#some toil is not productive

[keeps-ache]

there has been worse! and there may be worse! but i like to believe in the mundane prevailing

[mesetacadre]

107 years ago today an organized group of workers in the Russian Empire decided they had had enough of war, misery, the oppression of women, and of a corrupt democracy that had promised much and changed nothing, the Tsar still in his palaces, the workers still giving their life for a cause foreign to the working class of Europe and the world. Most bolsheviks were industrial workers, with an insufficient formal education, precarious salaries and conditions. The working class in the Russian Empire had tried liberal democracy, had seen its hipocrisy in the months following the election of the provisional government, and understood their historic goal of progressing further beyond the democracy of the landowner, businessman and aristocrat. It wasn't the first time the proletariat had attempted to take power, both worldwide and in the Russian Empire, but this time they were ready, educated, an organized enough.

The armies of 14 imperialist powers combined could not stop the will of a mass of workers that had realized their worth, their potential, and most importantly, their dignity. They no longer had to bow down to paternalism, electoralism, and the capitalists to whom they sold their labor, no armed intervention, no amount of propaganda, no adventurist distraction, could take away from that fact. This isn't a fantasy, it isn't idealistic, it's a historical fact, that revolutions are possible, have happened, succeeded, and that the opportunity presents itself sooner than most expect. The only task at hand is to organize towards it. Agitation, education, an actual dual power structure predicated on a unified will, not on voluntarism and horizontalism.

I understand the topic at hand for the last 2 days and many more to come will be the results of the US election. But the US is not the only liberal democracy that increasingly creates disappointment among the social majority. After all the posting about the various liberals that make up the US electoral environment, it is imperious that nobody falls into despair. Not in a self-care way, not in the way most left-liberals have been talking about, referring to an abstract sense of "preparing", but because of the simple necessity for this election to further erode any popular faith in reformism, whether it's Trump's reforms, Harris' reforms, Bernie's reforms, or Stein's reforms. Wallowing in despair is as useful as placing yet more stake into whoever is wheeled out next to promise even less, in what will most certainly be also called the most important elections of our lifetimes.

Return to the working class of the Russian Empire, of a fractured and hungry China, to the colony of Indochina, to the plantation island that was Cuba. And I urge you to exercise some perspective. These masses of people had suffered more than you for longer than you. Nobody's asking you to feel guilty about your economic position in the world, we're asking you to realize that, for as long as there have been modes of production predicated on the exploitation, division and discrimination of a producing class, there have always been options, better options than sinking into despondent depression. They have managed to cast off their yoke and build towards a society not based on exploitation. They're not utopias, and mistakes have been and will be committed, but they all realized and understood that it's better to commit our own mistakes, than to toil under the rational oppression by another class for any longer.

[yandere-daydreams]

tw - nsfw, physical/psychological abuse, wildly unhealthy relationship dynamics, and derogatory language.

Most days, Bailey struggles to decide whether you're an idiot or a masochist.

He’s leaning towards the former, but it wouldn’t take much to sway him towards the latter. That doesn’t make you special on its own, though – no, most of the stupid brats in his orphanage have shit for brains and the survival instincts of pre-splattered roadkill, but you manage to make your peers look like shining pillars of intelligence and caution and all the good, important, necessary traits that you were tragic enough to be born without. If he didn’t know better, he might think that you’re doing it on purpose, that your behavior is just the product of some misplaced cry for attention. You should count yourself lucky that he’s a hell of a lot smarter than you’ll ever be.

He should’ve gotten rid of you the first time you failed to pay your rent. He should’ve, and he tried to – selling you off to the highest bidder, leaving you blindfolded in alleyways and restrained on the edge of town, but like a beaten dog too stupid to acknowledge that its master left it for dead, you always seem to drag yourself back, always bruised, most often bloody, and occasionally soaking wet. More than once, you haven’t made it all the way back, and he’s had to go out of his way to pick up ‘his precious ward’ from the intensive care unit at Harper’s request. He would leave you there, if he thought his reputation would survive giving that freak of a doctor a free lab rat.

 You can’t hold down a job. That part, he can’t entirely blame on you. If going outside is risky, then trying to earn a living is all-but a death sentence in a town like this. He knows you have a few minor gigs, pick up odd jobs every now-and-then around the wealthier neighborhoods, but it’s never more than petty cash, and having to watch you drag yourself through the orphanage halls with torn clothes and that distant, glazed-over look in your eyes almost makes what little rent money you can scrap up not worth it. You’re wary enough to keep your head down in school, so you don’t have a lot of friends, either. Most of your time is spent at home; toiling in your weed-infested garden, trying to pretend you aren’t hiding in your room, and when he lets you, curling up in the smallest, darkest corner of his office – your legs pulled into your chair and your eyes fixed on the floor. He asked, once, why you thought you had to waste your time sulking in his peripheral like some poor, attention-starving kitten. Despite help from the better half of a bottle from his vintage stash, he can still remember your answer.

“I don’t know,” you mumbled, with a smile so delicate, he was almost tempted to see how easily it shattered. “I guess I just feel safe around you.”

He stopped asking for rent, after that.

He tries not to think about you. It’s a constant effort, but he tries the hardest when he’s standing in your doorway hours after midnight, fucking his fist as you pretend to sleep less than a full ten feet away. He still hasn’t made up his mind about the masochist part, but you have to be an idiot. A pretty, empty-headed idiot.

His pretty, empty-headed idiot.

He decides, as he finishes to the sound of your muffled sobbing, that he’ll soak it in while he can. Even if he does his best, even if he keeps his distance, even if you never come to your senses and run far, faraway, he knows he won’t have long left to enjoy this.

He knows that, no matter how hard he tries to hold himself back, you’re not going to feel very safe around him for much longer.

[bobacake7]

Welp, might as well make my own faction since everyone else is doing it-

Operation Ichor belongs to @slumbrr-r

Welcome to Hidden Sanctuary or Sanctuary as it’s officially called. Literally the only known place with not only a surviving ecosystem but a thriving one. If you want fresh ingredients or natural remedies and resources, they’re the faction for you! Though they’re nestled in a hidden valley in a giant glass dome so good luck finding them.

Yapping down below. Beware it’s very long.

There are five total roles you could take outside of being a regular civilian:

The Farmers: Self explanatory, they are in charge of growing food and raising the animals for the people of the Sanctuary. Sometimes they’ll send some of their products to the traders.

The Architects: Essentially builders, they are the ones who build homes or important structures inside the Sanctuary a well as reinforcing the dome once a year. They also would build weapons for the defenders to use.

The Caretakers: Basically the healers. They tend to the wounded or sick and make sure they get the care they needed. Some would also be in charge of childcare for the daycare system.

The Defenders: The protectors of Hidden Sanctuary. They make sure no intruders get through the dome especially twisteds. They control who gets in and out the dome and will double check outsiders just to make sure none are twisted or hiding ulterior motives that could prove detrimental to the Sanctuary.

The Traders: The only role who travels beyond the dome. They would trade items such as fresh food or resources only the Sanctuary would be able to produce in exchange for items like metal or even weaponry that the Sanctuary can’t get access to or create otherwise. Basically the more valuable item you have, the more likely the traders would give you better quality crops or even a horse or cattle if you’re lucky.

Onto the founders!

They are the ones who contributed to creating the dome and its current operations. They are also the leaders of each role that’s available.

Florean is the leader of the Farmers. He basically makes sure the crops and animals are up to quality and doesn’t tolerate any less. He’s generally friendly and quite the hard worker, often being seen toiling away in the fields. Florean has a neutral stance on outsiders as to him, as long as they don’t bring harm to the toons already living there or to the other Founders, what’s the harm of letting them hang around? Though he does keep an eye on them, just in case.

Indigo is the leader of the Architects. He oversees the building operations and makes sure everything is going smoothly. Indigo is quiet and reserved who often can be found napping at odd times throughout the day when off-duty. This tends to get him a lecture from the other Founders, mostly by Blossom and Blade but he is competent at what he does. Indigo is weary of outsiders and tends not to interact with them much. Though he isn’t outright against their presence in the Sanctuary, he still worries of ulterior motives.

Blossom is the leader of the Caretakers. He’s the main healer of the dome and is the one who procures the medication and natural remedies needed to tend to the injured or ill. Blossom is very maternal and kind-hearted, often making the effort to check in on the people around him to make sure they’re doing well both physically and mentally. He’s very welcoming of outsiders and would make an effort to make their visit comfortable. Blossom sympathizes with the twisteds and would sometimes sneak in food their way, even if they can’t really eat.

Blade is the leader of the Defenders. She basically acts as the head general and assigns other Defenders to different posts around the dome of the Sanctuary. Blade is fiercely protective of the Sanctuary and its inhabitants and has a deep seated loyalty towards the other Founders. Blade has a lot of suspicions when it comes to outsiders and tends to be openly hostile towards them if she suspects foul play which Blossom often reins her back from. Overall the least likely to actually warm up to an outsider out of the five Founders.

Loop is the leader of the Traders. She’s the one who oversees the trade market and is the main inspector of all the goods that are brought back to the Sanctuary to ensure their quality before giving them out for the other Founders to make use of. Loop is laidback and acts unbothered by the world around her most times. Though Loop acts aloof most times, she does show empathy and kindness to the less fortunate and is very fond of the other Founders in her own unique way. Loop is relatively friendly towards outsiders given she’s interacted with them the most out of all the Founders. Though she still keeps them at arms length.

The Founders essentially act like a dysfunctional but loving family. While they all have differing approaches to dealing with outsiders, they will provide those in need shelter and the resources before sending them on their way once they can survive on their own.

Relations to the other factions (the cannon ones anyway):

Gardenview- Neutral, both factions barely come across each other especially with the Sanctuary’s secretive nature.

Ruin Corp- Friendly, the Traders would sometimes seek out their services for when they need help transporting goods around the city.

Zodiac- Hostile, all Zodiac members are one of the few banned toons and if they attempt to come near the dome it’s on sight for the Defenders.

The Merchant Order- Friendly, the Traders have a blast getting new things from that faction each time they trade.

Note that these relations are up to change if the creator wishes to put their own input on the relations of these factions with my own.

That’s all, have a good day/night!

[imsiriuslyreading]

I totally adore you and have always loved everything you’ve recommended on any platform. I’ve only read marauders fics though and not sure anything can top Jegulus and Wolfstar for me. But I’m curious what the Drarry fuss is about. Do you have any advice on where to start? Something to get me into the characters everyone loves, like Blaise, Theo etc. And then I’ll go down the AFTG and Raven Boys rabbit holes! And probably never sleep again. Or be productive. Etc. But I’ll be happy.

SWEET SUFFERING JESUS i cannot TELL YOU how happy this makes me. DRARRY RECS INCOMING BELOVED!

first and foremost, i simply must tell you of the journey that is Led by Light of a Star Sweetly Gleaming which is the most GLORIOUS wolfstar - hear me out, the sequel to this is a Drarry, called Pages of You . These are by the most wonderful writer @wolfpants - I won't embarrass them by emotionally leaking all over the internet but fucking hear me out, babe, you're gonna wanna read every drop of Drarry they have to offer. While you're having a stalk, go and check out Terrible People and Everybody Hates a Tourist.

Next up, another favourite of mine: Draco Malfoy and The Mirror of Ecidyrue. this badboy is good if you fancy a canon retelling with some fantastic twists and fixes thrown in. each year gets better than the last and I think its such an interesting take on the whole thing.

Alright, another FABULOUS one with such a good little twist: Way Down We Go by @xiaq - a phenomenal writer whose original works you should also absolutely check out. This fic actually has Harry as a Werewolf which I absolutely convinced myself was a plot twist until I later went back and read the tags and realised it was there the whole time. LOVE this one. so good. side note - the supporting cast? unrivalled.

Okay here we have What We Pretend We Can't See by gyzym. this was lovely - I thought the characterisations were really spot on for canon adjacent/continuation. adored this.

Now for something a touch more whimsical, may I present you something unlike anything else I've ever read ever in life? It's called Running on Air by Eleventy7 (they are on tumblr I believe but for the life of me I cannot find their @) anyway. this is just the most stunning thing. it sort of plays out like a movie in front of you while you read it. its gentle and clever and thoughtful and intricate and just one of the most creative stories I've ever crossed paths with. i challenge you not to fall in love.

Here we have Is This The Place by the most gorgeous writer @januaryfirstreads - I promise you you aren't going to find someone who loves drarry like this writer does. and its so clear in every word she writes. This one of her's is lovely, so soft and full of the love of these characters, it does them justice in the most beautiful way.

Alright, if you know wolfstar you probably know @brigid-faye - and if you don't, all you need to know is that I trust brigid with my life. one thing about brigid? these characters are gonna be treated so well its gonna be hard to let go of 'em. here's a drarry brigid wrote a while back, its all the things her writing always has. which is to say, nothing you wanna miss. It's called Breeze (Move Me).

Okay, if you're a Red White and Royal Blue fan, the one and only itsgivingcamp has a FABULOUS ONE which you can find here: it's called Red, Green and Toil Too . now, I may perhaps be biased, but I happen to prefer this to the original. but like I said, maybe biased. but also, correct.

Alright, some classics. I may have read some of these or started them/downloaded them but I fear I've rambled on long enough. so here's the failsafe drarry recs to lead you down the right track:

Dwelling by Aideomai

The Devil's White Knight by Orphan_Account

Harry Potter and the Welcome to the World of Grey by sobsicles

Chasing Dragons by The_Sinking_Ship

and lastly i'm going to do the cheekiest of little self recs. i have a multi chap drarry that will one day be finished called Cold Coffee and a banter-driven little Christmas-themed one-shot named The Weather Outside.

anyway, there are so many bloody more. drarry is the most wonderful thing. its also (in my opinion) so disgracefully canon that it's hard to escape once you get into it. (like hello? the train scene?) so I wish you the best of luck on this journey.

you just come and give me a shout when you're ready to yell about AFTG and The Raven Cycle. I am here ready & waiting!

love you bye xoxoxoxo

[samovar225]

Village Tower!

I finally did it..

Peppino, Gustavo and Brick!

Peppino:

An ordinary village man, He toils away almost all day in the garden, which is why he gets a strong tan. But his efforts pay off in his stall, which is popular at the local fair. He always has the most delicious vegetables and fruits, everyone loves it!

Gustavo and Brick:

Gustavo is a skilled fisherman who catches fish to expand the range of products at Peppino's stall. Gus really likes fishing. One day, when he was going fishing with a sandwich in his hands, he heard a rustling sound in the bushes. He thought it was some kind of wild animal and was ready to drive it away, but it was just a giant mouse - a vole, which looked like a jerboa. It grabbed Gustavo's sandwich and ate it. Gustavo thought, well, that's cool, and gave the mouse another sandwich, and that's how he tamed the mouse.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Some Tips & Advice for Writing Fiction

"Since advice is usually ignored and rules are routinely broken, I refer to these little pearls as merely 'suggestions.'....There’s nothing binding here. All suggestions can be ignored when necessary." —John Grisham

Love your story. Many writers create their best work when they’re deeply invested in their characters and plot.

Withhold information from your readers. When writing fiction, only give readers the information they need to know in the moment. Ernest Hemingway’s iceberg theory in writing is to show your readers just the tip of the iceberg. The supporting details—like backstory—should remain unseen, just like the mass of an iceberg under the water’s surface. This prevents readers from getting overwhelmed with information and lets them use their imagination to fill in the blanks.

Write simple sentences. Think of Shakespeare’s line, “To be or not to be?” famous for its brevity and the way it quickly describes a character’s toiling over their own life. There is a time and place for bigger words and denser text, but you can get story points across in simple sentences and language. Try using succinct language when writing, so that every word and sentence has a clear purpose.

Mix up your writing. To become a better writer, try different types of writing. If you’re a novelist, take a stab at a short story. If you’re writing fiction, try writing nonfiction. Try a more casual writing style by blogging. Each piece of writing has a different point of view and different style rules that will help your overall writing skills.

Write every day. Great writers have a regular writing habit. That means dedicating time every day to the craft of writing. Some writers assign themselves a daily word count; Stephen King writes 2,000 words a day. You might also join a writing group; being accountable to other people is a great motivator. Don’t worry if what you jot down is technically bad writing or you struggle to get something onto a blank page. Some days will be more productive than others. The more you write the easier it gets.

Set milestones. The average word count for a book is 75,000 words. That can make novel writing intimidating. If you’re working on your first novel, stay motivated by setting milestones. This will help you break the book down mentally so it is easier to manage and easier to stick with.

Understand basic story structure. Professional writers are well-versed in the framework most stories follow, from exposition and rising action through to the climax and falling action. Create an outline to map your main plot and subplots on paper before you get started.

Don't write the first scene until you know the last. This necessitates the use of a dreaded device commonly called an outline. Virtually all writers hate that word. Plotting takes careful planning. Writers waste years pursuing stories that eventually don’t work.

Learn strong character development techniques. There are effective ways to create a character arc in literature. Learn what character information to reveal to increase tension in your story. Your main characters should have a backstory that informs their actions, motivations, and goals. Determine what point of view (POV)—first person or third person—complements the character’s interpretation of events.

Use the active voice. Your goal as an author is to write a page-turner—a book that keeps readers engaged from start to finish. Use the active voice in your stories. Sentences should generally follow the basic structure of noun-verb-object. While passive voice isn’t always a bad thing, limit it in your fiction writing.

Take breaks when you need them. Writer's block gets the best of every writer. Step away from your desk and get some exercise. Getting your blood flowing and being in a different environment can ignite ideas. Continue writing later that day or even the next.

Kill your darlings. An important piece of advice for writers is to know when words, paragraphs, chapters, or even characters, are unnecessary to the story. Being a good writer means having the ability to edit out excess information. If the material you cut is still a great piece of writing, see if you can build a short story around it.

Don't introduce 20 characters in the first chapter. A rookie mistake. Your readers are eager to get started. Don’t bombard them with a barrage of names from four generations of the same family. Five names are enough to get started.

Read other writers. Reading great writing can help you find your own voice and hone your writing skills. Read a variety of genres. It also helps to read the same genre as your novel. If you’re writing a thriller, then read other thrillers that show how to build tension, create plot points, and how to do the big reveal at the climax of the story.

Read beyond what you like. Dutch writer Thomas Heerma van Voss says: "Read as much and as widely as possible. See how other writers construct their scenes, tease the reader, build tension. Don’t be afraid, especially when starting out, to steal or imitate – all arts begins with imitation. One of the Netherlands’ most famous writers began his writing career by copying out stories by Ivan Turgenev in an effort to master his rhythm and way of writing."

Read writers who do not write like you. Trinidadian-British poet Vahni Capildeo says: “Make friends with writers who do not write like you. Swap books. Show each other work. Take the long view and the wide view. Writing adds your lifetime to the lifetime of everyone else who has written or read, or who will read or write, including non-‘literary’ folk. All sorts of people work carefully or lovingly or effectively with words. You may find inspiration in a law report (ancient or contemporary) or a tide chart, or in an ‘unplayable’ play…"

Research. Critically acclaimed novelist Guinevere Glasfurd says: “Writers are often exhorted to ‘write what they know’. But what if your protagonist is a fourteenth-century nun? Or a drag queen from Kentucky (and supposing you, the writer, are not)? Start by reminding yourself why you want to tell the story. Research can be frustrating; sometimes the archive is silent, the answers are not there. There’s a reason for that and that should spark other questions. Research can also be enormously rewarding. It can, and likely will, reveal something unexpected. It is important to remain alert to that, to be attentive and open to surprise. Research is an iterative process. Research a bit, write a bit, research a bit more. Allow your writing to remain fluid at this point, open to question, encouraging of further enquiry.”

Write to sell. To make a living doing what they love, fiction writers need to think like editors and publishers. In other words, approach your story with a marketing sensibility as well as a creative one to sell your book.

Write now, edit later. Young writers and aspiring writers might be tempted to spend a lot of time editing and rewriting as they type. Resist that temptation. Practice freewriting—a creative writing technique that encourages writers to let their ideas flow uninterrupted. Set a specific time to edit.

Get feedback. It can be hard to critique your own writing. When you have finished a piece of writing or a first draft, give it to someone to read. Ask for honest and specific feedback. This is a good way to learn what works and what doesn’t.

Think about publishing. Few authors write just for themselves. Envision where you want your story to be published. If you have a short story, think about submitting it to literary magazines. If you have a novel, you can send it to literary agents and publishing houses. You might also consider self-publishing if you really want to see your book in print.

Ignore writing advice that doesn't resonate with you. Not every writer works the same. You have to figure out what works for you in the long run. If working off of bullet-point outlines gives you hives, then don't do it. If you work best writing scenes out of order, then write those scenes out of order.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References

[rylem33]

Something Wicked

“Are you sure about this, Mia?” Mark asked as the trio made their way toward the small community theater. He shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets, trying to keep his nerves in check. “I mean, I thought you were just being silly. I didn’t think we’d actually go through with it.”

“Oh, come on, it’ll be fun,” Mia grinned, nudging Mark’s shoulder. “You and Chris are a riot together. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are perfect for you two, and I’ve always wanted to play Ophelia. Just imagine all the fun we’ll have!”

Chris, who was walking slightly behind them, chimed in with a grin. “She’s right, man. It’s a local production and we’ve got some experience from high school. Plus, I already made a bet with Derek that we’d land parts. Don’t back out now.”

Mark sighed but nodded. “Alright, fine. But if I have to wear tights, I’m blaming you both.”

They arrived at the theater, where a small crowd had already gathered for auditions. The director, a quirky man with wire-rimmed glasses and a slicked-back ponytail, greeted them at the door.

“Ah, you three are here for Macbeth, right?” He flipped through his clipboard, his eyes glinting behind his glasses. “Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and Ophelia, yes?”

“That’s the plan!” Mia said, beaming.

The director raised an eyebrow and tapped his clipboard. “Well, I’ve got something else in mind for you. How about… the Three Witches?”

“What?” Chris laughed nervously, looking at Mark. “You mean us? As witches?”

Mark shifted awkwardly, not sure how to react. “Uh, I don’t think we’re exactly… witch material.”

Mia frowned. “I was really hoping to audition for Ophelia.”

The director waved off their protests. “Of course! But first try this. The witches are essential—a turning point of the play. You’ll be great! Just trust me.” He added, “And trust yourselves. You’ll get into the role soon enough.”

The trio were skeptical but decided to give it a go. They were given their scripts and led away from the other actors into the empty theater. The house lights dimmed, and the director nodded encouragingly.

“Just start from the top. Double, double, toil and trouble…“

They exchanged nervous glances, shuffling their scripts.

Mia took the lead, her voice wavering slightly as she attempted to conjure the tone of the scene. “Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn and… uh… cauldron…” She trailed off, blinking at the page. “Crap, what was the next part?”

Chris, holding his script too low to read properly, squinted in the dim lighting. “I didn’t prepare this part.”

Mark, trying to keep it together, shook his head. “Its okay. Just read the lines and act like a witch, man.”

“I don’t know how witches act!” Chris snapped back, feeling self-conscious.

The director sighed audibly from his seat in the front row. “Alright, stop, stop.” He rubbed his temples before standing up. “You three need to commit to this. You’re witches! You’re mystical, dangerous! This is no time for hesitancy.”

Mia blushed, her confidence shaken. “Sorry, I just didn’t think I’d be trying for this role.”

The director shook his head again. “At yet, here we are. I’ll set the scene. You’re witches. You’ve got power, mystery—seduction—in your words! Now stop questioning it. Feel the part. Let it take over!”

The trio exchanged glances again, still unsure. “Alright… I guess we’ll try again?” Mia offered, biting her lip.

The director waved his hand. “Start over. From the top.”

They nodded, still skeptical but determined to give it another shot.

Mia started once more, her voice a little stronger this time. “Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble.”

Chris followed, squinting at the script, “Fillet of a fenny snake, in the cauldron boil and bake.”

Mark was about to chime in when the director suddenly shouted, “Cut!” His assistant hurried over, and the director began talking to her in hushed tones, their discussion unclear.

While the director was distracted, Chris shifted awkwardly, glancing at Mia and Mark with a sheepish grin. “I still don’t know what any of this means…”

Mia giggled, but then, as if it bubbled up from somewhere deep inside, her giggle turned into a high-pitched cackle. It echoed off the theater walls, sharp and eerie.

Mark raised an eyebrow. “What was that?”

Mia blinked, her cheeks reddening. “I don’t know. It just… came out.” She shrugged.

Chris grinned, thinking she was just messing around. “That was… weirdly witchy.”

Mia’s eyes gleamed for a second. “Weird? Or perfect?” Her voice was lower now, more seductive, and her smile lingered longer than it should have. The boys laughed it off.

The director returned to the stage. “Alright, from the top. And I want commitment this time.”

Mia jumped into the role, her voice taking on an almost unearthly quality. “Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble.”

Mark opened his mouth to deliver his line, but it felt stuck in his throat. Mia’s tone had changed. She was acting so unlike herself.  So much like the role.

Chris noticed too. He was late to his next line, too focused on Mia and the intense look in her eyes. “Uh, Eye of newt, and toe of frog…” His voice wavered, but it seemed like Mia’s confidence was only growing.

Mark squeaked out. “Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting…” 

Mia straightened, her chin up high, her posture confident. “For a charm of powerful trouble, like a hell-broth boil and bubble.” The words rolled off her tongue.

Her clothes had subtly started to shift from her casual audition outfit to something more fitted. Her shirt tightened and hardened into a black corset that wrapped around her torso.  Not that she noticed, she was too engrossed in the role.

The director watched, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Good, yes… better.”

Chris stared at Mia and saw her shirt change causing him to stumble over his next line. “Uh, By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes…”

Mark and Chris exchanged nervous glances. This wasn’t right. But Mia? She was falling further and further into the part.

The director stepped forward, clapping slowly. “Magnificent,” he purred.

Mia turned toward the director, her lips curling into a slow, sultry smile. “Shall we continue, then?” she purred, stepping closer to him, her voice low, almost a growl. “There’s so much more we can do.”

Mark and Chris watched her with wide eyes, still in shock at how drastically she had changed in just a few moments. 

“Are you… okay, Mia?” Mark asked cautiously.

Mia turned to him slowly, her eyes narrowing. She stared at him for a long moment before speaking. “Mia?” she spoke, her voice hard with an unfamiliar rasp. “Who is Mia? We have work to do, sisters.”

Chris snorted, assuming she was still messing around. “Good one, Mia,” he said, shaking his head.

But Mia didn’t laugh or smile. She simply gazed at them both with a knowing smirk, her eyes flickering with something. Mark opened his mouth to speak again, but the director interrupted.

“Alright, let’s go again! Action!”

The scene resumed, but now there was something different in the air. The moment Mia began her lines, it was as if a switch had flipped. Her voice rolled out effortlessly, oozing power and seduction. “Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble.”

Suddenly, Mark and Chris felt something shift inside them. A strange tingling sensation spread through their minds, like fog creeping into their thoughts. 

Chris started, “Eye of newt, and toe of frog…” as his voice pitched up an octave.

Mark followed, “Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting…” a seductive tilt entering his words.

The director watched them with growing satisfaction, nodding as the transformation took hold.

Mark blinked, as his body began to shift, his muscular frame softening into more delicate, feminine curves. His jeans morphed into a sleek black leather skirt, his shoes elongating into stiletto heels. His chest filled out, his shirt morphing into a tight, corset-like top. His hair, once short, lengthened into platinum blonde locks that cascaded over his shoulders.

His words flowed naturally now, without the hesitation from before. “Cool it with a baboon’s blood, then the charm is firm and good.”

Chris, too, began to feel the change. His broad shoulders shrank, his arms slimming as his black T-shirt melted into a shiny corset, complete with straps that wrapped around his now hourglass figure. His dark hair lengthened into luscious waves, his lips darkening to a deep crimson. 

His body moved more fluidly, his voice softening as he delivered his lines. “By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.”

The director stepped forward, clapping slowly. “Magnificent,” he purred, his eyes gleaming. 

Mia turned towards her sisters.  Her coven. Her lips curled into a slow, sultry smile. “Shall we continue, then?”

[nottsim]

— ᴡʜᴀᴛ’ꜱ ɪɴ ᴍʏ ʀᴏᴏᴍ 𝒽𝑜𝑔𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓈 𝒹𝑜𝓇𝓂 ᴇᴅɪᴛɪᴏɴ

══════════════

⊹ ࣪ ˖ quick disclaimer: i scripted out the canon ravenclaw dorm for this, um..masterpiece? it’s pinterest approved, chaos infused and definitely not up to standard ravenclaw aesthetic. sorry, i like my personal space with a side of whimsy and highly overpriced.

and yes, i sleep peacefully knowing that there are no dusty tapestries or whispering paintings in my room. my bed? a trap. productivity doesn’t live here. and to the right, you’ll find the three socks lost to the void (no pun intended) ୨୧

ahem, anyway… not to brag but i may have poured my soul into this mood board for you. so, welcome to the full experience—pretend you're here with me.

way up in the ravenclaw tower, where the air is thin and the academic stress is thicker, you’ll find my dorm, with the best view in the castle and where beauty sleep is taken very seriously. my dorm is a love letter written in soft cotton sheets that feel like whispered secrets, with my dove duvet crinkling with every shift. sigh. can you tell i love my bed? my bed is the kind of cozy that turns waking up into a personal betrayal. yes. it’s that deep. once you’re in, there’s no way out. my canopy drapes like a royal decree that shall remain cozy forever. my pillows? massive. comically oversized. one wrong turn in my sleep and i’m lost in the fluff, never to be seen again. a tragic fate some might say. i highly disagree. my beds comfort level makes me consider skipping morning classes in favor of one more minute (hour) of warmth. alas, i carry the burden of the ravenclaw tendencies..so i drag myself out of my personal cloud and into the cruel, cold world of academia.

beside my bed, you’ll find two nightstands. because symmetry is important, and so is convenience. each has a lamp because i refuse to subject myself to the harsh betrayal of the big light. a glass vase of peonies sit on one of them because, yes. i am both romantic and delicate (my dad sends me them). next to it my silk sleep mask waits, ready to shield me from the cruel reality of early mornings. the wall behind my bed is dressed in classic toile print, all delicate scenes in muted a rose. it looks like it belongs in a countryside manor, the kind with sweeping gardens and letters sealed with wax. very fitting for someone who hoards handwritten notes and thinks too much about which shoes match the mood of the day. what can i say? i needed to feel like i stepped into a historical romance novel every time i walked into my room. sigh. at the foot of this luxurious trap is my little couch seat. it’s expiate solely for dramatic lounging, contemplating life’s biggest mysteries (why i own so many shoes) and acting as my clothing rack for when the wardrobe is an inch too far.

then there’s my vanity/desk hybrid also known as my personal command center. this is where business gets done. makeup, hair, staring contests and my dreaded assignments. it holds everything that makes me feel pretty..and random quills because, i am both beauty and brains. you know how some people have motivational posters? i have a hairbrush that speaks to me in rhinestones and whispered affirmations..beside it? ah, my fragrance, my signature scent if you will. vanilla. it’s not just any vanilla, it’s the vanilla. soft, fresh, sweet. it’s just enough to gain a baker title. skip dessert, this tops it. also. if you read my last post (ily), you’ll know i live in constant fear of bad breath, yes. i’m very particular about how i smell. and, if we’re being completely honest, my whole room smells like vanilla at all times. why? because this fragrance is so powerful that it quietly infiltrates every corner. so, if you're wondering what this room smells like, it’s not vanilla :’)

my mirror you ask? what? this mirror? perched on my vanity like a regal heirloom? ornate, vintage and the closest thing to a masterpiece i’ll own…yet somehow, the real highlight? the little note taped to the corner..Theo’s doing, of course. one of many, because my vanity is where i usually end up when i’m avoiding the black hole that is my bed. i like looking at it…like a little reminder, i am indeed adored. i might’ve spared a kiss for it. it’s still there, slightly smudged, like a love note and a signature all in one. then there’s a bear and a bunny, aka me and Theo in stuffed animal form. the bear naturally, wears a slytherin tie. because even in plush form Theo has to be extra. together? they’re like our tiny, fluffy alter egos, silently judging my makeup skills.

what else is crammed into my room, you ask? my box of pictures. because naturally, i must document everything like a historian with a flair for the dramatic. most pictures are taken with my beloved pink digicam which i treat like a priceless artifact..if you zoom in you’ll get a visual representation of how much free time i have. and speaking of prized possessions? allow me to introduce my holy grail of footwear..(that rhymed). anyways. my repetto ballerinas. these shoes are the unsung heroes of my chaotic life. they’re sleek, they’re chic, and they somehow manage to elevate every outfit..at least from the ankles down.

and here we are, the grand finale of the tour, where the chaos meets its inevitable, slightly tragic, conclusion. anyways. that was my dorm, basically the physical embodiment of my brain, trapped within four walls. it’s a curated ecosystem at this point. questionable priorities, comfort and clutter tied together with a deep sense of regret and the sheer unwillingness to leave my bed.

from my bed, 𝐣𝐚𝐬 “𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐞𝐭 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐨” ୨୧

[blazehedgehog]

After watching SAGE's 2024 trailer, you ever get the feeling that most people want to be making indie games instead of fan games nowadays,? Every year there's been less and less fan works there.

This is the first year I've really felt it in any meaningful way.

There have been attempts for more than a decade to rename SAGE to drop the "Sonic" part. I've always pushed back against that and at this point the branding is too strong to give up, I think. People know about and come to SAGE because the brand is strong. Renaming it would be a death sentence.

Taking off my business hat, it's a bummer to see fangames in the minority here. Everybody wants to hop on that indie game gravy train and chase the success of Pizza Tower (seriously, count how many Pizza Tower clones are in the trailer this year) or Freedom Planet or Spark the Electric Jester or whatever.

And it's easy to congratulate people for striking out on their own and making original games. I was one of the many voices urging Sabrina to divorce Freedom Planet from the Sonic franchise and make it into an original game she could sell. So she ran a crowdfunding campaign (multiple, actually), was successful, and now we have two Freedom Planet games. And that's great!

But... does that mean all fangames should go away forever?

The example I lean on the hardest is comic books.

A lot of the guys who created the biggest super heroes aren't around anymore. They gave up control long ago or are straight up dead now. These books are effectively officialized fanfiction now, as are the $300,000,000 movies based on them. An ever-increasing number of people writing, drawing and directing these characters today were not alive when they were originally created.

But people still keep writing Batman stories, officially or otherwise. Because there are some stories you can only tell with Batman. Now, you could break off and make your own character that's similar to Batman, build up this history for him, and then finally tell your original story with that character. And maybe that's satisfying, to have built something of your own like that.

But for one: that's a lot of work. Batman is interesting because he has decades (almost a century now) of history behind him to play off of and work with. There are people out there who will tell you to just start writing your dream story and forget about building up to it first, but that's more about motivation and confidence than the idea that stories don't need historical context.

And two: that's already been done.

There's a good chance you know who Rob Liefeld is from his, uh, "distinctive" art style. He also created Deadpool, a katana-wielding mercenary assassin that dresses in red and black, whose real name is Wade Wilson. But before Deadpool, he created Deathstroke, a katana-wielding mercenary assassin that dresses in orange and black, whose real name is Slade Wilson.

Here is a guy who has built a career on copying his own work (and the work of others) over and over and over again.

Did it make Rob Liefeld rich and famous? Technically yes, but he kind of got rich because other people made better work using his characters, and he's famous for being kind of a hack.

So which is better?

Creative output you can do right here, right now, today, but is considered "fanfiction" or "fanart" or a "fangame", which may or may not lead to you being the person handling the official thing at some point down the road...

Or spending years of your life toiling to bring an original concept to life, and even if you struggle through all of the boredom and hardship of getting your original product out the door, it gets lost in the noise of now-million other creators trying to do the exact same thing. And then, at the end of your launch, after 2, 3, even 5 years of working and working and working, you've only made enough money to cover rent on your apartment for a month and a half.

Or, to put it another way:

Are you ditching fangame development because you have a legitimately great story you want to tell, or are you just doing it because you can't make money on a fangame?

Are you just creating another Bloodstrike?

As someone who has struggled to justify putting lots of hard work into a fangame myself, and have both made very popular fangames and some not-so-great original games, I don't know if I have a definitive answer for you. But I do wish there were more fangames at the fangaming event, and I will say, as always, if I could get paid a livable wage for making fangames, I would drop everything and do it in a heartbeat.

[sharklovingaquarist]

Again and again and again, the best leftist man can not compare to a woman. I watched a video of a man saying that if he was a woman, he wouldn't want to have a child either. Ok, cool. Address why that is. But then he goes on to say how he wouldn't want to pretend to love being a mother. No shit. Having a child isn't some overwhelming feeling like you're told. But you have to address that. You can't act like there's two radicals of women. The subject of children (for women) shouldn't either being all mommy mama or being repulsed by children. It isn't "my goal is to be fully about my child" or "I am fully myself but refrain from children". Wanting a child is a human characteristic, but you still separate the sexes within it. When women have kids, they have to be loving and provide service. A father is a title of pride, existing is your service. You can't act like being a mother is innately this depressing label without addressing the lack of male involvement. You can't do that without addressing the culture around it. Think about what men have done to make a relationship between a woman and offspring something negative. I dont care to elaborate further than this simple phrase I've created: women ARE mothers, men HAVE children. And thats the thing with these debates on women having children. They ALWAYS seem to lack acknowledgment in the department of calling out men.

And again he relates the pronatalist insistence on birth to money. Ok sure, maybe money has a bit to do with this. Im not one to disregard that. But when you can't see the culture we have created around reproduction, the way we percieve it, you aren't going to get to the main issue of this topic. If this was mainly about "creating slaves" there would be outcry about school shootings. You know what its really about? Male ego. The fact that you live in a male fantasy. Men love our pain, and they love situations where they can connect their dick to our pain. The obsession with pregnancy and birth comes from a male fantasy of devaluing a woman and causing her pain. Reducing her to a ball of weeping maternal emotions (of which they condition her to perform). In fact, they try to increase our pain during the process. But no, again and again, leftist men can only ever think this is an issue of money. Because if its money, they can pretend it's still about them. They need to look deep within themselves and think about how they view the very BASIS of male and female differences. "Women have children while men toil away" men have never worked as hard as women in the eyes of the patriarchy. Sorry, not sorry.

I should be able to live life like a man. If I want a child, it's a neutral thing. It doesn't give me a definition. I shouldn't have to be one of two simplistic extremes. I want to be me, I want the options that men do. When you have an animal with a reproductive method such as the ones humans do, a male accounts for a female. The problem is, somewhere males twisted the truth to take weight of themselves and place it on us. Our part is physical, so it can not be moved on or off easily. Theirs is mental, so they can manipulate their way out. And somehow, it worked. Men can act like this is a game rooted in monetary issues, but I wouldn't play it as the richest woman in the world. Women aren't innately production, they've tailored it to be that way. The issue isn't population and labor, it's the male ego needing a collection of humans under him. The poorest man on earth will still force his wife into a litter of children

[moonmaiden1996]

A Father's Love

A father will do anything for their daughter, even if it means letting you be with Rupert Campbell Black, if only to make you happy.

Your father was a man of few words. He had never been one for long speeches or grand declarations, but his love was woven into the fabric of every action he took. It was in the steady rhythm of his days—rising before dawn, working tirelessly under the Cotswold sun, his hands rough and earth-stained from years of toil. It was in the way he carried the weight of the farm, ensuring that his land thrived, not for his own pride, but for his family. For you.

When it came to your education, he made sure you had the best possible start. He was not a man of letters himself, but he understood the value of knowledge, of opportunity. And you, his bright and determined daughter, earned your place at the local grammar school for girls. He never said it outright, but the pride in his eyes was unmistakable when he watched you scribble away at your homework by the dim lamp, your brow furrowed in fierce concentration. He sat beside you when numbers tangled your thoughts, his presence a quiet pillar of support. He held you when cruel words from wealthier classmates stung too deeply, reminding you that your worth was not measured in silks or pearls but in the richness of your heart and mind- and you were oh so precious.

He attended every school production, every awards ceremony, sitting quietly with his large, earth stained hands, callused from years of work, folded in his lap, never seeking attention, never needing to. His presence alone was enough. See you was enough.

And then university came. You left home to pursue your dream—to become a vet, a damn good one. It was the perfect path for you, a life spent healing and helping, close to the land, close to the animals you had always adored. Your father watched you rush off at dawn, wrapped in an oversized duffle coat, your wellies splattered with mud. He watched you answer late-night calls, heading out into the cold and the rain with unwavering dedication. His daughter, strong and capable. His daughter, unstoppable.

Yet, he had never seen you truly happy.

You smiled often, but it was the kind of smile that never quite reached your eyes. You were content, perhaps, but never radiant, never bursting with unrestrained joy. There had always been something missing, something uncertain lingering beneath the surface. And that broke him more than he could ever admit.

Until six months ago.

Suddenly, you were glowing. You swept into the farmhouse with a bounce in your step, laughter spilling from your lips like a melody. There was light in your eyes, warmth in your voice. You hummed as you worked, as you walked, You smiled while you helped around the house You were in love.

"She is in love," your mother sighed one evening, curling up beside him in front of the television, her voice tinged with quiet amusement.

Your father lowered his reading glasses, glancing at her with skepticism. "Oh, and she told you this?"

"Of course not," she replied with a knowing smile. "But it’s obvious. And I clean the bedrooms. She has been given some pretty things."

His brow furrowed. "Hmmm. Like what?"

She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Ornaments. Trinkets. Beautiful things."

He let out a sharp laugh. "Hah! My future son-in-law is a fool, then. Throwing money at a girl who doesn’t care for such things. Our daughter has never been one for frivolities."

Your mother gave him a pointed look. "To you, she isn’t. You see her as the little girl who played in the mud. But she is a woman now, and women like to be given beautiful things."

For a moment, his expression softened. Then, as if realizing he was dangerously close to sentimentality, he masked it with a grumble. "Hmmm. Any idea who this young Casanova is?"

"No," she admitted, a small smile playing on her lips. "But she will tell me. She always does."

And she did. He caught you whispering to your mother, giggling—an unfamiliar sound from the girl who had always been so reserved. You were gushing, your eyes alight with something he had never seen before. Love suited you. Even when you cast half-stern glances at your mother for teasing you, even when your mother’s eyes gleamed with amusement, he didn’t mind. Because you were happy.

And then, you weren’t.

The light faded. The laughter stopped. The joy that had once danced in your eyes was replaced by shadows of sorrow, deeper than anything he had seen before. And it shattered him. Broke him.

He exhaled sharply one evening, hands balling into fists at his sides. "Just tell me, luv. This boy has obviously done something. All I want to do is speak some sense into him."

Your mother, kneading dough with unnecessary force, sighed. "Dear, it’s not that simple."

"Luv, I won’t do anything. I just want to—"

"It is between him and her," she interrupted firmly, slamming the pie dish onto the table. "Our daughter is big enough to look after herself."

He scoffed. "Luv, there is obviously some kind of misunderstanding…"

She stilled, her hands hovering over the dough. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet, but pointed. "Because of you, they broke up."

His head snapped up. "Me?"

Your mother nodded, her eyes filled with quiet sadness. "Your daughter loves you and doesn’t want to hurt you."

His throat tightened. "She could never."

She took a deep breath, bracing herself before she said the name.

"It is Rupert Campbell-Black."

The silence was deafening.

Then—

"That cad!" he roared, pushing back his chair so roughly it scraped against the wooden floor. "I will kill him for touching my daughter!"

Your mother threw her hands up. "See, this is why!"

"He’s old enough to be her father!" your father continued, his fury undeterred.

"Hardly," she countered, rolling her eyes.

"He ruins women. Uses them. Discards them. And he’s done it to our daughter."

"No," she said, voice firm. "He loved her. Treated her as a woman."

His laugh was bitter. "Oh, I bet he has. And now that he’s gotten what he wanted, he’s discarded her."

Her frustration was evident in the hard set of her mouth. "No, they broke up because they knew you wouldn’t accept it. Because they couldn’t bear to hide it anymore."

But he couldn’t let it go.

He was your father. And he never wanted you to be sad.

Xxxxxx

‘’Mr. Campbell-Black, a word."

Rupert turned slowly, his sharp blue eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of your father standing before him. The older man was composed but rigid, his broad frame tense beneath the worn fabric of his tweed jacket. Resting against his forearm was the unmistakable weight of a shotgun, though it sat there almost carelessly, more of a message than a threat.

Rupert swallowed the sigh that threatened to escape and instead offered a tight smile, though his jaw remained clenched. "Ah. I take it this is about..."

"Yes."

There was no need for elaboration. They both knew why he was here.

Rupert eyed the weapon warily but stood his ground. "Are you going to shoot me?"

Your father exhaled through his nose, then, with a calculated slowness, popped the barrel open, ejecting the cartridges with practiced ease. The metallic clink as they landed in his palm seemed to echo between them. He pocketed them deliberately before meeting Rupert’s gaze once more. "No… Do I need to?"

Rupert exhaled slightly, his fingers flexing at his sides as he waited

"I hear you were going out with my daughter."

"Did she tell you?"

Your father’s expression darkened, his lips pressing into a firm line. "No. But I know anyway... why I came to see you. She’s been unusually quiet. Sad."

A flicker of concern passed across Rupert’s face—there and gone so quickly it could have been missed. But your father caught it. He was watching the younger man closely, the way his body tensed, how his fingers curled into fists at his sides. He wasn’t indifferent, he was worried.

"Is she okay?" Rupert asked, and this time, the concern wasn’t fleeting. It was raw.

Your father studied him, dissecting his every move, every twitch of his jaw, every unreadable flicker in his eyes. Then, his voice was level, almost too calm. "Why did you break up with my daughter?"

Rupert inhaled sharply, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He hesitated for only a moment before running a hand through his dark hair, his expression conflicted. "Because I could see how much it hurt her to keep it from you. She didn’t want to lie, but she also didn’t want to hurt you. And I—" he stopped, exhaling slowly as if steadying himself. "I wanted to marry her. But she wouldn’t tell you. Not until she knew you wouldn’t hate me for it. I couldn't put her through more pain.''

Silence stretched between them, thick and oppressive. The weight of those words hung in the air, unspoken and heavy. For the first time in a long while, your father felt something he hadn’t expected.

Doubt.

Rupert Campbell-Black was everything he had feared—older, experienced, worldly in a way that made him dangerous. A man with a past riddled with scandal and recklessness, someone who collected hearts (an other parts of woman) like trophies. But standing before him now, he didn’t look like a careless playboy. He looked like a man stripped bare, vulnerable in a way that suggested he had already lost something he couldn’t bear to part with.

"You wanted to marry her?" your father finally said, his voice rough, like gravel grinding underfoot.

Rupert nodded once, his jaw tight. "More than anything."

Your father was silent, his mind warring against itself. He could hold onto his anger, his belief that Rupert was no good, that this was a mistake. Or he could face the undeniable truth staring him in the eye—this man loved his daughter.

After what felt like an eternity, your father inhaled deeply and released a slow, measured breath. Then, to Rupert’s absolute astonishment, he muttered gruffly, "Well then, I hope you haven't eaten yet."

Rupert blinked. "I—Sorry, what?"

"Dinner," your father said, already turning on his heel, heading towards the farmhouse without another glance back. "You’re coming home with me. I reckon we need to talk."

Rupert stood frozen for a moment, watching the retreating figure of the man who had just threatened him with a shotgun and was now inviting him to dinner. He wasn’t sure whether he had just been forgiven or sentenced to an even worse fate.

Either way, he followed.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Rupert barely had time to react before the sound of your delighted gasp filled the room.

"Rupert!"

The pure, unrestrained happiness in your voice was a sound your father hadn’t heard in far too long—one he had grown accustomed to before everything had gone to hell. From the doorway, he watched as you threw yourself into Rupert’s arms, clutching onto him like he was the only thing tethering you to the earth. Rupert caught you easily, arms winding around you with the fierce protectiveness of a man who had gone too long without holding what was his.

You pulled back just enough to look into his face, hands cupping his jaw. "If Dad finds you here, he will—"

Rupert smirked, his usual roguish confidence flickering back into place just as your father shuffled in, walking over to your mother and pressing a kiss to her shocked cheek.

"Luv, hope you don’t mind, but I brought a guest."

The sound of a chair scraping against the floor made your heart stop. Slowly, you turned.

Your father stood near the dining table, arms crossed, watching the two of you with an unreadable expression.

"Mr. Campbell-Black." Your mother smiled as she scurried to set another place at the table. "Ahh, yes, of course."

The silence at the dinner table was thick with unspoken words, every moment stretching unbearably. You could feel Rupert’s gaze darting between you and your father, sharp and cautious, while yours remained fixed on your plate, guilt swirling in your stomach. You had been the only person not to pick up your fork and tuck into the sumptuous feast in front of you.

Rupert, however, was the first to break the tension. "Sir, if I may—"

Your father raised a hand, stopping him mid-sentence. His piercing eyes flickered to you. "Why didn’t you tell me?"

You swallowed hard, fingers twisting in your lap. "Dad, I’m sorry… I wanted to. I just… I didn’t know how you’d take it."

"Is that right?" He hummed, his tone betraying nothing.

Rupert set his fork down with a decisive clink against his plate and turned fully toward your father. His voice was steady, sincere. "Sir, I take full responsibility for that. I couldn't keep myself away. There's something about her—something different. Something I can’t walk away from, not now, not ever."

Your father leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable. Then, after a long, weighted pause, he exhaled. "Hmmm… well, I suppose the only thing left to ask…when is the wedding? Only seems right I know, I have to get a suit and all."

The room froze.

You gaped at him. Rupert’s jaw dropped slightly. Even the cutlery seemed to go still.

"What?" You, Rupert, and your mother all spoke at once.

Your father took a sip of his wine, as if the declaration had been the most natural thing in the world. "I raised a daughter with a strong, sensible head on her shoulders. She’s a shrewd judge of character. I trust whoever she’s chosen."

A slow, radiant smile spread across your face, and beside you, Rupert let out a stunned breath before his own grin broke free—one of pure, unfiltered joy. His hand found yours under the table, gripping it tightly.

But your father wasn’t finished.

"However," he continued, voice carrying the weight of decades of authority, "I do expect plenty of grandchildren. I need someone else to spoil now you have stolen my daughter away. Let’s say at least two of each to start with—at least."

Rupert let out a low chuckle, squeezing your hand even tighter as he turned to your father, eyes alight with confidence and promise. "I can assure you, sir, that won’t be a problem."

"Oh, and Rupert… you hurt her, I will shoot you."

This was a story I came up with when I first starting watching Rivals but I honestly just don't have time during term time to write it. So I hope you enjoyed.

Like. Comment. Request

[bird-inacage]

Only Friends: EP10 Ray's Therapy Scene (First Focus)

I've been meaning to do a deep dive on this scene, which has no doubt been immensely commended for Khaotung's stellar performance (I'm running out of vocabulary to gush about how talented that boy is). However the purpose of this post is to highlight how equally superb First is, as I fear some may overlook the excellent work he does here.

The reason why this scene warrants a huge amount of respect is how challenging this dynamic is on both actors. Only Ray is speaking the entire way through, which means the tone and rhythm of the scene is led by Khaotung, whilst First's role here as Sand is to be reactive to this immense outpouring and release of emotion. First is required to be a very restrained and contemplative presence - a projection and visual representation of Sand in Ray's own mind. It's literally acting on a macro (Khaotung) and micro (First) level in tandem.

I want to start by mentioning how well First portrays this bedded-in weariness in Sand’s demeanor throughout, an expression we’ve seen in Episode 8. It carries this heartbreakingly heavy and worn down quality. A symptom of a man who bears far too much weight on his shoulders, whose mental toil never seems to end; a product of his own nature and those who knowingly or unknowingly take advantage of it. This is the tragedy of Sand's character. And this is the realisation that is well and truly hitting Ray now. His temper and behaviour have inevitably taken its toll on someone Ray knows doesn't deserve all the suffering he's been putting him through.

⬆️ "I was stupid, but I want you to understand me. I was mad at you because I cared so much about you."

When Ray starts asking for forgiveness, there's an air of slightly deflated scepticism that flits across Sand's face. Sand's immediate instinct is to be hopeful, to give someone the benefit of the doubt. But the reality is Ray has apologised a number of times before and that hasn’t stopped him from hurting Sand still. So Sand’s expression sobers, conscious of how likely it is that Ray will let him down again.

This is Ray acknowledging that he's fallen into a pattern of taking Sand for granted. If that’s all Sand has come to expect, why would his apology this time change anything? Ray has not earnt his redemption yet as he hasn't apologised to Sand in person, and has no guarantee it would be accepted. Which is why he's so upset because he registers that Sand's disappointment in him is fully deserved.

⬆️ "There's no one more caring or loving than you. Though I've been nothing but an asshole to you."

You see the tiniest lift of Sand's brow that's tinged with grateful disbelief, 'Me? But I'm nothing special'. His gaze softens by the sentiment, a visible breath inhaled in as if taken aback, clearly touched but hesitant to believe it. A humbling trait of Sand's is that he genuinely struggles to see his own value. He doesn't realise just how meaningful he can be to someone. That he could hold such weight.

And all the criticism that Ray has thrown at Sand has only piled onto the insecurities he possesses. Remarks that have questioned Sand's principles, his dignity, his sense of worth.

⬆️ "But if you don't want to put up with me anymore, that's alright. I get you."

Ray's image of Sand watches on as he begins to fall apart, crushed by a mixture of intense fear, regret, and despair that this may be too little too late. That his last outburst may well have been the final straw, and he failed to appreciate Sand when it mattered.

On the surface Sand may look numb or somewhat devoid of emotion, but you can detect the turbulence brewing underneath. Sand has a habit of holding in his feelings in to an almost painful degree (which begs for release). It gives you the impression he could suddenly burst at the seams at any given moment. But Sand as always holds still, holds strong, holds steady. Other than the slight twitch of his lip, he holds himself together somehow.

⬆️ "No one can put up with me".

Ray vocalises his own self-hatred, how little he deserves someone like Sand, how guilty he feels for causing this damage. Whilst he does so, Sand appears increasingly teary, lip ever so slightly quivering, brows crumpling. He looks like he desperately wants to break down and cry along with Ray.

What sets Sand apart from everyone else in Ray’s life is he understands. He can sympathise with why Ray is the way he is. Despite everything Ray has done, Sand still very much wants to protect him, shield him, care for him. He doesn't blame him. It breaks his heart to see Ray upset, to see Ray hurting. His compassion for Ray has always been his undoing.

The last thing he would want is for Ray to feel unwanted or intolerable. He tries to be the person who can withstand Ray's temper, his volatile nature, because he knows Ray is still deserving of love. It’s because of this love that he can feel every single thing that Ray is going through.

Sand exudes an incredibly strong parental presence in this scene; a form of unconditional love and patience. As we're often told by our parents, they're not angry at us when we veer off path, just disappointed and perhaps saddened on our behalf - but that won't stop them from loving us all the same. This is beautifully captured by First. You can detect Sand's selfless love for Ray in his every gaze, always.

⬆️ "Ever since you walked into my life, I've been so happy. So damn happy Sand."

This is where Sand almost breaks down as he displays a small, tentative smile that is laced with pained and tired relief. His eyes close in an attempt to maintain composure. Whilst there’s overwhelm, there’s also finally a glimmer of peace.

This is what Ray knows Sand needs to hear, what Ray wishes he'd said sooner. Ray picturing himself saying this to Sand may be a form of vindication in the event he doesn't get say this to him in-person.

Finally Ray collapses into Sand's arms. Sand seems to visibly reign in his own emotions, in order to revert back to 'care-taker' mode. Sand nods once, a gesture of kindness and true acceptance that says 'It's all okay, I know.'

He's Ray's pillar, his rock, and his raft. Sand has become Ray's primary source of safety and comfort. Sand's gaze is so endlessly gentle as he nestles in close to hold Ray. Everything about his embrace feels warm and stable in such a reassuring way. Sand is every bit as loving and caring as Ray just described him to be.

What makes this entire portrayal so devastating is this is the Sand Ray sees and knows. Ray mentions in Episode 11 that he’s been stowing away these details. Which indicates that everything Sand has done and said has not gone unnoticed. Whether it was due to denial or ignorance that prevented Ray from confronting it sooner, he has unconsciously taken note of it all. How Ray's image of Sand responds in this scene is based on every interaction he's had with Sand up until now. This imaginary representation of Sand is proof of everything that Ray has come to fall in love with.

First was not given any dialogue in which to communicate in this scene. His entire performance relies solely on the tiniest of micro-expressions and gestures. He symbolises the essence of Sand but not the physical manifestation of him. Therefore his acting may come across as understated but that’s a sign of real talent when you can say so much with so little.

[galeorderbride]

Hiii!!

I discovered your account recently, and I'm a fan! This strengthens my love for Gale even more! I have a request, is it possible to use the following prompts :

3)Touching foreheads

7) Kissing scars

11)Sharing secrets

41)Washing each other hairs

52)Crying into their shoulder

60) sitting in their lap

i will probably ask for others prompt later ahah!

thanks you so much 🖤

Thank you for the request!! I’m stoked to know I’ve helped strengthen your love for everyone’s favourite rizzard lol. And send as many prompts as you like!

Your prompt awaits:

Rated: M (Gale and Tav sharing a bath, non descriptive nudity).

Gale x F!tav

Words: 1652

...

Wash my Troubles Away

Baths were always the way Tav chose to unwind after a stressful day. Before the nautiloid, and after, although she’d been seriously lacking in access. In all honesty, she was surprised it took this long for her to break down. Months on the road, toiling through endless swaths of blood, shit and tears with the onus on them to solve everyone’s problems. At first, Tav enjoyed helping, seeing new friends suffer a little bit less in such a difficult society. Once they reached Rivington, however, her patience ran drier than a dead fountain. 

Thankfully, they found the Elfsong, where a private bathroom awaited. As soon as the fee was paid, Tav thought about taking a bath—craved it. A space to calm her muscles and cry out her troubles without drawing attention. 

Hot water flowed against her naked back, bubbling with lavender oil and sudsy soap, emanating the scent of vanilla and oat. Tav tucked her legs to her chest, curling into a ball of frustration and embarrassment as she couldn’t stop crying. Tav needed more resilience than this. Facing the end of the world required stalwart bravery, and she was having a meltdown over finding gold for a bank manager. How in the hells was she supposed to take down a giant brain? 

Meanwhile, everyone else had no problem being selfish. A toy maker set explosives in his own products, totally willing to kill children to save his own skin. Idiots tying up Volo just because he was talking about the things they wanted to ignore. Ironhand gnomes masking abusive bigotry with a shining cause. Tav was tired of everyone’s bullshit, making excuses for themselves, taking zero responsibility when she had no other option but to face problems head on. 

Her self pity was interrupted by a knock at the bathroom door. The sound of a lilted, erudite voice coming through the wood: 

“Mind if I come in, love?” 

Gale appeared in the doorway after Tav agreed he could enter. Holding fresh towels and a wicker basket of different bath products, looking brand new as if he’d just returned from an apothecary. Tav splashed water in her face to mask the puffiness of her eyes, as if her detail oriented wizard would ever let a thing like that get past him. 

“You seem like you could use some company. And so far, I’ve been very skilled and…calming you down, so to speak. I fetched some products from Bonecloak’s, all your favourite scents. Jasmine, pomegranate, aloe vera. If you’d prefer to be alone, know you won’t offend me. I just wanted to give you these so you know someone is thinking about you,” he said. 

Tav turned her head, grinning as best she could, easier because of his presence. Since their romance had begun, he was the only one virtually incapable of annoying her. He always knew what to say, always understood the right words or actions to keep her grounded. No one had been such a positive force in her life, and every morning, no matter how terrible, she thanked the stars for finding that unstable portal. 

“I’m not enviable company at the moment, but yours, would surely heal my weary heart,” Tav replied. 

Gale smiled, “No matter how you’re feeling, there is no one in the realms I’d rather spend my time with.” 

Times like this were when Tav didn’t believe she deserved his sweetness. Doting on her out of an adoration she couldn’t figure out. He placed the bottles on a tiny stool beside the tub, undressing so he could join her in a warm, sudsy water, snapping his fingers with a little magic to heat it back to ideal temperature. He made use of the large, circular space as he sunk in behind her, enveloping her in a comforting embrace as she rested her back onto his chest. Little hairs tickled her skin, causing her to chuckle for the first time all day. 

Careful movements of his fingertips massaging her scalp sent shivers down Tav’s spine. Scents of pomegranate and jasmine soothed her sinuses, letting the hot water pour down her head, through strands of clean hair. Tension from her muscles seemed to dissolve with each considerate touch, Gale’s hands created to caress her skin. When he finished, he wrapped his arms around her, rocking her back and forth as they both watched the window ahead. A clear night gifted them glimmering stars, a cool breeze whistling out of a crack in the insulation. Tav leaned back, resting her head in the crux of Gale’s shoulder as she closed her eyes. A few, stray tears fell from her eyes, overwhelmed by the sudden comfort of her magical lover lifting her through the ache of evening. 

Gale didn’t press her for reasons, didn’t rush to solve the problem when he noticed her tears. He just held her, waited in solidarity until she was ready, happy to let her sink into his life force to refresh her own. 

“I’m sorry,” she finally said with a tearful chuckle, “You must think I’m ridiculous. Crying for no reason like this.” 

“Well, my love, your mind may be telling you that there is no reason, but that doesn’t mean it’s true. With all our travels, all the weight on your shoulders, you have every reason to cry. You’re more resilient than you think, I’d have crumbled long ago,” he said. 

Tav looked up at him, in utter admiration for his thoughtfulness, his beauty, everything. If she could, she’d sing his praises for a thousand years, to make up for all the times Mystra never did. Or anyone else who didn’t care to see the magnificence of him. 

Her fingers traced up his collarbone, around the mark the orb left that paved a path to his wonderful neck. A forced tattoo sunk into the surface of his skin, binding him to his well intentioned folly. Their foreheads touched as Gale lowered his head, wishing desperately that he could hold every

 part of her at the same time. Mage hands and mirror images weren’t enough, it had to be him. 

“Can I tell you something I’ve never told anyone before?” He asked, words hanging on between their breaths, lips hovering over each other but never quite meeting. 

“Hmm, you’ve already told me about Mystra. And that you haven't spoken to anyone in over a year until me. Oh, and that you get excited when you see me bloody after a fight. What else could there possibly be?” She asked, flirtatiously smiling at him with her eyelids batting just the way he liked. The smirk he made when he saw it was irresistible. 

Gale chuckled, “This one is far less serious, but might be what you need to hear in this moment.” 

They adjusted slightly, Gale sitting up as he pulled his arm out of the water. Just above his elbow was a superficial scar, raised tissue blending in with the rest of his skin. An uneven line travelling up his arm, about three inches long. Wherever he got it from, it had to be years ago. 

“People don’t notice this scar much anymore, not with the giant black circle on my chest. But people used to. I’d tell them it was from a kitchen knife,” he said, “But…really I accidentally set fire to my neighbour’s rose bushes when I was a child. I was trying to conjure, and the fire got away from me. Singed my arm in the process.” 

Tav turned, scooching further onto his lap as she examined his arm. She couldn’t help but laugh, “That’s your secret? Ruining a bush?” 

“Not just any bush. A rose bush. One of the most beautiful I’d ever seen. I’d pass by those roses every day, stare at them for a minute or two. Just to see something be so effortlessly perfect in its imperfection. They simply grew that way, and then I destroyed them. All I could do was cry, sob over how I tarnished something so innocent and pretty for my own sake. I don’t talk about it because…well, it’s silly, but it’s the worst thing I’ve ever felt. It’s stayed with me my entire life, and the burn scar only serves as a beacon for it,” he explained. 

“Even worse than what happened with Mystra?” She asked, grazing her fingertips across the uneven line of the scar. Eyes stuck to the mark as if it was the last thing she’d ever see. 

Gale hesitated, taking a heart wrenching pause. Tav noticed his eyes staring ahead, fixated on the window. A heavy, unsaid energy hung over him.  

“It was the catalyst. For everything. Had I not set fire to that bush, Elminster never would’ve found me. And then I’d never have attracted Mystra’s attention. A boring existence…but maybe a better one,” he said, voice trailing along the waves of his melancholic thoughts. 

Instead of responding, giving him a treatise on how he didn’t need to feel guilty anymore and burning a flower bush wasn’t a definer of his total character, she pressed her lips against the burn scar. Counting her kisses for every year of remorse he felt since setting that fire ball. Ever since their first night together, he slowly began to shed that overconfident veneer, more comfortable to show her the parts of him that hurt, the deep cuts that both of them wished they could bury. 

“Seems we both have a guilt problem,” Tav said. “Come here.” 

Tav moved to straddle his lap, taking the ceramic bowl and filling it with the warm, soapy water. Gale rested on her shoulder, as if on impulse, while she poured the liquid down the long strands of chestnut hair. Running her shampooed hands across his scalp, satisfied every time she heard his happy moans against the scratch of her nails. After rinsing, she kissed the top of his head. 

“Thank you for telling me a secret,” she said, “I’ll tell you one of mine tomorrow.”

[landwriter]

Picnic | Dream/Hob | 1.7K | G light and happy fluff, Hob loves springtime, Matthew hates giving dating advice, and the only pining is Dream pining for an A+ in dating, a thing that is both normal to want and possible to achieve

for Domaystic Drabbles, Day 4: Packed Lunch ty to @softest-punk for twigging me to the sweet @domaystic prompts. It got a little out of hand!

----

Hob had seen several thousand fine spring days. He’d seen keen snowdrops surfacing in February, a hundred congregations of crocuses bursting forth to greet the turning of the seasons, and entire delegations of wild daffodils lancing through leaf-fall and trumpeting their blossoms with an attitude that suggested they knew themselves to be the first and only creatures to master the colour yellow. He’d watched six centuries of human habitation dusted with the same fine pollen as alder and birch unfurled their catkins like festival garlands, and he’d— he’d gotten distracted again.

He blinked at the paper in front of him. He’d forgotten it was there. Or that he was meant to be grading it.

That, too: six centuries of the wild joy of spring distracting him from whatever passed for worthy toil at the time. Six centuries of the whiff of warm breeze setting off some yet-unexplained chemical reaction in his brain that made him want to dash outside and not come back in for weeks. Six centuries of him becoming temporarily mad and cheerfully insufferable to all those around him with the joy of it. He’d never get used to it, and Christ help him if he let anyone around him get used to it either.

“What a gorgeous day,” he remarked, to the untouched stack of student work.

It said nothing back, but he beamed down at it anyway, and then, sighing in the manner of a man happy to be defeated, turned his office chair to face the cracked-open window and watch the house martins build their newest nest.

---

“Matthew.”

“Yeah, boss?”

“I require your counsel. For a human matter.” Dream’s brow was furrowed, his manner grave. Hob, then.

Matthew inclined his head and hopped sideways in what he’d decided was the corvid equivalent of girding his loins.

“Hob keeps commenting on the weather on our outings.” He sounded anguished.

“The weather?” he repeated dumbly. Thank fuck. Two days ago it had been the number of orgasms human males required. Daily. Which, good for the two of them, but c’mon. Matthew had really not needed that knowledge about the kind of refractory period and appetite you acquire after half a millenia of boning. Hob, unfortunately, was Dream’s first human boyfriend, and the boss was setting about his new function with all the usual terrifying intensity and insane demands of perfection. In service of this, Matthew (unilaterally and undemocratically, he might add) had been named Arbiter Of All Things Men, which seemed kind of like a reach considering he was a bird, and one who’d been only, like, a little bisexual in his human life. The Corinthian was always skulking around. He wasn’t human either, but at least he’d fucked dudes. He’d have tips. Or Loosh! Loosh knew everything. She could give Dream books and send him off. Instead of Matthew trying to remember how the fuck dating worked.

“-time we’ve met this week.”

“Right,” said Matthew vaguely.

“What does he mean by it? He knows I cannot change the weather in the Waking. He asks nothing of me, and yet it is incessant.”

“Complaining about it, huh? Humans love to complain, boss.”

“No,” said Dream, looking wretched. “Worse. Earnest, ceaseless praise.”

“Oh. Sure. Of course.” What?

Dream was pacing the throne room like he was auditioning for community theater. “At the National Gallery, he daydreamed of the city park outside while feigning to contemplate a Pesellino. I took him to a production of Macbeth at the Globe, and afterwards, he said that even after centuries, it was never less than marvelous to watch. He was referring to the swifts feeding above us in the third act. Naturally.”

Matthew made a sympathetic noise. If he didn’t know when to keep his mouth - er, beak - shut, he’d say that Dream sounded like an insecure lover. Jealous, as best he could tell, of the change of seasons for stealing away some of Hob’s uncannily boundless affections.

“Well?” Dream stared at him in askance.

“Uh.” He floundered. Spring shit, spring shit. “You could take him on a picnic.” Yeah. Chicks loved picnics.

---

Dream had appeared in his office with a wicker basket that looked stolen from a Beatrix Potter story. A delicate gingham square peeked from the lid. It looked big enough to set up a naughty rabbit for life. He set it on Hob’s desk and then primly folded his hands behind his back.

“Hullo, you.” Hob stood and kissed him on the cheek. “What’s the occasion?” He suspected that there was none. Dream had been taking dating him very seriously. It was delightful.

“Matthew has suggested you require a picnic,” said Dream. Except he said it the way someone else might say The doctor has suggested it’s terminal.

Dream had been taking dating him very seriously. It was also, sometimes, awful.

“Oh, darling. That’s so sweet. But I don’t require anything special, you know. Just you, when you’ve got time to drop in. We could do something else.”

“We shall not. I have packed us lunch.”

“Alright, you stubborn creature. Maybe I do require a picnic.” He offered his arm to Dream. ���Come on, I know a place.”

---

Lunch was too piddling a word for the spread Dream had packed. Lunch was a crust of bread and ale, or pottage. Lunch was a Sainsbury’s Egg & Cress Sandwich wolfed down with the last of the morning’s flask of Yorkshire Tea. This was a feast. A temple offering. For Hob. His chest twinged a little with affection. God, he was in love.

“This pleases you,” said Dream, who was looking unfairly elegant for someone sat on a gingham blanket with a bit of clotted cream on the side of his mouth.

Hob kissed it away. “Oh, yes.”

“More than our other...dates.”

“Oh,” said Hob, who was sometimes slow on the uptake, but after several centuries, didn’t miss much at all. “I’ve loved all of them. But this-” he gestured sweepingly around at Primrose Hill, the green ash shading them, the pleasant urban pastoral of joggers and families and dogs and other love-struck couples, all breathing in the same warm afternoon air, “-is exactly where I want to be, today. Outside, among all the life. In the thick of spring. It’s perfect.”

Dream followed Hob’s gaze, and studied the tableau. “There is nothing exceptional about this weather or setting.” He sounded as nonplussed as creature with nearly infinite age and knowledge could sound.

Hob laced his fingers through Dream’s, and tried to see what he saw. No great stories, really. Pedestrian daydreams of food and sun and sex, probably, of pay raises and summer vacations to Mallorca and Ibiza. Humanity being predictable, and life doing the same thing it did every year, to Dream’s uncountable thousands.

“No, I suppose not, but that’s why I love it, too. It’s familiar. Constant. Centuries, and it catches me out each time. It’s always arrived, no matter how bad things were for me. Always been there to celebrate with me when they’re wonderful. Like now.”

Dream looked sidelong at Hob. “Like now,” he echoed. Unsure, and stubbornly unwilling to make a question of it. The ache in Hob’s chest redoubled itself.

“Like now,” he promised. “It reminds me of you, too, you know. We always met in June, Dream. In 1789, watching the first trees budding nearly drove me mad with anticipation. Ninety-nine years and nine months. And you were always heralded by the same signs.” He traced circles on Dream’s pale palm, imagining it sun-kissed. “In 1989, when spring turned all the way into summer and you were still gone, I think my heart broke a little. I’d hoped, until then. That you were just late. With the swifts,” he said, quiet.

“Hob.” Dream had moved across the picnic blanket in his preternaturally fast way, and was now more or less in his lap, gripping Hob’s shoulders.

“Sorry,” he said, grimacing. “I’m being horrifically soppy. Must’ve been the scones. It’s alright. You’re here now. All that matters.”

“Robert Gadling,” said Dream. Hob blinked at that. He’d only ever gotten the full name treatment when Dream was still his Stranger, and only then when he’d disappointed him. “If you dare apologize for such a fine expression of your sentiment, I will be wroth with you.”

“Sorry,” he said again, smiling this time.

“I am honoured you associate me with the season you most adore. I would have it that you never pass another Spring waiting for me. If you wished such a thing.”

It sounded a little like a marriage proposal, which was something his heart really could not cope with the full size of at the minute. Not with so much love already around. Not if Dream didn’t intend to say it like that. He went for levity instead.

“Even though it’s driven me to distraction every time you’ve taken me out this week? Even if all I want to do for weeks is lie around outdoors and hold hands?”

Nearby, a baby started wailing. Dream, to his credit, didn’t even glance away. “Yes,” he said, perfectly solemn, perfectly certain. “Even then.”

“Well, that’s alright then,” said Hob, fighting an urge to start crying a little as well. “I would, as a matter of fact. Wish such a thing.”

They looked at each other, besotted, while the wailing continued.

“Only,” murmured Dream, “must it be in Anthropocene?”

“What?”

“Lie down, lover.” Hob did, a delighted suspicion creeping over him as Dream reached into his jacket pocket. Dream stretched over him, and spoke it low into his ear: “And I will take you to a Spring no man has seen.”

---

Matthew was eating scone crumbs and congratulating himself on his good sense to suggest a picnic. Birds loved picnics too. He hadn’t realized how much until this moment. Jesus. Picnics were a great idea. He was going to tell Dream that human men required them weekly during courtship.

“Thanks for bringing home leftovers, boss,” he said, spraying crumbs all over Dream’s shoulder.

Dream was too preoccupied to mind, or even notice. He waved an imperious hand. “It’s nothing. We absconded from the Waking shortly after we arrived. I have finally given Hob a worthy date. I showed him the virtues of picnicking in a Dreaming Spring.” Oh my god. Dream actually had been jealous of the weather. Because he hadn’t made it for Hob.

“What, no ants?” he offered.

“Hardly so prosaic,” said Dream. He glowed with satisfaction. “The very first.”

[wakebymoonsleepbysun]

Untitled Spamton X Reader fic Ch1

The stress of election night made me cave and start writing a self-indulgent Spamton x Reader fic...that I was hoping to finish that night but as you can see it took me a bit longer because writing 6k words in one night is hard. T_T

Anyway, he's my entry into the genre of "Reader finds Spamton in a dumpster and takes him home" fics. Maybe there's room for one more in that category? 🥺

Not sure if/when I'll continue working on this but uh. Here y'all go.

(Also sorry I spend the first few paragraphs writing an actual vent post about my actual job adfajdafjdal)

------

Today hasn’t exactly been noteworthy. It’s just another day, like so many you’ve had before. Wake up, trudge over to your desk, sign on to work, pretend you’ve been awake for at least an hour longer than you have been, and rub the sleep out of your eyes while you gnosh on a cereal bar because (as usual) you don’t have time to make anything else before your morning meetings start.

You pay no more or less attention than usual, picking away at your own tasks while two of your coworkers have an in depth discussion on something you probably don’t need to concern yourself with. With your camera off they are left to assume you’re listening just as raptly as they’d wish you to.

The meeting ends and you dive fully into your work. You enjoy programming. The product itself (some productivity-helper app that’s not much different than dozens of others) is not of particular interest to you. You don’t even use it in your personal life--only for checking on work-related things.

You get a ping from a coworker. The dev environment is down. Again. He doesn’t know how to fix it. He heard you do?

You suppress a sigh that he wouldn’t’ve heard through the screen anyway.

You fixed it once, about a year ago, out of desperation. It had been an easy fix but somehow it had been enough to convince people you Knew What You Were Doing, and a couple more fixes later, you found yourself in the unenviable position of “The Guy (gender-neutral)”. 

You close several windows and open several more, your previous task for the day forgotten. Two more people ping you. Did you know the dev environment is down? Yes. Your boss pings you. Did you know? Of course you know.

You dive back into the spaghetti code you still don’t fully understand. The person who wrote it left six months ago. You follow a thread of convoluted logic, only to lose your train of thought when another colleague messages you.

Did you know?

YES.

Line by line, search query after search query, you toil to untangle the mess.

And suddenly find your own code staring you back in the face. The very first fix you’d made had been defective. Impermanent. A flimsy rubber band that had finally snapped.

You frown. You wonder what you’d been thinking when you’d fixed it before. The flaw in your approach seems obvious now. And yet somehow it had been good enough for you to be crowned “The Guy (gender-neutral)”. 

You sure weren’t “The Guy (gender-neutral)” then…but maybe you are now. Or close to it.

A couple more keystrokes and dev is back in business.

…It’s also the middle of the night, your colleagues have signed off, and you forgot to eat dinner. Again.

You crash down from the high of your accomplishment--deflated, hungry, and tired. You message chat that everything’s fixed but you’ll be late tomorrow, and close your work computer.

How had you worked for twelve hours without even noticing? Maybe you like programming more than you thought.

You’re not sure how you feel about that.

You rise from your chair with a tired groan, padding out to the kitchen.

…Where you promptly see--and worse, smell--the bag of trash you meant to take out this morning.

“Ugggghhhh…” you groan in disgust and self-pity, your shoulders slumping.

You grumble to yourself in frustration as you pull on your coat, grab the bag roughly by the handles as if it had any more say its fate than you, and proceed to name-drop every one of your coworkers in your mumblings as you make your way down four flights of stairs.

…Only to realize it’s raining. Not exactly a downpour--light enough that you didn’t hear it from your apartment, but heavy enough that you’ll definitely be soaked if you try to get to the dumpster.

Whatever. You’re not lugging the trash bag back up the stairs only to get your umbrella. You were going to change into your PJs while dinner was cooking anyway.

You grit your teeth and cross the dimly lit parking lot to the three-wall, roofless structure that contains the dumpsters and recycling bins. 

The rain in your eyes, the dim lighting, and your own grim determination to be done with your task almost cause you to miss it, but as you’re attempting to dry your hands before stuffing them back in your coat pockets, you see it.

A small white boot sticking out from the gap between the dumpster and the enclosure. You’re not sure what draws you to it--at first you think it’s just an old discarded piece of clothing that fell out of the overflowing bin.

Your gut instinct realizes what your conscious mind hasn’t yet, forcing you to take a step towards it and get a closer look.

Your stomach twists as you realize the boot is definitely still attached to something. At first you think it’s a child, but the figure’s odd proportions dismiss the idea before you can even so much as cry out in alarm.

The head accounts for about a third of the height, and the shoulders are strangely broad, with the legs being rather short in proportion. Though all that is trivial compared to the distinctly inhuman face.

Well…it’s probably meant to be based on a human, you realize, but it certainly isn’t one. The large mouth is fixed in a permanent, uncannily huge grin, and the pointed nose is cartoonishly long. A pair of glasses cover the eyes, the lenses of which are currently dark.

It’s too big to be a doll. A ventriloquist puppet, maybe? The jaw looks articulated in the way that such puppets usually are. Not that you know much about puppets or puppetry.

But you think they’re usually expensive…though price aside, even this scuffed up, damaged figure seems deserving of a fate better than being tossed into some dumpster. You’ve always been the sentimental sort who feels sorry for lost and damaged toys, despite knowing full well that they’re not “real”.

Someone had once believed they were, and then they just…stopped.

You shake off the melancholy thought with a literal shake of your head, flinging raindrops from your hair. 

You crouch down beside the puppet, tucking your hands under its arms and hoisting it up, only to nearly drop it as your grip fumbles. It’s way heavier than you’d expected! You’d assumed ventriloquist puppets were mostly hollow, but this one certainly isn’t. Maybe your assumption had just been wrong?

It’s going to be more of a pain to lug this thing back to your apartment, but well…in for a penny, in for a pound. Or fifty. Whichever.

There’s also something a bit odd about its joints…its limbs don’t flop around as much as you’d expect, but you chalk that up to the joints being partially stuck.

You carry it upright, your arms around its waist while its arms drape over your shoulders. You swear you hear a slight groan from it as you push the stairwell door open with your hip. It must have a voice box? Did puppets usually have those? Either way, the low, droning suggested the batteries were almost dead. 

You finally make it up to your unit. If it hadn’t been raining you’d’ve been drenched with sweat now. As it is, it’s probably still mostly rainwater, but you try not to think about how much of a sweat you worked up carrying the heavy thing upstairs. 

You kick the door shut behind you, flinching when it closes a bit louder than you’d meant it to. You take the puppet to the kitchen, laying it on its back on the counter. Or trying to…one of its hands gets caught on the hood of your jacket. When you reach up to pull it free, you realize the joints of the hand had curled in at some point, gripping the hoodie.

There’s something…off about that, about this whole thing, but…it’s just a puppet…right?

There’s nothing else it could be, really…

You remove your jacket, tossing it over the back of one of the dining chairs for now. There’s really no reason for you to tend to the puppet before yourself, but…

You grab a paper towel and begin wiping the grime and rainwater from its face, occasionally glancing at the darkened glasses that obscure its eyes. What an odd looking thing…but puppets often are.

You can’t quite tell what it’s made of. Wood or plastic are your best guesses but neither of them quite fit. It has the smooth rigidness of plastic but somehow, paradoxically, it also seems somewhat organic and is a bit warmer than you’d expect a rain soaked toy to be. The material’s even a bit malleable. The nose even has a bit of give, you realize as you push on it experimentally, bending it downwards. Foam, maybe?

As you push on the nose, the head abruptly turns away, and another low, rattly moan plays from the voice box.

With a gasp, you quickly pull away. Does…this thing have some kind of mechanism to move on its own? Maybe it’s only meant to look like a puppet, but is actually more of a robotic toy? That would explain the weight, you suppose…

But it certainly adds to the mystery of why anyone would throw it away.

You cup its cheek in one hand as you use the other to wipe some grime from its hair.

Your gaze drifts downward and you realize its clothes should probably be removed and hung up to dry.

…Why does that thought cause your face to heat up? You’ve fixed up old dolls and toys before, with no particular regard for their modesty.

You’re just tired. You’re tired and had a stressful day and it’s making you just a bit silly. That’s all.

You reach down and start attempting to remove the puppet’s blazer. Before you can undo the first button, though, its arm shoots up, its small hand wrapping around your wrist.

“[[ Showroom model only--not available for purchase! ]] [[ Break it you buy it!! ]]” Two audio clips in two different voices play from somewhere within the puppet.

You scream in surprise, pulling back so quickly you accidentally drag the puppet off the counter before it can let go of your wrist. You don’t fare much better as your heel catches on the leg of a dining chair, causing you to land hard on your rear.

You place a hand over your chest, trying to calm yourself. There’s a rational explanation for the puppet’s movement on the tip of your tongue, but it flies out the window almost immediately.

The puppet stirs. His glasses go from black to grey static as he lifts a hand to his forehead, struggling to get his bearings. The corners of his mouth are turned down in what you guess must be the closest thing to a frown he can muster with his large, semi-permanent grin. 

“Wh-What the hell…” you breathe in a strained whisper.

“[[ Temp--Temp--Temporarily out of service!! ]]” This audio clip is yet another voice. It sounds like the clip was originally recorded in a peppy, upbeat tone, but the playback is so low and garbled you can’t help but compare it to someone at the brink of death struggling to speak.

The puppet goes limp once again, the grey static on his glasses fading back to black. He’s collapsed on the floor, laying on his side in a growing puddle of rainwater as it slowly runs off his clothes.

You stare at him in stunned silence for several moments.

It’s mechanical. Robotic. A weird toy robot…thing…with low batteries and probably a busted circuit board or two.

It’s not alive.

But why would an expensive toy robot be in the dumpster?

Why would a living puppet be in the dumpster???

Your brain’s just fried from work. You need rest. And probably food. The puppet can wait.

You bite your lip. He’s not alive, but…that’s no reason to just leave him on the floor, right?

You quickly grab one of your fluffy bath towels from the linen closet and wrap the puppet in it, carrying him to the living room and laying him on the couch with far more respect and dignity than a totally-not-alive puppet actually needs, even putting one of your throw pillows under his head.

The rainwater’s going to soak through the towel and you’ll have a damp sofa by the time you finish dinner, but…well. It’ll dry. Whatever.

Still…you take a moment to look him over again as you kneel beside the couch. You place a hand on his cheek, turning his head slightly towards yourself. The grimace from before seems to have relaxed into a fairly neutral smile…you guess that must be his “default” expression.

You brush a few stray locks of hair from his face, then adjust his arms so that his hands are atop his chest--a more comfortable resting position than them splayed haphazardly beside him. As you do, you lightly grip one of his hands. It’s a bit smaller than your own, and the joints are fully articulated, giving it the same range of motion as a human hand.

The hand twitches and you quickly drop it. It lands with a soft thud atop his chest.

Enough silliness. You can look over the puppet once you get your head together.

You go into the bathroom, finally stripping out of your wet clothes and hanging them on the curtain rod to dry before changing into your PJs--some flannel lounge pants and an oversize T-shirt. As you walk back to the kitchen, you glance at the puppet on your couch, but force yourself not to stop and check on him again.

You hope some mac and cheese will pull you out of whatever temporary insanity working for twelve hours straight has inflicted upon you.

*

Spamton stirs as the sound of the soft thudding of a wooden spoon stirring a pot of boiling pasta reaches him.

Where…is he? The towel slides off him as he sits up, and he glances at it curiously, running his thumb over the soft, fluffy fabric. There was never anything this nice in the dumpster, that’s for sure.

But he’s also clearly not in his dumpster. He takes in the sight of your dimly lit apartment, the only light coming from the kitchen.

It doesn’t quite look like any sort of Cyber City apartment he’s ever seen. He can’t quite put his finger on why, but…after a second of thought, the word “mundane” pops into his mind. This place is more mundane than any part of Cyber City he’s ever been to. Though…he supposes he’s really only seen the highest highs and lowest lows…maybe the middle tiers of the city are a bit more mundane. It would make a certain amount of sense, though he can’t help but think the answer’s more complicated than that.

He slides off the couch, looking towards the light spilling from the kitchen.

“Mundane” aside, how’d he get into any apartment? As desperate as he’d gotten, he’d never committed B & E…at least for the purpose of sleeping on some stranger’s couch. And how long has it been since anyone had invited him into their home?

How long has it been since…anything?

Spamton wracks his brain, trying to pull up his most recent memory, whatever he was doing before he ended up here. The last thing he can remember--clearly, anyway--is just sitting in his dumpster in the back alleys of Cyber City, about to doze off.

But…somehow that memory seems like it was from long ago. Weeks, at least. And there are glimpses of something more recent that he can’t quite place.

Green wires.

The rollercoaster, with three carts speeding towards him.

A blue-haired, blue-skinned Lightner.

The latter, he had no idea who they were…and that thought caused a pang of guilt in his chest. They were…important. Why couldn’t he remember?

His gaze drifts back towards the kitchen and he slowly steps towards it.

How do you fit into any of this, he wonders?

*

You’re pouring the pasta and water into the strainer when you hear a sound behind you.

The quiet click of hard-soled shoes on kitchen tile.

You turn to glance behind you, more out of instinct than any expectation to actually see anything.

The puppet is up and walking towards you, a sight so shocking on its own that you don’t even notice the curious, borderline timid expression on his face, nor the way his hands are raised slightly as if to assure you he means no harm.

You wish you’d simply frozen at the sight of him.

Instead, your fatigued, nervous, downright jittery brain panics immediately, spinning fully to face him, despite the pot of boiling water in your hand. Lucky for you it’s nearly empty, but “nearly” is still enough for a decent sized splash to land on your bare forearm.

You cry out in pain, clutching your burned arm to your chest as you collapse onto the floor, your back pressed against the cabinets as you stare wide-eyed at the puppet.

“WOAH !! RELAX [[ valued customer ]]!!” the puppet speaks, his voice far clearer than it had been before. Though there’s still a slight static to it, as if it’s being played over a worn out speaker. “[[ Apologies for the inconvenience ]], I’M NOT--”

Spamton cuts himself off when he realizes you’re now staring down at your burned arm. Your hands are shaking as you stare at your blistering skin, tears of pain--and probably fear--welling in your eyes.

“[[ It Burns! Ow! Stop! Help Me! It Burns! ]]”

Your gaze snaps back to him. “What?!” you yelp, incredulous despite the bizarreness of the situation. Why’s he acting like he’s the one who got burned?

No sooner than the thought enters your head than you notice his slack expression, his glasses once again going staticy. But once again, things seem to pivot on a dime and he snaps out of it so fast you wonder if you weren’t just seeing things.

“SORRY!!” he says, holding up his hands. “DIDN’T MEAN TO [[ all kinds of surprises!! ]] YOU!!”

Spamton steps towards you and you shrink back against the cabinets. He takes the hint and backs off, still holding up his hands. After a brief pause, he snaps his fingers, and to your utter astonishment, a miniature, cherub-like version of himself appears and flitters towards you.

You’re too stunned at the sight to even consider pulling away, your jaw going slack as you watch the little creature land weightlessly on your arm and gently pat the blistering, reddening skin. A wave of green sparkly lights washes over your injury and the burns, along with the cherub, disappear.

A one word question echoes in your mind and you can’t help but speak it aloud in a strained, wavering voice.

“Magic…?”

Spamton dips his head in a nod. He holds up a hand, and the cherub reappears, perching on his finger and giving you a little wave. “YEP! JUST A [[ simple, one-stop solution ]] FOR [[ all your routine medical needs ]],” he says, dismissing the cherub with a wave of his hand. He hesitates, then steps towards you again. When you don’t flinch away, he closes the distance between you two, lightly touching your arm.

“NO MORE [[ It Burns! ]]?”

“U-Uhm,” you stammer. The way his voice sounds so pained when switching to the “It Burns” line is unnerving…you guess it’s just a soundbyte, that he’s not actually feeling the pain or distress the voice line suggests. His expression certainly seems to hold genuine concern, despite the semi-permanent smile. “Y-Yeah…I…” You glance down at his hand on your arm.

He really did heal it. Just like that. The pain and blistering just…gone in an instant. You’d guess you were dreaming, but…there’s no way you’d sleep through such intense pain, imagined or not.

“You…do magic,” you say weakly. The laugh you let out borders on manic. “I mean sure, why wouldn’t you do magic?”

Either he doesn’t notice your sarcasm or chooses to ignore it, for he takes a step back, grinning and puffing out his chest. “WHY NOT INDEED? SPAM   SPAMTON G. SPAMTON [[ #1 Rated Salesman 1997 ]] IS A MAN OF [[ dozens of unique skills ]]!” he declares.

“S-Spamton? That’s…your name?” you ask.

He grins, pointing at you while a DING DING DING chime plays, his glasses lenses switching colors on every beat. “AND [[ who do I have the pleasure of speaking to? ]]”

You tell him your name, still dazed.

He stays silent, canting his head and looking up at you uncertainly, seemingly waiting for you to recover.

“Wh-What are you?” you blurt abruptly.

Spamton blinks, but far from being offended at the question, he tosses his head back and lets out a hearty laugh. “HEAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!” The cadence is a bit faster than a human would typically laugh, almost like the rapid fire of a machine gun…but as laughs go it’s far from unpleasant. “[[ Doll ]] I WAS JUST ABOUT TO [[ Ask Away! ]] YOU THE SAME THING!!”

You blink. “Um. I-I’m…a human. Surely…you’ve seen humans before?”

“OF COURSE!! [[ And don’t call me Shirly ]],” he quips. “BUT I’M NOT SEEING ANY [[ Heart-shaped Object ]].”

“H-Heart shaped object?” you repeat, absently rubbing at your chest. You assume he’s not talking about your actual heart.

“YOU’RE NO DARK >n3R…NOT A LIGHT >n3R EITHER?” he asks, canting his head curiously.

“I-I…I mean I guess not, not that…that I know of?” you say helplessly.

You’re a bit surprised he’s the one questioning you. It hadn’t occurred to you that he’d be just as confounded by his situation as you are.

“IS THIS THE DARK WORLD OR LIGHT WORLD?”

You stare blankly. “I…I don’t know? Neither, I…I think?”

“SO THEN…WH    WHERE IN THE [[ Tri-County Area ]] AM I?”

You stammer a moment, not even sure what sort of answer he’d want for that. “M-My apartment?” you say inanely. At his deadpan, unimpressed look you tell him the name of your city, and when that doesn’t ring a bell, you add your state.

He frowns, tapping his chin with one hand.

“Where are you from, then?”

“CYBER CITY, IN THE DARK WORLD.”

“Doesn’t sound like any place near here…I-Is it…really an entirely different world?”

“[[ Survey Says: ]] YES.”

It’s as likely as anything else. Living puppet with healing magic…why not add world-hopping on top of that at this point?

“[[ You may ask yourself, well, how did I get here? ]]”

“I…don’t know. I mean, I found you in a dumpster and brought you up here. I have no idea where you were before that…”

“BROUGHT ME [[ all the way up ]] HERE? WHY?”

“I um. Well,” you shift uncomfortably. “I…uh, thought you were a toy or puppet or something…”

“TOY NO, PUPPET YES,” he says. As he admits it, his glasses briefly go staticy and his smile fades, but he quickly shakes it off. “SO, DUMPSTER DIVING FOR [[ marketable goods ]], EH?” he chuckles.

“N-No! It was just--” You bite back your protest. You probably should have just said yes. It’s probably less silly than your real reason. At his expectant look, you feel your cheeks heat up. “I-I just…I like…fixing up old toys and it’s just…k-kinda…sad to see them get abandoned…and you just seemed too--” You cut yourself off again. You should have stopped a sentence or two ago, but once again Spamton is looking at you curiously and you feel compelled to complete your statement. “--F-Fancy…to just…be tossed in some landfill…”

You can see his eyes blink in surprise behind his glasses. His slightly open mouth closes with an audible clack and he chuckles. “WELL I AM A BIT OF A [[ Mr. Fancy-Pants ]]...OR AT LEAST I WAS,” he adds, his grin seeming to fade slightly.

A beat of silence passes as he seems to get lost in his own head for a moment, and you think you start to see bits of static appearing in his glasses. The corners of his mouth start to droop as his smile fades.

“W-Well, nothing a bit of mending won’t fix, right?” you say, assuming he’s only referring to his torn up suit and some of the scuffs on his face and hands.

Spamton snaps out of whatever trance he’s in, looking at you in confusion for a moment before his previous smile returns. 

“...RIGHT. WELL, ANYWAY [[ doll ]], THANKS FOR THE [[ solid assist ]] BUT IT’S ABOUT TIME I [[ hit the road ]].”

You blink. “Um. What?”

He raises a brow. “[[ Hit the road ]], [[ Make like a tree and leaf ]], [[ head off into the sunset in your brand-new cungadero ]]?”

You can’t help but blurt out an incredulous, “To where?” Your cheeks warm and you glance away awkwardly, rubbing your arm. “I-I mean, n-not that it’s any of my business, but…a minute ago you didn’t even know what world you’re in…”

Spamton stares at you a moment before throwing his head back in another laugh. “HEAHAHAHAHA!!” You can’t help but notice the laugh seems a bit forced. “[[ Doll ]], DON’T YOU KNOW A TRUE [[ #1 Salesman 1997 ]] WILL [[ never give up, never surrender!! ]]?”

You finally manage to give a weak smile. “Well…that’s all well and good, but…do you even have a plan?”

“DO YOU?”

“Heh,” you chuckle nervously. “N-Not…a super long term one, but…I’d uh…I’d…feel bad sending you away like this…drenched and dirty with nowhere to go…”

His head tilts slightly to one side as he regards you. “WILLING TO MAKE A [[ Specil Deal ]], [[ doll ]]?”

You blink at his phrasing. “I…don’t know about a deal, but…I-I mean…you can…crash here for tonight? Get washed up, dry your clothes at least?”

“AND WHAT”S THE [[ payment method required ]]?”

“No payment!” you say quickly. “Just…”

“[[ Complimentary service ]]?”

You laugh slightly. “Exactly.”

He considers, rubbing his chin as he tries to figure out what possible catch there could be. Finally, he holds out a hand. “[[ Terms & Conditions Accepted !! ]]”

You let out a more earnest laugh, nodding. “Alright, Spamton,” you say, wrapping your hand around his and giving a hearty handshake.

Spamton steps back, glancing around at the mess you’d made. The pan had clattered to the floor, and there was a puddle of spilled water and a few stray noodles on the floor. Luckily dinner itself is salvageable--the majority of the noodles are still safely in the strainer in the sink.

“[[ Tired of cleaning up after dinner? Why not let -- ]] YOUR [[ good pal ]] SPAMTON TAKE CARE OF THAT?” he offers, going over to pick up the pan, handing it to you as you finally get to your feet.

“Thanks, but…” You lift your gaze past him, seeing the muddy footprints he’s tracked into the kitchen. You smile weakly. “Maybe you should get yourself tidied up first? The bathroom’s just down the hall, I can finish up in here while you shower?”

He follows your gaze to the dirt he’s tracked into the kitchen, then smiles up at you sheepishly. “GOOD POINT. BUT WHY DON”T WE [[ get the best of both worlds ]]?” He snaps his fingers, and two cherubs appear. They smile cutely at you before one of them flies down to the ground to begin gathering the spilled noodles and the other pulls the towel off the oven handle and drapes it over the puddle.

“Heh…s-sounds good…” you say, once again caught off guard by his ability to just…manifest helpful little creatures.

The cherubs finish cleaning while you shake the last of the water from the pasta strainer, rinse out the pan, and start mixing the cheese in with the noodles.

They finish the cleanup before you finish the cooking, and all you have to do is open the cupboard so they can toss the floor noodles away.

“Um, thanks guys?” you say uncertainly.

Their little grins get even wider at your praise and they perch on the edge of the stove, watching you stir the noodles.

You notice they seem to be watching a bit…intently. Their heads bop slightly as they track the motion of the spoon, the reflective pink and yellow lenses on their glasses making it hard to read their expressions.

“Hey uh…m-maybe this is a weird question…” Though you wonder if anything’s a weird question when posed to a pair of tiny puppet cherubs summoned by a magic living puppet from another world. “D’you two…get hungry?”

Their attention perks to you so raptly that you have to assume the answer is a firm yes.

You chuckle weakly at that, scooping out a spoonful of noodles and blowing on it. “D’you like mac and cheese?”

They nod eagerly, making a squeaky trilling sound as they abruptly take off towards the spoon.

“H-Hey! Careful, it’s hot!” you say, holding up a hand to try to block them before they burn themselves.

Your attempt fails, but it doesn’t seem to matter. They dart around your hand and perch on either side of the spoon, greedily shoving the cheesy noodles into their mouths. If the heat is even remotely uncomfortable to them, they’re not showing any sign of it.

“Guess you were hungry…” you say, amused. You grab a piece of paper towel and wrap it around your finger, wiping the cheese from their faces. They make a faint sound of protest, the red on their cheeks growing a bit redder at your attention.

You set the spoon aside and turn the stove to low to keep the food warm. “I’d better check on Spamton,” you say to the cherubs.

As you walk down the hall to the bathroom, you hear the shower switch off and the door opens. A faint cloud of steam emerges, followed closely by Spamton.

One of your hand towels is wrapped around his waist and the other is around his shoulders. He’s using the corner of said towel to wipe the steam from his glasses lenses. Locks of damp hair fall across his forehead and cling to his neck and shoulders, a few droplets running down his bare chest.

His shoulders are wider than you’d expected--seems his blazer isn’t as padded as you’d assumed. His whole frame on the stocky side, and he has a slightly protruding gut that hadn’t really been noticeable under his blazer.

You wish you could blame the cloud of warm steam for your burning face.

“HEY [[ doll ]], WOULD YOU HAPPEN TO HAVE A [[ clean-pressed ]] [[ size L T-shirt ]] I COULD BORROW? MY BLAZER IS--” He places his glasses back on his face and cuts himself off when he notices you staring.

A beat of uncertain silence passes before you snap out of it. “Oh! U-U-Uh--Of course!” you squeak. “L-Let me just grab that for you!” you say quickly. You duck into your bedroom without waiting for a response, grabbing one of a large T-shirt and a pair of boxers. You’re not sure how well either will fit him, but you’ve got nothing better to offer right now.

When you get back to the bathroom, he’s standing on the counter in front of a portion of the mirror he’d wiped the fog from. He’s helped himself to one of your combs and is brushing his damp hair from his face.

You try not to look him in the eye--or anywhere else--as you pass him the clothing.

“THANKS, [[ doll ]]!” he says brightly.

You nod, mumbling some lame excuse about needing to check on the food before scurrying back to the kitchen.

When you get there, you see the cherubs have been busy. The table’s been set, and they’ve even taken a couple throw pillows from the couch and piled them on one of the chairs for Spamton. Glancing into the living room, you notice they even refolded the towel Spamton had been wrapped in.

“Oh, thanks guys!” you say, earning another set of happy squeaks from the little pair.

You busy yourself with dishing out the macaroni, and by the time you’re done, Spamton’s emerged from the bathroom.

The PJs you lent him are…suitable. They hang a bit awkwardly on him, but given how different your body shapes are it’s a miracle you had anything that was even remotely wearable for him.

“THANKS AGAIN FOR THE [[ brand-new threads ]] AND [[ hearty, nutritious dinner ]]!” he says, effortlessly hopping up onto the chair and taking his seat. He looks at the bowl of macaroni before him and hesitates, looking up at you uncertainly…perhaps even guiltily. “AND…YOU”RE SURE ALL THIS IS [[ complimentary service ]]?” 

“Sure,” you say easily. “The little guys certainly seemed hungry…I’m…guessing you are too?”

Spamton gives the two cherubs--who are now sitting on the table between you two--a disapproving look. “MANNERS,” he says, pointing the spoon at them accusingly.

You laugh, waving a hand. “Oh no, they were very polite!” you say. A bit overeager, and a bit messy in their own eating, but in your mind all the extra cleaning they did more than makes up for it.

“GOOD,” he says, waving a hand. And with that, the two cherubs disappear, leaving only a few green sparkles in their wake.

“Oh…you didn’t have to send them away…” you say.

Spamton chuckles. “THEY WERE SLEEPY.”

You give a bemused laugh. “I…see. You’d know best I suppose,” you concede. “I’ve never even seen magic before today…”

He glances up in surprise. “NO? NOT EVER?”

“Not real magic, no. Not like…healing burns and conjuring cherubs,” you say.

“MINITONS,” he corrects.

“Pardon?”

“MINITONS. MINI SPAMTONS,” he clarifies with a playful smirk.

“Oh!” you laugh. “That’s…actually kinda cute,” you say.

Spamton gives you a wry look. “IT’S MEANT TO BE [[ concise and informative ]], NOT [[ adorable ]],” he says, though despite his look he sounds more amused than exasperated.

“It can be both,” you retort.

“IF YOU INSIST,” he says with a good natured eye roll.

The conversation ceases as he digs into his meal. His manners are much better than the Minitons of course, but he can’t completely hide the urgency with which he eats…though he does decline your offer of seconds, you sense it’s more out of a sense of guilt at how much you’ve given him than him actually being full.

And possibly being too tired to eat any more. Even with his glasses you can see his eyelids starting to droop by the time he drops his spoon into the empty bowl. But as soon as you get up and make as if to take the dishes to the sink, he snaps back to life.

“WAIT!!” he says, hopping up to stand on his chair, grabbing his bowl before reaching up and taking yours out of your hand. “SINCE YOU COOKED [[ delicis 5-Star meal ]] I’LL [[ cleans and polishes your dishes with a sparkling shine, guaranteed no food residue ]]!!” He grins up at you. “IT’S THE [[ bare minimum as required by law ]].” He blinks at the last part of the statement, his smile turning markedly sheepish. Apparently those little phrases don’t always come out sounding quiiiiite how he wants.

You take it in stride, laughing. “It’s alright, Spamton, really.”

“I INSIST!” he insists, hopping down from his chair and pushing it towards the sink.

“W-Well…I suppose it’s fair…I’ll get the couch set up for you, then,” you say, assuming he’ll want to turn in for the night after he finishes the dishes.

*

Spamton isn’t sure why you’re so keen on helping him, but…he also can’t afford to say no. He assumes he’ll be on his way tomorrow…even though he still doesn’t have an answer to the question you posed earlier.

To where?

He has no idea how to get back to the Dark World, and he gets the feeling he’s not exactly going to fit seamlessly into this one.

If he were more awake, anxiety would be gnawing at him, but even his anxieties are too tired for that right now.

He finishes the dishes, and despite his fatigue he does get them spotless as promised.

He hops down from the chair, forgetting to push it back to the table, and trudges tiredly into the living room.

Spamton stops, staring in surprise at what he sees.

Apparently your couch has a pullout bed, which you’ve set up with two blankets and a couple plush pillows, despite the fact that the couch itself had been more than big enough for him to sleep on. Hell, he could have scraped by with just one of those pillows to curl up on for the night.

“ALL THIS FOR [[ lil’ ol’ me ]]?” he asks, stunned as you finish fluffing the second pillow and toss it into place.

You shrug. “Sure, why not? I got a pullout couch for a reason,” you say. “Besides, the cushions were still damp, and the mattress is a bit more comfortable, I think.”

Spamton looks up at you uncertainly, his mouth opening and closing a couple times. Insisting that the couch is fine would only mean you having to re-fold the pullout bed. He runs a hand over the soft blankets, far cleaner and softer than any bedding he’s had in a long time. “[[ …thank you… ]]”

Your cheeks warm at the quiet sincerity in his tone. “No problem, Spamton…” you say softly. “I-I’ll um…see you in the morning, then?”

He hops onto the bed, scooting to the pillow and pulling the blanket back. “YES. OF COURSE, [[ doll ]].”

You nod, readily giving him his space and heading to your own room and climbing into your own bed.

You’d said he could stay for the night, but in reality, you have the same doubts Spamton does…and if anything, you have a more realistic idea of how unrealistic it is for him to just…leave and make his way in the world.

A conversation to have over breakfast, you suppose.