#the great moth off!

[voxiiferous]

Mothman Propaganda!

In the great question of who should be Vox's ultimate partner, how could it be anything other than the two great Moths??? Valentino and, of course, Mothman.

And really, how could the victor ever be anything other than the cryptid? He's an icon, he's in the news, there's a whole town dedicated to him (Mothman is ripped, Mothman has a six pack). He has wings, how can we know for sure Valentino does?

He's tall, he's mysterious, he's gorgeous, everyone knows of him. Don't you just want to curl up in Mothman's arms twenty feet above ground, looking down on everyone? Don't you want that for Vox?

Vote for Mothman before the polls close!

I like bouncing off your shininess, Like a moth I blunder. Point me towards the lover's moon And there I'll dream and wander. Dream and wander.

"Mothman" - Galloping Foxleys

[redslug]

I'm planning something

[halfmoth-halfman]

Preserve Your Love In A Field Of Tulips

Pairing: Kento Nanami x GN!Reader Word Count: 3.9k Warnings: fluff, whump, bruises, blood, injury, shibuya aftermath, nanami survives shibuya A/N: we got the winner of the last fic poll!! it's my first fic in a while so i hope y'all enjoy it, and if you notice typos...no you didn't lmao

You grow up next to a field of wildflowers, in a house that smells of summer and honey.

It’s been in your family for generations, a cozy two-story away from the noise and chaos of the city. As a child, your mother told you stories of it being built by a grandfather of a grandfather trying to find a place for himself in the world. The story changed each time, every retelling more fantastical than the last. Sometimes she claimed he came to this field to escape a great evil that haunted his family home. Other times she claimed that he’d fallen in love with a spirit that lived among the wildflowers and built his home here in hopes of seeing her again.

Your father’s explanation was far more practical, and probably closer to the truth. A simple story of a man wanting to see the world and build a legacy of his own without the overbearing opinions of his family. 

Whatever the truth, the house is yours now. 

Your little paradise, a space lovingly carved out of the world and meant just for you.

You do your best to honor their memory, to care for this gift you’ve been given properly. You tend to your mother’s herb garden, care for the shubunkin and tamasaba in your great uncle’s pond, and leave little pieces of yourself throughout the house to make it your own. 

You don’t mind the routine, finding peace in the feel of the sun warming your skin and the soft glow of fireflies at night. You know this is a gift meant to be shared, something made to pass on to your children and their children after. There’s no rush, you tell yourself. You’re content in your solitude, satisfied with the few close friendships you’ve nurtured over the years. Of course, those friendships were from your time spent abroad with no one close enough to actually meet with in person.

Maybe the isolation can be a bit much, but it’s not like you can’t visit the city at any time. 

“You have your whole life to find love,” your mother once told you while you helped her wash dishes, a knowing smile on her kind face. She’d taken a moment to lean down to you, glancing at your father as she whispered conspiratorially into your ear, “And this place has a way of sending you exactly what you need when you least expect it.” She winked at you then, returning to the dishes while humming a soft tune.

She spoke about your home like that often, as if it were a living, thinking thing. You struggled to believe her even as a child, sharing in your father’s more “practical” line of thought.

You should’ve known that even in death your mother was always right. 

Seven summers after you inherit the house, a week of harsh rains and unnatural winds leaves your land a mess of mud and branches. You spend far too many days trying to salvage your flooded herb garden and saving your fish from their overflowing pond. Only when the land is somewhat cleared does the storm return, disappearing and reappearing in patterns that purposely inconvenience you. 

You’re fed up, sitting hopelessly on the rain-soaked steps of your porch as the storm rages around you when a stranger appears.

Umbrella in hand, wearing a tan suit and strange sunglasses, the man politely ushers you inside “for your own safety”. It’s the only thing he says to you, offering no explanations for why he’s here or how he found this place. Sealed inside your house, no light except for the lightning flashing through your windows, you rush to the living room, climbing atop your couch to peer through your curtains and search for the stranger in your yard. 

It’s not hard to spot the blonde of his hair even through the heavy downpour, but your attention is immediately drawn to the massive creature swatting at him from the clouds. It’s grotesque, a twisted form of sharpened teeth and bloated, purple arms. The man is seemingly unbothered, dodging its swings with ease. The creature roars, echoes of thunder rattling the walls of your house. The skin on its many arms burst open, bolts of lightning shooting from its veins. The light is blinding, its roar pressing painfully into your eardrums until you’re crouched on your living room floor with your eyes shut and hands squeezing against your ears.

You don’t realize it’s over until a warm hand is laid on your shoulder, and you find the man crouched in front of you. He’s soaked, dripping red-tinted rainwater onto your floor, but he looks at you with genuine concern. 

“Are you alright?” he asks softly. 

So many questions swirl around your head: Who are you? What was that thing? Did you kill it? How did you do that? How did you know to come here? 

“Did that thing hurt my fish?” Is what leaves your mouth. The man blinks, surprise briefly flashing across his face. 

“I don’t think so.” 

You sag forward without thinking, your head coming to rest on his shoulder with a relieved sigh. Already you can feel exhaustion creeping in, your eyes sliding closed as you mutter a soft thanks. 

The man clears his throat, shifting awkwardly beneath you.

“The garden will need some work, however.”

He’d introduced himself as Kento Nanami, politely offering to help clear out your garden before he left. You’d declined, exhausted and defeated, but thanked him nonetheless. He helped you to your feet, guiding you around the puddles on your floor as he brought you to the stairs. It took three times to assure him that you could make it to your room by yourself, and he still waited until you were at the top of the steps to take his leave.

It only takes you a day to convince yourself it was nothing more than a vivid dream brought on by stress and too little sleep. It’s easier to believe, far easier than the idea of a handsome stranger showing up in the middle of a storm to fight a massive sky demon in your front yard. If something so crazy had actually happened, surely there would be evidence of it. Yet, there are no stains on your living room floor, no destruction in your herb garden aside from some extra mud, no giant, bloated sky demon corpse lying around.

There’s nothing but your memories of an admittedly wild dream…

Nothing but your memories, and the handsome, blonde man dressed in a tan suit standing at your front door a week later. He ignores the stunned look on your face, holding up a blue gift bag decorated with cartoon goldfish and a talking turtle. You wordlessly take the bag, peering inside in equal parts curiosity and disbelief.

Lights shaped like white lotus flowers, polished rocks, and two yellow duck figurines. 

“A few pieces from your pond were damaged,” he explains. “Fish can get stressed if there are extreme changes to their environment.”

“You…” You blink up at him, trying to come to terms with the fact that the handsome man from your dream is, in fact, real and bringing you decorations to calm your fish. “It's Kento, right?”

“I apologize for the abrupt visit–”

“Where’d you put the body?” 

You’ve stunned him into silence once more, Kento staring at you with his mouth slightly open. He composes himself quickly, straightening with a small cough.

“The body?”

“The sky demon. That was real, right? I didn’t dream that? I don’t think I did ‘cause that would mean I dreamt you up, which…well, I might have – you seem like the type I’d dream of. But you’re standing in front of me right now, and I’m definitely not asleep. Unless I’m hallucinating…” 

You reach out without thinking, snatching your hand back the moment your fingertips meet the solid muscle of his torso. “Nope, you’re real and I’m...making a fool of myself.”

“It’s a lot to process,” he nods. You nod in return, eyes bouncing back between him and the bag in your hands. “I’m sure you need time–”

He takes a step back, and that’s all you need to snap back to reality.

“Yes, well no…” He pauses, waiting patiently as you take a deep breath to gather your words. 

“Thank you for the gift and the–” you gesture up to the clear, blue sky, “–demon…thing. If you’d like, you can come inside for a bit.”

Kento raises his brows, and you think you catch the brief twitch of his mouth. “That’s not necessary–”

“It’s more for me, really. I think I’m still trying to process…everything, and I could use the company.” 

You notice the way he glances down, a short look to the nervous smile on your lips to the shaking of your hands around the handles of the gift bag. If the rambling doesn’t give your nerves away, the rest certainly does, but Kento is polite enough not to mention it. 

“Alright,” he nods, lips pulled into a small smile. 

Over the afternoon, Kento eases you through a simple explanation of the curse – not demon – that had tried to make a home in your skies. The explanation leads into a wider conversation about curses as a whole and his role in dealing with them. He’s vague but patient, answering your questions in a calm manner that soothes your anxiety without going into detail. There’s more silence than there is conversation, but he doesn’t seem to mind. You’re sure he feels sorry for you, watching you try to navigate as your world gets flipped on its head.

Guilt sets in by late afternoon when you realize that his work is far more important than wasting time comforting you. You thank him for staying, letting him leave with more thanks than he’s probably comfortable with. He offers to come back in a few weeks if you need, but you assure him you’re fine. 

He gives you a smile, one you’re coming to understand means he sees right through your lies, before gesturing to the gift bag sitting on your coffee table. 

“I look forward to seeing what you do with the pond, then,” he says. “Since you’re sure you’re alright.”

He’s walking away before you can argue, and you swear you catch the hint of a smirk. 

Kento visits three weeks later, keeping his word as he heads straight to your pond.

You took a trip to the city and bought a few more decorations since his visit, working on getting the pond back to normal as a way to distract your mind. You think you’ve come to terms with the idea of curses, though the feeling of being watched has spiked your paranoia.

“Not bad,” he hums, crouching down to assess the duck figurines you have next to the small waterfall.

“The fish seem to appreciate it,” you shrug, watching your fish happily circle the pond. He gives a contemplative hum, running a finger along the water’s surface to watch one of the tamasaba follow along the ripples. A comfortable silence stretches over the pond, broken a few moments later by the ringing of Kento’s phone. 

He stands, taking a few steps away before answering. You take his place at the pond’s edge, content to watch the fish circle along the gentle waves and listen to Kento’s murmurs into his phone. He hangs up with a deep sigh, rejoining you at the pond. 

“More demon stuff to deal with?” you ask teasingly. 

“Next time I’ll bring something for the garden,” he says, watching the fish circle for a few seconds before looking to you.

“Next time?” 

He nods, and you smile wide, “Next time, then.” 

Kento visits two weeks later, a bag of star-shaped lights that he spends the afternoon stringing along your garden fence. He sticks around until after the sun sets – just to make sure the lights work, he claims – promising to fix the loose step on your porch before he leaves. 

Once your step is fixed, he insists on fixing the missing piece to your porch railing. 

After that, it’s the way your kitchen window squeaks when you slide it open. 

Then, it’s the loose knob on your front door.

Then the uneven chair at your dining table.

The bent bottom shelf of your bookcase. 

The crooked picture in the upstairs hallway.

Fixes turn to small talk turns to long conversations turns to lunch in the herb garden turns to sunsets by the pond. 

“What happens when there’s nothing left to fix?” you ask, watching the last of the sun’s light disappear beyond the horizon. “You have to be running out of stuff by now.” You try not to sound anxious, try not to worry that this may only be a passing fancy for him.

Kento pauses, finger still on the pond’s surface. He thinks for a moment, soft breeze ruffling the fabric of his blue shirt. A shiver skims across your skin, and you pull his jacket tighter around your shoulders. 

“Nothing to fix…” he mutters, pulling his hand from the pond to pick up one of the duck figurines. He glances at you before holding the duck up and letting go. You gasp as it breaks against the stone next to him. Kento’s gaze slides to you, a smirk stretched across his handsome face as he picks up another duck. A playful hum as he pretends to think, letting the second duck drop and break. 

“Looks like you need new ducks.” 

You don’t try to hide your laughter, playfully shoving against his shoulder as he sweeps the figurine pieces into a small pile. 

He stays an extra ten minutes that night, cleaning up the broken ducks and double-checking that nothing got into the pond. When you hand his jacket back, he refuses to take it. Instead, he makes you promise to return it when he comes back with new ducks and departs with a kiss on your cheek that has you too stunned to argue. 

After seven months of fixing, then breaking, then fixing again, you stand across from Kento in your living with nothing left for him. Nothing to break nor to fix. You’re sure that won’t stop him – you can see him already eyeing your bookcase – but you’re tired of your things caught in a constant state of not quite usable.

You have a much better idea. One that’s been stewing in your brain since he first appeared at your door with a bag of pond decorations. 

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip when his back is turned, pulling at the skin until it gives and you taste iron. The sting makes you hiss, and Kento turns to you with a startled quickness. His eyes immediately fall to the blood on your lips, watching intensely as your tongue darts out to lick it away. 

“Any way you can fix–”

One hand on your jaw, the other on your neck, Kento pulls you forward until his lips are on yours. His tongue swipes across your bottom lip, the sting pulling a sharp gasp from your mouth. He swallows it with another kiss, a desperate groan as his hand slides from your jaw into your hair. 

You part from him with a soft push, but he refuses to go far, leaning his forehead against yours. The hand on your neck moves to cup your cheek, thumb gently tracing the cut on your lip. 

“Better?” he rasps, pulling his fixated gaze from your mouth to your eyes. 

“Not sure,” you breathe, leaning in until your lips brush against his. “You might have to do it again.”

Over the next two years, you learn just how difficult life can be loving a Jujutsu sorcerer. 

While each moment spent with Kento is nothing short of bliss, it makes his absence all the more painful. Nights without him are spent worrying over his safety, doing everything in your power to not call the one number he’d given you in case of emergencies. Pain lingers in your chest every time you watch him walk out the door, threatening to squeeze your heart until it pops. 

Despite your feelings, you let him go every time.

And every time he returns to you. 

Most of the time he’s exhausted, and you’re more than happy to take care of him, to get him fed and washed and safe in bed. Sometimes he returns with new bruises or the occasional stitched wound. You fuss over him, and, despite his insistence that you don’t need to, he lets you do it.

The worst is when not all of him makes it back. It’s rare – Kento isn’t one to let his work affect his home life – but it does happen. On those days he sits by the pond, watching the fish go in circles for hours on end while you tend to the garden or pick wildflowers to decorate the house. 

He comes back to himself slowly, always apologizing with overwhelming affection when he’s more himself. There’s no reason for him to be sorry, you’ve told him so countless times. He’s here with you and that’s all you need.

He shares his plans with you late those nights, dreams of the two of you on a beach in Malaysia. You’re lulled to sleep by the whispered fantasies of the ocean breeze, the sun on your skin, and a ring on your finger. 

The first time you meet Takuma Ino, you slap him.

You don’t mean to – you’ve heard so many good things about him from Kento – but he appears on your doorstep, face bruised and spirit broken, and the words come spilling out of his mouth as thick and harsh as his tears. 

Curses. Attack. Shibuya. 

Burning. Kento. 

Not sure if he’ll make it.

You act before you think, leaving yet another mark on his already wounded face. You apologize immediately, but he takes it in stride. A pained smile on his face, Ino helps you pack a bag and brings you to Jujutsu High for the first time. 

Your introduction to Shoko is the stench of cigarettes and being bluntly told there’s little chance of Kento surviving his injuries. You’re too tired to worry, only desperate to see him. She gives you a pitying smile, allowing you and Ino into the infirmary. 

Your strength leaves you the moment you lay eyes on Kento’s bandaged form. Ino keeps you steady, a hand grasping your arm to keep you upright while he slides a chair over for you. You collapse into the chair, eyes fixated on your love.

You’ve seen him injured, but never to this extent. Only his upper half is visible to you, his torso and left arm completely wrapped in bandages. Those bandages extend up the left side of his neck, packed with gauze as it covers the left side of his face. 

You reach over, gently brushing a piece of his hair from his face. His face contorts, a pained groan escaping his lips. You pull your hand back, heart-shattering at his labored breaths. 

You’ve seen him soft, vulnerable, hurt, but never weak. 

He groans again, muscles tensing, hand fisting into the thin sheet over his lower half. You set your hand over his, tenderly running your thumb across his knuckles. Murmurs of praise and love rush past your lips as you try to comfort him. 

Ino sets a hand on your shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. A silent question if you’re alright. You look back at him with a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You give his hand a light squeeze, a million thanks on the tip of your tongue. 

He moves your bag next to your chair, eyes glancing to the infirmary door. 

“If you need anything…” he says softly. You nod, watching Ino give Kento one last look of deep anguish before he forces himself away. 

His footsteps fade. The door clicks shut. Kento groans, blood staining the bandages on his face. 

You weep. 

Recovery is long and hard. 

The first weeks back home are spent struggling to adjust, Kento to his slow healing injuries and you to his attitude. He’s never angry or short with you, always appreciative of your efforts, and far more considerate of your feelings than his own, but you can see the exhaustion in his face. You catch the way he deflates when he thinks you aren’t looking, the way he frowns whenever he passes by a mirror, the way he politely avoids your affection.

He may not voice it, but you know he feels defeated. 

You keep yourself in good spirits, telling yourself that your optimism will catch on eventually.

And it does.

Months pass and Kento learns to move more, talk more, smile more. Ino visits on occasion, the two of you playfully bullying Kento into getting the rest he deserves while you make dinner. Shoko once a week, then once every other week, then once a month, keeping an eye on Kento’s recovery. Her visits aren’t long, and she’s still terribly blunt with you, but you go out of your way to ensure she knows how grateful you are to her, and she gives you a rare smile just before she leaves.

Things are good for the most part. Bad nights still happen, as they are bound to after what he’s been through. Nights when Kento’s trapped in his memories until you manage to wake him. Nights when he can’t sleep, sitting out by the pond until long after the sun has risen. Nights when he flinches at even the softest of touches from you. 

You worry. How could you not? But you’re there for him every step of the way, supporting him when he needs you there and giving him space when he doesn’t. 

He kisses you again six months after Shibuya. After a particularly bad nightmare, you coax him back into the waking world only to have him collapse into sobs against your chest. You hold him, soothe him, let him finally have this release. He sobs through apology after apology, to you, to Ino, to people you’ve never heard of. Everything spills out of him, every worry, every impossible dream, every fear, the neverending paranoia that one day you’ll regret wasting so much time on him.

“Never in my life would I regret you, Kento Nanami,” you tell him, hand softly cupping the ruined half of his jaw. “You’re stuck with me forever.”

He kisses you then, desperate and wanting, and you spend the night showing him every way you could love him now and forever. 

A year and a half after Shibuya, you lay in the field of wildflowers near your home with your fingers woven through the mottled and warped ones of your husband. It’s a peaceful afternoon spent gazing at clouds, sharing carefully sliced oranges, and basking in the warmth of the sun.

Kento turns, watching your eyes explore the sky as you smile and point at a cloud that’s shaped like a fish. Golden light on your face, petals stuck to your hair, you’ve never looked more beautiful to him. You catch him staring, laughter spilling out of you as you snuggle up to his side. You kiss his cheek, lifting the hand clasped in yours to point him toward your fish-shaped cloud.

He never sees the cloud, too distracted by the way your rings sparkle in the sunlight. 

It isn’t Malaysia, no. It’s far, far better.

[tumblingxelian]

Style Queen's opening has some hilarious angles if you can ignore the horrors & child abuse:

Gabriel: At last, the most evil person I can think of arrives in Paris!

Audrey: Fire him, fuck you for speaking to me, this gift wrapping is ridiculous! You are fired! Chloe: Sorry mom :( Gabriel: She's perfect, she will be my ultimate Akuma!

(Has his staff piss her off at a show where his son is performing)

Style Queen: Tell me where you rat fuck dad, Gabriel is so I can murder him for the disrespect I endured! Adrien: Never! Audrey: Die.

(Turns him into a screaming, slowly disintegrating statue)

Gabriel: Wait! Fuck! No! You weren't meant to do that!

Style Queen: Murder crowd, murder my husband, murder my child- Chloe: I know where Gabriel is & you're too cool to waste time killing me, right!? Style Queen: Sufficient ass kissing & usefulness threshold reached. You get to live. For now.

(Ladybug arrives to battle!)

Ladybug: Don't worry everyone, I got this! Audrey: Or so you thought! Ladybug: Oh no, I don't got this!

(Ladybug is Helpless)

Gabriel: OK, stay calm, I can make this work! I can fix Adrien, then bring back my wife. Chloe: Uh, Style Queen, is Ladybug really worth your valuable time? Style Queen: Hmm...

Gabriel: No! NO! NO! Chloe: Besides, I can show you where Gabriel is! Style Queen: Deal.

Gabriel: NOOOOOOOOOO!

[voxiiferous]

Vox looks up at his boyfriend and then blinks, and again. His first thought, very eloquently, ‘what the fuck?’, the second, once he sees the poster is a touch more elegant: ‘oh no’. He sets the paper he was reading down, certain now it’s a lost cause, and sighs.

“Babe, Bunny, Dearest,” and then for good measure, “Bunny, I wouldn’t. Certainly not for Mothman.” …because he doesn’t actually exist, but that seems to run contrary to what would comfort Val.

“It’s who should I end up with, not will, and everyone’s gotta know the only one I will end up with is you— this is just some harmless fun.”

[ @voxiiferous || In Reference To This ]

[ Valentino ]

"Voxxy," Valentino didn't even try not to sniffle, his lower lip wobbling in a pout as his voice quaked. It was time for Emotional Manipulation, even if he was actually very upset by this. Maybe it wasn't manipulation so much as needing to externalize his feelings.

Placing the propaganda poster down on the desk with one hand, he tented his lower hands together as the first of the glowing tears dripped down his cheeks.

"What the actual fuck? Are you leaving me?"

[murdleandmarot]

Sometimes you have to make shitty little OCxCanon comics to keep yourself sane

Sorry @mysticalcats I stole ur oc (foxglove)

[florenceisfalling]

accidentally produced a fucking radioactive weezer image

[shineyfish]

Weird little freak, he's very fun to draw

[abstractpyschopomp]

🌲 senior trip <3

i was terrified of the woods at night but i saw the big dipper for the first time in my entire life so that makes up for it :,) it’s something so small but i’ve always lived in cities so i never saw it. so glad i got to spend time with some of my favorite people before graduation. i love my friends so much

[nyatem]

This might be weird but I made some potential moth designs of barry n sav.. mayhaps I will fully showcase barry’s moth design soon…

[thekenobee]

It is a truth basically acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.

Jane Austen "PRIDE AND PREJUDICE"

Anyone in want of a husband has but to whistle(...)

Patrick O'Brian "POST CAPTAIN"

Patrick O'Brian is just a male version of Jane Austen who decided to write about sails you cannot change my mind methinks

[smile-files]

staff week at camp has been so lovely! butterflies and ladybugs and old friends and new friends... looking for four-leaf clovers in the grass... helping serve lunches and getting a chocolate bar for a special job well done... old memories held dear and new ones being welcomed in with open arms... oh golly, it's just splendid!! happy day!!! :D

[angel-syzygy]

this summer, open your mind AND your window

let bugs into your heart. and your room

[mantisgodsdomain]

Asks for the Random Character Asks

Marigold: 12, 13, 15

(for this ask game)

12. Crack headcanon

The reason she has so many flowers in her mane is because she fucked up with a transmutation early on and rooted them in there and her mentor Didn't Help At All so now they're just stuck in there as a permanent part of her body.

15. Worst thing they've ever done

As previously mentioned, "worst thing they've ever done" is ridiculously hard to define and extremely subjective at best. For Marigold specifically, it's even harder to define than most. She... doesn't do really things directly, after all.

She's a catalyst, and though she acts to make the situation immediately worse, she generally has little interference beyond that. She's an observer, not a direct actor, she's an alchemist, not a poison-brewer - part of what makes her so difficult to pin down and immune to consequence is that unless it's to gather test subjects for raw field data, she's almost certainly just... not acting directly. There's a medium. An in-between. A client, somewhere along the line, asking for her charms.

Though the "what they would think of when asked the question" question might work under normal circumstances, Marigold is an exception to the rule - as previously mentioned, she would not personally consider any of her actions to be immoral. She's done things that weren't amazing, of course, but it's not like she'd consider herself a bad person - just someone with professional pride. You wouldn't expect her to offer a subpar product to a customer, would you?

Beyond that, there's the issue of pinning down a single individual case. Marigold isn't a... "one and done" kind of villain, she gains the sort of status she has from low-profile but consistent evils. She doesn't do anything obvious, she doesn't do anything that can be pinned on her - people disappear, and monsters turn up after, and if they're especially valuable or they survive the period it takes for the transmutation to settle in their bones, she'll trap them somewhere to harvest for more transmutation-fuelling parts later.

That, of course, could be considered a "worst" - but it's still not one single thing you can point to. It's dozens and dozens of things, spread out over years of activity, people who mysteriously vanish off the streets and never turn up again. There is no single monolith of evil that can be pointed to, because Marigold isn't the kind of evil that does big gestures like that. Just... a slow, steady flow of charms into hands that do harm with them, combined with a slow, steady flow of people who leave their homes and don't come back.

...if we had to choose it would probably be something along the lines of experimenting on prisoners provided via negotiations with criminal factions and then bargaining with the factions those prisoners were taken from to sell them back already transmuted into monstrous forms and entirely incapable of resuming their previous lives. She got paid by both sides for it, both for developing specified new strains of transmutative on the prisoners and for returning them to their original faction. The client didn't specify what to do with them after they'd served their purpose, after all.

13. Dumbest thing they’ve ever done

Well! This one's very nearly a Story.

A fun fact about charms: they're not always perfectly consistent, especially if you're making new ones. That's why you test them before applying them to paying customers. That's why you take a constant flow of people unlikely to be missed for experiments. That's why you do experiments in the first place. If something goes wrong, then you need to know what to fix it, and if an unexpected variable throws the experiment-

Well. It could go very, very wrong, or very, very right. But you never turn your back on the experiment. You never assume you know what will happen next until it's good and tested, you never assume things will work out until you're 100% sure, you never assume that nothing can possible go wrong - Marigold knows this, of course, and she acts accordingly. Lab safety is a priority, not an afterthought. When the things you're working with might kill you if it breaks containment, you never leave things up to chance. It's simple safety precautions. Nothing ever up to chance. Nothing ever allowed to fail. And if anything were to fail - well, you being on-hand gives the best possible chance of getting things back under control.

And then, of course, someone comes calling at the door. You're too early into the experiment to excuse watching it as a delay, of course, and you know they know you're home - you mentioned you'd be home just the other day, after all. Reputation is valuable, and the monitoring built into the cage will work just as well, won't it? It might need a few more trials, but you can't really afford to be rude, and you especially can't afford them coming to find you - these parts of your lab are blocked off to guests for a reason, and you can't simply disappear a guest to your house.

Surely, it won't do any harm to leave it for just a few minutes. Surely, it'll mean nothing to leave the transmutation to finish unattended. You return back downstairs not more than five minutes after you left, ready to finish what you started.

The cage is open.

[e-m-p-error]

[ @overangeled || Continued From Here ]

[ Valentino ]

Lower lip wobbling as he gazed into Angel's eyes with a useless little hiccup, Valentino's eyes crinkled at the edges before they closed. More tears dripped down his cheeks and he leaned his face into Angel's hands, knowing they'd be glowing, too. It didn't matter. Angel was here, he was staying.

"I luh--" It started, but the words died in his throat. Scared to say them, he had to really will himself to let the floodgates open. With the confession of love came a wail and a sob, and he sunk forward, closer to Angel's body, "I lo-luh-love you too-hoo-hoo!"

His lower left hand moved up to lightly touch the necklace in question and he gave another little noise. Already, he was starting to get a headache, and he didn't know what to do. His nose was running, his eyes were still leaking, there was a little bit of drool...

"Why... Wuh-why do you think... E'eryone hates me so much?" Was he really ready for this conversation? "Y'don' hate me. Ri--"

The kiss distracted him, and he kept it light and gentle. He felt stupid, ugly, even, for crying over this. For being so upset. Maybe he was a little drunk, too. His upper hands finally slid into Angel's hair as they kissed, and he let loose a little whine, breaking it.

"Tissue." He murmured, "My no-nose." At least the tears had stopped.

[neige-leblanche]

i do love how common it is for ppl's yuusonas have a parental relationship towards grim when mine is not like that at alllllll lol. grim & my yuu are like two pair-bonded housepets