at Kingsley.

“Well, Kingsley, we’re here on… official business from the Clovis Concord.”

“Are you now?” Kingsley rested his elbow on the crate and his chin on the fist. “Look, if it’s about the boats lost at sea, tell them not to worry, our mage managed to come back from his bender and will pay for all the sunken ships.” Kingsley smiled, as sweetly as he could. Well then, time to cough up the money then, he only made the mage scrubs the floors in Darktow. All of them.

“Wait, what? Ships? Sunken?! Errr…” That made Kingsley drop his smile.

“You’re… not here for the ships?”

“Um… No, we’re to talk about another problem.” Fjord pulled a rolled up piece of vellum from his sack, opened it and gave it to Kingsley. The tiefling’s red eyes scanned the fancy cursive writing.

“Now this is interesting.” He said as he passed over the words “invasive species”. “And their blaming me?”

“Weeeeell, not so much blaming as they’re here for questioning.” Jester said. “But yes, they’re blaming you.”

“Yeah, the records and search pointed to the breakout around the time you arrived from the Shattered Teeth.”

“Well, funny you mention that.” Kingsley rolled the vellum, passing it back to Fjord. “I did bring a few cute rats from my visit there. And I did let it roam freely. Aaaaaand, I also lost them, but I didn’t give it a thought, you know, they were just rats.” Well, he knew they weren’t rats, they didn’t look at all like rats, other than the bald tails, but better to play dumb.

That and Kingsley didn’t lose them, he watched them with amusement as they merrily made their way down the staircase and into Nicrodranas and from there on wherever the Wildmother would guide them.

“It turned out one of them was pregnant.”

“And they made little babies! They were so cute! Their mama was carrying them on her back!”

“And those babies made more babies and so on and so forth until they spread around everywhere.”

Skritch skricth skirtch

The trio heard. Turning their heads, they saw as one of the little creatures climbed upon the crate Kingsley was resting his elbow, and from there on climbing on his arm up to his shoulder.

“Well, alright then, and what does the Menagerie Coast want me to do with these creatures?” Kingsley raised himself from the crate.

“Hunt them down.” Fjord said simply.

“Just hunt them down?” Kingsley raised an eyebrow.

“Yup!” Jester nodded along. “A pity, they are so adorable!” Jester approached Kingsley and the creature, the creature running behind Kingsley’s neck and peeking it’s snout from the other side.

“Well, ain’t that a pickle.” Kingsley popped his mouth. “That’s gonna take a while. Is there any reward?”

“Actually, there is! 10 silver pieces per tail.”

“Huh… Not bad, not bad…Wait, just the tail?”

The gears started running in Kingsley’s head.

“Uh, yes, just the tail.”

“Uh-huh” Kingsley passed his tongue over his teeth, the gears running his speed in his head. “Is it taxable?”

Jester and Fjord shared a long long look, Fjord looking more and more worried as the pieces fell in his head.

“…No.” He admitted.

“Captain!” Kingsley shrugged his shoulder, causing the creature to fall off his shoulder, but caught itself by wrapping its tail around Kingsley’s elbow crook. “While this invasive species conundrum is quite the tragedy, look at the bright side.“ Kingsley opened his arms wide. “I have just helped the economy, I created new jobs!”

Fun fact, the title and the ending are a reference to Terry Pratchett.

You can find this on Ao3 too, here.

[pkmn-lillie]

oh fuck i should talk abot Rei and his flock of birds (family) theyre all Corvidae btw. had a lot of fun picking corvids that are or could be in Japan.

(I will preface that this is a semi-supernatural setting so these birds are Smart like People. it takes a village to raise a child, or in this case 13 birds)

- Poppet (F) Rook

- Wire (F) Rook

- Cloth (F) Rook

- Effigy (Fig) (M) Carrion Crow

- Tempest (F) Carrion Crow

- Elytra (M) Carrion Crow

- Parley (F) Jungle Crow

- Ghost (M) albino Jungle Crow

- Orb (M) Jungle Crow

- Polaroid (M) Common Raven

- Rat (F) Common Raven

- Marble (M) Daurian Jackdaw

- Coin (F) Oriental Magpie

Rat is the one who is the most patient around other people, so is most often with Rei when in public. will gladly accept pets and skritches even from strangers.

Coin and Marble are pranksters. when they get bored they WILL steal anything shiny that isn't bolted down or attached to a human. Rei has a bunch of fidget toys on hand for them.

Ghost acts like he's a prince. turns up his nose at anyone besides Rei. gaining his approval requires many, many hours of scrutiny.

Poppet, Wire, and Cloth are the eyes in the sky. always keeping an eye out for weird happenings

ok its bedtime i may or may not continue this post. tl;dr local preteen has been raised by birds

[dragonbored]

i . i sent skritch to solitude and forgot. there’s a huge rat in this city and nobody is commenting on it

[suratan-zir]

I got this drinking fountain for Skritch to cool off this summer. (well, I got it for all of them, but I knew only Skritch would use it, he's the only one who loves water.) As expected, he really likes it :)

[gallusrostromegalus]

I wondered why this was getting notes lol.

Some More animals from my mother's childhood home:

Nickel and Dime, the bait fish that lived in a teapot

Susan, the rat snake

Susan 2 or "Twosan", also a rat snake but may have also been the same rat snake but bigger.

The cats Smoke and Fire, so named because: 1. They were gray and orange, respectively 2. Fire was blind and navigated the house by following Smoke around, so literally, wherever there was Smoke, there's Fire.

A Goldfinch that moved into the Canary's cage after he passed away and it was put outside one day during housecleaning

A flying squirrel

After my Grandparents moved to a nursing home, Grandpa had a "pet deer" that was a wild whitetail buck who would come up to the window of their room for carrots and head skritches, despire everyone telling Grandpa NO!!

The Woodcock That Lived Under The Oak Tree. several attempts were made to name it but the next time it came up in conversation, everyone forgot what they had agreed to call it, so it became The Woodcock That Lives Under The Oak Tree.

Romaine, a frog they found in a head of lettuce

A Cow, briefly

Apparently Strange The Dog had puppies at some point and they managed to find homes for Weird, Odd, and Bizarre, but they decided to keep Queer, which was a real funny animal to stand in the street calling in for dinner.

At least 17 Bullfrogs, all named "Dog"

Skittles the Pony who had a penchant for swimming in the local lake and biting pieces out anyone who wasn't paying enough attention.

Honorable Mention:

The first Dog my mom got was "Cops" a beautiful 120lb purebred German Shepherd who had flunked out of the police K9 academy.

Cops HAD been doing very well at Bite Training, except that being A Creature of Profound Intellect and Sound Philosophy, Cops had assumed that the purpose of biting was to get the guy who was shouting and behaving aggressively to stop. So the first time he was told to Chase Down A Fleeing Suspect (the guy in the bite suit, sprinting away) Cops correctly decided that the man screaming at him to bite someone who was actively leaving the confrontation must be the aggressor, and promptly bit his handler in the dick.

Being that he was entirely too morally upstanding for police work, Cops was surrendered to the local animal shelter as my mother arrived to adopt a dog.

She expressed an interest, was told why he washed out and "He's got a mean streak a mile wide- A little lady like you wouldn't be able to control him."

My mother, 4'11 and the former Ohio State Weight Lifting Champion, looked down at this gentle soul and promptly scooped him up into her arms on his back like an infant, where he was thrilled to remain, tail wagging, for the rest of the adoption process.

Cops was my mother's loyal guardian, and largely aloof to politely hostile to nearly every man my mother brought home, which tended to end romantic relationships. Until one night when she brought a former ESL teacher turned computer programmer she'd been seeing home for a drink and when she came back from the kitchen with the bottle of wine, Cops had climbed into the man's lap on the couch and rolled on his back while the man goo-goo'd over him like an infant.

"That's when I knew it was serious." She told me, much later. "I hadn't made up my mind about marriage at that point, but I knew I wanted children, and that I wanted him to be your father."

---

I still make my living telling stories on the internet, so if you want to support my Ko-fi or Patreon, I'd be very grateful.

An Incomplete List of the Animals my Grandpa brought home over the course of his 67-year marriage to Gandma:

Annabell, a solid white and completely deaf pit bull that used to let mom draw on her belly

The World’s Ugliest Tom Cat, who turned out to be the cuddiest teddy bear of an animal

Cocker spaniel named “Captain”

Stupid, the Cat

Litter of baby raccoons

Three more cats

A completely bald and extremely anxious canary that sang beautifully, but only at 4 AM

Baby Squirrel that grew up in the house and then refused to move out

A Genuine Thoroughbred Racehorse who was a spectacular athelete but had a habit of running races in the wrong direction.  Benny turned out to be a terrific trail horse instead.

Turtle

Snapping Turtle

A bucket full of 43 goldfish left over from the fair.  Mom counted once they were all in the bathtub in the backyard with the snapping turtle.

Another cocker spaniel named “Major”, who had the tremendous talent of eating green beans silently

Red-tailed hawk he found on the highway, and sucessfully nursed back to health and released.

Dummy, Son of Stupid

Strange, the dog that lived under the porch and only came into the house at night.

An “abandoned” baby deer.

Spooky, an alleged dog.  

Joey the parakeet whose tricks were  1. drinking tea out of a tiny cup 2. threatening to peck out people’s eyes 3. wearing hats

A Really Big Toad he found behind the factory, because the other auto workers were discussing using it for target practice.  Mr. Grumpity was guardian of the rosebed for several years and granny’s (his mother) favorite animal he ever brought home.

Gretchen, a St. Bernard that had to be shaved from her prior owner’s neglect, and spent a week hiding from sight with such success in the house that they thought she’d run away.

Arson, Burglary and Murder, three frankly adorable little kittens.  They did not change the names, much to the regret of the cop who lived three doors down.

Yet another Cocker Spaniel, named “Colonel”

Cardinal (bird)

Canada Goose (Demon)

Once in the nursing home, he had a “pet” 12-point whitetail buck that would come to his window to be fed corn and get headskritches, inexplicably named “Florence”

The marriage only ended because thier time on earth did. He never kept an animal Grandma wouldn’t allow and if anything she was worse about it. She was the one who brought home a tarantula.

[your-royal-momoness]

Every time a new mini discourse pops up, I feel like it’s something you said that @aboutiroh just ran with

What’s your point

@aboutiroh just loves monsters oh wait that’s me

[paintedmenagerie]

Skritch from Underworlds. I’ve always been partial to doing Skaven in red despite it being a pretty difficult colour to work with.

[mossyblue]

love is. well jesus fucking christ... love is stored in the rat

[eldebo]

Gabriel on the left and I think that’s Robin on the right (edit: nope it's Lance XD ). Anyway @kamikaze-kumquat gives double skritches. They were sweet cuddlebugs last night.

[serpentariusart]

Peanut is an old lady, and certainly can’t scratch herself properly now because she’s much weaker. But this means she LOVESSS getting skritches, even more so that she used to. She was always the most chill of all the rats with getting pats, now that she’s old she’s even chiller.