#toast the hamster

[the-teeny-bees-hams]

It's been over a year since I posted so here are some updates:

-Wasabi is actually a boy!

-We celebrated his 1st birthday in January

-He does have a tumor on his testicle but it's benign and doesn't affect him in any way other than giving him an adorable waddle

-The vet diagnosed him as "a little gentleman"

-He is a verified tit muncher

When the banana hits just right

#toast the hamster #hamster #toast tag #hamsters #toast post #wabby babby #new tags #a hamster called toast #the teeny bees hams #wasabi #spicy bean

[eightmakesonebraincell]

Polite hampter Joong ft. Jongho

AWW POLITE HAMPTER JOONG HAS MY WHOLE HEART 🥹🫶

joong is so hamster coded nobody can convince me otherwise

#loren answers #kaya toast 🍞 #MOOT MOOT #omg i literally have a tag for hamster!joong #feistiest hamster joong 😡 #I HAVE ONE FOR JONGHO TOO OMG LET ME DIG IT BACK OUT #bumbling bear jongho 🤗

[lilsqueakers]

Eggs, Toast, and Waffles are all grown up- they actually look like proper hamsters now.

#I just thought you all would like to see them! :) #I hope you are all doing well

[askfriskandcompany]

SCREW IT! YOU BELIEVE YOU CAN TURN PEOPLE INTO lil guys AND GET AWAY WITH IT! LET'S SEE YOU BEAT MY TOAST MAGIC! ALL THEY WANTED WAS TO TRICK OR TREAT! YOUR TALENT WONT PROTECT YOU NOW TRASH QUEEN!

*turns you into a hamster*

It’ll only last until Halloween is over. Enjoy your lil guy time. 👍✨

-TQ

[k-marzolf]

Hair Rollers & Doritos.

—warnings; roommate au, pet names, kissing?, fluff & stuff, fem!reader.

Word count; 550.

Tagging; @terry2227 @kayhi808 @e-dubbc11 @aoi-targaryen @snowkestrel @zz-kennedy @fictional-hooman @oops89 @thejanecampaign @vaguekayla @firexfate @rosaleenablack @russosafehaven @idaofinfinity @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @danzer8705 @littleblackcatinwonderland @disneyloverjaime @milea @bookloverfilmoholic @firequeensposts @gh0stf1c3 @ittybxttykxttytxtty

You threw yourself into his lap, glasses going askew and he laughed, fixing them. “Whoa, slow down, Velma.” He husked as you threw your legs over his knees, planting your iced coffee between your thighs.

You blew hair out of your face, “Velma?” You asked incredulously, narrowing your eyes at him.

He laughed.”From Scooby Doo. You remind me of her. Mostly calm under pressure, and smart as fuck.” He said, flicking your forehead.

You swatted at him. “I’m kinda dumb, love. I’d be the blonde to die first in a horror movie.” You grabbed his spicy chili Doritos, putting some in your mouth.

He didn’t believe that for a second. You’d figured out how to change your alternator after weeks of reading about it, every morning at breakfast, refusing to let Billy pay for the repairs, while you ate your toast with strawberry jam on it

“Excuse you?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, can I have some, Billy?” You asked, looking at him from under your lashes, hand still in the bag, making him swallow hard, his throat bobbing up and down.

He could never say no to you, except maybe to let Freddie Mercury, your hamster, on his bed. “Sure, Velma.” He teased you, ruffling your rollers.

“Hey, now! Don’t fudge with the process. Or I’ll come at you with a rolling pin.” Your glasses slipped down again, and you pushed them back up.

He laughed, “Wouldn’t wanna ruin a sleeping beauty’s hair.” He said, dodging the couch pillow. He kissed the corner of your mouth, tasting your iced coffee.

You ducked your head shyly, taking another fistful of Doritos in your mouth. He smiled against your cheek at your shyness. He usually hated shyness, mostly because he hated coyness. It was always used by other women to manipulate him.

But you were genuine.

“Like you don’t spend an hour on your hair every morning, love.” You retorted dryly.

Billy huffed a laugh, “It takes work to look this good.”

Your eyes slid over to his, as you licked your fingers, “So you don’t look that good naturally? Okay, Barbie,” you laughed, scooting closer, opening your iced coffee.

“I’m hunting Freddie Mercury for sport.” Billy grunted.

“Mean.” You said taking a drink, before flicking him on his nose.

He hummed, arm settling around you, wishing to crawl inside your heart and live there, warm and happy.

You fought him for the remote, and won (or rather he let you), finding The Mummy on some movie channel.

Later on, he watched you doze, pressed firmly against him on the couch, eyes fluttering. Your hair rollers pressed against his side, your empty bottle of iced coffee in the couch cushions. He had the temptation to take a photo of you with the rollers in. You were so goddamn cute.

His eyes drooped as he settled in, some infomercial playing quietly on the television now. It was late, and he rested his chin on your head, squishing your rollers, and smelling whatever spray you’d used on your hair. He was content, but he always waited for the other shoe to drop. Something always happened.

He never had a connection other than with Frank. But as he watched you demolish his Doritos, he thought he might have found someone in you.

#billy russo #billy russo x reader

[sonicasura]

Feral Plagas!Leon but he acts more like an energetic cat that was just given catnip. The pills used to suppress the Plagas growth alongside the miniscule inactive viruses from his previous adventures just toasts the bug's original nature. It's relationship with Leon becomes akin to Venom with the mind of a stubborn toddler.

Don't give it sweets and the guy will be bouncing around like a lunatic until you catch him on a tree covered in fresh sap. Leon arches his back like the Halloween Black Cat with his tail plus spike spines flared up if spooked. Becomes a pure chittering mess if given anything that contains honey or maple syrup. Meat honey from vulture bees is Plagas!Leon's favorite so it's best to keep stock.

Complete and total hoarder. He loves to collect stuff in this feral state akin to a bower bird. If it gets Leon's attention, then it's added to his makeshift hive like nest. Man has a few scratching posts and something very durable to chew on. Got a tendency of stealing animals like rabbits or chickens for the purpose of being pets.

Any nest Plagas!Leon makes is a mix between old clothes, bedding materials, and a unique type of saliva he can produce. The slime is very adhesive that it'll put even the strongest glues to shame. Leon's saliva has minor healing properties.

It's usually made in a web form than liquid to heavily reduce the adhesiveness and make it easier to remove. He can also make a powerful acid with the purpose of making pathways. Leon has quite a number hidden in Spain with only one not made during a feral episode.

He is absolutely embarrassed once a feral episode comes to an end as he's fully conscious for every moment. Especially since tantrums are a given in this state and he'll wreck furniture out of spite. Saddler trying to control the parasite just pisses it off instead so Plagas!Leon is even more vicious when fighting the cult.

In fact, he will even EAT the other Plagas as rage lets loose cannibalistic tendencies from its altered nature. A good chunk of insects do feed on other members of their species so don't be surprised if its true here. Leon later admits that they taste like chicken much to Ashley's disgust and Luis' morbid fascination.

Zoomies happen a lot even more so during a feral episode. His body tends to produce too much energy and Leon has to expel it. A human sized hamster wheel or hamster ball is always brought up with Ashley even thinking of a design. Leon wasn't amused.

Completely territorial especially when a huge threat such as Krauser is nearby. Half the time Feral Plagas!Leon will cut down the threat or get his 'swarm' to safety. (Leads to a Luis lives situation) Ashley and Luis are HIS, same goes for anyone else that he can trust and likes.

Feral episodes has a 50/50 chance that he'll shift into 'bug mode'. His appearance heavily morphing to an insectoid yet oddly reptilian visage. It's completely random so what comes come. Plagas!Leon still acts the same although he might carry Ashley or Luis by the scruff of their shirt with his fangs.

His abilities are heavily amplified in bug mode than just size alone. Leon's acid can melt steel than just rock, his adhesive saliva now hardens into a cocoon like shell, and any webbing produced is able to treat more extensive injuries such as 2nd degree burns. You can say he's more of a tank or sentinel from roleplaying games in this state.

Overall, the man is just relieved that he isn't going to hurt anyone innocent thanks to his new infected status. Although Leon will never tell anyone about the time he almost ate a Karen's annoying corgi. Guy's Plagas was hangry that day.

Plagas!Leon: War Mode

#sonicasura #resident evil series #resident evil #re series #biohazard #biohazard resident evil #leon s kennedy #leon s. kennedy #leon scott kennedy #plagas!leon #plagas leon #feral plagas leon #resident evil leon #feral plagas!leon #resident evil 4 #resident evil 4 remake #leon kennedy #infected!leon #infected leon

[aiweirdness]

I used GPT-3 to come up with some novelty sock concepts.

GPT-3 Ada (2020):

“Cruxx” Slurpees with a fish in an orange “Fängche” with french fries on top of a pocket-full of ice cream A shirt made out of a jello stick – it looks like a hamburger, but it’s not. “A halved grapefruit!” with lollipops Some kind of replica of The Lord of the Rings party balloon, with rainbow balls, pink hoses, and blood in tributes to the Great Hair String of Friendship Over a million memory sticks made from stars “Shocking in the head!” more brightly colored balloons

In my original prompt format I used quotes for text that was actually written on the sock, which means that Ada's lollipops sock has the words "a halved grapefruit" written on it. And the jello stick hamburger item is not a shirt, but a sock with a picture of the shirt on it. Unless Ada has completely lost the plot and is not even generating socks anymore, which frankly is likely.

Babbage is the next-largest GPT-3 model from 2020, and it is doing better at being socks, although many of its socks seem very tricky to illustrate.

GPT-3 Babbage (2020):

Robots posing with some butter “Ink!” cats with pink blotches Violins and Prawns “Santa it is” with polar bears and elves in a sleigh “Dreamy ghosts” ghosts with binoculars “Rainbow Rap!” hot air balloons and boing! boing! A twin-headed dragon jumps through a trap door A potato upside down with superpowers A day going on but no moon just like a horror movie Slightly more coherent are the socks from the next-largest GPT-3 model, Curie.

GPT-3 Curie (2020)

The Statue of Liberty with a 3-sided pancake. Orca whale jumping through a ring of socks. Octopus holding lemons “Turtle is Delighted” turtle with a backpack A stampede with bulls and zebras Pumpkin patch with cutouts of squirrels having a picnic “Make a toast to the kachunkers” with a bear holding a glass of tomato juice Grinning neutrinos with dirty fingers “As above, so below” with cats on the moon A lion eating a Space Shuttle Hamsters skating down a rainbow

GPT-3 DaVinci (2020):

Massive group of goats wearing party hats Unicorn riding a rainbow Flying hedgehog Robotic bulldog Ninjas and kittens “Lmao!” a flatulent dog with a mustache Googly eyed donuts wrapped in bacon A set of eyes wearing suspenders and monocle “Come on in! The water’s liquid!” – grumpy cat in red bathing suit “I can Haz!” a sitting Trojan Horse “Bark like doggone it!” dancing dogs on black background

Note that as the models get bigger, GPT-3's socks start becoming more conventionally "trendy", like a lolrandom site from 10 years ago. Technically that's what it's going for - it's trained to reproduce the websites from its training data.

More at AI Weirdness

#neural networks #gpt-3 #socks #novelty socks #ai creativity #or the lack thereof #the tiny glitchy ones are okay #to the kachunkers

[inlocusmads]

interborough loops ~ emily x trystan

Emily puts her feelings to words after taking a leap of faith - something she'd not consider doing if it weren't for watching the people around her. However, Trystan isn't a huge fan of words.

wc: 3.4k+ | strong language | teen and up

A/N: This is just pure vibes, no plot. I wanted to write a little something feel-good for Emily (who is @moominofthevalley's MC) on account of @choicesfandomappreciation's Secret Pal event (surprise, surprise, it's-a-me!) and something introspective at the same time. I hope you enjoy it!

The thing about exit ways were that, it took a longer time giving her mere seconds before the train could leave. The platform was sticky to walk through, which made it all the more difficult. She never made such mistakes if it weren't for the Odysseus-esque journey of a commute to the station.

Sounds of the PA announcement, the whirring of the train on its tracks and the amicable chattering of the passengers within made things all the more familiar to Emily. Then again, she did see him in the oddest of places. Not him as in cleanly-combed blonde hair, bright eyes that shone like a lamp - some kind of caricature many New Yorkans shared, rather in abstract blurry congealed messes.

They say you're more susceptible to falling in love with things that are familiar to you. Something like the faint smell of sugar reminding one of an old ube jam recipe. Then again, the 'they' referred to a drunk Emily had to wrestle off from latching onto her arms near her uncle's bar.

Anyway, it was as if her mind was trying to tell her something during commutes everyday. Only on the commutes, where the one or two times she took the T, she’d see other faces.

There were more obvious things, such as waving at the right person from a distance.

Today there was a woman fiddling with a black ring on her index finger. Another one’s phone played The Ink Spots’ We’ll Meet Again, the headphone jack loosely connected, enough for anyone close to hear and sigh. A man flipped through the newspaper, earnestly reading about world politics that had a travel column with picture of the Carpathian Mountains.

Then there were less-than-obvious things, such as mistaking an exiled prince for a ruthless murderer. Anyone could assume anything, which is why people wrote books about this feeling.

The window through which Emily saw the stations pass by, as the hollow tube careened through the twisted tunnels deep in the underground, were huge. As tall as what she recalled a French window would look like. The coughs around her were uncomfortable, but familiar in a way buttered toast was familiar to the tongue. A person loudly opened a pack of thin mints, hungrily eating through, sleep-deprived with a flask of coffee next to them. 

Businesspeople-with-briefcases loudly swore into their phones, tired of placing their tenth international call that day. A faint hint of lemon and piss reminded her of the dark alleyways with just one voice to focus on, apart from her own breathing. 

There were pleasanter things to look at-- say the kind of books people read: pirate fantasy, fantasy fiction, Blades of Light and Shadow-knockoffs, more pirates, self-help books, enemies-to-acquaintances romances, contemporary lit, poetry. Books with knives on the cover, books with eyes on the cover. Girls in black hoodies reading them. Boys in corduroy jackets aimlessly mulling over the same sentence over and over again - stuck in some endless time loop. 

Scratch that. They were all more than obvious things. Clear as day.

Like a hamster wheel, Emily had perfected this routine. It was either the T, the taxi or driving. She kept her options open. For breakfast, it was either plain wheat toast or cereal -some form of carbohydrates that’d help her get around. Hair falling flat in clipped bangs, a dress shirt, jacket and trousers - inside her pocket: phones, keys, wallet. She allowed herself very little room to think, whilst keeping her choices spread out quite neatly.

This felt strange. Fixating on one specific thing. It’s what her therapists have told her: “Just stop thinking! Journal things down if you fixate on a thought over and over again!” as if it were that simple. She’d written some down, before tossing them in the fireplace because letters -scalded or not didn’t bring her father back.

Her phone rang. A visible ‘T’ popped up on her screen, before she exhaled.

“No, I don’t want whatever you’re selling. Fuck off.” she hung up on the telemarketer. They’d gotten out of hand these days. From dating manuals to ring-up dinner services, it was getting fairly ridiculous. It had been a while since she had something new to divert her attention to. A rush of adrenaline coursed through her as she moved away for a tall man with a black blazer to enter through the doors. She kept her eyes on the ground from then on.

All of them carried shopping for the holiday season. The markets did open earlier in those weeks. Snow was coming. Blizzard warnings were issued through news tickers and psychic warnings. You could have snow, you could enjoy it, but never too much of it. Summed up Emily quite astutely. A coffee she liked today would belittle her with guilt tomorrow. What guilt? She’d have no idea. 

It was just a familiar feeling. If love (personified) were to stalk you stealthily, this must be what it feels like.

The people on the T were just people - ordinary people with ordinary griefs who were trying to be someone- wear a certain brand of shampoo to appease their partners, take off their wedding rings when meeting other people, barbers hiding scissors and telling pretty dates they were billionaires with a dark past of tax fraud, mothers lying to other mothers they never had a child before, priests giving sermons in the morning and drinking at night. Not many people were lucky.

Everywhere they went, they were reminded with this familiar feeling of being there. It called for this necessity to be cautious, be watchful, always on edge. Do a little Superman swap with the glasses and everything, because you didn't know if the feeling was there to stay.

Emily wore an array of faces for all sorts of these fleeting feelings.

A brave one for Mafalda. Only the bravest reserved for her boss.

Something witty for Luke and Ruby so they didn’t get bored at their desks. Another courageous one for Uncle Tommy.

One for Jimmy with clean hands and a presentable face; to tell him she’d been holding up okay and hoped he’d like peonies instead of tulips. Sick sobs later on. Nobody had to know.

A stern one for the T, so people didn’t cross her and something hopeful for her clients. Sometimes she’d let the face fall, just for a second, to take a bite of her marshmallow-filled sandwich or watch the window run through stations like a blur but fortunately only one took notice. 

And maybe something for Trystan. He was always good at seeing past these faces anyway. Which is why it made it even more difficult. How was she supposed to tell him, when she wore them for so long it was difficult to discern if it was real or not?

***

The train doors opened and she got off at her stop. Right in the front was a tabloid poster stuck to the pillars of the walls. It was funny how quick word got around about Trystan’s antics. Even New York had to stick them on walls like a you-must-remember-this because each day was different from the rest.

Slam poetry went on in one corner, as were some saxophone players some morning, breezy tunes - all plagiarised anyway. People paid to have something written for them. Emily watched a man tuck in a picture of his beloved’s in his wallet, before taking out the right wad of cash to have someone compose something on the spot as an early sentimental Christmas present to take home and surprise the partner with. One could also fill it up with gimmicks; like a band of kids sticking ‘kick me’ to a banker man’s shoulder. 

There were always firsts during the end of the year. The banker man had a book from the New York Public Library under his arm - one about Christmas desserts because he didn’t want to have his wife do the cooking, preferably. A first. Kids who never read, read books, just to come up with a kickass end-of-term essay. Likely.

People who never took pictures had armfuls stuffed in their wallets, so much so they’d mistake it for cash at least half a dozen times. Subway jazz players decided to pick up the violin just to play Billboard’s Top 10 in a classic flair; the others biting their tongues because they didn’t think of it first. Very very strange. 

A leap of faith into the new year, a leap of faith into January, February, March, April - twelve months, twelve years, well God knows how long and the tunnels would still somehow exist and people would be walking back and forth, the subway would continue to play all kinds of music until they’d rid it entirely out of existence, people stuffing novelties into their bags until they invented bigger bags - it was suffocating. This familiar feeling that Emily shared with everyone else spiralled into madness. She had to tell him. She had to. 

Bit on the nose to do it over the holidays, no?

Yeah, well, people were lucky. Some people, in the movies, happened to get the perfect time, with the perfect bit of snow. Others had messier stories that made good pub discussions or over-the-phone conversations on the train. God, the amount of love stories were palpable. Friends meeting friends. Family hugging family. Relationships broken and forged. Everything was familiar because Emily had been there - keenly listening to every conversation ever. She’d stopped listening to her daily discography of Fiona Apple a long time ago. Not exactly a gossip person, her, no. Never. Then again, it was familiar. Wasn’t exactly a new thing. 

The station was immortalised in this constant state of being, that only the obvious things changed.

For starters, the entirety of the subway station worked synchronously, like the parts of a Rube Goldberg machine: the marble rolling down an inclined plane, setting off a car to lodge into a wedge before tossing a spatula at a wheel-and-axle mechanism that began rotating spontaneously, tugging at a pulley entwined around its circumference. The pulley, mounted on a screw, does the job of sending a bucket of more marbles rolling down the plane. Today, there was chaos. Disorderliness. An apparent lack of a taser and a serving tray. The less-than-obvious disarray was her bread and butter as a private eye. While things looked that way, people clamouring in and out instead of the neat files they were used to. 

A hint of the nicer cologne would cause her to turn in the other direction. The PA announcer switched people every now and then, so anyone with a jaunty voice would make Emily tilt her head upwards. Packets of stale bagels were sold in pop-up shops, one with avocado shmears, cream cheese and chilli flakes. Any signs of black jackets or shoes that were a little too polished garnered her attention.

Talks about breakfast food gripped her ears as if someone were twisting them. Very strange. Wasn’t exactly a sign to do “anything” per se. People saw loads of signs in her line of work. You’d classify most of them under a crime involving a sudden strong impulse rather than driven by thought.

It wasn’t exactly required for her to tell him anything. No obligation. No requirement to wear a face, but also no requirement against wearing one. Each set off a different Rube Goldberg machine in progress, until it repeated itself in a loop.

Santa Claus (1989) was technically the ‘first’ Christmas movie. Then sparked the invention of the Hallmark confessions. Even more movies were made with a jaunty holiday theme. You don’t save just one picture of someone on your phone when they mean a lot to you. No. One family photo doubles into seven by the time the phone turns a month old.

A couplet gets stitched together to form poems and poems set to music make pop anthems. Then back from pop anthems to Christmas movies to the crowds clamouring into the subway - being a private detective was a curse because your job involved figuring out connections like some grandeur Tetris championship even with the absence of any apparent signs.

Emily was going to need a big one with neon lighting to convince herself. Until then she knew she was going to be eating her breakfast, waiting and reading the train schedule over again after getting bored from listening to the saxophone player play the same two songs. 

Once again, why should it be over the holidays?

March, April and May were out. Her memory told her that was probably when her dad could have been murdered. Could have. Trauma did this weird thing to your head where it made you relate with strangers aboard a train, but made you a peeping tom character in your own life. She’d never taken laminated pictures or had really familiarised herself with pirate books or discerned between two different accents, but "Hey-- uh, when did her father die?" Somewhere, somewhere. September was out.

Emily dusted off the crumbs of breakfast from her jacket, wondering when the next train to Astoria would show up. Now wasn’t the time to really revisit anything or she’d be faster than light in letting go of her control on the wheel. 

The train to Astoria was packed but Emily didn’t have options. She squeezed into a comfortable spot, a hand on the railing, another on a pole. People with familiar shopping bags and familiar looking faces occupied the seats. Tired, sullen, babies to feed, partners to take care of. Some grief-stricken. Emily could see that.

She saw it in Diana, a kindred spirit who had lost her wife. She’d maintained a positive attitude, something Emily considered would be in the cards for her. Others bereaved the loss of another year; too tired to cling onto anymore but too cautious to let go. Body language said very little about the person, but how they interacted spoke miles. Emily used this little trick on her clients a lot - to separate fact from fiction. Now everything tasted like strawberries and dark chocolate.

She had to tell him.

The man on her left was loudly speaking to his divorce attorney. 

What’s the worst thing that can happen?

The woman on the right was fussing with her baby, almost as if the baby was so unwanted she had to stomach having her shopping bags on the sticky floor.

Well, a lot could go wrong. Emily knew the persistence of memory was like cheese on grilled bread. Spread evenly and made no fucking sense as a metaphor here. However, the memory was rather persistent to say the least. Anyway, what about memories anyway, if she couldn't differentiate between the kinds of love that existed, mostly because she'd much rather not deal with them at all? What about those faces anyway - when she had one for each of those familial, platonic, romantic ec ceteras; what's the point of wearing it and anticipating this massive attack which never comes? Does she owe Trystan the words back? Was this the perfect time? And why must it always revolve around the fucking holiday season, when she was perfectly content two hours ago?

Emily felt like a commander anticipating an attack over the hill, when there was not even an enemy to wage war against.

 It was getting a little wacky now; the fact that the signs weren’t signs but more of her mind wanting to occupy everything else. Very strange. Snow did not make things better. The Drakovian Palace looked majestic in all the rain and hail they had, but even water couldn’t dissolve Vasili’s blood from her fingernails. 

A leap of faith. There was nothing much to it besides that. You just did it. People had other ideas. Step one, take them to a fancy dinner date. Second, let them order whatever they want. Third, begin a comprehensive powerpoint of your relationship history. Fourth, rehearse your speech a thousand times. Five, confess. Six, home. People also advocated for the spontaneity of it. Both seemed tempting options. 

But did it have to be now?

Emily was stalling for time. It felt good to do that. She reasoned it with the fact that 'snow made things even more depressing' and she should think of another time to owe Trystan his words back.

Her phone rang again, lighting up with another ‘T’.

“For the last time, I don’t need-”

“Emily, Emily, Emily, it's me!"

“Oh- hi.”

"Just called to check erm-- where are you, though?"

“I’m on my way, Trystan. Give me --” Emily flicked her wrist to check her watch. “Fifteen minutes?” - It was a lucky guess. The ride would take her thirteen minutes, with a quick brisk two-minute walk to Astoria Forensics.

“Right-o.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I am kind of tackling a heavy object. You’re on speaker phone by the way.”

“Anyone else with you?”

“That is your concern? I am literally dying out here.”

“I’m only assuming Ruby gave you the task of taking the Christmas tree out."

“Why does a forensics facility need a Christmas tree? And why me? Everyone else’s got the more fun duties!”

“Well, you could start with being not dramatic. I've been on tree duty and it isn't all that bad."

“Very astute advice, Rose. Ten-out-of-ten. Much advice, such-- argh! The twigs! One of them poked my eye! In the name of everything holy, this tree deserves to be burnt!”

Emily laughed. “Stop dicking around! The sooner you get it done, the sooner you can swipe some cookies off of Michael Dodd's tray."

“I hope there isn't some underlying subtext in there-"

“Why--" Emily inhaled sharply, "-Why would there be hidden subtex-- they're warm cookies!"

"Oh my god, cookies! I can't wait to get my hands on those delicious little treats as a reward for all this grunt-work!"

"Your sarcasm is duly noted."

"Mind getting here a little faster?"

"I think I'll take a detour and get some coffee."

“Your helping tendencies are atrocious!”

"Did you call me just to tell me to get there?"

"Is it not the purpose of a phone call?"

"The purpose of this phone call is--" Emily trailed off for a second, watching the stations zip past from the window.

The harsh lighting outside softened to a sun’s glow. The train moved at such a speed that made the tunnel look snow-white. The train was quiet and you could hear a pin drop, like all those lonely streets Emily had to walk through to go home. 

Only now, she had a hand to hold. She met the man-with-photographs-of-his-wife who nodded at something that wasn’t there. The other man with the cookbook was going through each page with such care and thought, scanning every word to ensure he had the recipe memorised to do it over and over again - regardless of whether tis or tis wasn’t the season.

Bags of shopping promptly disappeared from her view, replaced with more people filing in, latched onto each other’s arms. An elderly woman was peeling oranges for her grandchildren. Kids pointed and took pictures of the subway to be printed and stuffed in deep pockets.

Emily hated the idea of a perfect time. She loathed the idea of signs, even though they had some objective weight to them. She'd rather wear a hundred faces if it meant she didn't have to take any leaps of any faiths and would only reluctantly offer up something if there was a deed to check off from a list.

But when it was so easy for a grandmother to hug the two little girls she'd taken out for the morning, to tell them she loved her so much and she was scared that they'd get an awful cold from the unpredictable weather. When it was easy for the man with the pictures to kiss his wife's photograph, smiling at his selection of flowers for her grave and not let her be alone for a second; even though it was the bravest, biggest leap of faith he'd taken and everything seemed so large and intimidating. When it was easy for those hooligan teens, appearing cold and uninterested, to drape an arm around each other, give them a little punch in the shoulder and tell them 'Hey it'll be okay' when nobody else at home did.

There was no perfect time, no perfect sign and well, faces were bullshit anyway. Emily wanted to be able to take a step forth.

“--I love you.”

There was a long pause. Then Trystan’s voice crackled over the phone-

“Yeah well, this does not exempt you from helping me out with -- goddamn this tree! To hell with you and your manufacturer, tree!”

“No, I mean it.”

“Of course I know that. I love you too."

“I -- erm -- yes, yes, of course-- you did tell me."

"You know, you don't have to say it just because it is an obligation."

“I know that. I know. It’s just --” Emily took a deep breath. "The words matter, don't they?"

She saw two strangers on her train mouth something at each other. Emily figured it out to be something-something 'happy holidays'. It boggled her mind sometimes. How while people wore faces, some of them let it fall.

“No it does not.”

“Wonderful. I prepared and -- looked at the signs and everything and-- I have about thirty strangers looking at me like I’ve gone fucking crazy.”

“What do you mean you had to prepare and 'look for the signs'-- this tree!"

"Maybe you can deal with the tree and call me back?"

"Emily, you don't have to transcribe it into words. You make me feel loved everyday. And I don't have to tell you that either, because you already know, somewhere. Semantics matter very less to me."

"I don't know -- it is the season and everything."

"The only thing that matters to me is that you aren't afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"Of losing me to something that you have to punctuate your actions with words."

"No that isn't it. I'm -- nervous if I don't say it now, I won't ever say it."

"Keep waiting for the perfect time, darling. By that time, you would be knee-deep into dissecting for the right sign, you'd fail to notice you were loving with all your heart all along. I love you."

Trystan hung up the phone, giving Emily a lot of things to think about. The Obvious Thing wasn't around her; rather within her. She didn't owe him the words, she said so because she felt like it.

Something about the power of kissing your friends and hugging your lovers. Weren’t the songs singing something about it?

Regardless of any common ground, you could find warmth in a bullied banker man with a briefcase of letters he was taking to his husband’s graveyard, a team of single moms carrying wreaths with a flurry of “excuse me!” and “sorry about that, pal!”.

Kids hunched over on benches, playing a game on their phone while their fathers scoured through maps to make sure they were in the right station - those limited edition scooters were in a shop in Queens, but where in Queens? Relatives greeted each other by fussing over how skinny and hollow the others had gotten. The smell of a morning bagel and coffee filled the air as Emily walked down the platform, amidst the 10 o’clock crowd.

A troop of amateur singers were belting out to I’m Beginning To See The Light, a Yamaha keyboard keeping the band afloat. Emily stood by to listen for a few seconds, before walking down the same chaotic line of crowd to the subway’s entrance.

***

A/N : Happy holidays and a happier new year @moominofthevalley! Honestly I was super into how you incorporate a lot of contemporary elements into your story and I want this to be all about them vibes, y'know? I'm also taking a gamble here with writing a New York setting because it's quite chaotic from what I've heard, but I hope it is an accurate enough of a depiction to have people from all kinds of backgrounds and life stories in one place.

It was also a bit of an uphill climb getting to know Emily as a person too. She's very perceptive as a character from what I've gathered, no-nonsense and does this thing where she's able to connect a bunch of discrete things together. I also wanted to shed some light on her Filipino heritage, fondness for poetry, music and her inner battles with dealing with intense emotions like grief and love. It was so great getting to know her! I really really hope I was able to get her view of the world right or at least, resembling something right. I also hope I was able to sneak in a bit of Trystan lore in as well.

I know it's a bit late for Christmas (it's already the 26th here), but I hope it still has some of that festive-cheer esque vibes. (Also I'm not sure if this is a canon-breaking fic-- I'm so sorry if it is!)

Thank you so much for reading!

***

#choices secret pal event #moominofthevalley #trystan thorne x emily rose #crimes of passion fic #gifts for friends

[lunadreamscaper]

In a Sonic AU what animals do you think the P.I.E. Team would be?

Originally I saw Ghost as a cat (and that’d still work imo) but also I can see him being a raccoon or opossum. I prefer raccoon though. Because he’s a little creature.

Ironically I think Colon could also be an opossum. Only if Ghost isn’t one already. Other than that not sure. Or maybe a jack rabbit, or a bear? I thought beaver for some reason.

Spooker would probably be some small animal. Maybe a rodent? Idk. Lmao maybe a wombat/j/j but fr tho I’m not sure maybe a rabbit/bunny or something. Oh a HAMSTER-?! Or guinea pig..

Also you’re all already thinking this one probably and as cliche as it is Toast would probably be a wolf because, you know.

The only two I’m confident on is Ghost being a Raccoon and Toast being a wolf. But those are my strong personal preferences lol

#taleblr #venturiantale #venturiantale pie #johnny ghost #larrydacat #johnny ghost pie #johnny toast pie #johnny toast #venturiantale au #venturiantale pie au #spooker #colon #vt colon #vt spooker #vt au #vt toast #vt ghost #rahh

[voraciousvore]

The Origins of Martin Maneater (2/3)

Part 1

Word Count: 2.2k for part 2, 9k overall

Martin didn’t sleep restfully, since he had a lot on his mind, and he woke up early. The first thing he did was check to see if his little human was still in the box. He felt a wave of relief when he saw her huddled up in a tiny ball, wrapped in a nest of blankets. She was fast asleep. Her clothes and hair had dried off overnight. She looked cute, like a little hamster. He saw the bruises on her and his chest tightened up with guilt as he was reminded of his mistake yesterday. He didn’t mean to hurt her, but she was so small and delicate. He needed to be more careful. 

He got ready for school and then returned to the box to wake her up. He tapped her gently with his finger, since she wouldn’t be able to hear his voice. Her eyes fluttered open and she glanced up at the giant sleepily. She recoiled with a sharp intake of breath and jumped to her feet, backing up against the wall of the box before she recalled where she was. Once she came to her senses, she relaxed, placing a hand on her chest. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you,” Martin murmured, flushing slightly at his misstep. “Um.. I brought you breakfast.” He handed her a small chunk of buttered toast that he broke off from his own breakfast earlier. She seemed eager to scarf it down, which Martin supposed made sense since he made her throw up last night. He didn’t know when she last ate either, but she didn’t look underfed at all. It wouldn’t make sense for his parents to starve humans they were planning to devour, after all. 

He wondered about her past, and where she came from, but now was not the time for that. “I have to go to school,” Martin announced as he reached his hand down to grab her. She stiffened as he curled his fingers around her and lifted her out of the box.  

“I’ll have to keep you hidden,” Martin explained as he stuffed her in his jacket pocket. “Just stay there. I can’t let anyone else see you.” He knew he didn’t need to explain further, as he felt her tremble in his pocket. He held the quivering lump within the fabric loosely in his hand, petting her with his fingers to calm her down. His heart warmed when she responded positively and stopped shaking. She was gradually learning to trust him—probably because she had nobody else to help her. 

Martin was able to conceal her from his mom when she took him to school, and from his teacher and classmates when school started. He was quieter than usual, and tried not to make sudden movements. When the bell rang for recess, he didn’t sprint out of the classroom to play with his friends like he normally would. Instead, he took careful steps to the library, which was blanketed in a pleasant hush. He perused the shelves for a minute until he found a book on sign language. 

He sat down in a secluded corner and removed the girl from his pocket, setting her on the table. She watched curiously as he opened the book until he found a section with the alphabet. Her eyes lit up when she recognized what his intent was. 

“What’s your name?” Martin asked. She signed quickly, too fast for him to decipher. “Um... can you do that slower?” She moved her hands slower while he said the letters out loud. “E... M... M... A... Emma?” She did a little hop of joy and nodded, grinning wide. Martin smiled back. “Emma... that’s a nice name. My name is Martin.” 

Before he could communicate any further, the bell rang. Martin hastily scooped her up and put her back in his pocket before returning to class. He couldn’t focus on the lesson at all as he thought about Emma, and what he wanted to ask her next. Above all, he needed to obtain information about getting her back to her home, with the other humans, where she would be safe. He kept moving his hand to his pocket, checking on her protectively. When it was time for lunch, he skipped eating and snuck back to the library for some privacy, bringing his lunchbox with him. He set Emma down on the table and gave her a small piece of his ham and cheese sandwich. She sat cross-legged and watched as he flipped through the book again. 

“Where did you come from? Do you have any family members to take care of you? Do you want me to take you back?” Martin asked in earnest. He figured those were the most important questions. 

Emma furrowed her brow in thought. Martin realized signing letters would be difficult to answer more complicated questions, but he didn’t know any words in sign language and it wouldn’t be so easy to find them, even with the book. Emma pantomimed writing and looked up at the giant hopefully. 

“I think a giant-sized pencil would be too heavy for you,” Martin remarked, but he fetched a pencil and paper for her to try nonetheless. The pencil was much taller than the little girl, and easily as thick around as her entire body. She wrapped her arms around it and struggled to lift it, but she couldn’t get the pencil upright without falling back due to the weight. She huffed with frustration. Martin had to repress a giggle at how adorable she looked when she was angry. So fierce and so tiny. 

She ruminated for a moment, then signed with her hands slow enough for Martin to follow along. “O… R… P… H… A… N… Orphan? You’re an orphan?” She nodded. “Oh… so those people my parents ate… they weren’t your mother and father?” She shook her head. “Did you know them at all?” She shook her head again. 

Martin sighed in relief. He would’ve felt awful, knowing that she had to witness her parents getting eaten alive, but the fact that she didn’t know them was a burden off his chest. Even so, he was sure the experience must’ve been beyond horrible for the poor girl. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. He didn’t know what else to say. 

She shrugged and averted her gaze, her face twisting up with strong emotion. Martin gave her time to recover and waited for her to look up at him before asking, “Um... you want me to return you to an orphanage or something?” She frantically shook her head with an emphatic negative. She signed with her hands again, spelling out a single word. “S... O... L... D... Sold?” 

Martin was puzzled. “What was sold?” Emma pointed at herself. “You were sold?” She affirmed sadly. “They sold you to giants? To be eaten?” Martin felt a cold chill at this realization. He couldn’t fathom being betrayed by trusted caretakers, to be auctioned off as nothing more than a piece of meat to be consumed by much larger beings. He shuddered. “That’s so horrible.” 

She teared up and Martin’s heart broke at the sight. He had an urge to hold her and comfort her, but he wasn’t sure if that would help, especially since giants were the source of her troubles to begin with. He timidly reached over and patted her on the head with his finger. She ducked away as instinctive terror jolted through her, and he returned his hand to his lap with remorse. He could tell she needed some space, and he was hungry anyways, so he pulled out his sandwich and took a few sheepish bites. He was ashamed to be a giant, particularly a Maneater.  

His sandwich was made the same as always, but it didn’t taste as good as it usually would, for whatever reason. Strangely enough, Martin found himself wishing it had more meat in it. He just ate a big steak yesterday, but he was still craving something savory and juicy, perhaps even something alive, something moving and squirming. Martin’s heart dropped into his stomach at the unwelcome thought and he pushed it out of his mind. He didn’t like that idea, not at all. He wanted to be a gentle giant, not a hungry predator. 

He finished his sandwich and looked back at the crying human. He slowly moved his hand towards her again, hoping she wouldn’t cringe away from his touch. Instead of patting her, he merely offered her his hand, palm up. She froze up as she eyed his hand cagily. Martin wished he could see what was going on inside her head. He thought she was getting more comfortable with him, but she still seemed to be fighting her innate fear. Perhaps his line of inquiry had dredged up hideous, paralyzing memories of evil giants. 

Martin lowered his head so he was in her line of vision. “Please... don’t be scared of me,” he begged. “I’m only trying to help you.” She gazed into those stormy eyes, so full of tumultuous clouds, and she was conflicted. Before she could make a decision, though, the bell rang. Martin licked his lips, clearly agitated. 

“Um... we need to go back now...” he urged, twitching his fingers. Emma didn’t move, petrified in place. She wanted to trust Martin, wanted someone to protect her and keep her safe, but he was still a giant, and she knew giants were dangerous. She shirked away, ever so slightly, and Martin felt despair dribble into his soul. He didn’t want to do this to her, but he didn’t have much of a choice. Without her permission, he grabbed her up in his hand and put her back in his pocket. He felt terrible as he went to class, with her diminutive form shaking in his jacket. 

As his lessons resumed, Martin labored to come up with a solution to his predicament. The human had nowhere to go, nobody to take care of her and love her, yet she was still so afraid of him. He didn’t know what the future would hold, but he needed to find a way to make her less scared, if such a thing was even possible. He wanted her to be comfortable and happy, too—for her to feel at home, valued and cherished, and not so alone. It was a daunting task for a child, but Martin rose to the challenge. 

While Martin was zoned out from boredom, a brilliant idea entered his brain. He didn’t know if it would work, but he figured it was worth a try, for Emma’s sake. After school, Martin dodged his friends so he wouldn’t be tempted to roughhouse and waited in the parking lot for his mom to come get him. He checked his backpack to make sure he had his birthday money on hand. When his mom pulled up to the curb, he jumped into the car eagerly, forgetting in his earnestness to be gentler for his human passenger. 

“Hi Martin! How was school?” Mrs. Maneater asked, glancing over her shoulder at Martin in the backseat. 

“Mom, can we go to the toy store? I want to spend my birthday money,” Martin piped up, not bothering to answer his mother’s question in his haste. 

His mom blinked, surprised by his request, but smiled. “Sure, sweetie. We have time today.” Martin vibrated in his seat with excitement. He put his hand in his pocket to check on Emma. To his relief, she wasn’t quivering as much as before. He felt guilty for frightening her and grabbing her up as he did, but he didn’t have much of a choice. He couldn’t just leave her on the table in the library by herself, with nowhere to hide, while he went to class. And he would’ve gotten in trouble and raised suspicions if he skipped class or was late without a good excuse. 

The car parked outside the toy store, and Martin hopped out of the car and hurried inside. He rushed through the aisles, with the intent to ditch his mom so she wouldn’t see what he was buying. He was tempted by the wide array of cool action figures and toy vehicles, but he pressed on. Emma was more important than trivial hunks of plastic. 

Martin entered a toy aisle saturated in pink. He perused the shelves until he found what he was looking for: a little dollhouse, perfectly sized for his human companion. Since she didn’t have a home of her own, he would give her a new home, properly scaled to her size. He had enough money to buy extra accoutrements, so he picked out a silky purple doll dress for Emma to wear and, after some hesitation, a boy doll that could be her handsome prince. He fancied that the doll vaguely resembled his own physical appearance. 

The giant boy blushed when his mom finally caught up to him and saw him carrying the pink boxes. She raised a brow with a quizzical expression but mercifully held her tongue. Martin had never shown interest in those particular types of toys before. He examined his feet intently out of embarrassment as he took his selected items to the checkout area and paid for them, not looking at the cashier. The discomfiture was worth it, for Emma. He would do anything to see her happy. 

Part 3

#giant #g/t #giant/tiny #tiny #g/t writing #giant tiny #size difference #g/t fluff #g/t story #sfw g/t #gt fluff #gt story #gt writing #gentle giant #g/t angst

[the-teeny-bees-hams]

So it turns out wasabi's tumor isn't as benign as we thought. He's on pain medication and the vet estimates he will be with us for another few weeks, so we're gonna do our best to make them extra special for him!

#tw // animal death #hamster #hamsters #syrian hamster #wasabi #wasabi post #wasabi tag #wasabi the hamster #we probably wont get another hamster for a while after #we got him really soon after toast and didnt give ourselves enough time to grieve #he is a very well loved hammy

[angelfishofthelord]

haunted, like every other holy thing

for @horrornaturalevent week 4 swap prompt: haunt

Alternate s9. Cas is captured by angels as soon as he falls. He's different by the time Dean and Sam and Charlie find him.

CW: food, vomiting, body horror

It’s almost six weeks after that hospital phone call that Dean finally sees Cas again. He’s been mentally preparing himself that Cas isn’t going to look the same: he’s human now (as if the body will be physically warped from the enormity of that transition), but he’s also been held captive by angels. Dean has tried hard to stop himself from picturing what they might be doing to him. He’s kept the predominant vision in his mind of a Cas who is alive.

And he isn’t wrong.

Cas stares up at him and Sam and Charlie (who’s breathing heavily, shakily, right by his ear). His blue eyes are a washed out hue, not even brightened by the contrast of the dull iron bars he’s peering through. The ex-angel is crouched in what looks like a huge kennel for one of those short-haired, bad-tempered type dogs. A Rottweiler or Great Dane. There’s a plastic water bottle with a small tube tied with wire to the top of the cage. Something a hamster or parrot would sip from. Patches of beige trench coat and white shirt fabric are stuck so tightly with the grime all over Cas’ body that it looks like his clothes have melted into his skin.

Charlie is trying her best not to cry when she slips an arm around Cas’ waist to steady him as he crawls out of the cage. Dean figures he probably hasn’t walked in weeks; he’s trying to stand as firm and proud as he can, but his ankles are protesting the reality of the situation.

All three of them end up supporting him in a strange sideways gait back to the car, like some fucked-up three-legged race.

Sam grabs a water bottle and a towel and Dean skims his hands over Cas’ body, looking for open wounds or infected lesions. He’s so severely underweight that Dean is afraid to press on his protruding bones and hurt him. Dean exhales slightly when he finds no noticeable injuries (bruises litter his body like weeds in a garden, but he’s not bleeding anywhere). They can skip a stop at the hospital and take him straight back to the Bunker. Back home.

Charlie sits in the backseat and unwraps a piece of cold French toast from the diner that morning and rips off small pieces to give Cas. Something Sam said about not letting him eat or drink too much at first or it’ll be a shock to his system. Cas figures each morsel of bread between his dirty fingertips before slowly pushing it between his teeth.

The angels who did this are nowhere to be seen. Dean temporarily puts out the fire in his chest that’s burning for justice. They’ll find the bastards when Cas is strong enough to eviscerate them with his own two hands.

+

Charlie makes chicken soup from scratch, with a whole real chicken. Dean is almost fascinated to watch her pull the rubbery skin off the bulb-shaped legs and crack the ribcage open with a knife. Sam adds cilantro, diced potatoes, carrots and celery to the stock. Dean gazes at the magical process for a few moments longer before going to see if Cas is finished his shower.

Cas is sitting on the edge of the bed in the infirmary, wearing just his boxers, elbows on his knees.

Dean tries hard not to react visibly to the sight of his emaciated body. Cas’ ribs stick out from under his skin like metal wires. His toes look more like a Halloween costume fixture than actual toes. There’s no amount of loose fabric from oversized t shirts and sweat pants that can hide the way his collarbone juts out or the sunken hollows around his eyes.

He feels so small when Dean helps him pull a sweater over his head. Like Dean could move too brusquely and his entire skeleton would collapse. “I’m sorry,” Dean murmurs over the swish of knitted strands.

Cas pulls the sweater sleeves over his wrists and then leans into Dean. His elbows burrow into Dean’s belly like the hilt of a sword ramming into his gut. (It’s hard to breathe.) Dean hugs him closer anyways.

They all sit and watch him try the chicken soup. Like it’s some potion that will cure all, the way storybook grandmothers always promised it would.

Cas grimaces and holds his nose while slurping the first spoonful. Charlie laughs softly and tells him its just smoke from the heat. It won’t hurt him. He doesn’t look very appeased but he lowers his hand for the next sip. His expression relaxes slightly and he says he likes the smell of the cilantro. Sam smiles hopefully.

Then Cas’ lips suddenly curl upwards and his eyes wide in horror. Before Dean can ask why he’s shoving back the chair and spitting something out on the table before stumbling backwards. His knees are knocking into each other hard, hands fumbling frantically against the wall he’s sliding down.

The three of them jump up at the same time. Charlie grabs the bowl, exclaiming how there’s nothing wrong with it. Sam goes to Cas’ side to help steady him and Dean stares at the offending thing sitting in a pool of thick saliva next to the spoon.

It’s just a chicken bone.

+

Cas keeps biting his lower lip. Dean doesn’t know if it’s a new habit or not (he never got see Cas as human before the torture). He tells Cas to stop whenever he sees it, but it clearly happens when he’s not around, and frequently, because Cas’ lip is starting to look like a discolored strip of raw meat and dark blood stains.

Charlie buys different flavors of lip balm online and has Cas try each one to find the kind he likes.

“Put it on whenever you want to bite it,” she says, buying several extra tubes of Burt’s Bees so he can put one in each pocket of his clothes.

She keeps buying things for him. She tells Dean she doesn’t know what it’s like to be human for the first time, but it’s gotta require lots of things you never needed before. Dean doesn’t think miniature hand sanitizers, waterproof phone covers, or a matching pillowcase and duvet set is going to help Cas forget that he was tortured for weeks by his own siblings, but he lets her do it anyways.

Sam reads books on dieting and How to Help Your Ex-Angel With a Very Picky Appetite Gain Weight.

Foods Cas refuses to eat include chicken wings, hamburgers, hamburgers, hot dogs, and hamburgers.

Dean tries not to be frustrated with Cas. It’s only been a few weeks. A few weeks of watching at Cas’ haunted figure wobbling around the Bunker and knowing there’s nothing he can do to fix it. He can’t even cook for him, which is normally his winning move in mother-henning the infirm back to life.

Foods Cas likes to eat includes cereal, milk, and bread. Chocolate bars and French fries were soundly rejected.

Dean wonders if part of the angel’s torture was to give Cas the best fast food ever so he’d develop an aversion to it for the rest of his life.

It’s almost six weeks after that hospital phone call that Dean finally sees Cas again. He’s been mentally preparing himself that Cas isn’t going to look the same: he’s human now (as if the body will be physically warped from the enormity of that transition), but he’s also been held captive by angels. Dean has tried hard to stop himself from picturing what they might be doing to him. He’s kept the predominant vision in his mind of a Cas who is alive.

And he isn’t wrong.

Cas stares up at him and Sam and Charlie (who’s breathing heavily, shakily, right by his ear). His blue eyes are a washed out hue, not even brightened by the contrast of the dull iron bars he’s peering through. The ex-angel is crouched in what looks like a huge kennel for one of those short-haired, bad-tempered type dogs. A Rottweiler or Great Dane. There’s a plastic water bottle with a small tube tied with wire to the top of the cage. Something a hamster or parrot would sip from. Patches of beige trench coat and white shirt fabric are stuck so tightly with the grime all over Cas’ body that it looks like his clothes have melted into his skin.

Dean almost topples the cage over in his frantic attempt to get Cas out of there.

Charlie is trying her best not to cry when she slips an arm around Cas’ waist to steady him as he crawls out. Dean figures he probably hasn’t walked in weeks; he’s trying to stand as firm and proud as he can, but his ankles are protesting the reality of the situation.

All three of them end up supporting him in a strange sideways gait back to the car, like some fucked-up three-legged race.

Sam grabs a water bottle and a towel and Dean skims his hands over Cas’ body, looking for open wounds or infected lesions. He’s so severely underweight that Dean is afraid to press on his protruding bones and hurt him. Dean exhales slightly when he finds no noticeable injuries (bruises litter his body like weeds in a garden, but he’s not bleeding anywhere). They can skip a stop at the hospital and take him straight back to the Bunker. Back home.

Charlie sits in the backseat and unwraps a piece of cold French toast from the diner that morning and rips off small pieces to give Cas. Something Sam said about not letting him eat or drink too much at first or it’ll be a shock to his system. Cas figures each morsel of bread between his dirty fingertips before slowly pushing it between his teeth.

The angels who did this are nowhere to be seen. Dean temporarily puts out the fire in his chest that’s burning for justice. They’ll find the bastards when Cas is strong enough to eviscerate them with his own two hands.

+

Charlie makes chicken soup from scratch, with a whole real chicken. Dean is almost fascinated to watch her pull the rubbery skin off the bulb-shaped legs and crack the ribcage open with a knife. Sam adds cilantro, diced potatoes, carrots and celery to the stock. Dean gazes at the magical process for a few moments longer before going to see if Cas is finished his shower.

Cas is sitting on the edge of the bed in the infirmary, wearing just his boxers, elbows on his knees.

Dean tries hard not to react visibly to the sight of his emaciated body. Cas’ ribs stick out from under his skin like metal wires. His toes look more like a Halloween costume fixture than actual toes. There’s no amount of loose fabric from oversized t shirts and sweat pants that can hide the way his collarbone juts out or the sunken hollows around his eyes.

He feels so small when Dean helps him pull a sweater over his head. Like Dean could move too brusquely and his entire skeleton would collapse. “I’m sorry,” Dean murmurs over the swish of knitted strands.

Cas pulls the sweater sleeves over his wrists and then leans into Dean. His elbows burrow into Dean’s belly like the hilt of a sword ramming into his gut. (It’s hard to breathe.) Dean hugs him closer anyways.

They all sit and watch him try the chicken soup. Like it’s some potion that will cure all, the way storybook grandmothers always promised it would.

Cas grimaces and holds his nose while slurping the first spoonful. Charlie laughs softly and tells him its just smoke from the heat. It won’t hurt him. He doesn’t look very appeased but he lowers his hand for the next sip. His expression relaxes slightly and he says he likes the smell of the cilantro. Sam smiles hopefully.

Then Cas’ lips suddenly curl upwards and his eyes wide in horror. Before Dean can ask why he’s shoving back the chair and spitting something out on the table before stumbling backwards. His knees are knocking into each other hard, hands fumbling frantically against the wall he’s sliding down.

The three of them jump up at the same time. Charlie grabs the bowl, exclaiming how there’s nothing wrong with it. Sam goes to Cas’ side to help steady him and Dean stares at the offending thing sitting in a pool of thick saliva next to the spoon.

It’s just a chicken bone.

+

Cas keeps biting his lower lip. Dean doesn’t know if it’s a new habit or not (he never got to see human Cas before the weeks of torture). He tells Cas to stop whenever he sees it, but it clearly happens when he’s not around, and frequently, because Cas’ lip is starting to look like a discolored strip of raw meat and dark blood stains.

Charlie buys different flavors of lip balm online and has Cas try each one to find the kind he likes.

“Put it on whenever you feel like biting your lips,” she says, buying several extra tubes of Burt’s Bees so he can put one in each pocket of his clothes.

She keeps buying things for him. She tells Dean she doesn’t know what it’s like to be human for the first time, but it’s gotta require lots of things you never needed before. Dean doesn’t think miniature hand sanitizers, waterproof phone covers, or a matching pillowcase and duvet set is going to help Cas forget that he was tortured for weeks by his own siblings, but he lets her do it anyways.

Sam reads books on dieting and How to Help Your Ex-Angel With a Very Picky Appetite Gain Weight.

Foods Cas refuses to eat include chicken wings, hamburgers, hamburgers, hot dogs, and hamburgers.

Dean tries not to be frustrated with Cas. It’s only been a few weeks. A few weeks of watching at Cas’ haunted figure wobbling around the Bunker and knowing there’s nothing he can do to fix it. He can’t even cook for him, which is normally his winning move in mother-henning the infirm back to life.

Foods Cas likes to eat includes cereal, milk, and bread. Chocolate bars and French fries were soundly rejected.

Dean wonders if part of the angel’s torture was to give Cas the best fast food ever so he’d develop an aversion to it for the rest of his life.

keep reading on aO3

#my spn fanfic #angelfish halloween #feathersforcas #thisisapaige #blueecp #userda #spxcekya #tusersana #userbon #usertabitha #bebecas #greatcometcas #spn fanfic

[blobn0t]

My hamster toast violently eating salad, he's baby!

He's 3 and outlived his children 😭

#hamster #pet #hammy #rat #hampter #my baby #small boy

[vukovich]

Your filthy turkey day challenge (as per your post) should you choose to accept it… Some more musings on the length/width/breadth/magnitude/mass of Ron’s Dong. May the odds be ever in Hermione’s, Harry’s and/or Draco’s favor. There is plenty to go around 😈

"I heard all the Weasley men are hung like that," Theo says into his mug of tea.

"Looks cumbersome," Blaise replies.

Pansy scoffs. "Don't get defensive."

"Maybe that's why his dad started using a cane. Needed a fourth leg to balance out that third one."

All the Eighth Years are crammed into one long table for breakfast, just as they're all crammed into one makeshift dormitory at night, but no one complains, because they feel out of place being back at school, anyway.

Granger is getting increasingly clucky. Harry isn't-not trying to decide if Malfoy got his hair cut or just parted it differently. As far as Harry's concerned, Ron's dick is irrelevant, because it's attached to Ron.

Ron is up at the front of the Great Hall talking to Hagrid, and too many eyes are glued to his crotch when he saunters back to his seat.

Blaise and Theo elbow Draco from both sides, and the tips of his ears turn pink. Harry isn't sure what that means, but it definitely means something.

Blaise spoons marmalade into his oats. "You ask."

"Who wants to know?" Theo asks.

"Not I," Pansy says.

Blaise is undeterred. "For the good of the commonwealth. We must know dimensions."

Theo bites the inside of his lip. "What'll I get if I do?"

Pansy rolls her eyes and dumps her tea into Blaise's oats when he's not looking.

"I'll give you..." Blaise scowls down at his ruined oats, "me not bringing up your sixth year Paris Hilton infatuation for exactly three months."

"I never had a thing for Paris Hilton. Gross."

"And nobody will ever hear otherwise, if you can get us the scoop on the Ginger Menace."

There's a flush creeping down Granger's chest, and Pansy wonders if her nipples are hard.

Harry is ninety percent sure Malfoy got a haircut.

"Alright," Theo says, turning to Ron. "Weasley. Exactly how big's your-"

Granger slams her palms on the table. "I SWEAR TO MOTHER-FUCKING-MERLIN!"

Draco squeaks like a hamster. Blaise clutches imaginary pearls. Pansy is delighted.

"WHY IS THIS SUCH A BIG DEAL TO YOU? WHAT IS IT WITH YOU BOYS?"

Ron rests a hand on her shoulder, but she slaps it away. "EVERY MEAL IS BIG DICK THIS, AND WEASLEY COCK THAT! WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?"

Theo's making a weird, constipated noise. Blaise has to clear his throat twice. "It's just a friendly-"

"OH FUCK RIGHT OFF, ZABINI."

Harry surfaces from daydreaming about touching Malfoy's hair. "She's not wrong. You two do talk about Ron's dick pretty much every time he's not at the table."

Ron looks like he's just swallowed bitter tea.

"It's just-"

Hermione whips a piece of toast at Blaise's face and hits him square in his open mouth. "AND IT'S SEXIST! NOBODY GOES ABOUT THINKING ABOUT WHERE HE PUTS IT OR THAT MAYBE SHE'S GOT QUITE A PACKAGE WORTH DISCUSSING!"

"I do," Pansy says. She's got her fingers wrapped around one wrist, sizing it up. "For the record. I think about it."

Hermione slumps back into her chair. "Oh."

#whatever this is

[thebreakfastgenie]

Tagged by @saltyfilmmajor! Thank you! <3

name: Sarah, I'm trying to make Genie happen on here but I'm not trying very hard pronouns: she/her in real life, online I don't really care but I will not know you mean me if you use anything else so it'll just be confusing for everyone where do you call home?: Boston, Massachusetts but also Maine so just New England favorite animal: manatee and orangutan cereal of choice: usually cinnamon toast crunch but I've had kind of a love affair with Reese's puffs recently. I usually eat a lot of cereal at once and then don't eat it again for like a year. visual, auditory, or kinesthetic learner: I'm what they call a "multi-modal learner" aka a special snowflake. I'm mostly auditory but significantly kinesthetic too, and while the tests always say I'm not visual there are very specific contexts where that's the best way for me. first pet: a hamster named Sunflower Seed (Sunny for short) unless you count fish. favorite scent: you know that smell you get when you put your face right next to the air-conditioner and inhale deeply? ...anyway, lemon. do you believe in astrology: absolutely not. I'm not even consistently able to have fun with it, most of the time it makes me grouchy. how many playlists do you have on your music service of choice: 3 on my main service (songs that I own on Apple Music) and 3 more aborted ones on Spotify (like three songs on each lol and I don't listen to them) which I hardly ever use sharpies or highlighters: highlighters, but depending what it's for, the colored sharpie are great too! song that makes you cry: I don't cry at music but No-One But You by Queen fucks me right up song that makes you happy: All You Wanna Do Is Dance by Billy Joel and finally, do you write/draw/create: yes I do!!! mostly write right now but I used to draw and I miss it

Tagging: @movietonight @orangefarmcat @majorbaby @youngpettyqueen @persianflaw @hamiltonsteele @proceduralbob @koboldkatalyst @old-wild-child @chrispineofficial @rescue-ram @imusthavebecomesomething

[chasesvillainera]

Incorrect Quotes Generator ft. Rarepairs

*after discussing a plan*  Sebastian: Does anyone have any questions?  Chase: Is this legal?  Sebastian: Does anyone have any relevant questions?

-

Sebastian: Awww, why don't you like cats, Chase? They're just snuggly buddies! They have toe beans! They make a little blep! What's not to love??  Chase: I don't know Sebastian, I just prefer to be conscious instead of dead on the floor.  Sebastian:  Chase: I'm ALLERGIC. 

-

Leo: The joy of hanging out with Logan. You look away for 5 seconds to make sure something is set up correctly, and they bite the tip of a marker off.

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Chase: Here are two pictures. One of them is your bedroom, and the other is a garbage dumpster. Can you tell which is which?  Sebastian: Sebastian: This one is the dumpster.  Chase: They’re both your bedroom.

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Bree: You don't know anything about me!  Skylar: I know EVERYTHING about you! You are an open book written for very dumb children!

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Chase: Your future self is talking shit about you right now.  Sebastian: Jokes on them. I'll ruin their fucking life.

-

Sebastian: So I got this amazing plan!  Chase: We fail almost every time you say that.  Sebastian: Well this is the same! But with a hamster involved.

-

Adam and Leo: *making loud, shouty gorilla sounds at each other*  Skylar:  Bree, exasperatedly: We have a guest. 

-

*Comments under an image of a really hot knife cutting bread*  Logan: Imagine stabbing someone with this knife.  Leo: It would instantly cauterize the wound, so the person wouldn't bleed, so it's not very useful.  Experion: if you want information it is  Adam : why would you STAB a person when you can have TOAST? 

-

Leo: Alright, which one of us is gonna check outside?  Adam : Not it!  Logan: Not it!  Leo: ...Neither one of you are as dumb as you lead on to be.

-

Leo: Alright, what pizza toppings should we order?  Adam : Anchovies and pineapple.  Chase: I like beets!  Logan: Have you guys ever had a cheese-less pizza?  Leo: I’m disowning all of you. 

-

Bree: Hey guys, I’m making french toast sticks in the oven. I’m gonna take a quick nap, so wake me up in 5 minutes to flip them over.  *5 minutes later*  Skylar: Bree it’s been 5 minutes, time to flip your sticks.  Bree: snnnzzzz...  Skylar:  BREE YOUR STICKS!

-

Bree: I love murder mysteries!  Skylar, trying to impress them: I've been a suspect in four murder cases.

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Skylar: Have I ever told you that I love you with my whole heart?  Bree: For the love of all that is holy, I am not taking you to McDonalds. It’s 2am!  Skylar: Mean.

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Skylar: Hey, Bree. What kind of flowers do you prefer?  Bree: I like sunflowers.  Skylar, pulling out a bouquet of Venus Flytraps: Well, shit-

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Adam: We’re having a moment, aren’t we?  Experion: If by 'a moment' you mean me not wanting to strangle you for the first time since we met, then I guess we are.

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Adam: Since we're in a relationship now, your clothes are my clothes too. Don't ask me why I have your shirt on, this is our shirt.  Experion: Fine, but when I come strutting in with your fuzzy socks I don't want to hear shit.

-

#lab rats #chase davenport #sebchase #sebastian krane #adam davenport #bree davenport #brylar #skylar storm #experion mm