#what a handsome stoat

[hazeofhearts]

I WANT THESE STOATS TO FALL IN LOVE

[theredofoctober]

RUMPLESTILTSKIN— An Oliver Quick/Reader Saltburn DarkFic

Pairing: Oliver Quick/You, Oliver Quick/Reader (no gender specified, terms like pretty are used though just to mention)

Synopsis: Oliver finds You, the awkward guest at his birthday party, and takes what his dark heart desires.

Trigger Warnings (PLEASE READ): noncon, blood play, Oliver just being evil

Fic under the cut, keep reading

"Who are you, then?"

It was the small man that said it, the one with the slurring Nothern accent and eyes like ice picks, palely sharp.

You'd seen him swaying on the outer edge of the party, seeming both drunk and far too sober, all at once.

His face was odd, flat, and sleek, like a trickster in a German folk story: thief of children, bringer of gold.

You hated the boy in a moment, drawing back from him against a trellis, your hands wrapped fast through the slats. His eyes made you wish you'd drunk rather less than you had done, silver as scissor blades in the swelling night.

"I'm one of Venetia's friends," you said, though you knew Felix more, and Farleigh rather better than you liked to. "You don't know me. Who are you?"

The boy stepped around a plant pot, his balance the measure of sobriety. He wore deer antlers with an open-chested white suit, embroidered with leaves, the dress of a more handsome man. Only the slopes of his cheekbones, the soft mouth were beautiful.

His eyes made an autopsy of you. There was nothing in them but wanting, a starving colour. An absence of it.

You would have turned to run, only there was nothing then to fly from that made sense.

"I'm Oliver," said the young man. "It's my birthday party. Felix's family arranged it all for me."

"Happy birthday," you said, at once, a reflex.

You wished that he'd go away, that he would edge into the maze like a shadow thrown by the sun, and meld with the dark of the leaves beyond. Anything but approach as he did then, his compact form eating of the air between you with carnivorous haste.

He was slight enough that you thought you might push him down or aside with little effort, but the poise of him, as delicate as a barber's blade, gave you pause. He'd cut you if you touched him, you thought. Something would happen, and you would run crying as you had from a dozen birthday celebrations as a child, unwanted.

He brought that old vulnerability up out of you, somehow, though he hadn't yet done much but broach the most innocent of smalltalk.

"How come you're over here, on your own?" asked Oliver, his head at a sympathetic incline. "You're too pretty for that. You know that, don't you?"

His voice was a sing-song croon, then, all silken menace. He was trying to charm you, you knew that, yet you saw as though through the beads of a brothel doorway the hunger in him, the appetite of worlds.

You glanced right and left, realising, with an awful start, how very drunk you were, swaying and stupid with it.

"I needed some fresh air," you said, with a high, braying laugh— Oliver half-smirked at the sound of it, knowing its falseness, knowing your fear. "All that bloody champagne went right to my head."

"You'll need someone to look after you, then," said Oliver, and then he uttered your name, making a baleful ditty of its syllables.

How had he known it? Had he known it all along?

You'd glimpsed him watching you, before, an empty glass in hand, attaching himself to your heels like a stoat after a rabbit, all lithe cunning on the hunt. Likely he'd heard your name then, as Felix had bent down to kiss your cheek, all affable golden looks. Heard it, and slipped it into the pocketbook of his mind to tear free, when it was needed.

Your name was pretty on Oliver's tongue, sugar, and ribbon, and stained glass, as apt to break. Happily you'd have taken the pieces and cast them all out into the riverbed, have gone nameless rather than hear him speak it again.

"You don't know anyone else here, do you?" asked Oliver, and there was the word again, no longer ribbon, but rough as a noose, strangling as he came closer still. "Just the Catton family. Something in common, me and you."

You lurched vaguely to the right, and Oliver's arm came up against the trellis, gently, a tender trap.

"You're lonely," he said. "Haven't you always been, though?"

His face was close enough for you to note the punctuation of a mole on his right cheek, the lines at his brow, the riddled literature of him. What he saw in yours was a portal to the past, all features from the nervous mouth to the twitching eyelids telling of a once bullied child, an outcast brought in through charity from the cold.

"Go away, Oliver," you said, bravely. "I want to be alone. I can't breathe."

That was true enough. You were stifled in your plastic wings and ill-fitting garments, sweating and airless, almost wanting to be sick.

Oliver drew his face nearer, and your throat closed to the breadth of a lock in your dread of him, of those ink spill eyes.

"I don't want you to breathe," he said. "Not right now."

Then he darned his lips to yours, their heat, their softness like the death of summer blooms, and you pressed back into the trellis so hard that you thought the wood might break, so brittle did it seem.

You brought up your hands to battle his shoulders, only for them to be joined with his, your fingers tangling, a torsion of slick skin and bone.

There were no thoughts that survived the cruelty of Oliver's embrace, the insistence of his compact strength, the length of tongue, of arousal under clothing, at your thigh. You wanted to snap free of him like a spell, but he kissed you until your fight withdrew in sight of its fair winner.

No one came close enough to see you, or if they did they thought you drunken lovers, poised to consummate your pash against the fence.

At last Oliver moved back his head, the reflection of the night's obsidian in his mortuary eyes.

"Let me go," you whispered. "I don't want to do this. I don't want you."

"Well, I want you, though," said Oliver, with an authority that frightened you in its unshifting weight. "And since nobody else here does, what's the point in saying no?"

His hands, little and wicked, wore their way under clammy layers of clothes. In all the heat they were almost cold, dragging from you a series of ragged gasps that were lost in the revelling darkness.

You wished the wings at your back were feathered, those of swans; they'd have broken the bones in his arm and you out of this, far lovelier a transportation than the sticky taxi that would bear you home in the hours to come.

Yet had such pretty things hung from your back this beast named Oliver would have bitten them off and flossed their quills through his teeth, you knew it.

He touched you until his findings were of stolen treasure, watching your every tendon solidify to strands of stone through the art of such fell grief.

"You weren't what I came looking for tonight, you know," he said. "But you're mine, anyway."

You didn't answer, imagined any word drowned like a cat in the depths of him.

Oliver stepped into you with a dancing softness and kissed you again, sucking a plum welt into your lower lip, breaking it between his teeth to blood. Again you struck your hands against him, but Oliver, with liquid instinct, pushed your arms back through the apertures in the trellis, caring little for the splinters in your wrists, if at all.

Crucifixion could not be so painful, so martyring as your capture beneath him.

"Oliver," you said, and he smiled.

"That's me. The birthday boy. And what does the birthday boy get?"

He opened your costume with the hook of four fingers, touched the bruised rose of princely lips to your ear.

His breath was smoke, and champagne, and stolen blood.

"I get what I want," he said, and then his cock was an arrow at the heart of your waiting horror, his slight hips a harp played against you, moving in the strum of entry, into the gold he made of your pain.

You screamed, and the sound was devoured by the bacchanal night. Oliver took you slowly, with patient intelligence, feeling each trembling agony of your body and twisting it, by sorcery, into something else. His eyes were a witch's orbs through which he knew you, psychic, solipsistic—

You were ivy about the wand of him, a thing that would poison the man, were he not immune to its effects. He fucked you as though he thought it romantic, somehow, this violence in a friend's pungent garden, the scent of flowers and trodden grass and arousal a perfume to woo.

There was blood on both of your faces, on his bare chest, under the blazer. It frightened you, suddenly, a tarot spread of death in the summer night—

Your panic, the heaviness of lingering champagne, the attack like Zeus upon a swan; all of it made you limp, in Oliver's grip.

He paused in his taking of you to hold you upright, studying your face under the Midas yellow of a nearby lamp.

"Stand up straight for me, now," he said. "And look at me. Look at me."

He tapped your cheek— not a slap, far too soft for that, as though the concern in the vicious gossamer in his voice was real.

"You want me to make you feel good about yourself. Need me. Don't you?"

"No," you said, but as Oliver kissed you again, and a firework shrieked somewhere against your eardrum, you lost what temporary power you'd had to resist him.

Like a spindled sleeper you endured his lovemaking, swallowed his tongue like a precious key. Your body was a pulse in deep water, stirred by hands and cock into a dripping arc.

Oliver moaned against your tattered lips, his arms about you in embrace. The heat of him would follow you, afterwards, the haunting of his lust's smoke from dream to dream.

He moved away from you, aided you in pulling your arms back through the trellis. For a moment he tried to hold you, his murmuring at your hair, its comfort indistinct.

Then, as you ripped him from you like the segment of a rotten apple he wiped himself clean of your blood; the rag he used was something torn from your garments in the fury of his love, a token of it. A thread from the maze.

You sat down in the grass and stared up at Oliver, seeking some answer. Assistance from the breaker of will.

"Go home," he said, at last. "Felix doesn't want you. And now—"

Oliver shook his head, and the peat fire of his eyes was of the underworld, then, of sapphire death gone to ash.

"I don't want you either. Not anymore."

Then he turned from you, and walked away, towards the house, his fey shape a shadow puppet on the wall.

[gynandromorph]

she calls him handsome here, but i've always noticed that his tail is extremely thin -- where a thick tail is literally a translation for how attractive a stoat is.

here it is. not even a little bit of a puff at the end.

for comparison, here is smoothie's tail (claimed to be attractive)

here is scruffy's tail (claimed to be attractive enough to be a model)

here is fig's mother's tail (claimed to be a slut in her youth)

here is his friend's tail

here is the chef guy's tail

anyway what i'm saying is is she lying to greenie because he lacks several key features considered attractive--

[sabraeal]

Brewed With Intent, Part 3

[Read on AO3]

“You’re sure that you feel all right?” Shidan stoops— not far, but enough— to stare Obi right in the eyes, mouth furrowed deep into its concern corners. It’s habit to brace, to wait for her inevitable sympathetic flinch when that otherworldly something drives them back—

But it never comes. Shidan holds his gaze— a second, then two, then suddenly half a minute’s passed without a single shudder— and asks, “No itching or…hm…burning?”

Pencil-thin brows hike right up to his hairline, rumpling the scar that cuts across beneath it, both nothing and everything like Shirayuki had imagined. “Are those symptoms I should be worrying about, Doc?”

“Not a doctor,” Shidan reminds him absently, “and no.”

“What?” Obi sputters out. “Then why would you ask—?”

“The last time someone tried to cast something on you, you turned into a human bonfire.” Shidan levels a stare at him so flat she could skip rocks across it. “Taking some measure of caution seems prudent.”

It’s riveting to watch his mouth work, to see all the muscles twisting together to shape words that never quite manage to be more than a dissatisfied grunt. “Well, not a human one.”

The glare Shidan gives him could hang pictures. “Why don’t you go take a breather here in the back? Just in case. Last thing I need is a customer to spontaneously combust on East Broadway.”

“Please, I’m civilized, I’d make it to at least Belmont.”

“I still think it’ll be some frog action.” Yuzuri bumps the stock room door open with her hip, a box of vacuum-sealed herb packets teetering in her arms. “Or maybe a small mammal. I don’t know what your biology would do with something cold-blooded.”

“Best not to find out.” Suzu turns too-earnest eyes to him. “I think you’d make a handsome stoat.”

Obi presses a hand to his chest, shirt rumpling enough to bare even more bronze beneath, and ah, two buttons have never seemed so indecent. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Hey!” A cardboard corner lodges under his sternum in protest. “I called you hot!”

“Yeah, but that’s just facts.” Obi’s palm shoves against one flat side, angling her back toward the aisles. “Suzu’s showing some imagination. A little faith, if you will.”

“Really? You’re gonna lecture me about moralism? A de—?”

“How long should do you think we should wait?” Shirayuki asks, if only to give her an excuse to do something besides letting her eyes trace the length of his cheekbones another dozen times. “I was hoping to do some of my rounds today if, er…”

It would be insensitive to say, if Obi doesn’t explode on them. Though it’s certainly not as career limiting for him as it would be for, say, either her or Ryuu, the whole business with Haki had still come as a bit of a blow. Even now his hair hasn’t fully grown back in, just a thick forest of black bristle he complains is at the whim of his pillow, even though Shirayuki’s half sure she’s never seen him use one.

Shirayuki casts a curious glance at the hand he runs through it, ignoring the itching of her own palms. Whatever he's doing, it’s clearly working for him.

“Can’t say for sure.” Shidan scratches at his goatee, giving Obi a squint for good measure, almost as if he could see the inner workings of the charm over him, like a clock maker inspects gears on a timepiece. “Fifteen minutes?

“Oh, like one of those vaccines things, right?” Obi doesn’t sit so much as free fall into the bean bag chair in Shidan’s office, long legs stretched across the carpet. “Miss made me wait with her once.”

Yuzuri huffs as she heads toward the shop, one ear flicking. “It’s bullshit that you can’t get sick. Totally unfair. Proof that the universe has its fucking favorites, to be honest.”

“Don’t blame me.” He hooks his hands behind his head, eyes at half-mast, positively lounging. She catches herself mid-star, her eyes nearly raking across ever leather and denim clad inch. And especially the few inches with neither. “Blame— what’s it you guys call it? Speciation? Different biology.”

“Well, some of it has to be the same,” Suzu muses, chin in hand. “You know, for, uh” —he stutters under Obi’s sudden glare— “reasons.”

Shirayuki blinks. “Re—?”

“All right, I think we’ve done more than enough agitation testing,” Shidan grunts, getting to his feet. “Let’s let the guy catch his breath. Give him some space.”

“To combust? If he’s going to do that, a few feet won’t really—”

“Suzu!” Yuzuri stamps her foot just outside the office, ears pulled so low they practically disappear into her hair. “You can’t just say someone is going to explode.”

“Why?” He blinks, craning his neck down to stare. “It’s not like it’ll hurt him.”

“Still. It’s rude!” The graphic part of his tee crumples beneath her fist as she reaches out and tugs, yanking all six foot two of him right off his feet. “Now just get over here already. The last thing I need is you turning into a pile of ash and making more work for me.”

Shidan sighs, running a hand through his already tousled thatch of hair. “Well, that’s the peanut gallery. Shirayuki…?”

“I’ll stay.” It’s supposed to sound supportive, stalwart, but with the heat that licks up her neck, tickling at the apples of her cheeks, she doubts it makes the mark. “Just in case.”

“Your funer—” Shidan coughs, hand scraping over his stubble— “choice.”

“Don’t worry, doc,” Obi hums, head tilted back, skin stretched taut enough she can see his throat bob as he swallows. “This isn’t Miss’s first rodeo. She can handle anything my biology can throw at her.”

Shidan hums, unconvinced. “Right, well, there is a fire extinguisher under the counter. If you need it.”

“I don’t think we will, that sort of reaction tends to be, er…instantaneous.” Shirayuki angles her most grateful smile up at him. “Thank you though. Not just for the, er, information. But everything.”

His shoulders hike up by his ears, as allergic to gratitude as every other master practitioner she’s met. At least he isn’t trying to rush her out the door the way Lata did every time he caught a whiff of sincerity on her. “Don’t mention it.”

It’s hardly a long walk from his desk to the door, but it’s enough steps to see how he’s favoring one side, like Grandpa did whenever the weather got too wet out. “I could brew you something for that, if you wanted.”

His hand hooks on the jamb, holding him steady as he turns a furrowed brow toward her. “For what?”

“Your limp.”

It’s astounding how quickly the red rockets up his neck, not even taking a pause at his cheeks, just barreling up from his collar until it crashes against his hairline. “N-no!” He coughs again, hand scrubbing over his face. “I mean— it’s nothing. Works itself out in time. Just…worry about yourselves.”

It’s in her nature to gently insist, to wheedle curmudgeons around to a show of kindness, but she barely has time to take in a breath before the door slams behind him. Hard enough that it rattles the walls, setting more than a few of his pictures askew.

“Well,” she hums, reaching over to fix one within arm’s reach. “That seems a little unnecessary.”

“Miss.”

There’s no reason for Obi's mouth to hitch like that, or for his arresting eyes to soften, overflowing with affection she can appreciate every ounce of now that instinct is no longer blaring alarm in her ears. And yet, here he is, too-sharp canines dinting his lower lip, shoulders practically shivering as he bites back his snickers. Poorly, she might add.

It doesn’t make the picture of it any less pretty. And it certainly doesn’t do anything to discourage her staring at him, that’s for sure.

“I don’t see what’s so funny,” she murmurs, her own cheeks flushed as she turns them away. “He’s injured! I was just trying to be helpful. That’s hardly a reason to get so flustered…”

“Miss.” The word practically squeaks out of him, laughter slipping out behind it. “How do you think he got that limp?”

“How would I…?”

It’s the pity that gets her, just the slightest sliver hidden behind the fondness in his eyes, the same kind Yuzuri gives her when she’s a little slow to understand something adult, and—

“Oh.” There'd been marks on Garrack’s neck, so fresh, only a handful purpled and even less yellowed. And a discount that she’d been so certain she earned them. “Oh.”

“There we go,” Obi hums, settling deeper into the bean bag. “Now you’ve got it.”

*

It’s only fifteen minutes— less time than it takes Ryuu to complete the sudoku in the paper, or Obi takes to make a sandwich— and yet every second of it is interminable, stretching by with all the speed of molasses down a bottle’s neck. No wonder Obi is always acting like he’s about to jump out of his skin at the library.

But this isn’t just an outright allergy to sitting stationary— no, Shirayuki has extenuating circumstances. The kind that make her wonder if that leather is as touchable as it looks.

“That bad, hm?”

Her eyes dart up, disrupted from the corners they’d been sneaking their surreptitious glances. His are still closed, head tilted back on his hands, like he’d be more at home with a hammock at his back than a bean bag, mojito within arm's reach. Only his smile’s strained, more teeth than teasing, braced for a blow. “Huh?”

“You know…” One large hand waggles over him, a sliver of gold peeking through his eyelashes. “The new look.”

Is it? That’s what she’d like to ask— if when he looks in the mirror, this is the face he sees, or whether Shidan’s charms have polished the edges off they way they’ve erased the extra eyelid. If this is just a human face plastered over a more eldritch one, more palatable to the small animal that is her brain, or what had been hiding beneath that miasma all along, waiting for a heart stout enough to be seen.

Instead she watches his eyelashes splay over the golden arch of his cheekbone and feels her mouth go inexplicably dry. “N-no! Yuzuri’s right. It’s, um…”

“Hot?” he offers, entirely too eager. Even rolls up to his side, one arm angled behind his head, like one of those pin-ups the Laxdo dorm boys had hurried to take down from the wall the last time she stopped by.

“Attractive,” she allows, ignoring the insufferable angle his smirk slants itself to. “You’ll certainly draw attention while we’re out.”

“Attractive.” He tests the word, savors it, and apparently likes the taste. “But am I attracting you, Miss?”

It’s mortifying how quickly her skin goes hot, a slight flush to lobster red in seconds. “Obi!”

“Kidding, kidding!” His hand fly up, but she’s in no mood to be placated, not when they tremble at the same frequency as his laugh. “All this being perceived— it’s going straight to my head.”

He deserves every ounce the scowl she gives him, gaining gravitas as it ramps over the forbidding fold of her arms. “Be that as it may, it’s still not very nice to tease! Especially when you’re not even interested in the answer.”

“I wonder.” There’s a strange set to his smile, like his mouth doesn’t quite fit on his face, like it belongs to a different man entirely— but it’s gone as quick as it arrived, disappearing behind what she’s quickly coming to realize is his usual grin. “So where to next, Miss? After the Doc gives me a clean bill of health, of course.”

There’s a plan, a list, but— but he stretches. Palms press flat to the wall behind him, exaggerating the arch of his back, and— and his shirt rolls up, baring the barest sliver of bronze right above his waistband. A dusting of dusky hair peeks above the brass button, trailing down to parts unknown, and her fingers itch, wanting to know it’s as silky as it looks, or— “I don’t know.”

He blinks, gold making his eyes all the more owlish. “You don’t know?”

“Ah, I mean…” She shakes her head, as if percussive force might knock her tongue loose of its tangle. “There’s a few places…that have put out requests, I mean! And I thought we might have, um…”

This isn’t working. Whatever this is— she’s got to get a hold of herself. With a steeling breath, she slaps her cheeks, hard enough to feel the sting.

Obi’s arches a narrow brow. “You okay there, Miss?”

“Yes, sure.” Barely. “There’s no requests for urgent consult, so I thought head toward the market first and maybe make out way n—”

“The market? You mean…” A groan really should looks so good “Don’t tell me, we’re going to the harbor.”

*

“What”— Kihal hooks her hands over her hips, thunderous as any squall over the Sound— “is that?”

Shirayuki blinks, tracing the finger she points right over her shoulder to where Obi lounges against the pier, jacket slung over his shoulder. It’s brisk this close to the water, but with the temperature Obi runs at, anything more than short sleeves is for aesthetic. Certainly no cause for alarm, but today—

Well, today she can see how the seam of his sleeve strains around his bicep, and the way his torso tapers right down to his waist, practically a triangle—

She swallows. “Obi’s trying out a charm Shidan made him.”

“Demon boy?” Kihal makes a disgruntled squeak back in her throat, half-threatening, half-cute, and all annoyed. “Oh, I don’t like that. I don’t like that at all.”

Shirayuki watches him unfurl from his lean, hips rolling as he saunters toward them, and can’t help but think, get in line.

[iorekbyrinson]

thoughts on bcs characters and their pullman-universe daemons

James McGill - Weasel or stoat family. The long sleek shape of the mustelid can squirm through any hole after its quarry, taking down prey several times its size. Folklore associations with being untrustworthy, unscrupulous, despite its diminutive size. Also known as the family from which Pantalaimon, daemon of Lyra Silvertongue, heralds from - associations of the protagonist.

Kim Wexler - Jackal. A desert animal with associations of the howling prairies, independence, a looming threat in a familiar canid form. However, jackals have a little known quality of centring the majority of their social behaviour around a monogamous relationship; marking out territory together, forsaking packs mostly for the pair bond. Cunning, determined, opportunistic.

Chuck McGill - Porcupine. Like all Rodentia, porcupines are intelligent and frugal, not carnivorous by nature but certainly with enough natural advantages. Unusual tree-dwellers that live far above the rest of the creatures on the forest floor, the porcupine's most notorious trait are its barbs, shaped so that they stick in the skin and cannot be pulled out.

Howard Hamlin - Golden retriever. Exactly what it appears to be to a fault, the ubiquitously loved animal has a few significant traits; it is above all a retriever, an animal that works in tandem with a master to seek out prey and skilfully return the prize, and any attempts to isolate this intensely social breed go awry - the animal withers away.

Nacho Varga - Rusty-spotted cat. The smallest wildcat in the world, to mistake this feline for its domesticated counterpart is a mistake; it is a predator of its lands, feeding on rodents and any creature beneath it, and has the hallmark of being one of the most successful predators relative to its size in the world. However, this elusive, nocturnal little wildcat has its weaknesses as a daemon; it will not stop until it is at the top of its food chain, even if it exists in an ecosystem where it will be swallowed alive. It has the typical feline traits of aloofness, independence, and particularly beautiful eyes.

Lalo Salamanca - Vampire bat. Largely associated with the handsome, deadly supernatural creatures of mythology, vampire bats do, in truth, hold blood as the superior tonic above all, and are also vastly social creatures; grooming, feeding, and raising families within a group that has strong ties to family members, but also makes room for non-relatives too. They hunt entirely in the dark. Like most of the bat family, their need to communicate means their high pitched chirps are constant when flying through the night sky. An unusual daemon for an unusual man; be watchful of his reflection in mirrors. It may not always be there.

Gus Fring - Coati. A daemon can sometimes settle in the appearance of an animal of meaning to an individual; and the mercurial and mysterious Gustavo Fring has inferred the coati's importance as much in his fateful recollection. However, the coati is also no insignificant animal; it is preyed upon by nearly every major predator in the Americas, but the coati has a tough hide attached to its underlying muscles, making it extremely difficult for teeth to get a hold. It is a contained and somewhat elegant looking small mammal with a handsome pair of spectacles around its dark, round eyes, and a reputation for intelligence rivalling that of its opportunistic cousin, the raccoon.

Mike Ehrmantraut - Badger. Whether of the European badger flavour; forest-bears of quiet and solitary pursuits, devoted to the burrows of their families, or of the American type, the fearsome ratel or honey badgers that face down mountain lions without a second look, badger daemons carry the traits of strength, perseverance, and an undeniable aggression that make them the animal that never backs down. Badgers construct setts that go deep below the earth, a vast underground system of resources that belies the staid, unemotional appearance of these creatures. Man + mountain indeed.

[robbie-roo]

somebody in a very long message asked me about skunks and mentioned a few other animals too so I'll do a quick post on skunks and see what I know about those other guys in later posts

also as a side note if you ever just want to chit chat about animals you can always message me or just tag me in your own posts I'm happy to have discussions as well as do these long lecture style posts :)

Skunks

cute little guys <3 I wanted a pet skunk and a pet raccoon as a kid (honestly I wanted a pet everything...) and the good news is you can technically have one! some states (17/50) will allow you to own a pet raccoon or a pet skunk but unless you are very knowledgeable in wildlife care or "exotic" pets I do not reccomend them they are not domesticated like dogs and cats are but can be tame (there's a difference)

anyways some skunk facts;

so their stinky spray is a pretty obvious skunk trait and like the messager mentioned many animals use scent as a way to communicate. pretty much all mammals have a scent gland located somewhere on their body- for many its the top of the head so they can rub pheromones off on trees or other critters to let animals know "hey this is mine" or "hey there handsome.... there's hot singles in your area"

they also mentioned possum and raccoons using scent- opossums are known for playing dead and will secrete stinky stuff to make their act more believable and raccoons? it's their urine and feces that make them stinky

some animals however use scent as a deterrent like skunks do

they are not the only animal that does this all mustelids do (that's the skink, ferret, stoat, etc. fam) and these critters are particularly stinky but don't have the spray adaptation that only skunks really have (as far as I've learned anyway)

both pet skunks and ferrets will often be surgically "de-scented" but usually still have a smell after (I mean... don't we all?)

skunks used to roll with this genus but recently made their own gang called Mephitis (literally means "stink") which has 12 species and includes skunks and "stink badgers" I've also seen some reports of 13 species but I'm not really sure off the top of my head which is true only 4 of them are "true skunks" though

skunks take their scent very seriously guys. some of them will directly aim for the eyes and others will do a little warning dance before spraying they can also adjust their sprays potency and angle and can also choose to spray from both or only one scent gland at a time

(spotted skunk- the dancers)

some can accurately spray 10 feet away but can reach up to 20 or more if they really wanted to soak you but then they have to reload for about 10 days before they can spray anything again

that odor can be smelled from 1.5 miles away! but don't worry 1/1000 humans can't smell it at all and their main predator owls also can't pick up the scent unfortunately for these birds they do still have eyes and a well aimed spray will still take them down

(also the chemical compound in their spray is flammable I have no idea who found that out and why but fun fact!)

if you ever get sprayed don't bother with tomato juice use hydrogen peroxide and baking soda to neutralize the compounds

anyways enough about stink

Skunks are omnivores and some will eat bees aiming for the actual bees over the honey like bears do (yes winny the pooh lied to you he wants that larva not necessarily the honey)

some skunks can be really social living in groups of around 10 and sometimes invite their neighbors to stay with them (there's a few cases of possums staying the night in their den) most of them ate relatively solitary but they aren't very territorial and will overlap sometimes

they are immune to snake venom! another trait that is somewhat similar to their cousins the badgers as they often eat snakes they can handle a lot of poison

alright that's what I know about skunks they're cute little guys but once again

DO. NOT. TOUCH. yes theyre stinky but they are also known to carry rabies if you see one out during the day do not approach it and call wildlife services if you are seriously worried

[ecargmura]

A Sign Of Affection Episode 8 Review - Unrequited Love Sucks

I am praying to all the Gods in existence for this story to stray far away from drama. There’s already hints about a messy love triangle between Itsuomi, Emma and Shin and not to mention the ongoing conflict about Oushi’s feelings for Yuki. I just hope that nothing bad happens and that everything can be handled as maturely as possible; these characters are adults, so handle things like adults.

I wonder why some anime sites list Shin’s surname as Iyanagi when it’s actually Iryuu. Because of this, I have to change my tags! On the topic of Shin, I feel bad for him. I’ve been in his situation as well as being in Emma’s situation. Being in love with someone who will never love you back the same way really does suck. Shin loves Emma, but she loves Itsuomi, who is dating Yuki. The fact that he’s still friends with Itsuomi and not cut him off from his life shows how strong their friendship is. Heck, the first thing Itsuomi did was introduce Yuki to Shin in hopes that Emma can finally move on. I do like how much he trusts Shin to reveal these things to him. He trusts him as much as he trusts Kyouya, who’s his family. I was slightly frustrated when Shin didn’t tell Emma of the big news, but it makes sense as he doesn’t want to hurt her.

The Highschool flashback scene was interesting to see. It was nice seeing what Itsuomi was like back then. He was a mysterious transfer student, so he was easily the talk of the school with how handsome he was. Emma fell for him at first sight. It was also nice seeing insight on how the three became friends. The love triangle between them stems from Shin falling for Emma at first sight and Emma falling for Itsuomi at first sight. Despite that, they all got along as they kept hanging out at the rooftop. Shin had multiple girlfriends that he used as replacements to get over his feelings for Emma, but he never got over them, hence his constant breakups and rumors about him sleeping around a lot. He even had to self-sabotage himself by saying that Emma was someone he’d never fall in love with and even hoped Itsuomi and Emma would date just so he could have closure. His feelings are very complicated, but I hope for the best for him.

People might think that Emma falling for Itsuomi at first sight isn’t realistic, but love works in mysterious ways. Sometimes, you just fall for someone without knowing too much about them. I fell in love with a boy in my middle school class after seeing how different he was from the other boys I was friends with. I didn’t really talk to him much due to us being reserved, but I didn’t even realize I liked him romantically until a friend told me she had a crush on him and the thought of her liking him irked me. It just happens; I guarantee that. However, I do wonder if Emma’s feelings for him just stem from her liking his appearance. Like, even though he brushed her off so many times, she still clings onto him in hopes that he’ll like her back. I just hope she won’t bring unnecessary drama in the future.

I do like that time passes in this show as Yuki, Rin and Itsuomi have moved onto upper grades; Yuki is a second-year now. Rin and Itsuomi are third-years now. Yuki now has new note takers as Rin had to quit due to conflicting schedules. They’re still friends, however.

All the Yuki and Itsuomi scenes are adorable, which is why I didn’t talk much about them for this review. The Yuki and stoat comparison was the highlight to me; it’s nice to have a character be compared to an animal that’s not the traditional pets. However, I am interested in the sign language boot camp next episode. I can’t wait to see if Kyouya and Rin will get good progression and to see more Yuki and Itsuomi scenes. What are your thoughts?

[twotreeisland]

Generation One Allegiances

(wip!)

Some notes before the actual list!

- The ragtag Two Tree Island Community functions under a Duty system. Every cat chooses what Duty to dedicate themself to (with an option to change if okayed by both Duty Heads) and listens solely to the Duty Head of that fourth of the island. The duties are Protection, Prey, Shelter, and Medicine.

- The four Duty Heads act as a kind of council and decide any major changes for the community together.

- There is no method of succession, as the system has only been in place for around 40 moons and it's still developing every day. The founders did not plan this system thoroughly before enacting it.

- The current Duty Heads all got their position in a different way than the others, and these methods will be listed below the character profile.

- Apprentices are trained by the whole Duty, though the exact expectations put on them are decided by their Duty Head.

- While cats are not forced to take on clan-like titles, these titles are offered by their Duty Heads. Kittens are given their prefix by their parents, and the suffix by whatever Duty Head they pledge themselves to when they become a full Duty member.

PROTECTION DUTY HEAD --

Gentlestep -- He/she/they, genderfluid -- 148 Moons

A massive dilute calico with obscured features due to their immense and thick fur. Rumor is their eyes are blue, but who knows?

The most the community knows about Gentlestep is that they're one of the few cats to have arrived with a "clan title" already. The rest is generally fuzzy, like Gentlestep. She's about the kindest cat on the island, doing the utmost for each and every cat, not just those in his Duty. Whenever an orphan shows up cold and shaking, Gentlestep is the cat they're brought to so he can snuggle them up in her massive mane of fur and whisper to them that it'll all be alright. As the oldest cat in the Community, many questions are posed to them that she answers simply. The Community greatly values his wisdom. None have yet to see them engage in battle, but given their position the Community feels it imminent and the gossip-gatos are hungry for the knowledge. She became the Duty Head when cats realized his orders were incredibly helpful in battle against various other carnivores, so her Duty came together to demand they lead. So she did.

The adopted parent of Whisperpaw,

PREY DUTY HEAD --

Smoothriver -- They/them, nonbinary -- 73 Moons

A very handsome young jack with thin, glossy black tuxedo fur and shiny amber eyes.

This cocky young jack strolled onto the island with a purr in their throat and a stoat in their jaws. The first impression was damn good, and their skills at getting exactly what they wanted from cats was unparalleled. While the oldest of cats felt some general distaste for what they saw as an egotistical youngster, the younger cats of Two Tree adored kindly, showy ol' Smoothriver. Smoothriver has three mates at the moment, but with how much they flirt and cavort with any pretty kitty that walks their way, folks are taking bets on when that number will rise. They named themself leader of the Prey Duty on a whim, and given they are actually an amazing hunter, cats agreed to follow them.

SHELTER DUTY HEAD --

Heavyclaw -- He/him, cis male -- 117 Moons

A primarily gray long-furred tom with large paws and large ears. Has soft gray eyes.

Some call Heavyclaw "painfully simple", but really, he's just an older man with some real simple dreams. He wants his kin and his cats safe, and he wants people to leave him alone. He likes keeping it simple, which reflects in how he keeps the camp and teaches his cats. He may butt heads with the other Duty Heads and anyone who brings that Starclan and Spirits bullshit up with him, but he is a good cat at the end of the day who keeps the community's home safe, clean, and easy to live in. He leaves for a full day every full moon to do Starclan knows what. Nobody asks, given Heavyclaw might cuff their ear good for being so nosy. Heavyclaw established himself as the cat to go to about the camp's upkeep, and simply started acting as Duty Head without any formal declaration.

MEDICINE DUTY HEAD --

Dahliabriar -- She/her, cis female -- 98 Moons

An orange, spotted molly with various deep scars, tired pale green eyes, and a single white paw.

The cat who lived on Two Tree before anyone else. As cats began appearing, oftentimes weak from days of travel, she healed them and found them places to rest on the island. Though unintentional on her part, Dahliabriar is a major reason the Duties came together at all. As the community's ranks bolstered over the next moons, Dahlia began teaching anyone who would ask it of her to heal like she does, accidentally creating the first Duty by gathering these apprentices together. Though unlike the other Duty Heads who claimed and established their duties officially, Dahliabriar refused to be named leader of her Duty until she truly could not deny it anymore.

Dahliabriar is the single mother of Snapdragonstrike, Rosefall, Tuliptwist, and Lilymoon by an unknown cat.

CAMP GUARDS --

Snapdragonstrike -- He/him, cis male -- 38 Moons

PREY HUNTERS --

Lilymoon -- She/her, trans female -- 38 Moons

CAMP KEEPERS --

Rosefall -- She/her, cis female -- 38 Moons

HERB GATHERERS --

Tuliptwist -- She/they, demifemale -- 38 Moons

Whisperpaw -- She/her, cis female -- 9 Moons

ELDERS --

QUEENS AND KITS --

[oldfacesnewdawnoffical]

wait what did frogtail do, the slug-faced son of a b-

no cursing filter on*

-err, stoat! Son of a stoat

but seriously, what did he do?

LMAO it’s okay, if Rust can say fuck, so can you >:3c

CW: I discuss fictional pedophilia and grooming below the cut.

So… in canon, especially in the first arc, there’s a lot of fucky timeline instances. Cats getting together very young, very old, producing kittens when they feasibly shouldn’t, etc etc etc. Due to personal experiences, I wanted to break this down into something that might mirror real life, and also fit with the narrative, as uncomfortable and unfortunate as it may be.

Finchflight and Dawncloud of ShadowClan are the least narratively pressing in OFND, but Mosspelt and Frogtail go a little bit deeper into it.

Their age gap is concerning in canon, to put it lightly. The narrative is guided so that Frogtail, a cat who I believe is a little younger than Crookedstar, has kittens with Mosspelt, who, at the time of the kitten’s birth, should only be about seven or eight months old. I’ve carried that over into OFND, again, due to personal experiences. Keep in mind that OFND is and always has been, in some ways, a personal venting project. This is also relevant to the narrative of Ignite’s second book.

Frogtail groomed the young Moss into bearing his kits. Seeing how happy his sister was in a relationship with the powerful Sunningstrike, even after having a first litter with outsider blood, it made his own blood boil with disgust and jealousy. He picked the prettiest, most moldable cat capable of bearing kits, and that happened to be Moss. He told her that she was so brave, so strong, so mature for keeping what was between them a secret, that as soon as she received her full name he would make her his partner, and then they could support each other through everything and be together for real. Moss, taken by the older cat’s interest in her, how genuine he seemed, how handsome and accomplished he was, melted into his words, and, ultimately, wound up pregnant. Breambelly took her under her wing immediately, both as her duties as sovereign, but also as another cat who had her first litter scarily young. She was the one to coax Moss into confessing the sire, and Frogtail was exiled before the sun set the following day - but not before an enraged, horrified and disgusted Breambelly, his sister, took one of his eyes.

[inber]

“Jaskier!”

The Jaskier in question pops out the middle of a dense bush like an alert stoat. “Yes, Geralt?”

“What the fuck are you doing?” Geralt asks, crossing his arms. It's a visual illustration of his current demeanour, just in case the bard is unable to pinpoint it tonally.

“Picking berries,” Jaskier boasts, “making myself useful. See, Geralt, not only am I handsome, quick-witted and, if I do say so, beautifully cultured, I am also a dab hand at foraging.”

“Not to mention modest.”

“Modesty is for dullards and the pious. I cannot be accused of either affliction.” Jaskier says, wading out of the undergrowth. His upturned cap is brimming with the fruits of his labour. Working so selflessly has made him appealingly flushed. The hat is thrust towards Geralt, who takes it.

“No, thank you.” Geralt says.

“No? After my back-breaking hard work, the sweat and the effort and Gods, I think I even have a splinter – no, he says. Just like that.” Jaskier huffs, and tries to snatch the bounty back.

Geralt holds the cap away from him. And then, the absolute bastard, he pours all the berries onto the ground in a miserable heap. Jaskier makes a sound like a goose with a kazoo.

“Geralt!” His falsetto is pitched high, “What in the bloody--”

“They're not blueberries, Jaskier.” Geralt says.

The bard bumbles. “I-- what?”

“They're sweet amber berries. I don't particularly want to spend the evening shitting so hard that I can't sit tomorrow. Do you?”

Jaskier has the decency to look chagrined. “Ah.” He says, eloquently. And then he brightens. “Good thing I waited to share them instead of snacking as I picked then, huh?”

Geralt snorts, flinging the ridiculous hat back to its equally ridiculous owner.

--------------

“Jaskier?”

“I'm fine!” Is the rushed response, which has Geralt's guard up immediately. “Peachy, actually. Dandy, just absolutely a-okay, perfectly--”

“Stop listing adjectives,” Geralt growls, “and tell me you didn't drink the potion.”

“I most assuredly certainly didn't not drink the potion.” Jaskier says.

Geralt's eyes narrow like a high-wire tightrope, and Jaskier is losing balance.

“Alright, fine.” The bard admits, “I may have had a sip. Or two. But in my defence, Yennefer has labelled it 'beauty', and it is a fetching shade of pale pink – actually, come to think of it, it tasted sort of like roses. Ooh, and honey!”

The groan Geralt emits comes from somewhere deep within his body, uncurling like a slumbering bear woken in the midst of hibernation. “It's for female humans, you fool.”

“What?” Jaskier quacks, looking side-long at the bottle. “Oh, how terribly cliché. Pink for the girls, and I suppose there's a blue-- wait, what does that mean for me? Geralt?”

“I'm not exactly sure,” Geralt says, “but I suspect you may be blessed with some magical enhancements, unless we can get Yen to give you an antidote.”

“Enhancements?” Jaskier asks, bewildered baby-blues a faux advertisement for innocence. “Ah, fuck. You mean tits, don't you?”

“Big bouncy ones, yes.”

Jaskier pats his own chest, as if debating the development. He tilts his head. Then he sucks in a sharp breath, horrified. “My doublets won't fit!”

“That's what you're concerned about?”

“Naturally! Melitele's ti—oh, bollocks. Not the right time for that.” He's pinching his own nipples beneath his undershirt and it's distracting enough for Geralt to smack his hands. “Ouch. Where's Yen?”

“In her apothecary.” Geralt says, “Working.”

“Right. Well. Time for some of the old Pankratz charm, eh? What rhymes best with 'Yen'... hen, zen, bullpen...”

Geralt sighs. “Shut up, Jaskier. I'll do the talking.”

-------------

“Jaskier...?”

Geralt is floating pleasantly in the space that exists between consciousnesses, thin threads of gossamer-reality woven spider-quick across his memory. A fight. An injury. A Jaskier with healing supplies.

“I'm here, Geralt.” Jaskier says, kneeling. The witcher's lazy-hazy vision flicks to him. He is backlit by firelight, looking entirely too holy. Not a sacrament of a bard, no; Geralt has never seen a human being so utterly immersed in both debauchery and kindness, like the ideals were distilled into drink and instead of picking one shot, he downed both at the same time. Geralt has seen him do that. The thought makes him laugh.

“Hush darling, you'll pull the stitches.” Jaskier chides, bossy-britches. “What's so funny?”

“Remember that tavern in Attre?” Geralt's voice is slurry, even to his own ears.

“The awful one that tried to charge you thrice-over for a tankard of brine? As if you couldn't smell it, the absolute buffoons. What a useless establishment.”

Geralt giggles. The sound is a delirious squeak, but he's too strung-out to care. “You punched the barkeep in the face.”

“I did, dearest, and I'd do it again.” Jaskier says.

“Right in his face!” Geralt guffaws, and then winces. Jaskier tuts, examining the bandages covering his midsection.

“Shh, now. You need to rest, Geralt.”

A sticky blink, and Geralt reaches blindly for his companion. “Never said thanks. For that. You are good to me, Julek.”

Jaskier's hand tightens in his own. “Did you just call me...?”

It's a sentimental moment he'll treasure alone, because Geralt lapses back into unconsciousness, thick fingers tangled with Jaskier's. The bard smiles fondly.

Jaskier makes for an unlikely guardian, but he stays awake all night.

[camelotsheart]

And it seems, right, then, to close the distance between them. The earth does not tilt on its axis, the stars do not falter in its path. There is no change, merely the universe continuing its course over the span of time, and Arthur being dragged along its current. There is a clarity that overtakes him - the blades of grass beneath their palms, the sound of the breeze that tickles the hair below his ears, crickets singing into the night, vibrating in a cacophony of colour and sound and life.

As if everything is much more than itself.

A tear makes its way down his cheeks. They break away and meet again, and again, and again, continuing until the feeling overwhelms them. Merlin drops a kiss on Arthur's forehead, and for some reason the simple act overwhelms him more than everything they'd shared.

I'm feeling magic, he realises, the buzz thrunning around him. I'm feeling what Merlin is.

"Beautiful," he whispers into Merlin's skin.

Merlin snorts. "You called me a stoat."

"You called me a frog," he counters, pulling back to shoot a grin that was probably too wide to be teasing. "And apparently now that magic itself favours me, I've turned into a handsome prince."

[kalee60]

So @larkboyd this happened and I don’t think I have any excuse for it... apologies as I haven’t written for Merthur in quite some time - but your enthusiasm stoked mine - so... errr - enjoy?? 

Based on this Tumblr post here

No warnings except it gets a little spicy ;)

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

“You look like a startled Stoat,” Arthur called out to Merlin, and Merlin couldn’t help the way his shoulders stiffened. For God’s sake he was trying his damndest to keep them alive - all while not letting a slip of magic out, and quite honestly Arthur was getting on his last nerve.

“Yeah, well at least I don’t look like a bone-idle toad,” Merlin snarked, enjoying the way Arthur straightened and seemed to startle, like Merlin was being inordinately rude, which he wasn’t - he always spoke to Arthur in that way. 

“You’re saying I look like a toad?” Arthur finally drawled like he couldn’t comprehend the thought, that it was an impossibility to look thus. Merlin was not going to pander to him and confirm that he actually was the most striking man he’d ever seen, and his chiselled features made Merlin’s insides quiver. He was a prat, a pillock and the most infuriating man, no, it was worse - Prince - in the known world. And Merlin wanted him desperately. Much to his disgust.

It made him feel off-balance, so with as much snideness in his tone that he could muster, he responded, “yeah, and maybe one day you’ll magically transform into a handsome prince.” 

Throwing his ruck-sack onto his back he tried and failed to notice the way Arthur touched his face as if to check for warts, then ran a hand through his hair, before gazing down at his body, which left Merlin able to look his fill without being caught. Damn it, he had to curb this - want, deep inside.

“Since magic’s outlawed that’ll probably never happen,” Merlin continued, trying to dampen his desires, it was almost impossible though. And he felt his attraction to Arthur was almost as hard to hide as his magic. “Come on let’s go.”

Arthur followed mulishly behind him. Looking after a Prince was more than a full-time job.

~~~

That evening, Merlin tried unsuccessfully to light a fire, as Arthur watched him too closely to use magic. It was getting cold and he was hungry and he needed to heat the stew else Arthur's royal pain in the behind would complain for hours.

“What’s taking so long?” Arthur whined, “usually it takes you two seconds.”

Merlin wanted to snap that things would go quicker if Arthur deigned himself low enough to help sort out their camp (allowing him a swift glimpse of gold to infuse his eyes and get the damn fire started), instead he ignored the prat.

“It’s cold,” Arthur pressed and Merlin looked up archly, his brow raised and he couldn’t help the utter look of annoyance that crossed his face. Arthur saw, if his small smirk was any indication. The clod-pole knew exactly what buttons he was pressing.

“Go get some more kindling,” Merlin demanded, and when a twig flew past his ear he looked up incredulously. “Did you just throw a stick at me?”

“I’m helping with kindling,” was the response, and Merlin couldn’t help the sharp bark of laughter, which turned into something a little more. Then Arthur joined in, and everything was just absolutely ridiculous. He also wished Arthur’s laugh didn’t make his stomach feel all jittery. The low cadence, deep and full of filthy promises, but not ever aimed at him. Never him.

Merlin was a servant, not a potential bed partner. More pity to Arthur, as Merlin had many, many interesting skills.

To Merlin’s surprise, Arthur actually stood up and began to gather wood, which in turn meant he could use magic to light the fire, and soon a warmth was flowing against the front of his body as he nurtured the small lick of flames into a steady blaze.

“There you go, that wasn’t hard. You could have managed that ten minutes ago, I can’t feel my fingers,” Arthur came up next to Merlin, very closely, and rubbed his hands together and held them out to the fire.

“You’re lucky you can still feel your arse, considering it’s the largest part of you,” Merlin said under his breath.

“What was that?” Arthur asked, not sounding at all very forgiving, and Merlin knew he’d pushed a little too far and gave a beaming smile instead and said he’d put the stew on, which interestingly made Arthur’s gaze soften and his eyes drop to Merlin’s mouth. And although it wasn’t intended to be read in any way other than general, it still sent a zing up Merlin’s spine.

Licking his lips he let out a small cough which startled Arthur into a scowl and a ‘hurry up, I’m starving’. Of course he was.

Dinner wasn’t a fancy affair and they both ate in silence, and as the light disappeared completely from their small part of the forest, sheltered by a rock face, Merlin knew it was going to be too cold overnight for him not to use magic in some way to keep them warm so as not to end up dead from the chills. But he couldn’t. It would be too reckless and an ongoing spell would tax him too much, and honestly he’d never performed such magic anyway. He looked between their two cloaks and swallowed all of his pride. He had to keep the future King safe at all costs. Even the cost to his dignity.

“I think we’re going to have to stay close tonight,” he tried at first.

Arthur’s flat look did not instil confidence, “excuse me?”

“Err, it’s too cold tonight, you can tell by the rings around the moon that the fire won’t give off enough warmth, and since we don’t have proper blankets, we’re going to have to…” Merlin trailed off at the look on Arthur’s face, one he couldn’t really decipher through the flickering flames, “... cuddle.”

“Merlin, are you suggesting the future King of Camelot, cuddle for warmth with his servant?”

What. A. Pillock.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying, a dead Prince won’t become King. Even if he’s more frozen than you are now.”

Arthur blinked once, then scowled in such a familiar way it was almost endearing, then finally, much to Merlin’s utter shock, he created a space before him. Not behind. It seemed Arthur was going to allow Merlin to curl up in front of him, closest to the fire. And that was - unexpected.

Although when Merlin made his way over, he instead, lay down behind Arthur as close as he dared. At least behind him if he needed to use magic, he could keep it hidden, to a degree.

They laid awkwardly for about half an hour, when Merlin began to shiver, he couldn’t help it and soon he was wracked with them, trying not to jostle the surly prat before him. Sure he could use a spell to warm himself, but he just wasn’t confident in such close quarters, he’d wait until Arthur fell asleep but of course the dollop-head refused to do anything but stay on guard.

“For the love of Camelot,” Arthur finally huffed and his arm reached out behind him, groping at poor Merlin until completely baffled, his arm was yanked back across and over Arthur. What in hell was he doing? “Better?”

And surprisingly, yes it was, but did he admit that? Instead he took it for what it was, shared body warmth and snuggled in closer, feeling the sharp inhale from Arthur as his hips unintentionally ground into his backside. He swallowed his apology, not wanting to draw attention to it. Trouble was, all of Merlin’s attention was honed in on every breath, every noise, the way the firelight played over Arthur’s golden hair, making it appear ethereal, and he needed to rein in his galloping thoughts. Arthur was not someone he could lust after. Not someone he could have.

“Do you really think that of me?” Arthur said quietly and Merlin craned his neck to try and hear the soft words.

“Think what?”

“That I look like a toad,” was the response, and Merlin bit his lip to stop the laughter bubbling up.

Lord, Arthur was the vainest and most obtuse man in a thousand forests.

“Honestly?” he asked with only a hint of mirth in his voice.

The nod was so unlike Arthur, usually he was full of gust and bluster, but for some reason Merlin decided that the truth wouldn’t hurt. Well part of it.

“No, I don’t think you look like a toad,” he felt Arthur relax a little against him, “but you do look like a prat, not even in training anymore. I’m pleased to confirm you have entered the esteemed ranks of complete and utter fully fledged royal prat.”

“Oh…”

“You sound disappointed? I can still say you look like a toad. Magic, as discussed, won’t help you. But a kiss might...” And what the actual hell just slipped out of his mouth? He was going to blame his absolute lack of brain cells on the fact he had Arthur basically wrapped up in his arms, and the smell and very aura of the larger-than-life man had enraptured his senses until he didn’t even know what he was saying.

It didn’t mean he was lying though.

Arthur went still, very still and Merlin braced himself for a walloping - which didn’t come.

“That could…” Arthur stopped and coughed, his voice thick with something and Merlin held his breath, what was happening between them like an out of body experience. “...could be amenable.”

“Amenable,” Merlin couldn’t help chuckle.

“I mean, I don’t want to be a toad for the rest of my life, who does?”

“No, no of course you don’t.” Merlin barely whispered as Arthur tilted his head back, and suddenly Merlin had pouty lips made for kissing (among other activities he tried not to image too often) within his reach. The small uncertainty in Arthur’s eyes almost hidden by the darkness and Merlin had to school his own features, knowing Arthur could quite simply see his expression clearly in the firelight.

He didn’t wait for a second invitation, not sure if this was his only opportunity to kiss Arthur, other than in his fantasies, he wasn’t about to turn it down, and as he lowered his head, he heard the small inhale between Arthur’s lips, and then they were kissing.

It was everything and unlike anything Merlin had expected. Arthur’s lips were soft, so unbelievably plush under his own cold mouth and he couldn’t help dive deeper, taste further, take everything on offer. And just when Merlin thought his luck had run out, Arthur sighed into his mouth and opened himself more, pressed his body firmer against Merlin and his hand tangled up in Merlin’s hair and, god, it was good. It was perfect, actually.

Merlin couldn’t say how long they lay there, kissing, learning each other’s mouths, seeking to shock and make the other gasp, as when Merlin discovered that Arthur enjoyed having his hair pulled, delighting him to no end.

But it was when a hardness pressed insistently against Merlin’s leg, he realised they’d gone from a fairly innocent teasing to something much more.

“Arthur?” Merlin questioned, diving back in for another kiss, devastating the blonde, if his hazy wild eyes were any indication. “What do you want?”

Arthur didn’t answer for the longest moment, and Merlin was beginning to think he wouldn’t.

“What any good serv… friend would give, nothing more, nothing less.”

Merlin mulled on the words for only a second, making up his mind in less than that.

He rolled Arthur back so he was facing the fire again, Merlin pushing right up against his back, his own hardness tight against Arthur, and although he wanted friction, he had a different plan. The small huff of air, almost as if Arthur were trying to hurry him up, so very familiar and Merlin pressed himself tighter against him, enjoying the hitch of Arthur’s breath.

It was too cold to undress and they had been limited with bathing except the dip in the river earlier that morning, so Merlin had one or two options left to him. He decided quickly what he wanted.

He spared a kiss against the back of Arthur’s neck, and snaked his hand down into the soft folds of Arthur’s pants, grasping his dick firmly, and Arthur bucked against him roughly, and for a moment, Merlin thought he’d overstepped. 

But then the way Arthur went boneless and whispered ‘please’ into the night urged Merlin on with his movements.

Arthur was large in his hand, and so very hard, and as he stroked up firmly, his mouth watered, hoping at some stage he’d be able to wrap his lips around the girth, wanting it desperately. Arthur shook in his arms, so Merlin repeated the movement, up and down - slowly, glacially.

“Merlin…”Arthur tried to sass.

“Hmmm,” he replied cheekily, knowing exactly what was going through his mind.

“Move.”

“Demanding, aren’t you?”

Arthur husked in an uneven suck of air as Merlin’s fingers danced across the tip of his dick, finding wetness, enough to spread down his shaft to ease his movements.

“I’m your… oh, god that… bloody hell…” Arthur arched back as Merlin bagan to lazily step his fingers up then down. “I’m your crown prince and I demand you… you know.”

Merlin smirked against his shoulder, not able to stop the small press of his lips on Arthur’s ear, “I’m not sure I know at all, Arthur.”

Maybe it was Merlin saying his name out loud, making it more real, but Arthur moved his head to look back over at Merlin, pressing himself forward as if searching for - oh… Merlin kissed him hard, tongue pushing in and Arthur moaned around him, the vibration of it hitting him square in the gut.

Arthur was stunning.

Merlin began to stroke him hard, Arthur’s lips loosening over his until they were only sharing air, the punched out gasps leaving Arthur’s throat had Merlin puffing out sharp breaths, whispering words of encouragement that Arthur was gorgeous, that he could let go, let Merlin take care of him. He didn’t relent, his pace becoming brutal, with one goal in mind, to get his Prince off. To make him fall apart from only his hand.

“Let go for me,” Merlin rasped, lips pressed on Arthur’s.

It was all he needed, Arthur’s lips clung to his suddenly as he moaned deeply and began to release in Merlin’s hand, the stickiness and warmth pleasing Merlin to his toes. He did that, he made Arthur feel like that. Made him lose control. 

It was a heady and addictive feeling.

The kisses turned soft, Arthur still breathing heavily, and Merlin removed his hand, looking down at his soiled fingers and Arthur gave him a look.

“Don’t you dare wipe that on me.”

Merlin smirked, it was not his intent.

One finger disappeared into his mouth and Arthur made a strangled noise as Merlin sucked his second finger clean. Arthur tasted like nothing on earth, and Merlin wanted more. But was it his lot in life to be able to taste Arthur Pendragon from the source?

“You’re going to kill me, Merlin.” Arthur growled before pinning him to the ground shockingly easy. “Wait until I get you back to the palace and into a bed, you’ll not survive the night, especially after a bath - you smell like a boar.”

Merlin laughed, “I smell like you - so are you a toad or a boar.”

Arthur’s hand on his dick stopped the flow of teasing words.

~~~

If Merlin and Arthur were inseparable after their two night jaunt stuck in the woods, and if the other Knights happened to see Arthur’s hand slip into the breeches of his most loyal servant on the odd occasion. Well, it was just as easy to look the other way.

After all - it was their future king and consort they were in the company of.

[aratilightwood]

‘Merlin’ and ‘The wicked powers’ crossover.

Ash being a complete dork around Drusilla, featuring other characters from ‘the shadowhunter chronicles.’

...

(1) *Kit and Drusilla are standing outside the institute’s kitchen.*

“Where’s Ash?” Asks Kit.

“He’s cooking me dinner,” Drusilla replies.

“Ash is cooking?”

*Kit walks into the kitchen and finds Ash holding up a raw chicken.*

“Kit, thank God.”

“Dru says you’re cooking,” Kit says with suppressed laughter.

“I need you to call a restaurant and order me a roast chicken.”

“So... you’re not cooking?”

“No, Dru doesn’t need to know that. As far as she’s concerned, dinner will be prepared and cooked by me.”

“Are you trying to impress her?”

*Ash is unable to reply, and instead, starts blushing.*

(2) *Ash accidentally eats forbidden fruit from the Seelie realm.*

“Ash, can I come in?” Drusilla asks while she knocks on his door.

*There’s a strange sound coming from the room.*

“Ash?” Drusilla questions again, as she walks in hesitantly.

*Drusilla gasps when she notices Ash sitting on the edge of the bed. His normal ears resemble that of a donkey’s.*

“What’s happened to you?”

*Ash, unable to speak English, let’s out a torrent of incomprehensible braying.*

“Did your mother do this to you?

*Ash nods unhappily.*

“She’s a witch!”

*Ash rolls his eyes.*

“You poor thing,” Drusilla says as she strokes his furry ears.

*Ash leans in, thankful for the affection.*

“Kit’s working on a plan. He’ll figure out what to do. Stay here,” Drusilla says before she starts to leave.

*Ash watches her walk away, miserably.*

(3) *Ash and Drusilla are on patrol and finish killing a group of shax demons.*

“You look like a startled stoat,” Ash says as he sheathes Phaesphoros.

“Yeah, well at least I don’t look like a bone-idle toad,” Drusilla replies with a bantering tone.

“Are you saying I look like a toad?”

“Yeah, maybe one day you’ll transform into a handsome prince. But only warlocks can do magic, and that will probably never happen. Come on, let’s go.”

*Drusilla walks away.*

“Dru, I’m the one who gives the orders, remember?”

“Yeah, are you ready? Let’s go.”

*Ash follows after her with a cheeky smile.*

(4) *Ash is staring vainly at his reflection in a mirror, before his first date with Drusilla.*

“Shhh,” Kit says as he and Drusilla approach Ash quietly.

“Cakaw!” Kit exclaims in an attempt to impersonate a crow.

*Ash drops the small mirror he’s holding, turns around and looks embarrassed.*

*Drusilla and Kit laugh between themselves at his predicament.*

“Dru, you look-“ Ash begins after he composes himself.

*There’s a long pause.*

“I think he’s trying to say you look nice,” Kit contributes.

*Drusilla, standing in a floral top and jeans, giggles softly.*

“Thank you, Kit. That’ll be all,” Ash says as he gives the other boy a pointed look.

“Have fun!” Kit relies while Drusilla stands near Ash.

*Ash and Drusilla walk out of the institute, holding hands.*

(5)*Ash is asleep on the library table, and half of his face is in a bowl of soup.

Drusilla deviously slams her hand down on the table and Ash sits up immediately, “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t scare me, I was asleep... why have you got that smile on your face?”

“It’s nothing, why were you sleeping with your head on the table?”

“I fell asleep while I was reading.”

“What were you reading?”

“I am Ash Morgenstern. I do not have to answer to the likes of you.”

“Well you’re in a good mood. You obviously got up of the wrong side of the table,” Drusilla laughs. “The wrong side of the bed, but you slept on the table.”

“That’s extremely clever and funny, Dru. There really are no limits to your wit.”

“Right,” Drusilla says as she sits down on the chair opposite his.

*Ash touches his hair, notices it’s sticky with soup, and frowns.*

(6) *Ash and Kit decide to sneak out of the institute and investigate a demon activity.*

*While they walk through the halls, Kit gets scared after seeing a sudden movement.*

“What is it?” Ash asks.

“Oh, it’s just our shadows,” Kit replies after realisation.

*Ash hits Kit lightly over the head for being ridiculous.*

“Ow!”

*Drusilla suddenly appears out of no where.*

“Ash. kit.”

“Dru,” they say in unison.

“Is everything alright?”

“It’s perfectly fine. We’re... Kit tell Dru what we’re doing.”

“We- I’m teaching him some poetry.”

“Poetry?”

“I love poetry,” Ash says in a monotone voice.

“I am just as surprised as you are. He can’t get enough of it,” Kit says with a laugh.

“I’ll leave you to your poetry than.”

*Drusilla walks away.*

“Poetry? That’s the best you can come up with?” Ash whisper shouts.

“Oh, what did you want me to say?”

“I don’t know, something that didn’t make me sound like a love struck girl.”

*Ash and Kit continue to walk towards the institute’s exit.*

(7) *Ash walks Drusilla to her bedroom, late at night.*

“I bid you goodnight Ash,” Drusilla says as they approach her door.

*Ash takes Drusilla’s hand and kisses the back of it lightly.*

“Goodnight, Dru.”

*He doesn’t let go of her.*

“If I may,” Drusilla looks at their joined hands expectedly.

*Ash clears his throat nervously and let’s go of it.*

“Sorry.”

*Drusilla begins to turn the handle of her door.*

“Dru,” Ash calls out.

“Yes?”

“I was thinking perhaps... you might like some breakfast.”

“Breakfast?” Drusilla says as she observes the night sky outside.

“Tomorrow, with me. On top of the institute, after the sun rises.”

“I look forward to it,” Drusilla replies before she enters her room.

*Ash curses at himself and turns to walk down the corridor.*

(8) *Ash is watching Drusilla train in the courtyard, from his bedroom window.*

“Good morning Ash,” Kit exclaims as he walks into his bedroom.

“Never have you been more right, Kit. It is the sunniest. The most fragrant. The most beautiful morning I’ve ever seen in my life.”

*Ash turns his attention away from the window.*

“Today, my job is to woo.”

“To what?”

“To woo... I wish to make a proclamation of love,” Ash says as he waves his hands in a comical way.

“Really? I thought you wanted to keep your feelings secret.”

“Why would I want to do that? By the end of today, I will win my lady.”

“Right.”

“So, I need your help in expressing my feelings.”

“Of course.”

*Theres a pause.*

“How do I express my feelings?” Ash asks impatiently.

“Oh, I see, um feelings.”

“Feelings.”

“Girls.”

“Girls.”

“Flowers?”

Ash’s face lights up, “excellent, find some! Perhaps you should also send a note.”

“Brilliant idea!”

“Something moving, something from the heart, something - you’ll think of something.”

*Ash leaves Kit standing there, completely baffled.*

(9)*Ash knocks on Drusilla’s bedroom door in the middle of the night.*

“Who is it?” Drusilla questions.

“It is destiny, my love,” Ash says as he looks down at his plate of food. “Destiny and chicken.”

*Drusilla opens the door and looks displeased.*

“What a beautiful combination, eh?”

*She shut the door in Ash’s face.*

“The beans are cold,” Ash continues while he reopens the door, “but the meat is very good.”

“Go away!”

“My love, I do not know what I’ve done to offend you.”

“Your love? Not now, not ever!”

“Come now.”

“My brothers will kill you if they find you here.”

“Your brothers do not worry me.”

“You won’t be saying that when they’re running after you with knives in their hands. I’ve seen it all before.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

*Drusilla shut the door in Ash’s face again.”

“Just five minutes!” Ash says as he keeps knocking.

“Ash! I don’t think your advances are welcome here,” Kit advises as he approaches him.

“I don’t know what gives you that impression.”

*Ash grumpily hands over the plate of chicken to Kit and walks away.*

(10)*Zara takes a magical potion that starts to change her.*

“What the hell is the matter?” Manuel asks as he runs after Zara.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me. I just suddenly felt so hot. I think I need to be on my own,” Zara replies.

“Are you alright?” Drusilla says, with mock sympathy.

“Yes, yes. I’m fine,” Zara says as she reaches for the door handle. “Come on, come on, open!”

“Let me,” Ash suggests as he approaches her.

*He jumps back when he notices Zara’s arm. It’s discoloured and has boils.*

“Whats that?”

*Zara transforms into a hideous beast.*

“You’re a troll!” Ash exclaims.

“How dare you speak about her like that!” Manuel shouts.

“What is wrong with you? Look at the state of her.”

“I don’t believe it,” Drusilla says with a giggle.

*Zara breaks down the door and walks out in haste.*

“She just ripped a door off its hinges, doesn’t that tell you something?”

“Enough!”

“She’s a troll! A giant, grey-“

“Stinking,” Drusilla contributes.

“Stinking troll!”

“Stop it! Haven’t you hurt her feelings enough? Insult my wife again, and it’ll be the last thing you’ll ever do.”

*Manuel runs out of the accords hall, after Zara.*

[lysandra-vanburen]

Strengthening Infatuations

The following story was written as a collab rp between @itraeis and myself. It has been edited and written in the third person.

Currently this snippet follows the events of these letters as well as ‘War of Witches’.

                                             Mood setting music.

Viewer discretion highly advised; Mature and suggestive themes below the line.

The evening had been one full of well placed anger, inner turmoil, a sprinkle of misery and a dash of the wrath of a scorned mother. Lysandra Vanburen's bitter mood and deeply rooted maternal instincts had set the entirety of Melstone Estate’s functions into a harrowing halt.

Still Lysandra buzzed with the thrill of the kill but despite the lingering knowledge of having utterly destroyed the witch responsible for her children’s current state of rest... There was still an unsteady shake to her hands, her body swaying and mind consumed with such fury that it didn’t matter that already the enemy currently at hand had not only been apprehended, but Lysandra reasserted herself as the alpha in the situation... At the end of it all she got the last hollowed laugh, so why did she continue to linger on the issue?

Try as she might it became harder to compose herself, fingers flexing and stretching out as far as they were able before curling inward toward the palms of her hands in an effort to steady herself -- though still her body shuffled around in restless pacing.

With every stretch of her fingers had the plants within her childrens’ shared medical room would grow in size, retracting in size as Lysandra’s fingers curled into fists again. She was so consumed with revenge that she hadn’t even thought long enough about anyone beyond the Vanburens -- much less her, admittedly, current interest... Itraeis Holt. The man which last she swore to meet with for a date in her last letter.

Such a letter which had been filled with apologies and promises of a day together, swearing she’d meet him at his current inn some time in the afternoon of the very day and very time she was busy pacing... Such a letter that, with her swearing and promises, carried the details of her boldly printed address: .

Unbeknownst to Lysandra... He had waited out front of the noble accommodations patient as a man could be, despite the passing minutes... Still she never showed up.

An hour went by, then two.

Had she stood him up? Itraeis wasn't sure.

Part of her seemed almost distraught when they met the other night, he acknowledged, and it was true she was startled but that was more so with her own personal feelings drudging up in the presence of such a handsome and flirty younger man...

But the letter she sent back made her seem more than interested? He was conflicted, confused, and his pride a little hurt. But he wasn't about to turn and lick his wounds like some injured dog. He was going to be a man of action!

Connections were made, a few palms greased, and Itraeis had managed to procure travel with a small entourage heading into Drustvar. The address he gave was a slight detour for the caravan, since he didn't have his bike here in Kul'Tiras, and he wasn't overly good at horse back riding, thus he had to rely on his coin and his wit to convince the party to take him on.

But now he was here, at the main door of the addressed estate Lysandra had written down.

He took a deep breath and knocked on the large door, one hand held behind his back as he did so and then waited patiently for someone... hopefully her... to answer.

Her staff were all just as sluggish as the Lady of the House, seemingly too weighed by the troubling future ahead. Often their heads hung in prayer or thought, but they all were wishing for the wealth and good tidings of the currently ailing Vanburen children regardless of their own personal state of being.

Albert and Charlette had easily wiggled their way into the lives of those responsible to care and keep the manor of Lysandra Vanburen functioning, they were the sun and moon... Two opposites that brought light and joy into every instance, they were precious as could be... To think they were currently fighting for their lives was outrageous... All within the Manor were currently miserable, trounced by their concerns.

Jennifer was of no exception, the ginger haired handmaiden carrying a look of permanent exhaustion at all times... Even as her fingers twisted and pried open the door of the Estate’s grand entrance to address who had so boldly knocked against it’s thick wooden frame.

The door would most certainly open if only to expose the droopy eyed and deeply frowning woman dressed in a simple green frock and apron, her orange hair tugged into a rushed ponytail. She stood there a moment, coming to recognize that there was already familiarity to his features... To those dark, inviting eyes. Was this the debonair Lysandra gushed so fervently about merely nights ago?

"My apologies, sir," Jennifer spoke gently, her voice lingering on the edge as tears welled in her eyes, "The Lady Vanburen has canceled all lessons and business this week on account of her ailing children,” she pushed aside the thoughts of his familiarity, clearing her throat, "If you'd like to reschedule a meeting for next week, I can make those arrangements for you?"

Itraeis was taken by surprise. He had come to expect Lysandra had simply changed her mind on their meeting, or at best got caught up some business venture. But ailing children was not something he had anticipated...

"Actually, it was more of a personal meeting myself and Lady Vanburen had arranged. A date. When she didn't appear with no letter or messenger, I thought to just come here and ensure everything was alright...” 

Jennifer's eyes lit up with glee, newfound hope standing before her in his smoldering glory. Instantly she'd open the door wide for Itraeis to enter, exposing a fairly extravagant foyer where once Jennifer was standing, now no longer blocking his view.

“If you could let her know it's me, before we commit to reschedule? Now that I know the circumstance I'd like to, at the very least, see how she fares. And hopefully brighten her day even a bit," he explained, from behind his back he pulled a bouquet of wildflowers.

Jennifer instantly recognized that many of the flowers were native of Drustvar, a beautiful bunch of colorful and extravagant dome as well as numeric shaped flowers which carried an intoxicating smell.

"Do come in," Jen encourages, a hand beckoning him forth, "I imagine her Lady would be quite thrilled to have the support of her beau in these troubling times. Please, allow me to show you to the drawing room and I'll see to it Lysandra is made aware of your being, sir."

"Thank you, you're most gracious," Itraeis praised, pulling out a small purple flower and handing it to Jennifer in thanks.

The main entrance would be closed behind him, thus snuffing out the cold winds carrying through the grounds on this particular fall evening.

He stepped beyond the threshold and immediately soaked in the wonders of the home, taking in the sights of the grand manor. It was, by en large, much more impressive than his. Then again, Itraeis didn't really have his own lands or estate. He was a glorified squatter.

Inside the foyer alone was a rush of warmth, inciting the idea that hearts and radiators were on to challenge the chilly bone nights. The foyer was decorated softly colored wooden walls accented by golden fixtures nailed into the wood, lit candles providing bright, artificial illumination for the patrons of the estate home.

There were three different open archways leading into the east, west and north of the home. From the mere sound of it the east doorway led to the kitchens with clattering of pans and chattering servants being such indication. Otherwise the other doorways were mere mysteries.

On the air was the lingering smell of a calming lavender mixed with rugged, polished leather.

The most pronounced and startling of sights in the entirety of the wide foyer, alas, were the grand staircases leading up and splitting into two, leading up to the second floor.

Near the top of the first set of stairs was the statue of a winged beauty, her hands cradling a dove before her exposed bosom, a haunting look of longing upon her features as she is allowing the winged creature to take flight -- a moment etched in cool, cold white marble which easily matched the overall elegant aesthetic of the home.

It was down the hall beside the right of the staircase that Jennifer would lead the Holt gentleman, her clammy fingers clinging to the offered flower all the while. The walk was a short one, in which Jennifer pushed the door leading into the Lady Vanburen’s drawing room, offering for Itraeis to enter whilst she held the door.

The drawing room itself was decorated by varying animal heads and stuffed bodies. From wild boars to the slinky, gorgeous stoats the room was kin to a forest in its own right, with plants lingering on any furniture that would stand, a magnificent hearth lit aflame casting a warm glow into the room.

Above the heart, too, was the head of the green scaled raptor in all its frightening glory, red eyes staring down toward its marvels with solidified hate.

Along the coffee table set between two Kul Tiran designed couches was a single crystal decanter with water -- or so that was what Jennifer said before assuring her swift return with the Lady of the house. With the decanter were there four glasses stacked upon one another.

The couches were softer than life itself, dark navy in color and providing a splash of oddity in comparison to the earthy tones of the room- from the multicolored brick fireplace to the black bookcase.

It was a butler who hustled in, providing the presumed beau an option for other drinks he might desire, ranging from juices to alcohol of wine and liquor variety, "Do you require anything sir?"

"I'll be fine with the water, thank you." he politely declined. Best not to take up a drink when he still wasn't entirely sure if his presence would be as well received by Lysandra as it was by her ward.

He made himself comfortable on one of the plush couches.

Damn was it comfortable...

He could sink right into the cushions and fall asleep quite easily if he were so inclined. But he was here with reason. So he kept his posture proper, awaiting for when Lysandra would enter so he could rise to his feet and greet her properly.

When the news reached the distraught mother of her handsome visitor, she had been stunned momentarily, meeting Jennifer’s bright features with her own doubtful frown. A bubble of guilt blossomed in her chest and weighed against her so heavily it was getting increasingly hard to breathe...

Itraeis, of course... How could she have forgotten her promise to meet him?!

Turning her eyes toward her son and then her daughter the woman carefully pressed a kiss to each child's forehead, whispering reassurance that she'd be back soon before turning to Jennifer with a more desperate expression. "Watch them?"

"Of course," Jennifer assured, sending Lysandra out of the healers ward with this confirmation.

It was a short trek from the downstairs ward to the drawing room just on the opposite side of the estate, but it was fairly lengthy as each time she'd pause in front of a hall mirror to try and smooth over her frazzled locks and brush away the dark red tear tracks on her cheeks.

Alas, there was a final embrace to her look that came out as a soft exhale of: "Tides help me."

She atleast made the effort and adjusted her frilly neck cream blouse, taking the time to smooth out the fabric and stuff it beneath her dark brown trousers.

Her return home from confronting the Heartsbane witch responsible for her children's current state had been spent worrying for her children. She hadnt taken into account how crazed she must of looked, for while she had changed into fresh clothing she had yet to shower the grime, built dirt and dried blood off her skin.

Not only was she not immediately concerned with her appearance upon returning home, but she wasnt concerned with the prospect of being visited-- especially by a gentleman.

She'd enter the room with flustered cheeks and a rush of apologies jumbled together, her hands held up in defense as she first addressed Itraeis, "Darling I am so, so sorry. Things unraveled so quickly, I forgot our meeting completely unintentionally and I.. I'm not certain how much you loathe me right now, but know that I never intended to upset you, alas my duties as a mother trump what the heart wants at times!"

Itraeis couldn't help but smile at the way she apologized so profusely. He let her ramble away with her explanation while approaching her with the bouquet in hand. Once she had finished with her winded apology, the young lord placed a hand on her shoulder and leaned in to kiss her forehead as he handed her the gift.

"Lysandra, don't worry so much," he said in a comforting tone, "I'll admit, I was a little distraught when you didn't show up and there was no words. But your aid explained in brief that your children were ill. I may not have kids of my own, but I more than understand a mothers duty to her children. I'm just glad to see you're okay, all things considered." His gentle, reassuring smile clung to his features as a single hand raised up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear.

For a moment the maiden was struck dumb in her astonishment of the gift provided. Her hands took claim of the bouquet, marveling its beauty up close whilst tilting her head forward to admire their smell. Alas, the gentle brush of lips on her skin would stir the woman from her state of excitement and silence.

Golden eyes observed the young Lord in that moment, admiring him mostly whilst the fingers of one hand clung to the stems of the tied flowers, her second hand lifting to momentarily caress the boys cheek. All the while she provided him with a genuine smile, her eyes longing, a second emotion hidden in her irises.

"I'm not okay," she'd whisper in return, honesty thicker than ichor, dripping from quivering lips whilst she slowly stumbled closer to Itraeis, the flowers hanging at the woman's side now as she aimed to nestle herself against his chest.

She felt so vulnerable, reeling back on the incident with her children. It left her shattered, her confidence was snuffed out for the time being... And the only thing keeping her from bursting into a fit of tears was the comfort and warmth Itraeis brought her. It was an explainable feeling but..

It was something she wasnt going to push down and deny when she needed it: The comfort of a friend.

“ Of course not, love, of course not." he whispered.

His arms immediately wrapped around her form-  Once his arms had enclosed around her figure the maiden paused to gesture toward her lingering butler. Instantly he moved forth to collect the flowers, assuring Lysandra they'd be placed in a vase and presented in her room. Thus she indulged in the closeness without fear of squishing her beautiful gift. One hand rested on the small of her back and gave her a squeeze. The other stroked down her hair in long, gentle caresses. He could tell she was far more shaken than even she was letting on. Even if they had only spent one night truly conversing, he appreciated her as a person. Enough so to travel across the isles just to check in on her.

"Would you like to sit for a moment?" he asked, though he still rested his head atop hers and held he close for as long as she desired, "We can talk if you wish. Or I can simply be your comforting shoulder to cry on. Either way, I'm here for you, Lysandra. You need only say the word."

"No, please, sit with me..," thus she'd dare to curl her fingers around the front of his garb as to tug him in tow as she lowered herself into the comforting cushions of the couch, her voice maintianing shaky confidence.

For a moment she’d hesitate, her hands having ultimately retracted and moved to fold atop her lap. Of course he would sit beside her. Although her hands rested in her lap, his arm still remained around her in a comforting gesture. His body turned to face her properly, as she spoke.

Lysandra soaked in the moment as she tried to wrap her head around the generous display Itraeis had put on for her... So valiantly braving unknown territory just to come and visit her. It was charming.

"I'm selfish, dear... Please, I'm but your humble host," she'd remark quietly, aiming to simply bury the pain, "Uhm.. How have you been today, b-besides my mishap in standing you up," she'd provide him a small smile, "Which I am fully prepared to make it up to you, too." 

"I'll be sure to take you up on that then," he teased with a wink in return, "But you need not apologize nor bury your burdens on my account. I'm here  for you,” he took a slight breath, looking the poor woman over as she did her best to hold herself together through it all.

If she needed to talk, he would surely listen. But if she really did just want to forget it all for a time, he'd happily oblige. "But, to answer your question, my day was fine. The ride from Boralus to your estate was quite lovely." he said with an earnest smile.

Bury her burdens... How Lysandra wished it were that simple. There were facts revolving around the story of her family that ultimately led to the disruption in routine for her children that Lys absolutely could not share with Itraeis. And try as she might to prevent it, it hurt her heart thinking of not being open with a man she'd known for only a day. Her infatuations, she came to bitterly recognize, were stronger than she liked.

Damn boyish grin.

For a moment the maiden simply brought a hand up to comb and fiddle with her own hair in an effort to busy herself, distracting her mind by focusing on making herself presentable or at least less like a forsaken.

"No easy feat, the trek from Boralus to Drustvar. I admire your resilience," Lysandra flashed him a small smile, dropping her hands to rest atop the man's torso whilst nestling herself into his side, "I know I talked up the ride quite a bit the last I saw you, though while there is immense beauty in the scenery it can be... A daunting, exhausting ride. So..," nibbling on her bottom lip for a moment the woman would push back her doubts to remark, "If you desire, I can see to it the maids might prepare the guest room for you?"

Itraeis continued to hold on to the distraught maiden as she spoke. A gentle sigh as he accepted her desire to keep quiet on the topic at hand. As was her wish, he would happily serve her as best he can.

"It was lengthy, I cannot deny. But fortunately it wasn't me alone on a steed that rode out here. I traveled with a caravan. A few gold coins and a silver tongue and I convinced them to drop me off here. The company helped. Although these Kul'Tiran common folk are rather rough around the edges, aren't they." he described with a chuckle. “But you spoke the truth the other night. Drustvar does remind me a lot of Duskwood back home. It's oddly comforting, to be in a wood so... spooky. As for the guest room, well I certainly wouldn't say no. In truth... I didn't really plan my way home from here." he admitted with a bashful smile.

Returning to the main city was... Romantic, in it's own. Infact it's what would bring the mother to lean forward and press a lingering kiss to the man's lips.  Alas the affectionate gesture was not long lived, a mere chaste kiss that was followed by Lysandra confessing: "I assure you I am fully prepared to see a carriage readied for you to return to Boralus if you wish to leave tonight or tomorrow, all in all... Your presence here, right now.. It means all of Azeroth to me. Truly, you..," the mother paused for a moment, dropping her gaze toward her hands which lingered atop Itraeis's chest, quite bashful now.

"You've made me happy in such a short amount of time during which... Nothing seemed worth being happy before besides the fact Albert's coma means there's a chance he'll come out of it alive and Charlette's trauma will be healed within months of hard work..."

She'd hesitate, her mind now lingering on her children once more. Then she'd glance up toward Itraeis, "If you'd like, I can see to it you're provided a hot meal and whatever else you desire? I.. I can't promise I will be readily available at all moments, I do not wish to be far from my children long as they heal..." A soft sigh escaped the lords nose as their lips locked for that brief moment. As Lysandra pulled away, a quick nuzzle of his nose against hers extended the intimacy of the gesture if even for a fleeting moment. "I have no where to go anytime soon, darling Lysandra. I can stay for as long, or leave as soon as you desire. Just say the word," he reassured her. His free hand gravitated towards hers that rested against his chest, enveloping them in a caring squeeze.

"Albert and Charlette, I'm sure their recovery will be smooth. I'll look forward to meeting them when the time arrives," he whispered with a smirk, doing his best to keep her mind away from their condition and focused on happier thoughts, "And you need not worry about me. Allow me to join you for breakfast in the morning at the very least and I'll count myself as blessed. Otherwise, be the strong woman I can see you are and tend to your children as you need."

For a moment Lysandra opted to bring one of Itraeis's hands to her lips, skimming across his knuckles before flickering her gaze up to meet his. Itraeis carried a similar smile, now as she wore a teeny, bemused grin, "You were so unexpected... Alas, I'll not linger and doubt what ever has sent you my way. I'll simply enjoy it." "My reasons for coming were simple. You didn't come to me, so I elected to come to you," he answered. He brought his lips to the crown of her head as they sat and conversed, a soft sigh of content escaping him.

It seemed there was a greater meaning to her words. How he'd interpret it was his to decide, all in all Lysandra would provide the man a grand smile.

"Tomorrow we'll share a breakfast and, perhaps, I can give you a tour of the estate? Bring you to see the horses?" Pointedly she was avoiding the idea of him visiting her children.

Both because the kids were in a vulnerable state as was, but to involve a gentleman who's intentions were still unclear to Lysandra herself... It seemed best to keep those thoughts far at the back of her mind rather than drag him deeper into her family life merely based on a day and some hours worth of knowing him.

"Perhaps we'll even put you to work, if you fancy a bit of labor," her eyes twinkled with mischief.

"All of that sounds lovely, Lysandra. Though I'll admit I'm terrible when it comes to labour. To be totally honest, the only calluses my hands have ever known were from that of a sword. So unless you have someone that needs cutting, I fear I will be terribly useless as a laborer," he teased back, offering her a wink in response paired with that boyish smile.

"Awh, fret not dear. Labor for houseguests on the estate grounds includes a majority of time consuming tasks. Often the guests help me with my broodmares-- Cleaning them, feeding them, providing moral support as they're all officially pregnant..." Lysandra had simply guided the fellows hand to rest on her hips, providing him a more impish smile now paired with her lashes fluttering flirtatiously.

She felt like a teenager again, basking in the warmth of her beaus presence.

"Too there is aiding in collecting dinner itself. Often that follows after helping me with my horses, and after polishing the tack for riders who will be eventing in the next week. On more pressing matters, pheasant is on tomorrows evening menu I believe. Too, there are other gathering objectives for the meal in store for us," the woman then provided the gentleman a lavish smile, "Or you could stay here in this drab home and linger in your boredom waiting for the day to drag on?"

With a slight purr the maiden leaned toward Itraeis, tilting her head thus to bring her lips to the boys ear, "If you allow me, I plan to whip you into shape, darling."

Her claim was followed by a titter of a giggle and a well placed kiss to his earlobe.. To his neck... Then to his jaw, then his cheek. Just dotting, butterfly kisses. A great show of affection and the attempt to stir a reaction from him.

A shiver shot up Itraeis's spine as her whispered breath glided across his ear. The peppering of her affectionate kisses brought goose pimples to his skin and the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end.

"Well..." he said with a breathy tone, "...I suppose that does all sound rather fun. And if even a fraction of it is time spent with you I have to resoundingly agree to such terms."

Thrill and gratitude mingled within her mind ince she registered his original statement of agreeance, alas that bonding kiss seemed to only further seal the deal in the older nobles mind. All in all she'd manange a smile midst the kiss, soon to bring a hand upright to rest along the boys neck, her fingers gently curling along the back of his neck, dragging her nails up through his hair and back down in slow manners.. Just allowing her nails and finger pads to gently scrape across his scalp in a comforting gesture

The way her lips glided across his skin, from his ear to his neck. From his smooth jawline to his cheeks. The young lord Itraeis couldn't help but squirm some in his seat as he felt the stirring of his nethers begin from her affections... Alas, he was not one to act as a shy boy.

A hand rose up to cup her cheek so that the next kiss she made was firm against his lips, "I'll gladly let you whip me... into shape, that is." he remarked between breaths of their kiss.

Her lips molded against his own, her second hand gripping at the front of his garb. Between kisses-- that for her were becoming just a smidgen more  passionate -- Lysandra would murmur against his lips: "Then you are mine all of tomorrow, Lord Holt." 

How she lingered in their embrace... She was a fool to cling to being loved so tenderly by a younger man... Alas, she resonated and reassured herself that she so desperately needed the release and relief a mans touch provided. Already she was smiling more genuinely, not quite as angry or grief stricken... 

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

"It's my pleasure," he whispered in response amidst their kisses.

His breath became a touch more labored as his heart beat began to quicken. Excitement ran through his veins as a new lover's lips were against his own. He dared let his tongue slip free in that lusty manner. For a moment she'd hesitate midst their lip lock, her thoughts betraying her as concerns for what would come consumed... Alas, as his tongue broke beyond her lips and mingled against her own had the maiden simply.. Melted.

As her hands curled around the nape of his neck and played with his her, so too did the arm around her shoulder begin to curl long tresses of her hair around a finger. His free hand that still cupped her face offered a slight squeeze as he continued to pull her lips back against his own between breaths and words exchanged.

"An entire day with you... tomorrow... I greatly look forward too." he whispered back.

Instantly she was upon him, rolling her hips in the effort to guid her body upward, pressing a knee atop the cushion. She was a step away from straddling the man, and it was here she would fully hesitate, breaking their kiss ti murmur: "I assure you now... I'm not seeking to romp at this moment, Itraeis."

There was no definitive declaration that she would never lay with him. Just not now.

Despite so, once it was said, the maiden boldly settled herself on the boys lap, her cheeks flustered and eyes searching his for some sign of discomfort. Something to assure her insecurities that she had been reading things wrong this whole time.

"That's good to know, Lady Vanburen. For I'll have you know it takes more to convince me to relinquish my modesty!" he proclaimed with a playful smirk and a wink of his eyes, "You won't get me free of my pants on any less than a third date!"

A devious snicker escaped Itraeis at his own quip before his lips found hers once more. Truly they both knew he was the hunter here. And although his words were filled with the assurances that he was okay with her terms.

They could both feel his biology betray his words. He meant what he said, but that did not change that his body was flooded with desire. With the Lady Lysandra on his lap so, there was no way she wouldn't be very aware as well.

"Of course I won't pressure you, my dear Lysandra. My interest in you does not simply lie in your body."

With a little giggle the woman provided the fellow another kiss, whispering here: "It seems you've provided me with a goal, Lord Holt," before she'd knowingly roll her hips into his-- disguising the gesture as her attempt to draw herself to her feet.

"Oh have I now, My lady Lysandra?" he asked with a knowing smirk, "Well I'm always happy to indulge a challenge."

Of course, immediately his hands would wrap around her waist. Holding her down to stop her from rising to her feet, or so he believed her to be doing.

The instant she was anchored back down into his lap was the moment Lysnadras lips twisted into a massive grin, simply putty in his hand, sinking into his arms and against his body. Her arms carefully curled around the boy's shoulders, her nails of one hand curling and combing comfortingly through his hair.

"I assure you, Itraeis, I'm ever the competitive woman. The mere idea of a challenge thrills me," she'd muse, her lips delicately kissing along from the edge of his mouth down toward his neck, a trail of butterfly kisses left in the wake of her plush, soft lips.

Alas, as her lips came to his neck, she'd begin to nip and nibble at the flesh, careful so as not to harm him.

The poor boy was really no match for this woman. She knew exactly where and when to kiss, nibble, or deny him. He may have been the young buck seducing the cougar, but she was the one who could play him like a violin when she pleased.

Perhaps... he was actually out matched. But he'd never admit that, to her or himself.

"Well then..." he said in a quivering tone as her teeth grazed against the soft flesh of his neck. Once more his skin was dotted with goosebumps and a tingling sensation traveled through his left butt cheek. She had found one of his greater weaknesses. "...you're welcome to try... but I won't... concede so easily." he tried his best to speak the part.

But for every word he said in playful defiance, his body told a different story.

His one hand traveled up the length of her back. One tangled with her hair as if to humbly request she continue her efforts. The other traveled southward along her spine until it dared to take a grip upon her derrière.  And, of course, betwix his legs laid the hard shaft that surely, and unintentionally, prodded at the older lady.

He was no longer a boy, she was no longer his senior. Now Itraeis was only her current fixation, a thing - nay... A man which she so desired to touch... To feel.

Truthfully she wasn't seeking to wake the next morning intimately embraced with the boy, with naked limbs tangled and her bedroom a haphazard tornado being evidence of a romp bred from sexual frustration and genuine desire. No... She simply wished to feel his kisses and exploring hands making a map of her every curve. And quietly she'd express this to him, her words coaxing, suggestive:

"Touch me however... Familiarize yourself," her encouragement was followed by her teeth biting down on the tender spot she had found on his neck, alittle more aggressive in her kisses and suckling, aiming to apply a vicious red love mark in this place.

Too, she made it a point now to tease him so mercilessly, her hips shimmying in his lap, 'unintentionally' and innocently brushing against the stiffened portion of his trousers. A sleek, sly minx in this game of love that liked to play dirty.

"As you wish, Darling Lysandra," he whispered in response, for explore he did.

His hands traveled everywhere. Immediately following her words, his hands stopped what they were doing and found purchase on her ankles as she straddled, and teased, him. In unison they traveled up, along the length of her calves. Meeting the junction of her knee, he then traveled up farther along her thighs.

A firm pressure from each fingertip to feel and experience the tone of her legs. Clearly, a woman who rode horses as much as she, had legs as hard as stone. Once more his grip found her rear, as tight and as toned as any youth. Perhaps even more so.

From her rear, his hands traveled north along the the wide set of her hips down to her waist. His fingertips gave her a slight squeeze at the waist in a ticklish manner, testing to see if she were the sort to fall victim to such playfully torturous methods.

The backs of her knees, the patch of flesh beneath the ankle and before the foot itself...on both legs this caused violent tremors to rock throughout the woman's lithe figure. Too, the small area above her crotch and below her belly button proved especially sensitive, the curves of her sides, as well...

Even the hands clinging to his hair would tense and pull at the dark tresses, whimpering heard from her lips as she fought to compose herself.

Truthfully these shudders were that of a neglected woman, having gone long without a lover she was susceptible to being turn into jelly with the most casual of brushes.

She'd ultimately release his neck from her mouth, opting instead to reclaim his own lips for hers in a tongue twisting, deep lip lock. 

Her kiss caught him off guard for a brief second. The intensity of her desire pleased him, however. It played to both his sexuality and his ego. Each time her body shuddered from his touch, he'd make a note of the spot. A place for him to exploit in the future, if it ever got that far of course.

From her waist his hands traveled further upwards. His fingers touched each rib as though playing the ivory keys of a piano.

Eventually, his hands came to rest just underneath her bosom. His advance halted there for a moment, though he never stopped indulging in her passionate kiss, the pause alone a question in and of itself. Any further and he dared taking this exploration to a more intimate level than it had yet reached.

For a moment even Lysandra hesitated, breaking the kiss momentarily to unravel her hands from his hair and around his neck. Her hands would then collect his before applying a gentle kiss to his lips, murmuring against them,

"And that is second date constellation prize."

As she pulled away and denied him that ample bosom, Itraeis suddenly found himself a bit a flounder as he came back to more conscious senses. That primal lust no longer clouding his mind. He gave his head a quick shake and looked back up at her as she spoke. A tender smile now gracing his features as she spoke.

"Of course, Lysandra," he agreed, his hands returning to her waist.

Now that she was no longer locked at the lips was the moment she was able to freely marvel and admire the younger man.

A hand would reach across to caress one of Itraeis's cheeks, her eyes soft and carrying an expression of genuine mirth.

"Damn you for being so enticing. I've completely negated all sense of manners and proper etiquette.. I'm simply ashamed of myself," she'd chuckle halfheartedly.

"I promise, I won't tell if you don't," he replied with a wink, "No one shall know of how uncouth we act behind closed doors. That is something I'd keep close to the chest anyway. I'm not the type to kiss and tell."

Despite how the heat of the moment began to cool, Itraeis wasn't make any inclination as to willingly let her leave his lap just yet. Looking up at the woman as she looked back at him, he couldn't help but appreciate her beauty. Such refined grace and loveliness was still captivating to the young lord. He wanted nothing more than to let this moment continue indefinitely.

With a small smile the woman leaned forward, resting her forehead against Itraeis's, soaking in the closeness whilst her hands dropped to lay on his chest. "Are you the type to find, bed and disappear?"

Now she had leaned back once again, court trained eyes peering intently toward the fellow, awaiting his reaction and his words... Trying to find hesitation, a lie. As desperately as she desired to... She wasn't willing to get her hopes up with this wonderfully talented and enticing man.

"I've had a share of brief encounters, I won't lie," he admitted to her. It was a rather risky move on his end, to be so bold as to admit to his indiscretion.

"But I also can say with all honesty, I've never traveled across foreign countryside just to bed a fair maiden. You are worth more than cheap wine and easy tricks. You, Lady Lysandra Vanburen..." he spoke, a pause as a hand rose to stroke her cheek, "... you are a women I seek to hold close. Not just bed and vanish before the dawn. Yours is the face I would look forward to seeing in the morning many dawns over."

"Ever the charmer," she'd accuse gently, biting back the urge to jump his bone right then and there. Instead she'd nuzzle her nose against his own before brushing her lips over his, remarking in a hushed voice, "You'll have to forgive me overall... affections, alas, I'm overwhelmed. Essentially it's not a well enough excuse--," she'd quirk the corner of her lips up into a small smirk, nervously beginning to fiddle with the collar of his shirt, "But I... Well when you say things like that," she'd gently jab at his chest, "It gets me all riled up! So shame on you."

Awh, ever the one strong with the words.

"Does that paint me the villain? To manipulate you so. Shall I stop using such a silver tongue to tempt you, my darling Lysandra?" he asked with a playful mirth, "If that's the case. I can certainly stop such honeyed words in your ear. Perhaps my silver tongue could find a better use instead." he added with a wink.

Oh he was a daring one.

Though his hands remained on her hips, his lips now sought to pepper his own kisses against the soft skin of her neck. Even a few nips to return the gesture she offered moments prior.

"Perish the thought," she'd mewl sweetly, beginning to roll her hips into his once again, alas the gesture would simply be followed by the older woman aiming to lift herself from his lap, "If anything I'd prefer more for I am a vain little lady... Though there's alot more I'd desire from you," and with this she'd pause in her standing to remark, "Such as you just laying me flat out on this couch and ravishing me. Alas," smiling for a moment she'd draw off after murmuring, "Tides, what was I saying before..."

It seems his harmless little kisses and nibbles had caused a short spout of loss of memory, triggering a state of thoughtlessness -- unless her thoughts were how she could live in this moment forever.

He did his best to hide his frown, for he didn't want the moment to end either. But despite such devilish words, he did truly wish to earn her trust and genuine affections. Not simply play the seducer and leave her feeling regretful in the morning.

“You know, darling Lysandra, I could lay you down and ravish you whilst also singing your praises. If I were to take you so, you'd deserve everything your heart desires." he paused, leaning in to steal one last kiss, "and I aim to give you exactly that."

Mindfully the mother rose after indulging in final kisses from the fellow. Alas, she'd find it an appropriate time to part, taking a moment to adjust her blouse whilst wearing a small smile: "If you need anything, darling, the servants are prepared to wait on you-- My bed chambers are simply down the hall from your guestroom if during the night you require--," hesitating the woman remarks whilst smiling wrly, "Anything simply seek me out or inquire a servant."

"But of course, Lysandra," he accepted with a charming smile, flashing those pearly whites, "I'll try not to wake you unless absolutely necessary. Rest well."

With a bashful smile the woman promptly excused herself, turning atop her heels to exit the drawing room, instantly acquiring a servant and sending them in to collect Itraeis to locate his designated bedroom. After such, she quickly returned to sit with her babies. 

Itraeis watched her walk away the whole time.

“She has... A great ass..." he said wistfully to himself before letting out a great sigh and following the guide to his chambers for the night.

[tobelongtheseries]

Red Under Moonlight

“To Belong” Writing Contest Entry Written by: Grace K.

Esther had no doubt that she would one day be killed. She thought about it not so often that it became a nagging fear, but still not too little that she became cocky in her work. In fact, the subject of death came into her thoughts just that day. She strolled a sparsely-populated avenue, littered with grand estates, under the goldening light of a setting sun, imagining not many other people think about themselves dying just as regularly. But she had reason to.

Raised by rogues who had met similar fates, the woman understood that her self-imposed reign over the underground would one day come to a bloody, forceful end. Likely occurring under the blade of a faceless guard, no less. Inevitably, her fortunes would be taken from her instantly, under the swipe of blade or claw…

It was an unhappy thought, but Esther made peace with that fact. It must have been almost a decade since she had solidified her life path. Self-employed in a job that was cross-country, tireless, and merciless, but not without its reward—the black market needed suppliers, after all. Thankfully, her piles of fur blankets were efficient in suppressing any conscience or morality that hadn’t yet been snuffed out. On that autumn evening, however, she didn’t have pelts on her mind. That night would be simple: a tiny, insignificant heist. Esther promised Olidammara it would be clean.

“I think after we’re done you should... go off and celebrate! Go and find a cute boy, buy him a drink, make him buy you one… mutually agree on having some fun, bring him home…” Esther hummed to the brown-furred stoat who laid on her shoulder. 

“What? No,” Oli protested. His tiny claws kept his balance by gripping into Esther’s fur shoulder wrap, someone long dead. “You’d steal ‘em away,” he accused.

“You find the most handsome ones out there, you can’t blame me if I want a bite!” 

“I don’t like it when you do that. I’m not gonna ever bring anyone over again,” he moaned, letting his tiny furred face fall. 

“But I’m hungry,” Esther whined, forcing a pout.

Had Oli been in his human form, his appearance might have turned heads. He had none of Esther’s vanity, scruffy and scarred. A thin slit from the corner of his mouth up to his ear made a permanent smile, still visible even as a stoat —hardly the grin of aristocracy. Unfortunately, inconspicuousness was the key to success for their plan, and a rogue that looked like a rogue would not make the cut. 

In the air blew a chill, and Esther pulled her shoulder wrap tighter—she gripped the long-furred pelt harder than she needed to, whether from nerves or excitement, it was impossible to tell. Distracting herself, Esther plucked Oli from the fur with a porcelain hand. Her other came over to stroke his head, light and soft. He wriggled, anxious to be put down.

“Stay close enough to hear me, tiny,” Esther cooed. Oli twitched at the nickname.

Still, he was eager. “I will, I will—’n if they even think of shifting, I’ll, uh, I’ll definitely be close enough, queenie, just close enough to run up their legs and bite their nu—”

“Ugh, shoo.” Esther let Oli go with a twist of her hand, the stoat falling ungracefully behind her. The woman didn’t do so much as look at him before he scurried away, giving neither him nor his task another thought.

Continuing the route, the targeted estate loomed near. Two guards, as expected—no job was done without research, after all. Between the guards, she knew the fair-haired was a cassowary, and the dark-haired a jaguar. Weighing the risks, she supposed her own form could maybe match up against a jaguar, being similar enough, but… they’d just have to be careful not to get to that point. Esther trusted herself.

Walking confidently closer and closer to the men, her smile gleamed. “Good evening,” she greeted cordially. They both wished a well eve, but as she neared, the fair-haired man—the cassowary—spoke up. 

“The comtesse Kamilla does not accept visitors after evening tea,” he recited. Esther merely scoffed. “I was only saying good evening passing-by, is that a crime?” She chided. “And, between you and me,” she began stepping closer, suggesting a privacy. “I do not think I’d ever be caught at her salons. I’ve heard she’s, erm, mad as a march hare. Literally.” She winked directly at the dark-haired man, and laughed. He laughed with her, heartily.

The other man frowned, shifting his weight, before clearing his throat: “Not a hare. Rabbit, long-haired, and quite… proud of it, actually…” He trailed off, ignored.

Having snared the jaguar-guard’s attention, Esther lept for the kill. Pretending that she would continue her gossip, she stepped forward once more, but made sure to jam the thin heel of one of her shoes in the nook of a paving stone. The shoes were bought cheap; the heels made of nothing supportive would break with any sort of pressure, and intentionally so.

With a slight twist and tug of the foot, a snap broke their conversation, and the woman ‘fell’ onto the dark-haired guard. She gasped in horror, and so did he, but his reflexes proved themselves. Esther found herself in the thick arms of the comtesse’s gate guard.

She looked shocked, hopping on one foot, grasping at the guard for balance. She soon settled in an awkward hold, his hands around her waist.

“I can’t believe… what happened? I’m so sorry!” 

The cassowary man looked down at her heels. “Your shoe—”

“I didn’t mean to trip, I’m sorry,” she stuttered, trying to balance herself and failing.

“Ma’am, no need to worry… womenswear, it’s all impractical.” He helped her balance against him, moving his hands to her shoulders, on her wrap. “You’re lucky I caught you.”

“Ah…” she bit her lip, smiling. “Are you ever,” Esther said quietly, looking up at the guard with a flutter of lashes. There was an ample moment where they only stared, faces close. 

Realizing his actions, he looked away, down to his hands. “I, hm… and, who is this?” The guard asked, low and almost heady, running his palms over Esther’s fur-covered skin.

“Oh—my grandmama,” Esther said, equally low. “Wolverine. It matched her temper. But she was… so dear.” It was easy to lie about its origins. The world was far too trusting.

“Precious,” the jaguar-morph commented idly, notably keeping his hands firm on her. 

Esther would have liked to gag. Instead, she sighed, giving a feeble attempt to lift herself from him. She looked down at her shoes, dejected. “She’d would be ashamed of me for this. I don’t know what to do—I can’t just shift in these clothes… but my stockings…” 

“Shh. Hey, no need for that. I won’t let you walk barefoot.”

“You don’t suppose you could spare a… poor maid’s shoes?” She suggested. “I was thinking I might carry you home myself, huh?” The guard propositioned. Esther giggled despite her disgust, fawning over him like a pure adolescent. The other man coughed in his fist, turning away. This gained the attention of Esther’s guard, who whipped his head around, glaring at his coworker.

“What the hell are you still doing here?” He barked. “Go get her shoes!” With a squawk that would have fit his feathered form, the other guard rushed to the gate. He opened them enough to let himself through… more than enough room for a weasel.

Oli had stuck low and close, gagging at his boss’s flirting. But it was his time to shine. His noodly stoat body slinked forward and low as he followed the guard, rushing to find women’s shoes. The guard led him inside, through the servant’s halls, and as usual, nobody noticed the tiny animal. It wasn’t hard for Oli to find his mark: the servants’ back passage. 

There was no telling how long it took his partner to reach the other side of that door. He recognized her auditory signal, and he maneuvered to open the locked door. It was a deep, smothering black outside. Esther wore a cloak; she seemed to materialize from the inky night as she stepped into the faint light of the servant’s hall.

She looked around, inspecting her surroundings. “All the maids and hall boys are..?” 

“Busy with dinner,” Oli nodded. It seemed that they were on-time.

Reconciling, Oli scurried up the length of her cloak up to her shoulder, hiding in her black hair as she rushed down the hall. The peasant’s shoes she now wore were silent as she rushed down the empty corridors, searching for one particular door, the one that their insider told her about in great detail—and then, they found it: at the very end of the winding halls, iron-wrought. The seal to a noblesse who couldn’t keep her mouth shut about her worth. 

Being small had its perks, such as improved maneuverability for picking locks. Esther lifted Oli to the lock, letting him do his thing. It was a skill twice-perfected, now easily accomplished, letting the thieves slip in. A treasury, fitted with riches, shelves weighted with their value. Both Esther and Oli felt their cheeks burning with ecstatic grins.

Esther put down her tote, which had another bag stuffed inside—of which they’d carry their weights in gold—and then undid her cloak, throwing it over Oli’s tiny form. Immediately, the lump under the fabric grew taller than even her. The man who stood in the animal’s place fumbled with his coverings. Oli turned and looked down at Esther, grinning a scarred smile. “Who’s tiny now, huh?” He teased. “Time to make haste, yeah?”

Wordlessly, Esther reached up and mussed Oli’s scruff of brown and white hair. With no time to waste, they got to business. Shelves were emptied, filling their rucksacks; the Lady of the estate would learn there was an expensive penance for unbridled pride.

Not long after, the rogue found herself inspecting a faceted ruby... when they heard it.  Footsteps outside the door. In the hallway. The feeling of fire enveloped Esther’s lungs before she remembered to breathe. Whether the servant entered or not, the plan was tarnished; they hadn’t stuck to their appropriate time slot, and now they had to rely on stealth.

Esther’s partner stared at the door. “It’s only one. Let me handle it,” Oli sniffed, wiping a hand across his nose. Trained in shadows, he stepped silently like encroaching darkness, bleeding out the door to snuff out the servant’s lights. He looked even more out of place as a human, patches of his skin and hair white, born without spats of colour as if an artist forgot to fill them in before presenting his painting to the public. That distinction, along with his mouth’s scar, would certainly be a tip-off for any man or maid that he was not one of the comtesse’s. 

There was a silent agreement between them. Esther trusted his skills in stealth. She didn’t care what happened to the servant, she only wanted to escape. Biting her tongue with bated breath, the woman waited for Oli’s return. And then, it was over. Their plan was over—Esther knew, by the way the servant screamed. A woman’s cry emanated from the halls… there shouldn’t have been a noise at all. 

Following that, Esther’s first instinct was to strip. She had begun removing herself of her dress and tights as Oli burst in, carrying the unconscious body of an unsuspecting maid. 

“You fucking idiot,” she hissed.

“What do you want me to do?” Oli gawked. “I’m naked, I didn’t bring anything for this! This was supposed to be a simple get-in, get-out!” He dumped the maid on the ground.

“Get my fur. Carry the bags,” Esther ordered, as she peeled off the last of her clothes.

“Maybe if someone didn’t spend all of her time dicking around with guards…” “I said carry the bags!” 

The moment Esther’s dress hit the floor, she was already transforming. Earlier that evening she compared herself to the guard, the jaguar, but she knew that in reality, he could never compare. What stood in Esther’s place was a creature of power and beauty—a large cat of dusty white with charcoal spots, hardly a commonality. She was large, powerful, and focused: she was not letting her prize slip through her fingers, or paws, so easily. The snow leopard ran.

She moved ahead of Oli, still human, who put all his energy in carrying their loot and Esther’s precious pelt. As she turned the corner, a force ran into her. A blunt kick to her ribs made her stumble, hurting to the core. The cat growled up at the servant who ran into her, a man who tripped into the wall from their collision. He looked down at with horror.

Olidammara ran past at that moment, headed towards the exit. The servant man was about to call out to him, but he was interrupted by Esther pouncing, crashing him to the ground. Her claws dug into the man’s shoulders; she used all her weight to force her paws back and slam his head back into the ground, rendering him unconscious. Tearing her claws from him, she left running, a trail of bloody prints coursing through the halls. 

The servants they found all fled or made feeble attempts to fight, none gaining traction. They were almost in the clear, reaching the exit. Ideally, they’d only have to run off into the night and then they’d enjoy the new additions to their stockpiles... Instead, a deep, guttural growl came from the shadows. They both knew the moment they heard it—and Oli took off in a sprint. 

Like a spring-powered weapon, a flash of yellow and black leapt through the air towards the man. The jaguar guard had transformed, large and mighty. Too distracted by Oli, the jaguar did not see Esther until it was too late. The leopard plowed into his side, raking her claws on contact. They had been thrown onto the ground, the jaguar twisted with his attacker. He struggled for dominance; though slightly stronger, she was more agile, weaving as he swiped. Esther dove for his head and shoulders, trying to bite and take hold. The jaguar went for powerful swipes with massive claws. Every time one of them hit and slashed, they’d yowl and hiss, the night filling with the snarls of a battle.

The two threw themselves at each other, leaping. They collided with claws and fangs bared. The guard teared at her shoulder blades as she dug her claws into his flesh, attempting to tear. Both of them were at each other’s throats in a lethal dance to mutilate and sever. They were stood on two legs, seeing who would throw the other down first.  Esther was not as heavy or powerful as he, but she knew for a fact she was smarter. As his weight began to overpower, she sacrificed her position to bring up one of her hind legs, her paw connecting with his underbelly, slashing down as deep as she could. The leopard fell backward, almost pinned, but he screeched in pain and let go of Esther just enough for her to roll on top of him and, with all of her animalistic power, strike.

Olidammara had stayed in the woods long enough. They had a meeting place, but his anxiety took ahold of him, and he went back to check on her safety. If necessary, he’d join whatever battle she found herself in. Luckily, he didn’t have to. A figure drenched in pale moonlight came into the woods: a large, white cat with bloodied wounds. Oli gaped—in her maw she dragged the jaguar with her. He was unmoving, his neck trapped in the unbreachable clamp of her powerful jaws. Even with her limp and stagger, she was a proud beast. Even after transforming, naked and cold with raw rivers of red coursing over her pale skin, she felt indomitable.

“Shit, queenie, look at you,” Oli muttered, fretting. He threw the cloak over her form. She smiled, thankful, but lopsided from a bloody nose and a busted lip. “Look at you! You’re butt-naked,” she snickered. Her laughter was weak from exhaustion and pain, but it was laughter nonetheless. Oli grimaced. “Quite mature for someone who just killed a man ‘tween her teeth.”

“Uh-uh. Unconscious.” She prodded Oli in the chest. “I wouldn’t kill him. After all, I don’t think I have the energy to peel the sorry hide off his pathetic corpse.” she practically fell on him, her head crashing on his shoulder and staying there. Oli grimaced deeply. “Lord. For a second I thought you had some humanity tucked away in there. Don’t scare me like that ever again, ‘kay?” Bringing an arm around the woman to help hold her up, they escaped through the forest, losing naught a piece of gold.

“Oh, don’t you worry. I’m never going to stop being a murderess, sweet pea,” she told him. “This is me forever, you’ll never get rid of me—I’m going to die doing what I love.” In this, Esther had no doubt.

[theredwallrecorder]

Let’s Try An’ Settle the Redwall Species Height Shmacka Once And For All Me Hearties

I have a confession.

I can’t imagine a Redwall where the characters are scale to the actual sizes of mice/rats/badgers/etc. I’m sorry. Please don’t ask me to fathom a Redwall Abbey the size of a child’s sandcastle. Please don’t ask me to pretend that a crew of vermin go sailing the sea in a ship with the measurement specs of a hobby model. I’m just... *inhales deeply* I’m not strong enough.

SO WHAT ARE THEIR ACTUAL JACQUES-GIVEN HEIGHTS. Well, according to Jacques’ Q&A page, there aren’t any canon heights; he’d like the creatures of Redwall to be as big or as small as your imagination. Turns out my imagination is pretty big. Big enough to want to scale this out for real. Want in?

I’m gonna need all the help I can get for this so hollaback at me all ya DnD playin’ mateys. @riverdoge @dibbunsagainstbedtime @laflenkenway @kazenoshun @xiphosuras @martin-the-warriorior @ltmacotter @handsome-spud @whoever else can contribute their RPG knowledges

I’m referencing the d20PFSRD for this. I’m more familiar with Pathfinder rules than Core, but much of the race-specific information is similar between the two. Also, here are the Redwall height charts I’m referencing for this: fortunatafox’s chart, byun-blog’s chart, novanocturne’s chart, mongoosefangs’s chart, benalene’s chart, somagames’s chart. (IF YOU HAVE ANY MORE REDWALL CREATURE SIZE CHARTS PLEASE LINK THEM BLESS YOU.)

Blah blah tabletop rolepaying games Pathfinder operates on a generic height system using monikers to denote size. Each moniker refers to a size category that describes the actual height of the character/creature without having to use literal numbers of measurement. The page at this link is a great rundown of size categories and what that means translated into three dimensions.

What I’m attempting to do is place the races of Redwall into equivalent Pathfinder height categories based on the animal’s size in real life. This would allow us to fathom how massive, say, the seals of Hawm’s clan are in Pearls of Lutra. Or how literally insane it is for a mouse (size category: small, see below) to go up against an adult male adder (probably size category: huge, give or take the results of this discussion).

Disclaimer: Believe you me, I’m not sayin’ EVERY member of x species is within a certain height range. I imagine Redwall has its Bandobras Tooks. Mister Jacques specifically mentions that certain characters are noticeably larger than other members of their species (such as Ranguvar Foeseeker), so we’re gonna have outliers.

Let’s take the smallest sentient Redwallers first. It would be reasonable to suggest that mice/shrews/voles/moles/etc, being on the lower end of the Redwall height spectrum, may be considered small (i.e. between 2 to 4 ft tall). A Dibbun or other infantile creature would be considered tiny (i.e. in the range of 1 to 2 feet tall). I don’t think we’d have any other sentient creature smaller than tiny (...or would we?), so for now Dibbuns are our smallest category.

Where would everybeast else fit? I’m especially torn about where to put badgers... maybe huge? Here’s an example category rundown (totally in the works) to help with the visuals:

Tiny: Dibbuns Small: Shrews, voles, mice, bats, moles, sparrows Medium: Squirrels, hedgehogs, rats, crows/ravens, magpies Large: Hares, otters, ferrets, weasels, pine martens, stoats, sables Huge: Badgers, foxes, wildcats, snakes, eagles/hawks, owls, herons Gargantuan: Swans, seals, dolphins Colossal: Whales

Whadya mateys think?