#subtlety is for lesser creatures

[spoonyruncible]

One of the dumbest sweetest things is that my cat is obsessed with my shoes and socks. She will sleep on them regardless of how many beds and perches she has. She will chew them (hate this). She will drag them out of the tidy spots I put them in so she can better sleep on and chew them. She will hide them in her secret nap spots like a dragon with its bed of treasure but the treasure here is foot odor.

And I am no Jackson Galaxy but I know enough about to cats to know this is her loving me. She's picked the thing that stinks the most of my scent and wrapped herself around it. Shoes are something I only wear when leaving the house to go out into the world and she has made certain they have her scent on them so everyone knows that, should they want to claim me, I have been laid claim to already

[sixty-silver-wishes]

anyway I've been thinking about "tomcat disposables" throughout the day, and the specific way in which will wood anthropomorphized the mouse. the song is from the perspective of an animal he had to kill out of necessity, which makes the subtleties of its characterization all the more striking. thoughts under the cut

the line "my mind's not one bite smaller or lesser than yours" sums it up succinctly; wood depicts the mouse as a pragmatic survivor, who nonetheless has its own aspirations beyond just survival. the lyrics make it clear that this mouse has faced starvation before. it's knowledgeable of its environment, and aware of the dangers it could potentially face. this mouse has been around; it's lived a life marked by experience. wood isn't simply portraying it as an innocent, unsuspecting creature; the mouse is practical. it knows what it's like to suffer... and yet, it insists on surviving anyway.

I guess you could say those are all very animal qualities- survival and hunger and being alert for danger. that makes sense; this is a song about an animal. wood instills the song with empathy- even admiration- for those qualities, and perhaps that would be enough to draw an emotional response from the listener. but he also takes it a step further and also takes care to ascribe other qualities to the mouse- ones we primarily associate with humanity.

the mouse doesn't just want to reproduce. it wants to raise a family. it loves the taste of parmesan cheese. the chorus and its references to the "great beyond" imply a sort of spirituality- the mouse imagines a life after death, free of suffering or hunger. will wood's lyricism is rich with an ability to subvert and play with common sayings and turns of phrase ("the main character," for instance, showcases his brilliant use of malaphors), and we see this effectively at work with the line, "what's the moon made of?". this evokes the old myth of the "moon made of cheese"- something we may regard as silly, but from the perspective of a hungry mouse pondering about life after death, it takes on a sort of sacred profundity. (put a pin in that.)

the mouse philosophizes on its place between "right and wrong," before concluding with an unpretentious "nature, I guess." here, we can see wood- likely intentionally- showing his hand a bit. that line may very well be from his point of view- the human who reluctantly killed the mouse- not just the mouse's. despite forming a bond, both the human (as I will be referring to wood's autobiographical role in this song) and the mouse were both trying to survive. the mouse was trying to avoid starvation, but the human was trying to prevent disease. what both of them did was neither right or wrong; it was merely a matter of keeping themselves alive. it's tragic- and the song makes room for that tragedy- but they're on an even playing field; they both pose a potential danger to each other, but they both want to live. and each accept this.

anyway, back to the line about the moon being made of cheese, and how wood recontextualizes this saying into the mouse's thoughts on the afterlife. I think this is a beautiful way of emphasizing that line I mentioned at the beginning- "my mind’s not one bite smaller or lesser than yours," and the theme of equal beings attempting to survive that I talked about in the previous paragraph.

mice are pests. if you find a mouse in your kitchen, you probably won't want it there. it's easy to see them as expendable beings. lesser ones. when most people kill a mouse, they probably won't cry about it, let alone write a tear-jerking ballad on the matter (although it should be said, wood wasn't the first. robert burns wrote a poem back in 1785 called "to a mouse" that's strikingly similar to "tomcat disposables"). the idea of this annoying, burdensome, even potentially harmful creature's life being equal to yours might seem as nonsensical as the moon being made of cheese. but to the mouse in "tomcat disposables," the moon being made of cheese isn't a silly idea. it's a hopeful one. that's a mouse's idea of heaven- something many humans seriously believe in. the line, "what's the moon made of?" is so brilliant because not only does it characterize the mouse, it demands we take it seriously. it's a cry of compassion for this little creature, who- according to the song- had a life as rich and valuable as any one of ours.

when the human poisons the mouse, it's heartbreaking, but it's made all the more so by how much time wood spends building up the mouse's character. as we've established before, the mouse is a survivor- and maybe even a philosopher. it knows about danger. but it's so hungry, it sees all this cheese laid out for it, and lets down its defenses. it's not just accepting this food out of desperation; it's accepting out of friendship. the human isn't hostile- perhaps even refuting the mouse's preconceptions of humans. he isn't just presented as key to the mouse's survival; he's displaying altruism and kindness. of course, we know this is a betrayal- albeit a tragically reluctant one.

the mouse is never angry or spiteful towards the human, even after it's killed. and it would have been so easy for wood to go this route; we've seen all the "humans are evil, don't trust them" stories with animal protagonists. this could have been a bitter, self-loathing tale about the duplicitousness of humanity. but that's not the story wood is interested in telling, and to me, that's what makes this song so powerful.

as "tomcat disposables" stresses, the human and mouse are equals. they're both unwilling participants in the cruel game of nature. we know the mouse has been poisoned, and maybe by this point, it does too. but this is a game of survival. it knows and accepts that. and so, the mouse falls ill and goes to sleep- presumably still dreaming about rinds of parmesan, and its generous new friend.

[ladysif8]

Alpine's Guide to Surviving the Holidays

•Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers •Rating: General Audience •Tags: Recovering Bucky Barnes, Semi-Retired Bucky Barnes, Semi-Retired Steve Rogers, Introducing Alpine, Domestic Bliss, Flirting, Kissing, Boys In Love, Christmas Time, Alpine Is A Furry Demon Kitty, Alpines POV, Alpines Guide, Alpine is Supreme Queen.

Summary: This festive, feline-centered tale offers a glimpse of the holidays from Alpine's perspective, filled with chaos, humor, and a little holiday mischief as she reminds her humans who's really in charge.

Author Note: This is dedicated to my wonderful friend Jess, whose friendship, endless support, and creativity inspire me every day. Thank you for being such an incredible part of my journey. This one's for you!

Greetings, lesser creatures. I am Alpine, supreme ruler of my domain, and it has come to my attention that humans behave even more ridiculously than usual during the "holiday season." As the authority on all matters feline, I have compiled this guide to help my fellow cats navigate—and exploit—this baffling time of year.

Step 1: The Tree

Humans will drag an entire tree into the house (or worse, assemble a fake one) and decorate it with shiny, dangly objects that they insist you must not touch. Nonsense. Those ornaments are clearly meant for us.

Here's how to assert your dominance:

• Start small. Bat at the lower ornaments when no one's looking.

• Once you've mastered subtle swipes, go for a bold climb up the tree. Bonus points if the humans scream in panic.

• Knock over at least one ornament a day. This keeps the humans on their toes and reminds them who's really in charge.

The Christmas tree stood in the corner of the living room, twinkling with strings of lights and shimmering with delicate ornaments, a picture of holiday perfection. It practically radiated smugness, as if it were daring anyone to disrupt its pristine beauty. Alpine, lounging a few feet away, had other plans. Her blue eyes narrowed as she sized it up, her tail flicking rhythmically against the floor. Bucky had told her no at least a dozen times since the tree had gone up, but Alpine wasn't one to take orders. Rules, as far as she was concerned, were for humans—and besides, this tree was asking for it.

She started small. Subtlety was her specialty. Creeping toward the base of the tree with slow, deliberate steps, she kept her movements light and quiet, her tail held low to avoid catching attention. Once in position, her paw shot out, quick as a flash, batting at a low-hanging ornament. It spun lazily on its string, catching the glow of the twinkling lights. Perfect.

Satisfied with her work, Alpine swatted at another one, her claws grazing the shiny surface with a satisfying tink. The sound echoed faintly through the room, and she froze, her ears swiveling toward the kitchen.

"Alpine," Bucky's voice boomed, sharp and warning. "Don't even think about it."

She turned her head slowly, fixing him with her most innocent stare, wide-eyed and sweet. The picture of a good cat. And then, with a flick of her tail, she swatted the ornament again—harder this time, sending it flying across the room. It bounced once on the rug before disappearing under the couch.

"Really?" Bucky groaned, his head poking out from around the corner. He glared at her, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. "That's one a day with you, I swear."

Unbothered, Alpine slunk back to her spot by the couch, watching him retreat to the kitchen. She stretched luxuriously, her claws extending and retracting, before shifting her focus back to the tree. The lower branches were fine for a warm-up, but the real challenge was higher up.

She crouched low, coiling her muscles like a spring. With a sudden leap, she launched herself onto the tree, her claws digging into the branches for stability. The ornaments swayed and jingled with her weight, the lights trembling as she climbed higher. A spray of tinsel fell to the floor, sparkling like confetti in her wake.

From the kitchen, there was a crash of pots, followed by a sharp, familiar yell. "ALPINE!"

Bucky stormed into the living room, his expression a mix of horror and disbelief. "Get out of the tree!"

Alpine paused midway up the trunk, one paw wrapped around a branch for balance. She tilted her head and blinked at him, feigning confusion. What tree? her expression seemed to say.

"Seriously?" Bucky muttered, rushing forward as the tree wobbled dangerously under her weight. He wrapped his arms around the trunk, trying to steady it, but Alpine was already on the move, climbing higher. She batted at a glittering snowflake ornament, sending it tumbling down.

"Alpine, come on!" he pleaded, his voice a mix of frustration and exhaustion.

Deciding she'd caused enough chaos for now, Alpine leaped gracefully from the tree, landing on the coffee table with a soft thump. Behind her, the tree swayed violently but, miraculously, stayed upright. Bucky let out a relieved sigh, muttering to himself as he began straightening the disheveled branches.

But Alpine wasn't done. Not yet. Spying an ornament she'd knocked loose earlier, she padded over and batted it across the floor, chasing it as it rolled in uneven circles.

"Of course," Bucky grumbled, shooting her a tired glare as he fixed the lights. "You're lucky it's Christmas."

Victorious, Alpine flicked her tail and nudged the ornament under the couch, where it would live forever. The tree might have survived round one, but Alpine knew she'd be back. After all, this was her domain. The tree, like everything else in the house, was hers. And it would never truly be safe—not as long as she was around.

Step 2: Wrapping Presents

Humans love to take perfectly good objects and wrap them in noisy, crinkly paper. This, dear friends, is your playground.

• When they roll out the paper, sit directly in the middle of it. This is your territory now.

• Attack the ribbon. It's sparkly, it moves, and it's yours. Shred it mercilessly.

• Bat bows around the room like the tiny foes they are.

• If they attempt to shoo you away, give them your most innocent look. Trust me, it works every time.

Remember: the true purpose of wrapping paper is not to hide presents but to entertain us.

Bucky had barely unrolled the first sheet of wrapping paper when Alpine appeared, materializing from thin air like some kind of crinkly paper clairvoyant. Her ears perked, her eyes gleaming with mischief as she trotted toward him. The sound of paper rustling was like a siren call, and Alpine couldn't resist. She hopped onto the pristine sheet and plopped herself dead center, her tail curling smugly around her paws like a queen settling on her throne.

"Alpine, move," Bucky said, already sounding defeated.

Alpine blinked at him, her wide blue eyes radiating an air of innocence so pure it was borderline insulting. She didn't flinch, didn't budge—didn't even acknowledge his request. When he leaned forward, his hand hovering to shoo her away, she stretched luxuriously, rolling onto her side and making sure to crinkle the paper as loudly as possible.

"Seriously?" he muttered, glaring down at her.

Unfazed, Alpine flicked her tail in slow, deliberate defiance. Bucky let out a heavy sigh and tried working around her, carefully trimming the paper without slicing it into fur. But as he reached for the spool of ribbon, Alpine's ears twitched. Her eyes locked onto the shiny strand as it unfurled, glinting temptingly in the light.

It was too much. With a swipe of her paw, she snagged the ribbon and pinned it to the floor like she'd just caught a wriggling snake.

"Alpine, no!" Bucky snapped, yanking at the ribbon.

Alpine growled softly, swatting again as the ribbon slipped from her grasp. He managed to pull it free and loop it around the box, but Alpine was faster. She pounced, grabbing the ribbon midair and rolling onto her back, clutching it triumphantly in her claws.

"Unbelievable," Bucky groaned, carefully untangling the ribbon from her paws.

He thought he was in the clear, but as soon as his attention shifted back to the gift, Alpine's gaze darted toward her next target: the bows. Shiny, colorful, and scattered across the floor, they were practically begging for her attention. She darted toward the nearest one and swatted it across the room with a triumphant chirp.

"Alpine!" Bucky's voice thundered, but the cat didn't even glance back.

She was already onto the next bow, batting it under the coffee table. It disappeared into the shadows, but Alpine didn't care—there were plenty more. She pounced on another, sliding it across the floor in a spectacularly clumsy arc.

Bucky dropped the roll of tape in his hand and ran both hands down his face. "Why do I even bother?" he muttered to himself.

By the time he turned back, Alpine had returned to the wrapping paper. Now re-rolled in an attempt to salvage it, the paper was no match for her claws. She flopped onto it with theatrical flair, purring loudly as she kneaded her paws into the sheet, puncturing it in several places. The noise was deafening, each crinkling like a personal victory.

Bucky crouched down, trying to salvage what little was left of his materials. "You are literally the worst," he grumbled, gathering the shredded remnants of the bows Alpine had massacred.

Alpine looked up at him with a satisfied gleam in her eyes, her purr vibrating through the room like applause for her own performance. She stretched lazily, flicking her tail in his direction as if to say, You're welcome.

To her, Bucky had it all wrong. Wrapping paper wasn't for gifts—it was a playground. Ribbons weren't for tying; they were for hunting. And bows? They were trophies meant to be batted under furniture where they'd remain for eternity. Judging by the chaotic mess around her, Alpine knew one thing for sure: she was using all of it exactly as it was intended.

Step 3: The Fire

Humans seem to think the fire is the heart of the holiday. While it's not bad—it's warm, after all—it's still no radiator.

• Claim the spot closest to the fire. If a human is already sitting there, stare at them until they move.

• Beware of stockings hanging nearby. They dangle tantalizingly but are oddly difficult to swat down. (Still worth a try.)

• Don't trust the fire's crackling noises. They're suspicious. Stay vigilant.

Alpine padded into the living room, tail high, ears twitching at the crackling sound coming from the fireplace. There it was: the humans' precious fire, flickering and glowing like it owned the room. Warm? Sure. Cozy? Maybe. But it wasn't a radiator, and Alpine wasn't about to let it think it was better than her favorite heat source.

Steve and Bucky sat on the couch, chatting and sipping from their mugs, perfectly positioned in the prime spot near the fire. This was unacceptable. Alpine needed that spot, and she needed it now.

She sat down in the middle of the rug, facing Steve with unblinking eyes. He caught her stare after a few seconds.

"What?" Steve asked, raising an eyebrow.

Alpine kept staring, adding a soft, purposeful flick of her tail for emphasis. Move, human.

Steve glanced at Bucky. "Why is she looking at me like that?"

"She wants your spot," Bucky said without looking up, his tone dripping with familiarity.

"Well, she can't have it," Steve replied, leaning back as if to assert his dominance.

Challenge accepted. Alpine stood, marched over, and sat down directly in front of Steve's feet. She turned her head and gave him her best wide-eyed, sorrowful look. If her tail flicked a little too close to his mug, well, that was just a coincidence.

"Oh, come on," Steve muttered, already shifting uncomfortably. Alpine stared harder, her gaze now a mix of judgment and expectation.

"Just give her the spot," Bucky said, smirking from the other end of the couch. "You're not gonna win."

With a dramatic sigh, Steve stood and moved to the armchair. Alpine hopped into his vacated spot immediately, circling twice before curling up with smug precision. It was warm, sure, but not quite warm enough.

She turned her attention to the stockings hanging above the fire. They dangled there, swaying gently, clearly mocking her. Alpine stood up, stretched luxuriously, and then leapt onto the coffee table for a better angle.

"Alpine," Bucky warned, setting down his mug. "Don't even think about it."

She didn't think. She acted. Her paw shot out, claws extended, swiping at the nearest stocking. It swung wildly but didn't fall. Alpine tried again, harder this time, but the stupid thing just wouldn't come down. Frustrated, she let out a chirp of protest and glared at it.

"She's gonna take the whole mantel down if you let her," Steve said, crossing his arms.

"Alpine, get down," Bucky ordered, but she ignored him, swatting one last time for good measure before leaping gracefully back to the rug.

The fire popped loudly, and Alpine froze, her ears flattening. Suspicious. She crept closer, sniffing the air, her eyes narrowing at the flickering flames. It crackled again, and she backed up a step, tail puffing slightly.

"You're scared of the fire?" Steve asked, his tone tinged with amusement.

"She's not scared," Bucky said quickly, watching Alpine stalk the edge of the rug with exaggerated caution. "She's... being strategic."

Alpine shot him a glare. She wasn't scared. She was vigilant—a big difference.

Deciding the fire was sufficiently warned of her dominance, she returned to her spot on the couch and sprawled across the cushions. The humans were lucky to have her here, keeping them safe from suspicious crackles and rebellious stockings.

The fire might've been warm, but Alpine was still the heart of the holiday, and everyone in the room knew it.

Step 4: Snow

At some point, humans may open the door and expect you to appreciate "the snow." Do not fall for it.

• Snow is cold and wet and sticks to your paws like some form of winter torture. Avoid it at all costs.

• If they force you outside, make your disdain known with the most pitiful meow you can muster. Drag your feet dramatically and glare at them over your shoulder.

• When you come back inside, immediately seek out the warmest spot to recover from the betrayal. Preferably their lap, so they feel guilty.

The indignity of it all.

Alpine, supreme queen of her household, ruler of the warmest laps, and thief of unattended chili had endured many affronts in her life—but this? This was a betrayal of epic proportions.

They had dragged her out of her cozy suburban paradise and into the woods. She lifted a delicate paw and shook off the offending snow with a flick that was half disgust, half Shakespearean drama. Her little blue coat, while admittedly snug and warm, was nothing short of a betrayal. It wasn't fashion; it was imprisonment. She looked like a stuffed marshmallow, and the harness? Don't even get her started.

The leash tugged lightly, urging her to move forward. Alpine responded by planting all four paws firmly in the snow, her tail flicking sharply. The snow clung to her pristine white fur like a personal insult, the icy crystals melting into chilly droplets that seeped through her delicate coat. Why? she thought, her narrowed eyes shifting between the two lumbering buffoons who dared to call themselves her caretakers.

"Come on, baby girl, just a little farther," Bucky cooed, crouching down a few feet away with that infernal camera in his hands. The man had no shame; snapping pictures like her suffering was some kind of artistic masterpiece.

Alpine leveled him with a look that could have frozen the snow beneath his boots. Little farther? Farther from where I belong, you mean. My couch, my radiator, my perfectly curated kingdom? She huffed loudly, the frosty air curling from her mouth in a visible display of disdain.

Steve, the other giant, stood nearby, bundled in so many layers he looked like an overstuffed burrito. He grinned down at her, clearly finding her predicament amusing. "She's doing great," he said, his breath fogging in the cold.

Great? Alpine's tail lashed behind her. I'm being dragged through the frozen wilderness like a common peasant, and this is 'great'?

Her delicate paw lifted from the snow with an exaggerated flourish. She shook it violently, flinging icy flecks into the air before setting it back down with as much reluctance as she could muster. Every step forward was a performance of melodramatic resignation, but they didn't seem to care.

"Oh, she's so photogenic," Bucky muttered, clicking the phone camera again. "Look at that sass. She's got attitude."

Attitude? Alpine's ears flattened, her eyes narrowing. I'll show you attitude. Just wait until you leave your cereal bowl unattended tomorrow morning.

But it wasn't just the snow. No, the real insult was where they'd brought her. The cabin. The cabin. She glanced around at the surrounding woods with a mix of horror and disgust. Bare trees loomed overhead, their skeletal branches creaking in the icy wind. The ground was a patchwork of snow and uneven earth, with no sign of the soft carpet or gleaming hardwood she was accustomed to.

Alpine sniffed the air cautiously, catching the faint, earthy scent of pine mixed with something wild and unfamiliar. It was offensive. This place was a far cry from her suburban home, with its cozy nooks and warm sunbeams streaming through the windows. The cabin had its charms, sure, but it wasn't hers.

And now they wanted her to explore this frozen wasteland? She flicked her tail again, letting out a low, pitiful meow for emphasis.

"Oh, come on, it's not that bad," Bucky said, reaching out to scratch under her chin. She dodged his hand with a dramatic head tilt, making it clear she was not in the mood for his placations.

As if to make things worse, the leash tugged again, and Alpine begrudgingly took another step. This time, her paw sank deeper into the snow, and she froze in place, glaring down at it with wide, horrified eyes. She lifted her paw slowly, staring at the clumps of snow stuck between her toes like they were the cruelest form of punishment.

Bucky doubled over laughing. "Oh, my god, Stevie, look at her face. She's so mad."

"I don't blame her," Steve said, though he was grinning too. "We did kind of spring this on her."

Spring this on me? Alpine let out another theatrical sigh. You dragged me from my kingdom to this frostbitten hellscape without warning, and now you expect me to be grateful?

Bucky crouched again, holding up the phone and aiming it straight at her. "Come on, baby girl, just a few more shots. Give me that fierce model look."

I will knock that phone off into the toilet the next time your in the shower, Alpine thought as she stared directly into the lens with a withering glare.

When they finally—finally—seemed to get the message, Bucky scooped her up into his arms, cradling her against his chest. "There we go," he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "All done, baby girl. Let's get you inside."

Alpine hissed softly but allowed the indignity; it was too cold to put up much of a fight. At least his arms were warm, and the cabin's glow was growing closer with every step.

As they reached the porch, Bucky grinned over his shoulder at Steve. "I'm putting these pictures on the Christmas card."

Alpine buried her face in his coat with a low growl. Not if I get to them first.

Bucky carried Alpine into the cabin, the warm air hitting her like a soft, cozy blanket after the betrayal of the outdoors. She let out a long, theatrical yowl, her voice echoing off the walls, just to ensure her displeasure was properly noted. You dare bring me out there and expect me to act like it was fun?

"Alright, alright, you little diva," Bucky muttered, setting her down on the bench by the front door. His tone was annoyingly affectionate, as though her suffering was adorable. Adorable? She wasn't adorable—she was a wronged queen demanding justice.

Her tail lashed as Bucky started unfastening her puffy blue jacket. She let out another mournful cry, a detailed list of grievances disguised as a single, ear-piercing yowl. Dragged me into the snow, stuffed me into this hideous contraption, laughed at my misery—your crimes will not go unpunished!

"Don't yell at me! You needed the jacket," Bucky protested, working the tiny zipper free. "It's freezing out there. You wanna catch a cold?"

Cold? Alpine narrowed her eyes at him. If I were meant to be cold, I'd have been born as a snowshoe hare. But I am not. I am a cat. A creature of warmth, comfort, and dignity, all of which you've stolen from me today.

As soon as the jacket came off, Alpine leaped off the wooden bench with all the grace of someone who absolutely did not appreciate being handled. She stalked away from the front door and her abuser, her fluffy tail held high, flicking once for emphasis. Behind her, Bucky muttered something about "ungrateful furballs," but Alpine didn't dignify him with a response.

Her mission was clear: she needed to find the other human.

Alpine padded into the living room, each step purposeful, her tail swishing behind her like a banner of disdain. She paused at the threshold, her sharp green eyes sweeping over the cabin's decor. It was... underwhelming. Cozy, sure, but in a way that felt manufactured—like the humans were trying too hard to make it seem charming. She sniffed as if to physically draw in all the reasons she disliked it, her whiskers twitching with disapproval.

Her gaze locked on the Christmas tree, a nearly identical twin to the one at home. It stood smugly in the corner, draped in twinkling lights and shimmering baubles, its branches heavy with ornaments that swayed invitingly. It was practically begging her to reach out a paw. But she knew better. This was just another of their pointless rules.

What is the point of hanging shiny, dangling objects if I'm not allowed to touch them? Alpine thought, her ears flicking backward in annoyance. She swished her tail, remembering every time her paw had been batted away at home. A tree with strict "No, Alpine!" rules was no tree worth respecting.

As her inspection of the room continued, her opinion of the cabin remained resolute: unimpressive. The furniture was soft but mismatched, the kind of pieces you'd tolerate, not cherish. The rug beneath her paws was too coarse for her liking, and the cushions on the couch looked lumpy. Everything here screamed temporary, and Alpine did not care for temporary. She liked her home: the routines, the warm, well-worn spots on the couch, the radiator she'd claimed as her personal throne.

I'll never understand these humans, she thought, her ears twitching as the fire popped again. They hang shiny, tempting objects on a tree and then act like I'm the unreasonable one for wanting to touch them. And those stockings? Useless. They don't even have treats in them. What's the point?

This cabin was tolerable, she supposed, but only because she was here to make it so. It wasn't home, and it certainly wasn't up to her standards.

There he was—the other human. The spare one. Steve. The one who didn't put her in silly outfits or shove a phone in her face. Steve was sprawles out on the couch, holding a book, his big frame sprawled out like he had nowhere else to be.

Perfect.

Alpine hopped onto his lap and immediately began her campaign. She stared up at him with wide, soulful eyes, her most effective weapon, and let out a soft, plaintive meow. Feed me, loyal subject. Prove your worth.

Steve's face broke into a smile as he set the book aside. "Oh, so now I'm the favorite?" he asked, reaching down to pet her.

Alpine leaned into his hand, purring softly as his warm fingers trailed along her back. Finally, someone was acting appropriately.

From the kitchen, Bucky's voice carried over. "She's probably trying to con you into feeding her. Don't let her win, Stevie!"

Con? Alpine's ears twitched at the insult, but she didn't look away from Steve. Instead, she meowed again, a touch louder this time, making her demands crystal clear.

"Too late," Steve said, chuckling as he gently set her back on the floor. He stretched, then headed to the kitchen, Alpine trotting at his heels like the commanding presence she was. "Can't have our little queen going hungry, can we?"

She shot Bucky a smug look as Steve opened the sacred cupboard and retrieved the most precious of treasures—a can of wet food. Her tail flicked in satisfaction as he popped the lid and scooped the fragrant feast into her bowl. See? This one knows what he's doing.

As Steve scooped the food into her bowl, Alpine purred loudly, her tail flicking in satisfaction. Finally, some justice in this household. She devoured the meal with gusto, savoring every bite. It wasn't that long ago that she'd been scraping by, scrounging behind gas stations and dodging cold, sleepless nights. Life here wasn't so bad—not with food like this.

While Steve washed the spoon, Alpine dined like royalty, savoring every bite. Life hadn't always been this good. Not so long ago, she'd been a scrappy dumpster kitten, scrounging for scraps behind gas stations and braving cold, lonely nights. She didn't like to think about those days, but they made moments like this all the sweeter. Her life wasn't all that bad—not with food like this.

When her bowl was empty and her stomach full, Alpine padded back into the living room, her paws light, and her mood improved. The fire crackled invitingly, and she jumped onto the couch, curling into a perfect ball right in front of the warmth.

The two humans joined her shortly after, Bucky flopping onto the couch next to Steve, the blonde's arm slung over the brunette shoulders. They both looked at her, their expressions soft, and Alpine allowed herself to feel a little smug. She had them wrapped around her paw, just as it should be.

"What do you think she's thinking about?" Bucky asked, leaning into Steve.

Steve laughed, rubbing his hand over Bucky's shoulder. "World domination, probably. Or figuring out how to knock over the Christmas tree."

Perhaps both, Alpine thought, cracking one eye open to glance at them. She offered a slow blink, a silent acknowledgment of their loyalty. They were idiots, but they were her idiots.

With a contented sigh, she tucked her nose under her paw and drifted off to sleep. Life with these two wasn't perfect, but it was warm, full of food, and—when they weren't stuffing her into coats or dragging her into the snow—pretty good.

Step 5: Christmas Cards

Humans love to send pictures of themselves during the holidays. Unfortunately, they will try to include you in these.

• If they attempt to pose you next to the tree or in front of the fire, resist. Go limp, twist around, or give them the back of your head for every shot.

• If they succeed in taking a photo, ensure you look unimpressed. This will make the card more authentic.

• When the cards arrive, sit on them. Knock them off the table. This will remind the humans who the real star of the holidays is—you.

The humans had outdone themselves with their ridiculous holiday traditions. Alpine watched from her perch on the back of the couch as Bucky and Steve shuffled around the living room, setting up some sort of photo shoot. The tree twinkled, the fire crackled, and a neatly folded blanket had been draped over the armchair like they were expecting royalty.

"Alpine!" Bucky called, holding a Santa hat in one hand and a determined look on his face. "Come here."

She narrowed her eyes. Absolutely not.

Bucky sighed and tried a new tactic, kneeling and holding out his hand. "Come on, girl. Just one picture, and we're done."

Alpine considered her options. She could stay here and make them chase her, but where was the fun in that? Slowly, she stretched and leapt down, sauntering toward him with exaggerated disinterest. Let them think she was cooperating.

The moment Bucky tried to pick her up, she went completely limp, her full weight dropping into his arms like she'd forgotten how bones worked.

"Oh, come on," he grumbled, shifting her awkwardly. "Steve, help me out."

Steve approached, camera in hand, and Alpine twisted suddenly, wriggling free and darting under the coffee table. From her vantage point, she watched as the humans sighed in unison, already looking defeated.

"I told you we should've just gotten a dog," Steve muttered.

Bucky crouched down to look at her. "Alpine, we're just trying to make a nice card. Can you work with us here?"

She blinked at him slowly, then turned her head, giving him a perfect view of the back of her ears.

"Fine. You win," Bucky muttered, standing. But Alpine wasn't done. As they reset the scene, she emerged from her hiding spot, climbing onto the chair they'd so lovingly prepared.

"Hey, she's sitting still!" Steve said, raising the camera.

Alpine waited until the perfect moment—just as the camera clicked—then yawned dramatically, her ears flattening and her expression one of sheer boredom.

"Really?" Bucky said, glaring at the screen.

"That's actually pretty funny," Steve chuckled, showing him the shot.

By the time the humans gave up and printed their cards, Alpine had moved on to her next target: the cards themselves. They sat in a neat stack on the coffee table, practically begging to be knocked over. She hopped onto the table, settled directly on top of the stack, and began grooming herself like she hadn't a care in the world.

"Alpine, those aren't for you!" Steve said, reaching for the cards.

She swatted his hand away and stretched out further, crumpling the envelopes beneath her.

"She's just reminding us who the star of this holiday is," Bucky said dryly, crossing his arms.

Alpine purred, satisfied. She didn't need to be in the humans' silly pictures. Everyone already knew the truth: this holiday—and the humans' sanity—revolved around her.

Step 6: Holiday Food

Humans feast during the holidays, but they will selfishly guard most of the food. This is unacceptable.

• Station yourself near the kitchen or dining table. Look adorable but hungry.

• If subtlety doesn't work, leap onto the counter and help yourself. Turkey, ham, and anything involving gravy are top-tier.

• Avoid candy canes. They smell strange and are disappointingly inedible.

The smells wafting from the kitchen were overwhelming—roasting meat, buttery rolls, and the tantalizing richness of gravy. Alpine crouched just outside the doorway, her nose twitching and tail flicking as she watched Bucky shuffle between the oven and the counter. He had been at it for hours, muttering under his breath about timers and seasoning. To Alpine, it was obvious: all this effort was clearly for her.

The humans were predictable. They always shared—eventually. But the trick was timing. Alpine stationed herself strategically near the dining table, her eyes wide and unblinking as she stared at Steve, who was slicing bread with precision. Occasionally, she let out a soft, pitiful meow for effect.

"She's giving me the look," Steve muttered to Bucky. "Like I haven't fed her in weeks."

"She's playing you," Bucky shot back without even looking up from his mashed potatoes. "Don't fall for it."

Fine. If pity wasn't working, it was time to escalate.

As Bucky turned to check on the ham, Alpine seized her chance. She leapt onto the counter with the agility of a gymnast, landing silently next to the cooling dish of turkey. The smell was heavenly, and before anyone could react, she snagged a piece with her paw and ducked under the table.

"Alpine!" Bucky's shout was immediate.

From her hiding spot, she could hear the slap of a dish towel against the counter. She took a victorious bite of the turkey, savoring the juicy perfection.

"Seriously?" Steve said, trying not to laugh. "She's like a ninja."

"She's like a menace," Bucky growled, bending down to glare at her. "Give it back!"

Alpine licked her paw, feigning innocence, the half-eaten piece of turkey tucked safely under her. She blinked slowly at Bucky, the picture of feline arrogance.

"Oh, come on," Bucky groaned, standing up and muttering to himself.

Alpine watched as he turned back to the counter, now more vigilant, but she wasn't done yet. She leapt back up a few minutes later when his guard was down, this time going for the gravy boat.

"Alpine, no!"

The commotion sent the humans scrambling, but Alpine was too quick, darting away with a gravy-dipped paw. The humans were shouting, but all Alpine heard was a triumph.

Candy canes, however, were another story. One sat abandoned on the counter, its shiny wrapper catching the light. Curious, Alpine sniffed it, only to recoil at the strange, minty scent. With a flick of her paw, she sent it flying to the floor where it could bother someone else. Disgusting.

By the time dinner was served, Alpine had claimed a seat under the table, strategically positioned to catch any falling crumbs. She watched smugly as Bucky set down the dishes, glaring at her like she was the villain of the holiday.

Little did he know, Alpine thought, licking her gravy-soaked paw, she was the hero this feast deserved.

Step 7: The Gift Exchange

Humans will gather around the tree and exchange boxes of things they don't need. Occasionally, they will give you gifts too.

• Ignore the gifts they give you. It's likely a toy you'll never touch or some boring treats.

• Instead, focus on the empty boxes and discarded wrapping paper. These are the real treasures.

• Jump into every box. Claim it. It's your throne now.

The living room looked like a holiday battlefield—a sea of torn wrapping paper, empty boxes, and shiny ribbons strewn across the floor. Alpine was in her element. Sitting primly in the center of the chaos, she watched her humans, Bucky and Steve, exchanging gifts under the tree. They were making far too much fuss over things that clearly didn't matter. The true treasures were right in front of her: crinkly paper, dangling ribbons, and boxes—oh, the glorious boxes.

"Look, Alpine," Steve said, holding out a small package wrapped in green paper. "This one's for you."

Alpine glanced at the box, then at Steve, her green eyes narrowing slightly. Did he honestly think she'd care about what was inside? She was far too busy surveying the mess to waste energy humoring him. With the dignity of a queen dismissing a court jester, she turned her attention to a crumpled ball of wrapping paper lying just out of reach.

She crouched low, tail flicking, and pounced, batting the paper across the floor. It skittered under the couch, but she didn't mind—there were plenty more.

"Guess she's not interested," Steve chuckled, setting the package aside.

"Typical," Bucky muttered, tearing into a box of his own. "We could've saved twenty bucks if we just gave her the garbage."

Alpine ignored their commentary. She had more important tasks at hand. A stray bow caught her eye, its shiny surface catching the light. She stalked it like prey, her claws unsheathing as she pounced. The bow slid across the floor, but she was relentless, chasing it under the coffee table and batting it back out into the open. Finally, she trapped it under her paw and gave it a triumphant bite before losing interest. There were still other treasures to claim.

And then she saw it: an empty box sitting near Bucky's feet. The perfect size for sitting, lounging, or both. She padded over, sniffing it with the cautious curiosity of a professional investigator. Satisfied, she hopped inside, turning in circles until she'd found just the right position.

"She gets a catnip toy and ignores it for a box," Bucky said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Priorities," Steve replied with a grin, watching Alpine settle into her new throne.

Alpine stretched luxuriously, her tail dangling lazily over the edge of the box. For a moment, she closed her eyes, basking in the triumph of her find. But peace never lasted long in her world. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a ribbon dangling from the arm of the couch. It swayed gently, taunting her.

Without hesitation, Alpine leapt from the box and tackled the ribbon mid-air, rolling onto her back as she shredded it with wild abandon. The humans' voices grew louder, but their words were irrelevant. She had won.

"Alpine, come on," Bucky groaned, crouching to pick up the pieces of ribbon. "That's the third one you've destroyed!"

Unbothered by his protests, Alpine sauntered back to her box and hopped in, resuming her royal position. She gave Bucky a slow blink—the feline equivalent of a mic drop.

Steve laughed, shaking his head. "I think she's having the best Christmas out of all of us."

Bucky sighed, glancing at the pile of toys and treats they'd bought her, now abandoned in favor of the box and wrapping paper. "Next year, we're just getting her an empty box and some paper. Save ourselves the trouble."

Alpine flicked her tail, smug satisfaction radiating from her small frame. Finally, they were starting to understand who the real star of Christmas was.

Step 8: Holiday Cheer

Humans will sing, laugh, and generally act even more absurd than usual. They'll also cuddle more, which is... tolerable.

• Indulge them when they try to include you in their "holiday spirit." Let them pet you for exactly as long as you feel like it.

• If they dress you in a Santa hat or a ridiculous sweater, go limp. Make them regret their choices.

• Occasionally grace them with a slow blink. This will make them feel like they've earned your approval, which keeps them manageable.

The living room buzzed with holiday cheer, the kind humans seemed to find contagious this time of year. Laughter and chatter filled the space as Bucky and Steve lounged on the couch, mugs of steaming cocoa in hand, trading stories and enjoying the cozy warmth of the fire. Alpine, perched on the arm of the couch, observed the scene with her usual mix of disdain and reluctant fondness. Humans were absurd creatures, but at least they served a purpose—sometimes.

Steve reached over, his hand hovering near her ears. "You feeling the holiday cheer, Alpine?" he asked, his voice soft and coaxing, like she was some simple-minded puppy who could be swayed by tone alone.

She allowed the intrusion, tilting her head slightly as his fingers scratched behind her ears. For a moment—just a moment—she leaned into the touch, her eyes half-closing in approval. But then, inevitably, he pushed his luck and scratched the wrong spot. Her tail flicked sharply in warning, and she sprang down from the arm of the couch with an air of offended dignity, leaving Steve mid-scratch and chuckling to himself.

"Guess that's a no," he said with a grin, watching as Alpine sauntered toward Bucky's chair.

Bucky snorted, one hand resting on the armrest as Alpine approached. "Yeah, that's her version of holiday cheer—gracing us with her presence until we overstep."

Despite his words, his hand reached out to stroke her head. Alpine tolerated it for a beat or two, closing her eyes briefly before pulling back. She had better things to do than indulge human attention all evening. Or so she thought.

That's when she saw it—the Santa hat.

Bucky held it up with a mischievous grin, his eyes narrowing playfully. "Come on, Alpine. Just for a second. You'll look cute."

Cute? Alpine didn't need some ridiculous human prop to be cute. Her ears flattened immediately as she glared at him, her tail twitching in annoyance. She considered bolting, but before she could make her escape, the hat was on her head.

Her response was immediate and dramatic. She went limp, collapsing onto the arm of the chair like the weight of the world—or at least the hat—was too much to bear.

Steve burst out laughing. "Oh my god, she's playing dead! Look at her!"

Bucky groaned, trying to adjust the hat as Alpine flopped over onto her side, her legs splayed in the most exaggerated display of misery she could muster. If he wanted her to wear this thing, he was going to suffer for it.

"She's fine," Bucky said, though even he was laughing as he wrestled with her limp form. "You're such a little diva."

Alpine didn't budge, her green eyes narrowing into a judgmental glare that could have peeled paint off the walls. After a few more failed attempts to make the hat look presentable, Bucky finally sighed and removed it, tossing it onto the couch with a defeated shake of his head.

As soon as the offending accessory was gone, Alpine sprang to her feet with an indignant shake; her fur fluffed as if to rid herself of the lingering humiliation.

"See?" Steve teased. "You ruined her mood."

"Yeah, well, she ruined my hat," Bucky muttered, gesturing to the crumpled mess now sitting on the couch.

Ignoring them both, Alpine climbed back onto the armrest she'd claimed earlier, settling down with her tail neatly curled around her paws. She gave Bucky a slow, deliberate blink—a signal of forgiveness, but just barely.

Steve grinned. "That was a mercy blink. She's letting you off easy."

Bucky groaned, slouching back in his chair. "I don't know why I even try with her."

Satisfied, Alpine tucked her paws beneath her chest, her eyes closing as the warmth of the fire and the sound of human chatter filled the room. Holiday cheer, she decided, was tolerable—so long as it remained on her terms. Naturally, she was winning.

Conclusion

The holidays can be chaotic, loud, and full of baffling traditions. But remember: you are the true center of the household, no matter what these humans celebrate. Use their festivities to your advantage. Play with their decorations, dominate their wrapping sessions, and claim their cozy spots.

And most importantly, when they look at you with those ridiculous grins and call you their "holiday miracle," accept it. After all, you are the greatest gift they could ever hope for.

Happy holidays, peasants.

-Alpine 🐾

Moodboard

Sif's Masterlist

Series Masterlist

[shachaai]

[Hetalia Version] The Lindworm’s Lullaby

Chapters: 2/14 Rating: Explicit (For Gore) Main Relationships: Arthur Kirkland (England)/Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes (Portugal) Characters: Arthur Kirkland (England), Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes (Portugal), Original Child Character(s), Ludwig Beilschmidt (Germany), Julia Blumenschien (Fem Prussia), Kiku Honda (Japan), Lovino Vargas (South Italy), Assorted Others Other Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe - Human AU, FBI Murder Mystery/Thriller, Case Fic, Adapted from a Hannibal Fic, Baby Fic, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Gabriel Fernandes, Omega Arthur Kirkland, Pre-Relationship, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Single Parent Arthur Kirkland, Violence and Gore Canon-Typical to Hannibal Levels, Cute Moments and Murder, Murder Scenes, Dead Bodies, Poisoning, Discussions about torture/infidelity/rape

The FBI is called in to investigate when a series of bodies shows up around Ohio: all of them alphas, and all of them skinned alive. With the killer’s motives a mystery, Ludwig Beilschmidt pulls Arthur Kirkland from the classroom and his vigil at the comatose Madeline Williams’ bedside once more to lend his insight to the case - with very little mind paid to the fact that the busy Arthur, omega and single mother to a six month-old daughter, might have some scheduling issues. Necessity - and pressure from Ludwig - drives Arthur into reluctantly asking Gabriel Fernandes for a favour at short notice. Gabriel is delighted to help Arthur with babysitting - once he has, of course, recovered from both the surprise of learning that Arthur Kirkland even has a baby to care for and, presented with the adorable armful that is a sleepy Lenore Kirkland, feeling a little skinned raw himself.

*****

CHAPTER 1

*****

*****

Chapter 2: Lenore

Gabriel spends longer than he would care to admit - even to himself - simply standing there in the Quantico lecture hall after Arthur Kirkland leaves him. The minutes pass like seconds and the seconds are inconsequential, Gabriel outwardly calm even as his thoughts churn and roil, a frothing storm surge sweeping through the ordered corridors of his mind.

Arthur Kirkland, truly, is a force of nature: wild, chaotic and difficult - if not impossible - to predict. As much the swift stream running, silent, calm and deadly, through the forest as the lightning-struck pine crashing down into the undergrowth. Not one for subtleties outside of his own sharp mind, his general speech and attitude are as forthright as his behaviour.

In lesser creatures, Gabriel might find such conduct to be rude, but Arthur Kirkland is no lesser being. Fascinating, diverting, uncouth and inconvenient, the omega is ever true to himself. One cannot blame the wind for blowing, the sea for its tumultuous waves or the thunder for its rumbling and roar - and so to rage against Arthur Kirkland’s nature seems as pointless and arrogant a pursuit as Cnut and the tides.

The evening’s events are only proof of concept: Arthur Kirkland - with not more than a little assistance from Ludwig Beilschmidt - has, once more, upended so many of Gabriel’s preconceptions of him. Thrust news of his motherhood, of his six month-old daughter, at Gabriel with the same fumbling gracelessness as his itchy scarf (some mixed wool and polyester blend. With too much emphasis on the polyester).

Gabriel rubs the scarf’s fabric between fingers and thumb, resisting the temptation - for now - to raise it to his nose and inhale all that it has to offer. The texture of the material makes his mouth twist but pulling lightly at the weave releases a little of the scent trapped in its fibres - of bittersweet tea, of woodsy apples roasted in a smoking campfire, of the clean sharp tang of the cold fresh air. Arthur. Chaotic nature distilled… and then doused in a gallon of some truly appalling aftershave. Another one of Arthur Kirkland’s forts against the world: perhaps one of both his simplest and strongest in a society where so much is observed and assumed about an individual based upon the scents emanating from their skin.

The cologne - cheap, mass-produced, and likely marketed to nose-blind betas - had hidden the manifold scents rearing an infant would leave on a parent from even Gabriel’s keen nose: the particular floral odours of baby shampoos and lotions, the unfortunate but necessary smells of spit-up and dirty diapers. The cologne had even hidden the scent of lactation on Arthur until the omega had stood close enough to Gabriel for the doctor to hold or bite or kiss, close enough for Gabriel to take in great lungfuls of Arthur’s natural scent and all the hormones thrumming under Arthur’s skin. The deep collar of Arthur’s shirt that day had gaped open just enough for a little of the rich, mingled perfume of milk and warm skin to escape, the wrap-style of the clothing no doubt making it easy for Arthur to either pump or breastfeed his child whilst leaving one side of his chest still covered, the double-lined material of the front an aid in hiding accidental leaks.

Put on the spot about the existence of his infant daughter, Arthur had been self-conscious and yet refused to be shamed. Defiant in his status as a single mother with no ring on his finger, no bonding bite left on that lovely long neck of his, and no glimpse of marks left by fangs on the scent glands - just - peeking out from under Arthur’s tight cuffs. More embarrassed, in truth, by the need to rely on another person in the care of his child, by the practicalities such an endeavour requires, than being known as used goods to society, the flustered bloom of blood rising up Arthur’s throat and across his cheeks like red dye drawn up the stem of a thirsty white rose.

Gabriel had had plans to make a hearty Italian beef stew for his dinner that night, a dish meant to be simmered for almost an hour. It would have been a time-consuming creation but one more than worth the wait, the stew enriched with butter, juniper berries, herbs and a generous splash of a robust red wine, served on a bed of buttery polenta stirred with Fontina cheese. Another large glass of wine on the side.

Now, instead, Gabriel must gather all his whirring thoughts together and focus on a child. Because Arthur Kirkland has a child - and not just any child, but an infant still on the teat. A daughter at that.

(How much of his girl does Arthur see when he looks at the still sleeping Madeline Williams?)

The Quantico Academy crèche is more prepared for Gabriel’s arrival than Gabriel himself is. Naturally, with Arthur’s text messages already in his pocket confirming the Kirklands’ address and other such important information, Gabriel is the very image of perfect composure as he reaches crèche’s reception, tacking an amiable smile onto his face even as a frustrated toddler located somewhere in the establishment’s confines begins to let out an ear-piercing shriek.

“Dr. Gabriel Fernandes.” He introduces himself to the crèche worker fronting the desk, both of them pretending that the screaming going on somewhere in the closed-off area behind her isn’t trying to drill a hole in both of their skulls. “I’m here to collect Lenore Kirkland. Professor Kirkland informed me that he would call ahead…?”

The crèche worker - an omega, by the sweet pheromones Gabriel can scent from her as she ducks her head, and called Katya according to the hand-written name-tag pinned high on her shirt - bends over to consult the screen of a nearby computer.

(Politely - and not unsympathetically as a fellow member of the Overworker of Shirt Buttons Society -, Gabriel averts his eyes. There is no way to avoid noticing that Katya is particularly well-endowed when it comes to her bosom, and, when she leans forward, her breasts do their best to fall out of her straining shirt.)

Katya chews on her lower lip as she clicks the mouse once, twice - and then smiles, looking back up at Gabriel. “I have you on the list. If I could just check your ID?” Gabriel unclips his visitor badge for a moment to show her more closely. “Thank you, doctor. If you’ll just give me a few moments, I’ll have Lenore brought out for you.”

Gabriel nods and the crèche worker disappears into the restricted area behind her. Distracting himself by silently critiquing the terribly ugly cartoon clown someone has painted on a nearby wall until another worker returns to the reception to hand Gabriel a large leather bag in dark blue.

“Miss Kirkland’s go-bag. Katya’s just getting her into her cardigan.” His name-tag reads Valentino.

Valentino leaves again, and Gabriel checks the bag - clean diapers and baby onesies, baby wipes, medicated cream for diaper rash, two pacifiers, and one full bottle of milk with its cap screwed tightly in place - before slinging the main strap over his shoulder. One arm now fully occupied with the go-bag and his own briefcase, breathing a sigh of relief when the one-toddler shrieking disaster siren finally quietens down.

Katya returns, her own arms full with what looks like nothing more than Little Red Riding Hood in miniature, a pair of big, drowsy green eyes and a mop of dark curls. “Somebody decided to take an unscheduled nap, so they’re a little sleepy right now.” She smiles at Gabriel conspiratorially, mock-whispering: “Should make for a quiet ride home.”

“We can hope,” Gabriel answers on autopilot, inwardly marvelling at the curious blankness of his thoughts in that moment as he is handed the terribly precious, warm little flour-sack weight that is Lenore Kirkland for the first time.

Lenore has no such vacuity to worry about; her opinion on being disturbed from dozing off again and then transferred from the arms of the familiar Katya to those of a stranger is obviously and immediately clear. Small starfish hands immediately splay themselves on Gabriel’s chest and push to put as much distance between Lenore’s little baby body and Gabriel’s as possible, Lenore screwing her face up at Gabriel in a perfect imitation of her mother’s little thundercloud of a scowl.

Something strangely soft and curious blooms in the space behind Gabriel’s sternum. He examines it, turning the emotion this way and that as he settles Lenore more comfortably into the crook of his arm, and is surprised to realise that it’s fondness.

It really has been some time since Gabriel last held an infant. At some obligatory social event celebrating the birth of a new baby, perhaps? Surely not so long ago as his days as a surgeon, but long enough that he feels mildly confounded by how much attitude the six month-old that has just been transferred into his care manages to convey. Lenore has, it seems, decided upon continuing to scowl at Gabriel rather than cry about the strange alpha holding her, continuing to push indignantly at Gabriel’s chest with her red mittens dangling from the sleeves of her hooded cardigan. 

What had Gabriel expected when he had first learnt that Arthur Kirkland had a child? Gabriel isn’t sure now, cannot quite say if he ever reached any definite theory to settle upon - but is not surprised in the slightest that Lenore Kirkland is a beautiful little girl.

She has her mother’s pale, English Rose complexion, dainty snub nose and eyes of absinthe-aurora borealis green. Her features do, of course, have smaller proportions than Arthur’s and she has soft, round baby chubby cheeks in place of his high, thin bones, but the main thing that differentiates Lenore from her mother is her hair. Rather than Arthur’s messy fluff of relatively straight blond locks, Lenore seems to have inherited a head of longer wild curls, her tresses glossy black in colour, with all the gleam of a raven’s wing.

Arthur, too, has dressed his daughter in more stylish clothes than he wears himself: dark blue footed pyjamas, covered in embroidered red roses, over her cotton bodysuit and socks, and a hooded cardigan in red cotton over that with mock-wooden buttons. The cardigan’s hood has a face knitted into its weave and small floppy ears attached, but the tail sewn to the back of the clothing is too stubby for Gabriel to tell whether the animal depicted is meant to be a red panda or a fox. A wooden pacifier with a silicone bead clip is attached to Lenore’s pyjamas, tucked underneath the cardigan, and a stretchy red headband keeps Lenore’s tousled curls from off her face. Dangling red mittens - their string threaded through the cardigan’s sleeves - complete the look and do their best to keep the infant wearing them warm.

A rose, a red panda, and a fox. A princess, a pixie, and a dumpling.

The strength in Lenore’s young arms gives way at last, and the little girl flops forward against Gabriel’s shoulder and chest with a small and huffy yah. A little chirp of confusion follows: Lenore has found herself with a faceful of her mother’s brown scarf, the familiar smoky apple-spice-and-pine scent imbued into the fabric completely at odds with the strange alpha wearing it.

“She took her evening bottle as usual,” Katya says as Lenore reaches up with one hand to begin curiously patting at Gabriel’s face, Gabriel clearly having passed a silent test from both of them, “so she shouldn’t want her next until the usual time.”

Gabriel has no idea when the usual time might be, but he is quite sure that Lenore will let him know when she is hungry again.

Lenore smacks Gabriel on the nose, and then squeals in ticklish delight when Gabriel blows a long stream of breath onto her palm to make her take it off again. Her little covered feet softly kick-kick Gabriel under the ribs - and the mitten attached to her one flailing hand decides to whap Gabriel in the eye.

“You will make your mother jealous if you manage to give me a black eye before he does,” Gabriel quite seriously informs the child, blinking away the brief pain of synthetic wool smacking into his eyeball. If they’re at the point of grievous bodily harm already, formal greetings are probably long overdue. “Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Boulette. Enchanté de vous rencontrer.” He means it too. Surprising himself once more.

Lenore blinks back up at him for a moment before bursting into a burbling stream of - what sounds approximately like - kikiahyah.

“Oh, of course,” says Katya as though this pronouncement makes perfect sense to her. She beams at Gabriel. “Let me just grab you her kitty.” To Gabriel’s blank look: “Her comfort toy.”

Gabriel is beginning to wonder whether babysitting Arthur Kirkland’s child will require him to surgically attach a third arm to his body. “Of course,” he echoes Katya with draining optimism, sighing as the crèche worker leaves him - them - again.

Lenore pats him consolingly on the chin, and giggles when Gabriel playfully bares his fangs at her. She reaches up to touch those too, wholly unafraid and laughing again when Gabriel gently nips at her inquisitive fingertips. Fearless little thing. (So much for her being sleepy.)

It is easier to scent Lenore now that she is more comfortable with Gabriel, this soft, sweet little sucking pig made plump and tender on her mother’s rich milk. As an unpresented child, she has no real scent of her own outside of that creamy smell of milk and the mild, almost powdery scent all infants share, but, under the bright apple-and-pear scent of her shampoo, beneath the apricot, vanilla and sandalwood of Lenore’s body lotion, Gabriel can detect traces of Arthur: the spiced apple, ink and old paper notes from Arthur holding his child, the same laundry detergent and softener that Arthur uses on his own clothes. The scent of Arthur’s love all over Lenore, holding her even when Arthur cannot.

“Ba,” says Lenore in response to Gabriel’s nose tickling her temples, squirming around in his hold until she can snuffle him back. She squishes her small - and thankfully, after some minor miracle has no doubt been worked by the workers at the crèche that day, clean - face up against Gabriel’s jaw, clumsily copying what the alpha is doing to her and scenting Gabriel in return. Picking up the scent of her mother at the same time, Arthur’s scarf marking Gabriel as safe.

Gabriel resists the urge to rub his cheek over the crown of the little girl’s head, unsure what Arthur’s response might be should he return and find his infant daughter with Gabriel’s scent mark on her, smelling so strongly of an unrelated alpha. Omegas have - quite instinctively - murdered for less in the past when it comes to protecting their beloved offspring.

“I haven’t introduced myself to you properly yet, have I?” Gabriel inquires of Lenore instead, setting down his briefcase for a moment so he can gently tug Arthur’s scarf out of the infant’s mouth and place her pacifier there instead. “That’s rude of me. I am Dr. Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes, a colleague of your mother’s.”

Lenore, eyes wide now, has nothing more to say to that - but erupts into a delighted stream of kikikiki when Katya returns from the back area of the crèche with a small brown stuffed toy in her hands.

The worker spares Gabriel from a display of his juggling skills by handing the toy directly to Lenore, the infant bubbling over in delight with a pronounced “Kiki!” as she spits out her pacifier and stuffs one of her toy’s soft floppy ears into her mouth to replace it.

“Couldn’t let you go home without her now, could we?” Katya coos to the child, giving one last pat to Lenore’s round cheek before she retreats again.

Gabriel does not wish to imagine the kind of baby temper tantrum he might have had to endure if they had. He pulls Kitty’s ear from out of Lenore’s mouth and tries to give the girl her pacifier back - sighing inwardly when he realises Kitty is actually a small stuffed dog.

Arthur Kirkland, contrary as always.

Katya looks at him expectantly, friendlier than ever with one more of her charges safely dispensed with for the night. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Dr. Fernandes?”

“We should be fine from here,” says Gabriel as he picks up his briefcase again. “Thank you.” He has his work, all the keys he needs for Arthur’s home and vehicle, the diaper bag and Lenore Kirkland, and Lenore has her dog toy named after a cat stuffed in her mouth again.

They head for the Academy parking lot. Much like Gabriel expects her mother might be, Lenore is terribly unimpressed by Gabriel’s lecture en-route on the oral phase as presented by Freudian psychoanalysis. She doesn’t stop chewing on Kitty, at any rate.

Arthur’s Volvo presents a much more riveting diversion for both of them, as Gabriel must first find where Arthur has parked the vehicle before he can set down his bags and begin the calculations for how he’s going to get Lenore’s seat from the back of Arthur’s car and across the parking lot into his own Bentley. Strapping Lenore into her seat, locking the Volvo and then going to bring his Bentley around seems like the most sensible option to Gabriel - but he has no idea where to even begin when it comes to removing the baby seat from the back of the Volvo. It might as well be riveted in place for all the movement it makes when Gabriel jiggles at it, and the fabric covering the backseat of the car strains ominously under pressure. Gabriel imagines the same forces at work on the luxury cream leather covering the seats in his Bentley and winces.

“Huh,” says Lenore from her vantage point against Gabriel’s shoulder, Kitty dangling from one of her chubby little hands and smearing drool all down the arm of Gabriel’s overcoat. “Ahnooyah.”

“You said it,” Gabriel sighs, looking down at her - only to have some immediate concerns that, judging by her face, the little one may be concentrating on a particularly complicated bowel movement.

A moment’s consternation and a blink later and - Lenore blinks as well before she resumes staring up at Gabriel’s face with rapt fascination. She’s… trying to mimic his expression, her young mirror neurons hard at work to improve her social skills. Gabriel makes it easier for her by smiling a smile he hardly feels and Lenore smiles too - but not without tilting her head curiously, those big green eyes of hers bright with a keen sort of understanding that Gabriel is more accustomed to seeing in the gaze of her mother.

How marvellous.

“‘Thou art thy mother’s glass,’” Gabriel murmurs to the child, brushing a rebellious lock of dark hair from off her forehead even as little flapping hands, mittens and a stuffed toy come up to bat at his fingers again. Only time will tell how much of her mother’s skills Lenore retains as she grows older.

Gabriel accepts the inevitable (or least disastrous) option and buckles Lenore into her seat in the back of the Volvo. Sliding behind the driver’s wheel of the car himself and placing both his briefcase and the diaper bag in the passenger side’s footwell beside him.

A very faint note of dogs hangs in the air inside the Volvo alongside the scent of Arthur, but the car’s seats are a great deal freer of canine fur than Arthur’s person might - occasionally - make one assume they might be. It speaks volumes as to Arthur’s dedication for cleaning - though Arthur’s taste in music is still a lost cause, Gabriel’s face twisting as the radio comes on as he’s still readjusting the driver’s seat to accommodate his legs.

In the interests of lulling Lenore into sleepiness again, Gabriel switches the radio over from the local soft rock station Arthur had had it on to a classical one instead. Chopin’s Fantaisie-Impromptu in C♯ minor should be a soothing enough piece to send Lenore off into a light doze at least, Gabriel’s eyes flicking between the road in front of him as he pulls out of the Academy parking lot and the little girl still idly chewing on her toy in the car seat behind him. Lenore smiles and burbles a nooba around Kitty’s ear when she meets Gabriel’s eyes in the front mirror, but otherwise seems quite content in her car seat, watching the world pass by the Volvo’s windows. A much happier little soul than her mother.

And just as stubborn. (Perhaps the world-altering effect of the Kirklands is something genetic?) Fantaisie-Impromptu fades into Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major, Prélude and still Lenore is awake.

“I will talk about Freudian psychoanalysis again,” Gabriel threatens her half-heartedly as he sets them on the road to Wolf Trap. “I have a degree.” He has several degrees to his name, in fact, not that any of them will mean much to a six month-old except as something new for her to chew on.

Lenore only gurgles with another bout of baby laughter, her cheeks pink and eyes bright as she squishes Kitty to her chest. Charming but vexing - and infinitely preferable to her filling up her diaper.

“Ma boulette,” Gabriel sighs at her. Fofinho. He knows a lost cause when he sees one. “What am I to do with you?”

*****

*****

Katya - Ukraine Valentino - Seborga

With thanks, still, to the FAD server who originally helped me brainstorm ideas for the name of Lenore’s plushie, and Doc who came up with Kitty!

Gabriel is less likely to specifically name his recipes than Hannibal is, but the Italian stew he mentions in this chapter is a Carbonade Valdostana: https://www.greatitalianchefs.com/recipes/carbonade-valdostana-recipe

Thou art thy mother’s glass - Sonnet 3, by William Shakespeare

I’ve always headcanoned Port as a polyglot, and it’s partially why he works so well for the Hannibal role in this adaptation. In this ‘verse, there are dark places in his mind associated with his childhood where he spoke Portuguese, so his babytalk will tend more towards the language of his early adolescence - French.

NEXT CHAPTER

[wardensantoineandevka]

There's something incredible and skillful on Travis' part about how little Nathaniel actually directly says about suspicions of institutional weaknesses in Candela and how in the conversation in the carriage, he doesn't really directly lodge any serious accusations against Candela—the others all do, and Marion even encourages Nathaniel to be less hesitant and hedging in his verbiage. Travis as Nathaniel bolded and italicized, just for highlighting:

BRENNAN: They told the kid she was dead? TRAVIS: Yes. BRENNAN: How sick do you got to be where you go, "Hey, we got to break it to the kid soft. Just tell them she's dead." LUIS: Right? I guess there's things worse than dead. I guess. Well, clearly we know there's things that are worse than dying, but. TRAVIS: I know there's an amount of trust we all have with this organization. We see what we're fighting against. We know what sort of evil there is in the world, not just the kind that we make. But-- LUIS: But they withhold a lot. TRAVIS: It feels that way. LUIS: It is that way. Would you have risked everything we did for what they explained was in that container? A creature that's used to get people high? That's all there is to that. ZEHRA: There-- Marion, if I may, there may be-- It's deeply disappointing to understand that money seems to move a lot of these organizations through the world. There may have been monetary gain that Candela was trying to prevent by stopping the androphage transfer. There are certain groups that would pay a great sum for it. All I'm saying is maybe Candela isn't immune to some of these capital gains. MARISHA: Well, look. Any institution, even an institution that stands up against institutions, well, I mean they're not immune from their own organizational flaws. However, I would still like to believe that out of all of the other capitalistic and governmental factions that rule our day-to-day lives that hopefully we're choosing the one lesser evil. TRAVIS: Ms. Monroe. Beatrix. You've been with the organization longer than any, and I've looped my men into this with a certain amount of trust. Have you ever seen anyone marked by bleed changed? Have you ever seen them made whole, amended? MARISHA: I tend to find sometimes the best route is to just keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. Oftentimes you'll learn far more than what people can tell you. We've all been touched by bleed, whether we want to accept that or not. No, I guess, to answer your question, not to, what it sounds, the severity of Allison's level was. But I would still like to believe that that's why we're fighting. You certainly had no problems standing up and calling out the organization to Mr. Kingsley. Which is a little bit surprising, I got to say, Nathaniel, for someone who's quite the institutional man himself. TRAVIS: Force of habit, I'm afraid. ZEHRA: Well, speaking of Mr. Kingsley, what did he mean when he said it was someone above his head who made the decision to tell Lucas, was it, the boy? TRAVIS: Lucas. ZEHRA: That his mother was dead? Someone above a Lightkeeper's head. LUIS: Everybody answers to somebody else. BRENNAN: I don't know if that's true. I guess there's got to be a few people don't answer to anybody.

Generally, the way Travis handles Nathaniel's exposition in the carriage is blisteringly efficient on an informational and emotional level without ever feeling heavy-handed, but I think this sowing seeds of doubt in an institution (which seems to be a major theme in this chapter) is very skillful in its subtlety. Given that he's emotionally close to this incident and is a character conceptualized around corruptions and abuses of power, Nathaniel is unexpectedly spare in this sequence of exchanges, most significantly only delivering a set-up and pulling Beatrix in. He interestingly takes more of a listening role in this sequence, despite the fact that he is delivering almost all information and doing most of the thematic set-up.

His accusations are few and the ones he makes are mild and hesitant. The most he directly says is an interrupted "but" that leaves a hanging implication. But that tiny crack drives everyone else to start speculating about the whys and hows and whats of what is going on, and it feels very natural and is very skillful. Nathaniel clearly has his doubts and his experiences and doubts are the center of this conversation, but by holding off on actually voicing them directly, it gives everyone else space to guess at where he's going and leaves it open for others to contribute.

It's really skillful work as a player and a scene partner, especially as someone who is setting up the episode's plot and seeding what feels like may be one of the major themes of this chapter about institutional distrust and power and capital.

[dailycharacteroption]

Deity Drop 6: Daclau-Sar

We’re back with more deities, and we’re starting off with another lesser divinity in the form of our first nascent demon lord!

With extremely rare exceptions, demon lords do not emerge fully-formed from the Abyss. Usually, such paragons of evil arise over time, though the starting point may vary. Some demons spend millenia rising through the ranks of their kind, while some mortal souls were so wicked that they immediately ascended to nascent status immediately upon entering the abyss.

No matter where they start, however, nascent demon lords have become powerful enough to take on a unique form separate from the rank and file of demonkind. Such a form may be influenced by who they were in life, or the circumstances of their ascension or the forms of evil they favored. However, they are not quite as powerful as true demon lords, and not strong enough claim an abyssal realm of their own. Instead, they lurk in semi-private corners of individual layers of the abyss, including those ruled by true demon lords, whom they live in concealed fear of, hoping to grow in power enough to ascend before they decide that the newcomer is a threat to their power.

In any case, that brings us to today’s subject: Daclau-Sar, the Lord of Carrion!

Long ago, the demon lord Lamashtu tricked the god Curchanus into a trap and slew him, taking his dominion over beasts, an act which fueled her ascension into true, terrible godhood, leaving the slain deity’s carcass to rot.

From his defiled corpse, however, arose a new demon-lord-to-be in the form of Daclau-Sar, the patron of carrion, the scavengers that feed on it, and the defilement of corpses. However, unlike other demons of his status, he has no interest in subtlety or politics, and if he has any plans of ascending to become a demon lord in his own right, it is through the gradual process of continuing to indulge in his foul hungers and gather worshippers until he accumulates enough sinful power to do so.

While not spawned by Lamashtu, Daclau-Sar has an appearance befitting the Mother of Monster’s progeny, resembling a six-legged hyena with two heads and a pair of vulture’s wings on his back.

As mentioned above, Daclau-Sar has no realm of his own, and instead dwells in the Xorian Mountains, a region on the border of Lamashtu’s realm of Kurnugia, where he rules over the lesser monsters there and feasts upon their slain.

Like all of his power level, Daclau-Sar has few worshippers, but he does have notable followings among some remote tribes of the orcs in the Holds of Belkzen, who emulate their Lord of Carrion by picking battlefields of corpses for use as trophies, as materials for undead war-beasts, or as the main course in their rot-blighted feasts. It is likely they and other such worshippers believe they gain some power over death by utilizing mortal remains, as well as demonstrating their right to survive by consuming those who failed to.

As a nascent demon lord, Daclau-Sar doesn’t quite move in the circles to have a lot of relationships with other powers, not that he has much interest in other powers unless they get between him and a meal, or look like they’d be appetizing once bloated and rotting to perfection. It can be assumed, however, that he has a wary fearful respect for true demon lords and deities, especially Lamashtu, and does not care to know or learn about non-evil entities beyond their role at the dinner table.

High in the Xorian Mountains, the Lord of Carrion rules over a petty court of monsters and lesser demons on the outskirts of Lamashtu’s territory, though calling it a court gives it far too much credit. In truth, Daclau-Sar makes the rounds bullying the other denizens of his territory, giving them full knowledge that he will devour their corpses when they are dead, and that will be very soon if they do not obey. Only the knowledge that his target is a servant of the Mother of Monsters might give him pause, the emphasis being on “might”.

As a creature barely above a beast himself, it only makes sense that Daclau-Sar favors the Animal domain, as well as Destruction, and of course Chaos and Evil. Meanwhile, he favors the subdomains of Demon (by way of Chaos or Evil), Feathers, Fur, and Rage. All of which reflect his nature as a master of the corpse-devouring beasts and his viciousness.

Sadly, nascent demon lords have not been given the deity treatment in Second Edition, so we have nothing much to go on here.

He does, however, have an obedience, albeit granting only a few spells. In exchange for eating a pound of carrion each day, the worshipper becomes more resistant to disease, and can cast magic to devour the ebbing life of the dying, spread disease, and take on powerful beastial forms.

Daclau-Sar hasn’t been mentioned in Starfinder, so he might have been slain, ascended, or remained as he was. He might have an influence on any world or civilization where it is considered unclean or taboo to devour the dead.

In any case, that does it for today, but the week is just beginning, so look forward to more as the week progresses!

[pure-garbage]

Moniker For A Gastropod? Multiplying Enemies And Diminutive Allies!

Lana watched through the eyes of the transponder snails as a host of events played out across the island. There wasn't much that made sense to her. She saw enormous children being shepherded through the halls, steered carefully clear of a wide path of devastation that she recognized at once as Zoro's handiwork. The sight brought a little smile to her face.

"Not one for subtlety," she noted with some amusement.

She saw men outside struggling to gain entrance to the lab and watched with grit teeth as the situation grew ever more dire for her crew. In a hallway, one scene tore her attention away from all the others.

The swordsman who'd defeated her was getting his ass absolutely handed to him by a man wielding a bamboo shoot. Lana shuddered a little.

"Guess the smug bastard had a beating coming, but... how powerful is that other guy anyway?" she wondered. "His haki must be outrageously strong if he can handle that swordsman so easily."

She wouldn't have been able to tear her gaze away from the spectacle, but something else caught her attention.

"Zoro's not the only friend I have the lab right now," she realized, zeroing in on one snail's feed in particular. "Chopper? What's he doing in there? Mixing up some kind of medicine? Ugh, there's too much going on! None of it makes any sense because I have no idea what's going on... okay!"

She took a deep breath, hoping to calm her agitated thoughts and slow her racing heart.

"I need to focus. Luffy's been captured, my focus needs to be setting him free. That's the first goal. Obviously, duh."

She rose, releasing the influence of her power on the room around her and lifting the library Feng-sui. The footsteps she heard from outside were faint and far away. A quick peek back inside the mind the transponder snail informed her that no one was close.

"What a useful little slimy thing you are," Lana purred, stroking the snail's shell. She could feel its apprehension, yet unsoothed by the time they'd spent together. To be fair, Lana could only assume her trips inside its consciousness weren't exactly pleasant for the little creature. "Maybe I'll take you with me... would you like to come along with Auntie Lana and be her cute little eye-in-the-sky pet? Hmm? Good snail..."

She dashed through the halls, using the snail to find the blind spots of its comrades and avoid patrol groups. A quick peek across the other channels informed her that Luffy, Robin, Franky and the marines had all been tossed in a cage along with the power-holder swordsman. Zoro, meanwhile, was on the move. She slapped a palm to her face in consternation.

"How the hell did he get all the way to the other side of the lab so fast?! What's he trying to do anyway? Gah, I guess it would just be too convenient if we could meet up and he could help me defeat the two holding our crewmates... Do I have time to chase after him? There's no way I can take on the guy that beat up that swordsman with the fluffy hat. That would be suicide... but Zoro's just getting farther away by the minute! Damn it! I need a plan!"

Another straw hat caught her attention, streaking past a video feed in a furry blur. Chopper wasn't far away at all. In fact, he was currently making himself as small as possible, peeking around corners to keep an eye on Luffy and the others.

"Hm... Chopper, huh?" Lana mused. She changed direction and made a beeline for the gaggle of her crewmates. "He can't beat haki man either, but... with the right plan..."

Lana knew haki man was out of her league, but the lab was full of lesser minions that wouldn't pose her any challenge at all. On top of that, she knew the lab held more than just enemies.

"I can use their own stuff against them," she reasoned. She had one hand in her pocket, maintaining contact with her abducted transponder snail. She used it once more to search through channels, flipping her attention from one set of bestalked eyeballs to the next while she looked for the items that would help her rescue her crew.

"I should give you a name," she mused as she browsed through the differing fields of vision the snails had to offer. "Do... do you already have a name?"

The snail was deaf and mute, but it could feel the intent of her question. It responded with vague intent of its own. Lana got the feeling that it did not, in fact, have a name.

"Let's pick a name," she grinned while she flew through the halls. She had found what she was looking for. All she had to do now was get it. "How about... Reggie? Marie? Claus? Oh! Kipper!"

The snail offered nothing but dismay at the suggestions, so Lana kept cycling through the random names popping into her head, hoping to settle on one that her little pet would take a liking to.

________________________________________

'This is bad!'

Chopper watched the events unfolding around the corner from him with growing concern and alarm. He hadn't forgotten the reason he was in the lab to begin with, but he couldn't just walk away from his captive crew either.

"Psst! Pssst!"

"Huh?"

Lana summoned Chopper's attention from the end of the hall to avoid startling him. His eyes grew wide and he dashed over to her at once, all but knocking her off her feet with his enthusiasm.

"Lana! I'm so happy to see you! Where were you?! Everyone was so worried when we woke up and you weren't with us!"

He spoke in a whisper, but his tone was fervent.

"I'm fine, I got in a fight and it took me away," Lana explained briefly, dismissively.

"A fight?! When, after we were all gassed?!" Chopper asked with confusion as he tried to envision the progression of events. "Did you wake up before the rest of us?"

"I never passed out."

"What?!"

"Yeah, it's a crazy coincidence, but the gas they used to knock the crew out was derived from grey clover," Lana explained. "I've got a tolerance."

"Why would you have a tolerance to... oh."

Chopper's expansive medical knowledge lent him an understanding of what must have happened, albeit one that he didn't realize until a second later.

"Oh! That's right, I've read that grey clover is commonly used as a means of birth control in the West Blue. I uh... wow, yeah, I guess it would make sense for you to have a tolerance if you've been using it," he reasoned. His cheeks flushed slightly under his fur as he was filled with eagerness to move on from the topic. He noticed the sack Lana was dragging with her and seized the opportunity it presented. "Hey, uh... what's in the bag?"

"I'm so glad you asked," Lana replied with a grin. "This bag is full of stuff that's gonna help us free Luffy and the others."

"It is?"

"Yep. Now listen close. Here's the plan."

_______________________________________________

<== Previous Chapter

Next Chapter ==>

== First Chapter ==

[thatghastlyghoul]

80s-horror-movies-nostalgic-cheesy

Dive into the spine-tingling world of 80s horror movies! From the nostalgic charm to the iconic soundtracks, these films are a must-watch for any horror enthusiast. Join us as we explore the cheesy yet captivating world of 80s horror and relive the thrills and chills that defined a generation.

A New twist on the Age of Horror: 80s Flicks That Still Haunt Our Dreams

Welcome, horror aficionados, to a time when big hair, neon colors, and synthesizers ruled the silver screen. The 80s were a golden age for horror movies, where practical effects reigned supreme and suspense was served with a side of cheese. Join us as we take a trip down memory lane and revisit the spine-tingling world of 80s horror, where nostalgia, soundtracks, and cheesy goodness collide.

Section 1: Nostalgia Strikes Back

Ah, the 80s, a decade that still holds a special place in our hearts. From the iconic slasher flicks to supernatural horrors, these movies defined a generation. Whether you were hiding behind your popcorn or laughing at the absurdity, these films left an indelible mark on our collective psyche.

Section 2: The Soundtracks That Haunt Us

One cannot talk about 80s horror movies without mentioning the unforgettable soundtracks that accompanied them. Synth-heavy melodies, eerie compositions, and haunting tunes became the heartbeat of these films. From John Carpenter's chilling scores to Beltrami and his atmospheric soundscapes, the music added an extra layer of terror and excitement.

Section 3: Cheesy Delights

Let's face it, 80s horror movies were not known for their subtlety. They embraced the cheesy and the over-the-top, delivering a unique blend of horror and humor. From killer dolls to man-eating plants, these films pushed the boundaries of absurdity, leaving us both terrified and entertained.

Section 4: Slashers Galore

The 80s gave birth to some of the most iconic slasher villains in cinematic history. Freddy Krueger, Jason Voorhees, and Michael Myers became household names, haunting our dreams and inspiring countless sequels. These masked maniacs carved their way into our hearts, forever cementing their place in horror lore.

Section 5: Practical Effects Magic

Before the era of CGI, practical effects reigned supreme in 80s horror movies. From gruesome creature designs to jaw-dropping gore, the talented artists behind these films brought nightmares to life. The result? A visual feast that still holds up today, reminding us of the craftsmanship and creativity that went into making these terrifying tales.

Section 6: Cult Classics and Hidden Gems

While some 80s horror movies achieved mainstream success, others found their cult following years later. From lesser-known gems like "The Changeling" to the campy brilliance of "Basket Case," these films offer a treasure trove of hidden scares for those willing to explore beyond the mainstream.

Section 7: The Final Girl Phenomenon

The 80s introduced us to the concept of the "final girl" – the resourceful, resilient female protagonist who outwits the killer and survives until the credits roll. These strong female characters became an empowering symbol for audiences, breaking the mold of the helpless victim and paving the way for future horror heroines.

Section 8: The Legacy Lives On

Decades may have passed, but the influence of 80s horror movies can still be felt today. From modern homages to remakes and reboots, the spirit of these films continues to captivate new generations of horror fans. The 80s may be long gone, but their legacy of fear and fun lives on.

Section 9: Lights Out, But the Nightmares Remain

As we bid farewell to the 80s horror movie era, we can't help but feel a mix of nostalgia, excitement, and a tinge of fear. These films may have been cheesy, but they left an indelible mark on our souls. So, grab your popcorn, turn off the lights, and prepare for a journey into the heart of 80s horror ��� a world where nightmares come alive and the scares never fade away. It's never a true farewell as horror fans know.

[yogeshblogs]

Explore The Culture And Traditions Of Jaisalmer With Heritage Tours

Jaisalmer, home to the celebrated Brilliant Post, is a little city settled in the Thar, with a magnificent craving for experience and euphoria. This once hustling and clamoring stronghold city might have lost a portion of its sparkle, yet that doesn't imply that an excursion to Jaisalmer wouldn't be worth the effort.

The city has a large group of choices to engage yourself with. Whether it accompany an exceptional one or with the entire family, Jaisalmer is a one of a kind encounter that you should visit on your visit through Rajasthan. With our Visit Bundles Jaisalmer, you are ensured to get the best visiting and convenience offices, so you can partake in the legacy and culture of the land while getting the highest level of solace on your outing. In this way, gather your sacks and prepare for an outing of legacy, social experience, and rush!

Folk Performance On The Thar

Among the numerous attractions that our Visit Bundles Jaisalmer gives to our visitors, this is a hot number one. Plan for a night you have never seen before as you get to partake in a live fork execution, complete with routine, as you watch the stars shoot about and the whole night sky opens dependent upon you. At the point when you have gone through your whole time on earth in the midst of structures and lights, you fail to remember how lovely the open sky really is. Witness it firsthand and remind yourself to make a couple of efforts on the desert sands at Jaisalmer.

We bring to you a one of a kind encounter as you get to set up camp in the desert and carry on with the conventional and roaming life of local people. Partake in your night out in the desert from the wellbeing of your tent and rest the hours away or watch as the sun ascends over the rises to illuminate the skyline like a gleam worm in obscurity.

Camel Back Ride To The Horizon

In the event that a basic night camp doesn't depend on your speed, unwind, in light of the fact that we have something that will make your hair closes stand up! Presently as a feature of the bundle, you can get to partake in a loosening up cavort through the desert on the rear of your occupant camel! Camels are a permanent piece of the desert as well as Rajasthani culture, and an excursion to Jaisalmer is deficient without a ride on these eminent monsters. Try not to take them to be slow however, these creatures can undoubtedly keep any vehicle honest, so make sure to hang on close!

Get on a camelback and investigate the great hills of Total and Khuri. As one observer the huge expanse of sand before them, one can genuinely fathom their irrelevance according to nature and become unassuming with its acknowledgment!

Dive Into The Royal Heritage Of Jaisalmer

On the off chance that you are a greater amount of the quiet and insightful sorts, hoping to get a visit through the old legacy of this marvelous city, we have quite recently the thing for you too. We offer a total visit through the most popular spots in Jaisalmer as well as a few less-eminent ones. Jaisalmer Post is a must-watch, a sparkling building of human resourcefulness and designing. The design of the post is astounding, with its smart utilization of designing procedures and methodologies to make a construction that has been representing hundreds of years.

Visit Bundles Jaisalmer likewise gives a profound plunge into the neighborhood castles and Havelis where you can get to see the exceptional primary subtleties that individuals have used to adjust to both the environment as well as actual restrictions. The whole land is loaded up with houses and castles, however Jaisalmer offers to a lesser extent a sham, which is the reason individuals can partake in the environmental elements in harmony.

Witness The Rich Variety Of Jaisalmer’s Flora and Fauna

Encircled by the desert on all sides, individuals of Jaisalmer have consistently needed to develop and consider more up to date methodologies to address their water issues. Hence, came the development of man-caused repositories that to give unending water supply around the year to the occupants. In addition, to envision that old human advancements had the expertise to make supplies that wouldn't hamper the climate is genuinely amazing.

The absolute most notorious ones incorporate the Gadisar Lake and the Amar Sagar. Both are misleadingly intended to make a repository that won't ever dry up. In addition, this has likewise prompted the encompassing being loaded up with rich plant life which welcome the most outlandish transitory birds and species. Come evening, the whole region is loaded up with the noisy bedlam of thousands of birds calling immediately! It is a straight thing out of a storybook, and except if you visit yourself, you won't trust your ears!

Experience The Local Culture At The Jaisalmer Local Bazaars

They say to know a city, know its food. However, this is India, and here the food is tracked down in the market, so an excursion to the marketplace is justified one way or the other. Visit the nearby Jaisalmer markets, to get a genuine feel of the spot. The paths might be thin and the shops grimy on occasion, yet no doubt about it!

These road side counters are to be loved, and you can experience the genuine ethos of the city. Totally not quite the same as the grocery store culture of the metropolitans, these marketplaces are filled to the edge with nearby materials, unique handiworks, little journals cut out of the renowned brilliant stone, etc. When you begin strolling through these limited roads, there is no limit to what you can find. In the event that you are a shopaholic, this is heaven for you! What's more, recollect, remember to deal, since that is the manner by which the ball turns here!

Enjoy A Lip Smacking Burst Of Flavour

An excursion to the marketplace is unfinished without a significant piece of eatables, right?! Assuming you are stressed over getting your stomach wiped out, don't, on the grounds that once you taste the lip-smacking eruption of flavors that Rajasthani food is, moving ahead is the only real option. Rajasthani food is generally vegan, yet beyond a shadow of a doubt, they know how to cook their meat! Lal Maas or Red Meat is a dish of legends, that contains slow cooked sheep in a red sauce enhanced by the neighborhood chilies. It is hot and shockingly delightful! Aside from that point are different roads to give a shot like Dal Baati Choorma, Gatte ki Sakzi as well as Rabri Malai. All of this will guarantee that there won't be a dull second on our Visit Bundles Jaisalmer!

Go Down Memory Lane With A Heritage Tour Of Jaisalmer

Thus, experience India as you have never finished before with our Visit Bundles Jaisalmer this year! Rajasthan is a land saturated with its extraordinary culture and customs, and one should visit this popular land once in their life. Why not let that time be currently?! There could be no greater time than the present, so make great of it and plan your excursion at this moment!

To remain at the most lavish areas at the best costs, pursue our administrations today! We give a sample of Rajasthan that is remarkable and unique in relation to other generally ordinary visit bundles. We comprehend that individuals need to keep away from the sham, which is the reason we bring to you the most credible Rajasthani experience you can go anyplace! Allow us an opportunity, and lose all sense of direction in the wizardry of this legendary land! If you are looking for visit these place that i have mentioned above then, I recommend you the best taxi service in Jaisalmer named as Jaisalmer Taxi Service Cab. Jaisalmer Taxi Service Cab is one of India's most dependable, cost-effective, and high-quality taxi services. They offer low-cost, high-quality cab services that guarantee a pleasant journey.

[zombified-queer]

"We make the best team." with leshy and grimora?

Leshy adds shimmering weight to the scale as Grimora grins. It's a friendly game tonight, a form of parley and socialization between the eastern Scrybes.

"You sacrifice too many cards," Leshy complains in his own rumbling telepathy.

"Oh?" Grimora places down a squirrel, sacrifices it, and places down a worker ant in the squirrel's place. "I hadn't noticed."

This is a lie and they both know it. Grimora's the only challenger who actively keeps track of bone tokens when playing with Leshy's cards. Where Magnificus lets the tokens fall where they may and P03 ignores the tokens at all, Grimora always stacks them neatly. Her rotten fingers memorize the weight and feel of each token.

Now, she plays with them like poker chips, assessing the moves she can make. Only one lane free. And plenty of bones to spare.

She plays the turkey vulture, which takes most of her stack. But it was worth it to avoid Leshy's porcupine. At least for now.

"Are you about done?"

"Thinking of sacrificing more," Grimora teases, making a show of tapping her painted nails on the table and lingering over her cards laid out on the table. Then she pulls her hand back. "Perhaps...but no."

She rings the bell instead. Leshy adds up the damage. He weights the scales with more gold teeth. So far, they’ve been trading blows equally but now Grimora’s scale rises above Leshy’s own.

He should stop her. She’s terribly clever when it comes to the game. Instead, Leshy rumbles, "Grimora..."

"Yes?"

Leshy plays his beehive but seems to consider his next words carefully. His unfocused thoughts hum like a hive of busy insects. Each word runs into itself half-finished or barely formed at all and, had she been a lesser creature, the subtlety would be lost entirely on her.

But she knows the question. A game they play during the card games. It’s always the same question.

"Your deck," she assures him, same as she always answers. “There’s some, what does P03 love using? Synergy? There’s synergy to our decks.”

"Oh?"

Grimora tracks the damage. Her worker ants are taking a nasty hit. One falls to Leshy’s bloodhound. But she draws the ever resourceful possum. Not terrible but nothing fantastic. Perhaps, if they were playing a longer game, she could find a use for it.

But tonight’s a plain game. One round. One winner. So she smiles at the possum.

"Blood and bone." She shrugs and places the resourceful possum in the dead ant's place, bone tokens given back to Leshy without the Scrybe of the Dead ever lifting a finger. "We make the best team."

Leshy hums, content with her answer. Enough so, that he's not mad when she wins tonight's game of cards.

[rodeoxqueen]

Keeping Up With A Himbo: Vergil (I)- Lost In The Sauce

Series Summary: A series of domestically fluffy snippets where the s/o of a Sparda learns just how much of a himbo their lover is.

Work Summary: Vergil tries to cook for you and loses a fight with a salt grinder. 

Tags/Warnings: Gender-Neutral S/O, Domestic Fluff, SFW, Vergil Is A Disaster And We Love Him, Meme References in Title and Story, Implied Touch-Starved! Vergil, 

Vergil always noticed that ever since he moved to your place, he had yet to move a finger when it came to making meals. Usually, it was you who chose to go to the grocery stores and come back home to cook. 

It always brought him good feeling, to sit beside you and have a hot meal with you. However, he soon realized how the scale of responsibilities was becoming lopsided, tipping in his favor. 

You would return exhausted from work, only to cook and clean once more. Vergil was also working at his brother’s shop, slaying demons and all sorts of nasty creatures. 

But he was a subhuman of ungodly stamina, he rarely felt exhaustion as quickly as you did. You knew that. And yet, here you were, still insisting to do most of the cooking. Although it was nice to be pampered, reading a book near the counter as you chopped up ingredients for a hearty lunch or dinner, Vergil knew it was unreciprocated for some time now. 

As of late, your work had become harder, with longer hours and lesser benefits. You found yourself pushing against the clock, having to prepare the evening meal despite the time crunch. You woke up earlier to sleep later. And yet, you staunchly refused to not provide for the two of you. 

He grumbled a bit on the inside, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. His eyes glanced at the clock. You would be home in an hour, at around 9 pm. Much later than you had already been working. 

Humans are easily tired, and it was a Friday. For you to come home and deal with such a chore would be the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Vergil cursed himself. He was more than capable of doing some tasks around your shared home. After years of living alone, he was not used to all of this-this bliss. How could he be so foolish to not give back to his beloved? 

With strife, he promptly rolled up his sleeves and grabbed your apron. A bit small around his chest, as he was much more muscular than you. 

Thinking of the sight of your face brightening if you came home to a prepared meal, he set out to prove himself as more than capable in the kitchen. 

And perhaps garner some praise from you. Not like he’d ever admit he wanted it.

He opened the cabinets and fridge. Careful hands took out pasta and tomato sauce, setting it on the counter. Vergil read the instructions for the spaghetti, doing exactly what the box told him. 

It was already his job before to open the cans, and the glass jar popped freely of its lid within seconds. 

He tasted the sauce with a spoon, observing that the sole acrid taste of tomatoes did not sit well with him. 

What did you always add? Obviously salt and pepper. 

He did as such, taking out the old salt grinder. He proceeded to grind the salt into the pan of simmering sauce, bubbling perhaps too rapidly and violently. Somehow, no salt seemed to come out. He tsked and incessantly continued his motions for what seemed like whole minutes. 

When that didn’t work, he changed his clockwise motion to counter, and no avail. It must have been jammed in the inside, he deducted. 

He shook the grinder. 

The lid of the grinder fell into the saucepan, a cup’s worth of salt tumbling in also.

Vergil cursed, trying to take out as much salt as he could before it dissolved in the sauce. 

The hands of the clock comforted him, you were yet to be home for some time. 

The sauce was ruined and it was salty like the sea, ten-folded. 

“What can counteract salt?” Vergil thought to himself.

A dusty lightbulb flickered in his mind, and he reached for the little canister of sugar. 

He poured some sugar into the sauce, hoping to revert it back to normal. Years of consuming demonic flesh would do this to a man’s sense of culinary logic. 

The pasta, which he forgot to strain out earlier, flopped miserably into the pan. Vergil gave his attempt a try.  

As if salt wasn’t bad enough, the sugar combined in it made Vergil actually recoil. How on earth did you cook everyday?! 

More over, how on earth did he derail a simple recipe to this? 

Sauce, burnt, salted, sweetened, and pasta forsaken and soggy, Vergil had officially lost his mind. 

He went to take off your apron in shame, and all the hairs on his body stood up when the door opened, earlier than he presumed. 

You came home to a strange smell, kicking off your shoes and leaving your coat on the rack. 

“I’m home!” You called out wearily, ready to make some dinner. 

You expected to see Vergil sitting in his loveseat. What you got was Vergil standing awkwardly in the kitchen, as if he did something wrong and didn’t want to tell you. 

“He looks like that Robert Pattinson meme?” You half-smiled at your internal monologue.

“Ah! You’re cooking.” You say, making your way over to the stove. 

He murmured grumpily. It appeared he tried to make some noodles in tomato sauce. You went to take a forkful of it, when a strong hand caught your wrist. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” 

“Why not? You made it!” 

“I don’t want to poison you.” His grip was strong, refusing to let you move your hand to your mouth. 

Instead of putting the pasta to your face, you put your face to the pasta, tricking the devil with your conniving reflexes. He released you with a sigh, his lover Loki-incarnate. 

Vergil expected a look of disgust akin to his own, yet you didn’t allow that reaction to appear on your features. 

“Not bad.” You say with endearment, looking up at him. He scoffs when your eye twitched at the soured taste. 

“You would be a fool to lie to me.” 

“I mean, it’s-it’s something.” You laugh, stirring the very-past-al-dente noodles. 

The fork clinks against something solid in the pot. You fish out the lid of the salt grinder. 

“Oh, oh you really got lost in the sauce.” You deadpan. He stiffens in embarrassment. 

“This was a waste of resources and time. I should’ve been better.” 

“Not to me it’s not. You did do your best. Were you trying to cook for me?” He nodded, refusing to look at you. 

You take another mouthful, noting sweetness. 

“Did you add sugar-” Your answer lies in the half-empty container of sugar. You cover your mouth to laugh. Vergil grumbles again. 

“It’s okay, Vergil!” He still won’t look at you. No matter how much you chant his name, he refuses to turn his head. 

“Hey. Hey.” You try to move his face to look at you. His jaw clenches and he relents his gaze at the wall, opting to be eye-to-eye with his beaming lover. 

“You tried. And that’s all that matters.” 

“And I have failed to make something edible. It’s not fair for me to serve you this after such a toiling week of work-” He glances at the pan with this scorn. 

“But you made something for me. And that’s very thoughtful of you.” You cup his cheek, your boyfriend subtlety leaning to your palm. 

“I’m still not letting you eat the rest-” 

“Oh trust me, I don’t want to.” You butt in, taking out your phone. 

 Takeout?” You offer, pointing to the GrubHub delivery app. 

He agrees, letting you pick out what you think he would like. 

Your grumpy devil sits on his dark blue loveseat, forgoing to untie the apron. You wait for your delivery, sitting in his lap. Your exhaustion from work and the emotional sauce rollercoaster is seeping away from you-

-and into the plush pectorals against your cheek, framed nicely by your usual cooking smock. 

“This man could burn down the kitchen with that apron on and I’d just let him.” You think to yourself. 

He’s lucky he’s cute. 

[andypantsx3]

war paint | 7 | conflict

pairing: Bakugou Katsuki / Reader

length: 27,765 words / 10 chapters

summary: Desperate times force you to disguise yourself and join the kingsguard. When a suspicious string of crimes strike the palace, however, Captain Katsuki Bakugou starts paying extra close attention. (spin off of in cinders)

tags: mulan AU, secret identity, romance, reader-insert

warnings: aged up characters, some violence, eventual smut

It was months before the spy struck again, and by that point you’d almost forgotten them.

In that time, it felt like everything had changed.

You were no longer left behind in drills, instead matching and recently besting your peers in almost any exercise. Kaminari and Sero had wised up and refused to pair with you for partner sparring anymore, both tired of a month of humiliating defeats at your hands.

Sero had made the mistake, at first, of cooing at your shorter, slighter sword. “Aww, a bitty baby sword for a bitty baby,” he’d cackled, just before you disarmed him a mere minute into the match. He’d caught on quickly and no longer made the mistake of patronizing you.

Your letters to your parents were also getting notably happier, filled with a constant stream of comments about Kaminari and Sero, gossip from Mina and Hagakure like the ongoing servants’ hall thefts, and even ponderings on Captain Bakugou, who was perhaps the strangest change in the last few months.

You’d thought the staring and the disturbingly pleasant-adjacent behavior would dry up after he'd given you your new sword, but you had been wrong. If anything, Bakugou’s focus narrowed on you with an intensity you’d never been subjected to before. He routinely kept you after drills for extra practice, sought you out during trainings, and completely bypassed the confines of subtlety in the mess hall, staring almost through anyone who blocked his line of vision to you.

“It feels like the skin is melting off my back,” Kaminari complained one afternoon when he’d sat on the bench across from you. “Is he channeling his explosions through his eyeballs now?”

Sero had smothered a laugh in his rice. “It is kinda creepy how he stares at you, L/N. It’s like he's trying to murder you with his eyes. But our captain would never wait so long to strike.”

Privately, you’d agreed. You had no idea what he thought he was doing, but the intensity of his focus never wavered, even as the two of you spent more time together. Though he'd gradually become more lenient with you, it felt like the red of his eyes never left you.

After many months of evening drills together, and as Bakugou's manner with you shifted into something easier, you finally decided that you had built up just enough of a rapport to ask him what was bothering him. And so, one hot summer afternoon, you did.

“Do you still think I’m the spy?” you asked, dropping into the grass after a long spar. You mentally blessed the you from a few hours ago who’d had enough forethought to fill a water skin, and you drank from it greedily.

Bakugou dropped into the grass next to you, grunting. “The fuck gave you that idea.”

You looked at him nervously. “You do all that staring. I know you’re watching me.”

Bakugou smirked wickedly and your face went hot. “Maybe it’s your looks, pretty boy.”

You forced your features into a scowl. “Captain, be serious. What is it? Are you afraid of me fighting with Nishimura still...?”

He scoffed. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Nishimura would beg to differ, as he still routinely planted all manner of creatures in your bedsheets and had taken to hissing variations on “captain’s little bitch” when he saw you, but you didn’t bother to disagree. You certainly weren’t eager to escalate any arguments. Bakugou would probably run you through with your own sword.

“Then what?” you asked, tipping your head back to look up into the afternoon sky. Soft touches of sunset orange were beginning to brush over the edges of the clouds, and a late summer breeze ruffled your hair.

“The fuck kind of idiot gets a spy their own special sword?” Bakugou asked by way of an answer.

You laughed. “Maybe you wanted a challenge.”

A booted foot planted itself in your side, pushing you over. “You’re hardly a challenge, princess.”

You spat out dirt and grass, whirling on him. “I could be!”

Bakugou’s crimson gaze swept you from your hair to your boots, and a smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe you could be.”

A wave of hot embarrassment rushed over you like a rising tide. Lately, he had a way of speaking to you that sounded like it was more than it could have been, and the implication of his words unnerved you despite the fact that you were safe in your secrecy.

“Captain, really,” you said, sitting back up, “do you think I’m the spy?”

Bakugou grunted, pinning you with a scarlet eye. “No, shrimp. I don’t think you’re the spy.”

You warmed. “How do you know?”

He let out a breath, turning to you. In the early evening light he looked even better than usual, his hair ruffled and uniform in disarray from your spar, and his skin glistening with sweat. He looked thoroughly debauched, like he'd just rolled out of bed after a long time pleasing a woman. You might have continued on this embarrassing turn of thought had his words not jerked you straight out of your fantasy. “You’re hiding something. But it’s not that.”

The warmth in your chest immediately morphed into a hot stab of panic. “C-captain? Hiding something?”

He shifted, mouth pulling into a smirk, and leaned towards you. “That reaction, right there. You’re squirrelly as hell. Wanna tell me what it is, princess?”

Your heart darted into your mouth. “No! I mean--there’s nothing to tell.”

Bakugou leaned closer, and you felt trapped in his gaze like a fly in honey. “Really, princess?”

Your breath caught in your throat. He was close, so close that you could pick up that maddening scent of smoke and sweetness that clung to him. Something like a challenge glinted in his eye, and you felt like you might catch fire from the intensity of his focus.

You panicked, leaping to your feet and almost tripping over him in your haste. “I have patrol!” you all but shouted, stumbling away from him.

He glanced up at you in surprise, looking a little lost for a moment, before a sly smile crossed his mouth. “Wouldn’t want to be late for that, princess. Heard the captain can be a demon.”

You choked out a shocked laugh and stared at him. Then you thought better of it and turned quickly on your heel, rushing away toward the castle. Stay and you might well give yourself away. The captain couldn't find you out.

When you arrived at the meeting point for evening patrol, it dawned on you that Bakugou’s inquest might have been the lesser of two evils, however. Your patrol partner leaned sourly against the doors to the courtyards, looking as irritated as you'd ever seen him and your mood instantly darkened.

“Glad you finally deigned to do your job,” Nishimura hissed, straightening at your approach. “Captain’s little bitch.”

Your temper immediately skyrocketed. “I’m not in the mood, Nishimura.”

He smirked, his blue eyes narrowing in on you. “Bet you never say that to the captain when he comes sniffing around.”

Your hand involuntarily twitched over your sword. “Captain Bakugou is nothing but professional. Which is more than I can say for you.”

Nishimura let out a derisive laugh, turning his back to you and sweeping into the castle halls. “You think he’ll still want you when you grow out of that little baby face? Think he’ll treat you real special when you look less like a girl? Lord knows why he doesn’t just go into the palace if he wanted a real one.”

“The captain helps me with swordwork,” you ground out, following Nishimura begrudgingly. “That’s all. You yourself complained about how bad I was at the beginning. You know I needed help.”

Nishimura acted like he didn’t hear you, sweeping down the hall several steps ahead of you. What had put him in such a horrible mood? Was he going to spend the entire patrol like this? You didn't know if you could handle hours of this without snapping.

“Swordwork,” he finally scoffed. “Is that what you call it?”

Your hand shot to the grip of your sword. “Enough, Nishimura. I don’t know what your problem is with me but leave off!”

He whirled on you without warning, stalking over to tower above you. You took an involuntary step back. “My problem with you is that you’re an upstart little brat who gets special treatment. You started shit with me that first day and made a fucking scene, and now the captain watches me like a hawk and I can’t get him to leave me alone.”

Your temper boiled over like a kettle on a hot fire. “The captain watches us both, Nishimura! You think you’re the only one he was pissed at that day? In case you forgot, we both got extra training! He fought us both that day, and has watched us both since!”

Nishimura took a step closer. “And now look at you,” he sneered. “Warming the captain’s bed these days, aren’t you? Are you the one getting him to watch me? Trying to get me discharged so you can have a little revenge?”

You let out a noise like a growl. “If you weren’t doing anything wrong then you wouldn’t be afraid of the attention he pays you. Maybe you should knock it the fuck off.”

Nishimura’s eyes widened like he hadn't expected you to call him on it. “Knock it--? What do you know, you little fuck?”

His hand suddenly gripped your collar and he all but threw you through a doorway, into an empty office. He slammed you against the wall, snarling into your face. “What do you know?”

You stared at him, shock rendering you dumb.

He’d been putting the fucking animals in your bed for as long as you had been here. What the hell did he mean?

“Tell me,” he spat again, shaking you.

You reached up to grab at his wrist, but a movement at the corner of your eye disturbed the otherwise dark room. Your head whipped around, and you caught sight of a familiar cloaked figure rushing to the window.

“Look, there!” you shouted, and Nishimura turned around, puzzled.

His hand loosened and his mouth dropped open as he caught sight of the fleeing figure and you used his distraction to duck out from underneath him. Before you could get two steps, though, Nishimura caught the back of your uniform again.

“Let go of me!” you hissed, hand grabbing for your sword. “This is not the time! That’s the thief, Nishimura!”

The figure glanced back over its shoulder, looking startled anew when they saw Nishimura. A moment’s hesitation, though, and they were dropping out the window frame as they had once before.

You ripped yourself out of Nishimura’s grasp, running over to the window and hauling yourself up on the edge. A glance down into the garden, however, revealed no sign of movement, no swish of a cloak around a corner. Only a soft summer breeze rustled the trees. You let out a frustrated noise and whirled on Nishimura.

“We could have caught him!” you shouted. "What the fuck did you think you were doing!"

Nishimura looked a little pale, but he composed himself enough to turn back on you. “Why were you so slow?”

"Me?" you threw your hands up. "You held me back because you still wanted to fucking fight with me! You gave him time to get away!”

Nishimura let out a cold laugh. “You’re an upstart little brat making a scene as always.”

You curled your first, clambering down from the window. “Nishimura, put it aside just one time, my god. We have to go report this to the captain.”

Nishimura smirked, raising a hand to swipe through his dark hair. “Always running to the captain.”

You ignored him, stomping back through the room. “He’s trying to catch the thief. What good does it do us to not report this to him?”

Nishimura scoffed, but you felt him follow you out of the room, trailing you back through the halls of the castle. The hallways were mostly empty, the nobility tucked up in the great hall for dinner, and you made swift progress to Captain Bakugou’s rooms in the barracks.

You knocked on the door, and it pulled open almost as soon as you’d stopped.

Red eyes stared down at you. “What, shrimp?”

You heard Nishimura shift behind you and Bakugou’s gaze flickered up to him. “We saw the thief, Captain. In the south wing. He jumped out the window before we could corner him.”

Bakugou's expression hardened and he gestured the two of you inside.

You took in his quarters as your entered, noting that they were brutally neat, almost spartan, not a thing out of place. A desk took up most of the space in the room, papers stacked immaculately on top of it, two cramped chairs in front of it. There were no knick knacks or displays of personality to draw your gaze. Over Bakugou’s broad shoulder, you spotted another door that must have led into his private chambers.

“What’d he look like?” Bakugou asked, not bothering to gesture you to a chair.

Nishimura helped himself anyway. “Tall, captain. Taller than you I’d say, though it was hard to gage with him running to the window so quickly.”

You nodded, standing awkwardly. “He wore a cloak again -- it looked the same as last time though I didn’t get a closer look. It obscured his face, but he was definitely a man.”

Bakugou’s handsome features were impassive. “Did you fight?”

“No,” the two of you answered. You briefly considered ratting Nishimura out on his momentary mistake, but thought better of it. The thief had escaped and it would only serve to further sour Nishimura on you. It would not bring the thief back.

“What else can you tell me?” the captain asked, dropping into his own chair. Your gaze caught on the undone top button of his uniform where it bared his throat, lingering for a long moment. Then your eyes traced over the rest of him, flickering absently over blonde hair and golden skin, until you caught him watching you. You flushed and looked away.

Nishimura filled him in on the room, its contents, and the thief’s movements as he crossed to the window and leapt out. As he talked, you wondered idly why the thief had chosen to make a break for it this time instead of fighting as he had the last. Had it been the fact that there were two of you, you and Nishimura? Would he not fight two opponents?

When Bakugou had pried every detail he could out of you and Nishimura, he rose from his desk, impatiently shepherding you out of the room. Nishimura all but bolted, saying a quick farewell and beating a hasty retreat back to your bunkroom. Bakugou caught your elbow before you could do the same.

“Come see me tomorrow,” he said in low tones. His fingers were warm, almost hot through the fabric of your uniform.

You looked up into his face, and his scarlet gaze pinned you where you stood.

“For training, sir?” you asked, bewildered. Tomorrow was your half day of rest and you’d hoped to make the most of your afternoon, posting more of your wages to your family and hunting down a more unobtrusive place to bathe. You’d still been sneaking off to the servants’ baths, taking care to keep to the women’s side for fear of encountering the captain again, but there had been too many close calls with a set of laundry maids in recent weeks for you to be comfortable.

Bakugou looked you over. “No. Meet me here. We have a conversation to finish.”

A stone sank in your stomach. He wanted to know what you were hiding. Could he tell you’d been fighting with Nishimura again? “Am I in trouble, captain?” you asked nervously.

Unexpectedly, a smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. It looked perfectly at home on his handsome features and you found yourself strangely out of breath. “You do something to get you in trouble, princess?”

Panic shot through you and you took a wild step back. Bakugou let you go easily, his fingers trailing over your arm as he released your elbow.

“No!" you gasped out. "I mean--there’s nothing! I’m um, tired. Good night, Captain.”

You turned and darted away to the barracks, your face burning.

As you left, you couldn't help but feel red eyes hot on your back.

[bosspigeon]

(hope the blood letting goes well :( ) nate/adam prompts??? lips chapped from the cold // warming the other's hands (or lips, 'cause, i mean)

in the dark, i can hear your heartbeat

Pairing: Adam du Mortain/Nate Sewell Word Count: 2603 Summary: Being sidelined during a mission isn’t too bad, if you ask Nate. Gives him plenty of time to ogle his commander. And maybe, if he’s very lucky, he’ll get to do a bit more than just ogle.

THIS PROMPT REALLY GOT AWAY FROM ME, HUH? Sorry it’s taken me so long to post it, I was just possessed by the spirit of Nate’s Intense Emotional Horniness. Title from “Cosmic Love” by Florence and the Machine~

Mild CW for some intense kissin’ and a bit of fondling, as well as some adult humor, but it doesn’t actually dip into anything too risque. Not for lack of trying on Nate’s part tho 👀

Watching Adam has become something of a self-soothing ritual for Nate over the centuries, even when it hurt him to do so. There was an odd sort of comfort in watching, in tracing the familiar paths of his silent, shackled longing with heavy eyes and quiet avarice. Then, he had to be careful not to overdo it, to make it obvious, however desperate he was to memorize every inch of his commanding agent, as if every moment with him would be the last. Adam’s eyes are sharp, his awareness of himself and how people observe him sometimes bordering on paranoia (though he would gut himself before admitting such weakness) and Nate learned to watch him when he was otherwise occupied, honed in with an intense, single-minded focus on whatever task the Agency had for them.

It became easier, over time, for him to contain the hunger of his gaze, to pick and choose the correct time to indulge himself in admiring the man who gradually became more than simply his superior, but his friend. Nate learned to play it off well when he was caught, to corral his racing heart like an errant beast, and he fervently thanked whatever power would listen to a lost creature like him that Adam’s interpersonal skills were not nearly so sharp as his observational ones. There was guilt, of course. A dark twist of shame that took far too long to shake, the niggling idea that there was something wicked about wanting the way he did, but Adam drew his gaze relentlessly from the very first moment they met. Nate was bedraggled, exhausted in a way beyond the physical, and no longer human, but meeting this steadfast, powerful, beautiful man lit a fire in his belly that warmed him, and even dulled the gnawing there, in a way he could never hope to explain.

He smiles to himself under the cover over darkness as he watches now, flushed with the knowledge that he does not have to hide it anymore.

Adam, body vibrating with restless tension as he watches the shadows, stiffens further when the weight of Nate’s gaze finally breaks through his focus. His spine somehow manages to straighten even further, and Nate’s smile widens, curling with mischief.

“What?” his commander hisses, breath fogging in the chilly gloom. The streets are quiet, and though this area is mostly condemned warehouses and abandoned factories, they lurk in the shadows and avoid the sparse yellow streetlights.

Nate’s smile does not falter, and he simply raises his brows. “Pardon?” he asks innocently.

Adam’s eyes narrow at him. “You are staring. Why?”

And, oh, he really can’t help himself, not when he is still all aflutter with the intoxicating freedom of having what he’s yearned for so long the ache had almost become a part of him. “You look quite striking in this light, is all,” he says. His gaze traces, unbidden, along the strong angle of Adam’s jaw, the proud curve of his nose, the breadth of his shoulders that strain enticingly against his coat, and when it finally drags itself back to his eyes, they are wide and startled. “What? Am I not allowed to admire you?” he teases, daring to slink closer.

“We… we are on a mission,” Adam protests, but his voice lacks the sharp edge of reproach it usually does when he is, say, chiding Mason or Felix.

“Chase, Mason, and Felix are on a mission,” Nate corrects gently, still smiling. “We are keeping watch until they return.”

Adam’s mouth twists, clearly sour about the reminder that they’ve been sidelined. Unfortunately, the mission is one that requires speed and subtlety, and the fewer of them to get in the way, the better. Chase was a rather last-minute addition— one that Adam did not approve of at first—until it was pointed out that his particular talents would be useful getting into the trapper hideout undetected. He even proved his skills by breaking into their Agency SUV without setting off the alarm. “That is still part of the mission,” Adam grumbles, turning away. Nate takes the final step that will get him where he wants to be, which is within touching distance of the brooding commander. Adam stiffens, but stubbornly keeps his gaze turned in the direction of the hideout, little more than a nondescript, barely-lit grey building in the distance. The radio silence makes them both antsy, but Nate takes comfort in knowing their team is a capable one, and if anything were wrong, they would be alerted. Nate allows himself another indulgence, and slides his hand over Adam’s arm. He’s done it countless times before. Even before this change, this new territory to chart, Adam allowed him and their team more intimacy than he allowed anyone else. Casual touches are not new, but now they feel strangely loaded. They carry a new weight.

An intent.

Nate squeezes the hard, tense muscle of Adam’s bicep, and Adam spins to face him again. He seems startled to realize Nate's gotten so close, and one hand comes up to press against his chest. Nate stops, lifts his head, and cocks his brows, waiting. There is a flush creeping up Adam’s cheeks, his breath seems to have frozen in his lungs (luckily he doesn’t really need it), and for a long moment, they simply stare at one another in silence.

Adam exhales in a plume of white mist, leaning forward ever so slightly. A hardly perceptible movement, but Nate has long since learned to read Adam’s gestures, his expressions, his silent requests. He slides his hand over the one on his chest, curling his fingers around it tenderly. “Your hands are cold,” he observes. Adam opens his mouth, likely to make some remark about Nate’s obvious comment, but it freezes before it even reaches the chilly air when Nate pulls the hand to his mouth to breathe warm air over it and rub it between his own. His eyes never leave Adam’s, wide and bright in the darkness, and that enticing flush only deepens when Nate presses his mouth softly to his knuckles. He kisses each one, slowly and sweetly, all the while rubbing circles into Adam's palm. Adam swallows, eyelids fluttering, and his lips part, but all that escapes them is a wordless, shaky little sigh.

And then Nate is being backed into the wall of the building behind them, Adam’s hands balled into the lapels of his coat. Nate’s shoulders hit the drab brick, and Adam crowds in close, green eyes flashing in the gloom. Nate’s hands find his hips, slipping underneath his coat, in part because his hands are somewhat cold as well, but mostly to get as close to skin as he can possibly get. He licks his lips, waiting. He’s waited three centuries for this, he can be patient a little while longer, and allow Adam to come to him when he’s ready.

The first kiss is quick, hardly more than a chaste peck. Adam's lips are cold, a little chapped, and Nate tries to follow them when they pull away. Thankfully, he isn't left wanting for long. Adam seems bolstered by his reaction, and kisses him again, more forcefully. His lips part in a sweet little gasp, and Nate takes the invitation, running his tongue along his lower lip and pulling it playfully between his teeth. He feels the sound that rumbles in Adam's chest more than he hears it, and he can't help but smirk. He hopes Adam can feel it pressed against his mouth, hopes he knows how much Nate delights in every reaction, relishes every little sound, and commits them to memory.

Adam's lips warm quickly against his, and his hands do too, sliding into Nate's open coat to brace against his chest. Nate warms his by tugging Adam's shirt from his belt and slipping his hands underneath. Adam gasps, his belly shuddering and twitching reflexively under his chilly fingers, but he doesn't pull away. If anything, he presses closer, clinging like a man drowning, soft, rough noises slipping helplessly from his mouth into Nate’s. Somehow, his thigh winds up between Adam’s, his hands creeper higher and higher underneath his shirt, inching it up over his belly. They’re pressed so close together, though, that his bare skin doesn’t meet the air.

Nate breaks away from the kiss with a heated gasp, and his wet lips are almost immediately stinging with the cold. It’s Adam’s turn to chase his mouth now, pushing up onto his toes to close the distance between them. He kisses at Nate’s jaw almost frantically, his fingers curling into his shirt, and when Nate doesn’t give him what he wants immediately, he growls.

It should be threatening. Nate has heard Adam growl before. He’s seen him bare his teeth and snarl to intimidate an enemy into backing down, or simply out of annoyance. Adam is a fierce presence when he wants to be, the very picture of an apex predator. Powerfully built, strong, and proud, with eyes that could gut a lesser man with a simple look. Now, growling as he mouths and nuzzles against Nate’s jaw, he just sounds needy.

Nate might die here, but it won’t be because Adam is any sort of threat. It’s easy enough to reverse their positions, pliant as Adam has gotten. It’s shockingly easy, really, and Nate is taken back to their conversation in Adam’s room, the way he simply let himself be spun around and pinned against his own desk, let Nate take whatever he wanted from him. They have sparred, however little Nate cares for it, and Adam’s beaten him every time. There’s no question which of them is physically stronger. The only reason Nate could push him anywhere is if Adam let him do so.

He shudders at the realization, an almost pained groan tearing free of him, and dips his head to catch Adam’s mouth again, earning another growl that he swallows up desperately. He wastes no time in slipping his tongue past Adam’s lips, tasting him with a feverish hunger that blisters with heat so intense he forgets the cold entirely. He gets his thigh between Adam’s legs again, and he pushes up, reveling in the choked moan it earns him. He swallows that too. Nate knows hunger, feels it gnawing at him even now, but even that ever-present, aching reminder of what he is drowns in the wake of this clawing need to get as close as possible, to taste as much of Adam as possible.

He is blearily considering how easy it would be to undo Adam’s fatigues and slip his hand inside, when he is nearly blinded by a sudden light washing over the little alcove they’ve sequestered into.

He snarls, lifting a hand to shield his eyes, and once the starbursts clear from his vision, he sees Chase standing at the mouth of the alleyway, shining his phone’s flashlight over them.

Nate doesn’t need the light to see the smirk curling the detective’s full lips, the wry quirk of his brow. He is flanked by Mason and Felix, who are wearing eerily matching, leering grins at the compromising position in which they’ve found their commanding agent and his second.

Heat rushes to his cheeks, and he peels himself away from Adam’s front (reluctantly, of course—embarrassed as he is, he still yearns to wrap himself around that powerful body and simply refuse to let go) with a sheepish cough. He finds his clothes are a bit… disheveled, to say the least, so he busies himself putting them back into order, risking a glance at Adam to find him hurrying to do the same.

Chase shakes his head disapprovingly and tuts at them. “Really, you two? Canoodling? In the middle of a mission?” He’s still smirking, eyeing them over with that sharp, knowing gaze.

Felix giggles helplessly and whispers “Canoodling” to Mason, who snorts.

“The mission,” Adam snaps, straightening his posture admirably, considering he is still hastily tucking his shirt back into his trousers. “You’ve gotten the information we need?” He sounds faintly breathless, but he hides it well. The pinkness of his lips, noticeably wet and swollen, less so. Nate wonders, a bit hysterically, if their accelerated healing mitigates things like beard burn.

Chase produces a manila folder from inside his jacket and waves it smugly. “Was there ever any doubt?”

“How did it go?” Nate asks, raking his fingers through his hair. “No difficulties, I hope? It’s still quiet.” He glances towards the building in the distance. Still and dimly lit. He breathes a sigh of relief. Even with the distraction, he does worry for his team, and is glad to see they seem no worse for wear. He is also, perhaps, glad to have a distraction from the heat still surging under his skin, the tangle of arousal still burning in his gut, the sharp awareness of Adam standing stiffly at his shoulder,  a person-shaped knot of tension.

“In and out,” Mason says with a nod and a little smile playing about his lips. Felix snickers again. “So easy it was almost boring.” The smile widens, and Nate braces for impact. “We definitely didn’t have as much fun as you two did.”

Felix collapses against Chase’s shoulder cackling.

Adam tenses even more, and Nate is concerned he’ll break something with how hard he’s clenching his jaw. “We'll return to the Warehouse and debrief there," he says stiffly, refusing to even deign the teasing with a response. Nate can't help but risk a touch to his lower back, light and barely there, in hopes it will soothe him even a little.

Adam meets his eyes for a fraction of a second, but Nate can feel the way his body loosens ever so slightly, and presses his palm more firmly to his back, smiling.

"Oh, yeah, I bet you're real eager to debrief at least one of us," Felix manages to wheeze out, still recovering from his last little fit.

Adam's spine snaps straight again, and he begins to draw away from Nate's touch, to retreat into himself, to overthink. Chase sees it too, and he elbows Felix sharply in the side to quiet him. Nate takes the moment of distraction and loops his arm around Adam's waist and reels him in to brush a quick kiss to his temple. "Relax," he breathes into his ear.

He waits for Adam to react, keeps his grasp loose, so he can escape if he needs to. He wants this to be easy, but knows it may not be for Adam. This is uncharted territory for them both, but they have always handled uncharted territory in vastly different ways. He cannot expect Adam to simply be ready just because he is.

Adam doesn’t relax, so he begins to step away, keeping his face neutral, his posture loose. The rejection stings a bit, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. A strong hand latches around his wrist before he can withdraw it completely, and Adam’s eyes are stubbornly narrowed when they meet his. Nate smiles, warmth blooming bright in his chest, and curls his arm around Adam even tighter, slipping two fingers through his belt loops. He finally begins to relax, if slowly, and Nate can’t stop smiling.

Mason stomps his feet noisily against the cracked asphalt, interrupting the little moment, and Nate tears his eyes from Adam’s to see him rubbing his arms. “Can we go? It’s fucking freezing out here.”

“Is it?” Nate asks brightly, turning towards the black SUV parked deeper in the shadowed alleyway and steering Adam along with him. “I’d hardly noticed.”

[neonun-au]

Hi Mads! I saw your After Hours teaser and I know you said it isn't full horror but I'm super curious!! Do you have a process, or like I guesssss a special way to create the "lore" for your horror?

I'm a really big fan of horror movies so I tried to write a horror scenario myself with taeyong and it came out as like baby horror basically LMAO and I thought it was pretty difficult to write the whole time too! I'm super fascinated by the whole creation process so I'd love to hear any of your thoughts or past experiences with it!! 😊😊

With horror there is one thing I always stand by and it's a quote from Stephen King that I read like a million years ago when I first started reading/gaining interest in the genre (at like 11 or something lol) and it goes like:

"[...]the unnatural, spiders the size of bears, the dead waking up and walking around, it's when the lights go out and something with claws grabs you by the arm. And the last and worse one: Terror, when you come home and notice everything you own had been taken away and replaced by an exact substitute."

Gross out horror and visceral horror and the like have never been my thing. They have never held much interest for me. What I like is what he is describing here. That unsettling feeling that creeps under your skin when things just feel wrong.

So with that in mind I go forth and write like I would, basically, for anything else tbh haha Because for me I always start with a mood or feeling I want to convey through atmosphere. And once you sort of know the basic mechanics of that you can translate it to any genre. It's all about giving the reader the least amount of information necessary, allowing them to piece it together. Everything is best in subtlety. If it's too outright it, especially in horror and in comedy (and angst to maybe a slightly lesser extent), I find it comes across sort of forced? Like you don't trust the audience to pick up your meaning or what you're saying.

As far as lore and stuff goes, that is an area I need to really improve in tbh :')) I'm TERRIBLE at pre-planning/outlining/worldbuilding, and by terrible I mean that I literally never do it haha So this fic is sort of me trying that a little bit more...having sort of a set of "rules" for the creatures/monsters, you know? So that it makes sense and there is a follow through.

I've only written two other "horror" fics and I'm not sure how successful they are really, but honestly like everything else it just comes down to doing it and trying and practising :')) You learn over time how to build tension and stuff.

Oh!! Pacing, though. Pacing is probably the most important thing in horror writing.

But for real, comedy and horror are the two most difficult genres to write and they are also two of the most underappreciated in terms of effort :'))

[thecreaturecodex]

Thaskor

Art by Trevor Harsine, © Wizards of the Coast. Accessed at the D&D Miniatures Handbook Art Gallery here

[The last Furtober 2020 entry from Miniatures Handbook, this is one of three “shadow fiends”, all of which are anthro animals and none of which ever reappeared in any D&D products. Which I think is a shame. It’d be hilarious to me if the Shadow Plane was full of rejected TMNT villains. The thaskor is my favorite of the three, because my friend Joe had a mini of it when we were in high school. It was one of the few Large minis he had, so it pulled a lot of duty playing miscellaneous monsters.]

Thaskor CR 9 LE Outsider (extraplanar) This hulking brute appears like a vaguely humanoid elephant, with small ears and a cruel sneer on its face. Its hide looks thick and impenetrable, and its form seems to be blurred.

Thaskors are elephant-like kin of shadow mastiffs. They rarely talk to interlopers, and may be mistaken for animalistic brutes by mortals. Thaskors are capable of subtlety and craft, however, and those that underestimate their intelligence do so at their own peril. A thaskor’s front limbs are inflexible clubs, but their can use their trunks with as much dexterity as a human hand. Like the elephants they physically resemble, thaskors are social creatures. They often work together in their favorite occupation—causing pain and suffering.

Most thaskors live as planar mercenaries, and work readily for any lawful, non-good force. They get along especially well with kytons. Thaskor society puts great stock in physical strength, and the creatures blow off steam and settle disputes with contests of strength. Thaskors are proud of their tusks, and never deign to sully them by using them in combat. Many thaskors decorate their tusks. Colors of dyes, carving patterns or rings on the tusks may indicate affiliations, alliances or rank. If there is any relationship between thaskors and the physically similar maelphants, neither species discusses it.

A thaskor is 16 feet long and weighs a solid 2 tons.

Thaskor           CR 9 XP 6,400 LE Large outsider (evil, extraplanar, lawful) Init +4; Senses darkvision 60 ft., Perception +15, see in darkness, scent Defense AC 22, touch 9, flat-footed 22 (-1 size, +13 natural) hp 114 (11d10+55) Fort +12, Ref +9, Will +6 DR 5/-; Immune poison; Resist cold 10, electricity 10; SR 20 Defensive Abilities lesser shadow blend Offense Speed 40 ft. Melee 2 slams +16 (2d8+10) Space 10 ft.; Reach 10 ft. Special Attacks powerful blows (slam), trumpeting blast Statistics Str 25, Dex 10, Con 21, Int 12, Wis 13, Cha 16 Base Atk +11; CMB +19 (+21 sunder); CMD 29 (31 vs. sunder) Feats Cleave, Improved Initiative, Improved Sunder, Iron Will, Lightning Reflexes, Power Attack Skills Bluff +17, Diplomacy +17, Intimidate +17, Knowledge (planes) +15, Perception +15, Sense Motive +15, Survival +15 Languages Infernal, Shadowtongue SQ feat of strength (+5. 8/day) Ecology Environment any land (Shadow Plane) Organization solitary, team (2-5) or company (6-20) Treasure standard Special Abilities Feat of Strength (Su) A thaskor can add ½ its Hit Dice as an enhancement bonus to Strength checks, combat maneuvers and Strength-based skill checks for a number of rounds a day equal to 3+its Constitution modifier. These rounds do not need to be continuous. Lesser Shadow Blend (Su) In any condition of illumination other than full daylight, a thaskor disappears into the shadows, giving it concealment (20% miss chance). Artificial illumination, even a light or continual flame spell, does not negate this ability; a daylight spell, however, does. A thaskor can suspend or resume this ability as a free action. Trumpeting Blast (Su) Once every 1d4 rounds as a swift action, a thaskor can create a 10 foot cone of stunning energy with its trunk. All creatures in the area must succeed a DC 18 Fortitude save or be stunned for 1 round. This is a sonic effect, and the save DC is Charisma based.

[ginmo]

Telegraphing vs. Foreshadowing. 

“Telegraphing is giving away too much, too soon, thereby ruining the suspense, or the impact of the event.

When you foreshadow, the reader usually doesn’t notice it when they initially read it. But later they might have an “aha” moment, remember it, and put two and two together. Often foreshadowing can’t even be detected until someone reads your novel for a second time. It’s that subtle.

But telegraphing works the opposite. The reader notices the telegraphing detail, groans, and predicts what’s going to happen. It takes the fun out of reading a novel. Envision the important event, or piece of information that your reader’s going to learn, like a balloon. Telegraphing is like letting some of the air out of the balloon ahead of time, so when the time comes for the “pop” you get a fizzle instead.” [x]

The two Mr. “Themes Are For 8th Graders” are horrible at telling the difference between telegraphing and foreshadowing. The show has both, but that’s because they treat them as the same and can’t tell them apart. My favorite example:

Jaime S5: I want to die in the arms of the woman I love.

Jaime S8: Dies, lovingly, in the arms of the woman he was surface level referring to.

Proper foreshadowing would have been Jaime dying (in battle or of old age) in the arms of the woman he loved, but the woman being someone different than he and the surface viewers had in mind at the moment he had made the comment. Foreshadowing involves subtext and subtlety, not straight up spoiling the fucking death. 

As for the books, literally every popular (red flag right there) Jaime and Cersei prediction for their endgame is an example of telegraphing. Their predictions stem 100% from what's written right on the page, zero subtext, interpreting it as is. 

Jaime believes he’ll only ever love Cersei, so Jaime will only ever love Cersei. 

Cersei believes Jaime will always be devoted to her, so Jaime will always be devoted to her.

Brienne doesn’t think love is an option for her, so love will never be an option for her.

Westeros and surface readers think Jaime is dishonorable trash, so he will start and end as dishonorable trash.

The twins believe they will die together, no matter what, so they will die together. Since they came into the world together they obviously will go out together. 

This quote from GRRM is pretty fucking telling.

“There’s an element of sociopathy to it, where it’s the two of us and no one else really counts, especially outside their family. They’re twins, they were born together, they have a feeling that they’re going to die together. There’s this bonding that they’re two halves of a whole, so who else would they pair with? Anything else is lesser.” [x]

The hilarious thing about this is some people view this as GRRM confirming that anything is lesser and that they will die together which... is... telegraphing LMAO. Why am I not surprised they take every fucking thing at face value. 

I’m going to quote @jaimetheexplorer, because she explained the entire GRRM quote wonderfully

“ GRRM is careful to specify that that’s a feeling they have, it’s not a truth. He might obviously be avoiding spoilers, but I think there’s more to it than that, in the sense that he is using that belief of theirs as an example of the level of unhealthy obsession and delusion in their relationship. This is the point at which their story begins; the point at which they buy into this notion that they’re two halves of a whole and the only ones who matter. I already discussed in part 1 about narrative arcs, how perhaps the main part of Jaime and Cersei’s story is about discovering that they’re not two halves of a whole, and set off on opposite journeys. Indeed, Jaime’s quote comes from early on in his POV, before he returns to King’s Landing and his disillusion with Cersei begins to set in. And GRRM is indeed raising a question that will be addressed later, as their story unfolds: “who else would they pair with?”. Of course, at the beginning of their story, the answer is nobody because “anything else is lesser”, but will that still be the answer in the future? (6’3” hint - probably not).“

I’m going to do a checklist here: 

[x] Nobody else matters (someone else matters)

He already began slowly and subtly addressing this. “no one else really counts, especially outside their family.” Brienne, someone outside the family, is stepping into a position where Jaime believes she counts. He punched her former betrothed, because the dude made fun of her. Jaime then sent him to the other side of Westeros, so he didn’t have to look at him. He literally views her as his protector. He left Cersei to die and then ran off to follow Brienne in their mission to help Sansa, another person outside the family. 

________________________________________________

[x] Two halves of a whole (as the story progresses they’re finding out they’re more different than they thought)

How could I ever have loved that wretched creature? she wondered after he had gone. He was your twin, your shadow, your other half, another voice whispered. Once, perhaps, she thought. No longer. He has become a stranger to me. - CERSEI, AFFC

I thought that I was the Warrior and Cersei was the Maid, but all the time she was the Stranger, hiding her true face from my gaze. - JAIME, AFFC

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[x] Die together (the feeling dissipating/not telegraphing)

He even destroyed the “They’re twins, they have a feeling that they’re going to die together.” Keep in mind that they believe they’re dying together, no matter what, precisely because they’re twins.“They’re twins" starts the sentence. They literally think they’re dying together because they’re intertwined, that they can never be separated, that they’re going out at the same time because of that forever twin bond they’re tied to one another. That’s it. Good or bad (murder/suicide) doesn’t matter. Again,twins, so context doesn’t matter.

That “feeling” is also starting to go away when the realization starts to set in that they aren’t as similar as they had thought (therefore not two halves of a whole. Hello separation theme, which means dying together defeats the point). Jaime abandoned Cersei to her death and then, when thinking about going back to KL, he’s all “meh, she may already be dead idk.” That feeling seems to be dissipating on Jaime’s end. 

Hm. Sounds like chipping away at the telegraphing by story and character progression.

Oh.. oh... and what’s next???

________________________________________________

[x] Who else would they pair with? Anything else is lesser (falls in love and pairs with another woman) 

IDK GRRM WILL ONE OF THEM PAIR WITH ANOTHER?? LMAO HOW ABOUT NO BECAUSE YOU’VE BEEN CONSTANTLY SAYING THAT CERSEI DOESN’T THINK SO AND THEY’VE THOUGHT FROM THE BEGINNING THAT THEY WERE INSEPARABLE SO OBVIOUSLY NO  

WHO WOULD THIS OTHER PERSON EVEN BE???? IDK MAN 

a woman.”

“A woman?” Cersei stared at him, uncomprehending. “What woman? Why? Where did they go?”

“No one knows. We’ve had no further word of him. The woman may have been the Evenstar’s daughter, Lady Brienne.”

Her. The queen remembered the Maid of Tarth, a huge, ugly, shambling thing who dressed in man’s mail. Jaime would never abandon me for such a creature. My raven never reached him, elsewise he would have come. - CERSEI, AFFC

BTW I put that quote in almost everything I write since it’s one of my favorites because lmfao dude what a beautiful moment 

So like, call me crazy, but if we’re talking foreshadowing instead of telegraphing here, then I think it’s maybe the woman who doesn’t believe love is available to her, the same woman who Cersei believes Jaime would never abandon her for because superficial looks. 

AND according to his editor: 

...it is easier to tell when he’s overplaying a hand and revealing things too early if you don’t actually know going in what will happen. That said, now that I’ve realized his three-fold revelation strategy, I see it in play almost every time. The first, subtle hint for the really astute readers, followed later by the more blatant hint for the less attentive, followed by just spelling it out for everyone else. It’s a brilliant strategy, and highly effective

Yeah, okay, he’s telegraphing.