#wet beast wednesday every day

[unironicallycringe]

i drew Timie again because i rly like Timie! just a wacky creature who ordered extra bean sprouts on their ramen once and now they got bean sprouts coming out of their head! (this is inaccurate to actual lore but I'm craving ramen and bean sprouts so,)

sorry for tagging you again but Timie belongs to @scopophobia-polaris !!!

#my art #a memory of younger days #timie #loz au #loz fanart #zelda fanart #oot link if they became a lost woods monster and fae'd their gender #wet beast wednesday every day #i was considering using the oot link tag but Timie is a v diff person but also the same #god im shaking ur hand polaris cause this is the same issue i have when tagging Not-Link #fuck it we ball #oot link

[mossymandibles]

May we perhaps have a wet beast in celebration of Wet Beast Wednesday?

Woe, Wet Beast upon ye

A bear Kraw doing some river fishing.

#wet beast wednesday #ya caught me on a day where I had energy after work #so ere we are #enjoy :} #kraw wouldn’t technically be a bear would he…he doesn’t have much body hair #kraw #i have wanted to make wbw a thing for me but idk if I could keep that up every week

[benjaminthecoathanger]

Ben my friend, it's Thursday. At least where I live, at any rate. Re: wet beast Wednesday

IT’S WHAT?????

#it’s fine every day is wet beast wednesday when you are a wet beast #i. genuinely rely on my friend res’ bumble notifications to know what day of the week it is lmao #anon #ask

[letorip]

somethin’ stupid

“and then i go and spoil it all, by saying somethin’ stupid like ‘i love you’”

===+++===

pairing: wednesday addams x reader

summary: even knowing that your relationship with wednesday is one huge grey area, you can't help the words that come tumbling from your lips one night while on an expedition together.

warnings: blood, violent attack scene, angsty pining, mentions of sex, fear of the dark

word count: 4.2k

A/N: first post, kinda nervous. honestly pumped to start posting on here after being somewhat new to writing. will try my best not to suck.

===+++===

It’s only after you meet Wednesday Addams for the first time that you understand why storms are named after people.

In the near five months total she had been in your life, she had quickly climbed to the top priority, and you found yourself trapped in her rain bands, tugged under her dark, swelling tide and drawn to less direct ways.

Now and likely until the very end of time, you followed her through the forest, peeking around each passing tree and shining your flashlight into the dark. It was a knight's sword for you, and you held it like a weapon so as to ward off evil spirits or howling beasts. Only, half of the time it ended up being a squirrel.

It seemed antithetical, to walk into the pitch black forest that had killed several hikers and injured Eugene, -or more the big ass creature inside it had, but Wednesday had never cared much for what made sense, and you knew better than to argue with her.

The rain continued to fall around the both of you, splattering against the hood of your rain coat and rolling down your sputtering lips, tracing your nose on the way down. If Wednesday was at all affected by the rain, she hadn't let it show yet. Not that she let much show, that was.

You shivered from a sudden gust of cold, wet wind rushing over your knuckles from where they white-gripped the rubber wrapping of your flashlight. "Are we almost there yet?" You asked, squinting into the trees. "I have to get up early tomorrow."

There was no possible way Wednesday could know where she was going in the sheer amount of darkness fended off by a flimsy Acebeam, but she pushed through like she did. Maybe orienteering was just part of the outré magic she always carried with her, or at least that's what you figured it probably was. In another life she had been a cheerful girl scout, though you knew better than to suggest that aloud.

The same could not be said for you, who was an utter idiot about directions and probably would have driven off a cliff by now without the use of a GPS. Wednesday had once said you wouldn't be able to find your way out of a cardboard box, and offensively, she was probably right.

It didn't make sense why she chose you of all people to bring along, then. You had no special strength or sight, and virtually no knowledge on how to investigate a murder, especially the serial kind. The only ability you had allowed you to read thoughts and minds, though you never dared read Wednesday's, even when you itched to know what she was thinking.

Despite feeling more like an achor dragging her boat down, almost every evening, at around the same time after dark, she showed up on your doorstep to tug you off to some dangerous place.

Maybe you were secretly hoping for a reward of some sort. She often indulged you as such, lips like a heroin shot directly to your veins, powering you through the day as you watched the clock tick away into night anticipating the next rush. Enid was right. You were whipped for her.

"Your protesting doesn't make the journey any shorter," she replied, turning with the dark look that always lurked in the back of her eyes.

You knew the movements well: when she glared, her eyes lowered slightly and her mouth tensed. One could not help but watch in awe, storing the memory for later. Or, at least those ‘whipped’ for her couldn’t. She spun back around to face forward, your flashlight pointing over her shoulder into the brooding dark.

The rain only seemed to come down harder from there, punishing you both for slogging through the mushy leaves when sane people would be indoors. But Wednesday would not settle until she found Arcadia.

You cleared your throat, uneasy with the ensuing silence.

"Where are we even going, Wednesday? We've been walking forever," you said, looking down at the pale grey rocks as you stepped over them. You were grateful for being clever enough to remember hiking boots.

"We're finding evidence," she replied. "I was informed of a suspicious cave out in the forest, and-" Wednesday's words came rushing to a halt as her foot clipped the rock in front of her. She stumbled a bit, and you threw out an arm to her back, there if she needed something to steady herself on.

It was uncoordinated and it was clunky at best, and Wednesday was far from appreciative. She jolted back from your touch as if you had stung her, glaring as harsh as ever. "Sorry," you said. "I didn't want you to fall." The tips of your ears had begun to burn again, upon realising you were made the fool for another time in a row.

"You should have," said Wednesday, walking ahead. "It simulates dropping dead." Of course, on you, such a statement did not have the desired effect. Whereas most would have replied in shock or disgust, you laughed. Out loud, right at her. The gall. She whipped back to you, perplexed and annoyed by the noise. "Have something to share?"

You grinned. "You can act cool all you want, but if you had actually landed in the mud, you would have been pissed." Her expression went from glare to glower impressively quickly, though you took great glee in the fact she didn't try to dismiss it.

Anyone who had just met her would have been terrified, but you knew that look meant she hated just how much you were right. Wednesday's moody eyes lowered to your jacket, as if she was looking for an insult to sling in response.

"Why are you yellow?"

You blinked, then shrugged. "Because for someone so intelligent I'm the only one who remembered a raincoat."

"The beast will eat you wether you're rained on or not," she replied reasonably.

You blanched at this. It was apparent the possibility had never crossed your mind. "It eats people????"

Suddenly the darkness of the woods only seemed to worsen and the rain seemed to come down even harder, as if life was laughing at the terror it was causing. You had never been one for haunted houses, and you decided in that instant that this was far worse than any haunted house you had ever been to.

Wednesday shrugged, and you were far from put at ease by that. She glanced at you up through mischievous lashes, entirely knowing what she was doing and enjoying every sadistic moment of it.

"I suppose we may find out tonight. I should offer up you, the yellow highlighter, first. You have longer bones than I do, and I'm sure it would appreciate a snack, after-"

"Ha. Ha."

As surprising as was Wednesday's capacity to joke, you knew that's all it was. Such falsehoods could not be exposed to the public, and she would rather die than admit she cared for anyone. That was her secret. You knew to keep it well.

It had been weird to see Wednesday attempt comedy at first. Often times you still thought she may be dead serious. But on these nightly expeditions it seemed she could joke freely. Sometimes she kissed you freely. You just had to know she didn't do it for you. She told you constantly, just to be sure.

From in front, Wednesday trembled from a sudden angry breeze and you watched her, sighing and tugging off your raincoat. You tossed it over her shoulders wordlessly; Wednesday didn't acknowledge it either. She put one arm in, then another, but didn't pull the hood up, and you rolled your eyes. "Pull the hood up, Wednesday. Don't be stubborn."

"I'm fine," she shot back, tone sharp and piercing to any sort of armour you could have put up. But even that didn't make you buy it.

"Your hair is like, stuck to your forehead, Wednesday. Just pull up the hood part."

"I don't even want to be in this dreadful thing, why would I want more of it on me. It's yellow."

"It's keeping you warm."

"I'm allergic to colours."

"Well then I guess it's great you brought a black one- oh, wait! That's right! You didn't."

She blinked at you unappreciatively, but your unimpressed expression made her give in, and she begrudgingly did as she was told. With a hood now over her, shrouding her soft hair from the harsh rain, you felt a bit better about her being out in the cold. After a moment she grumbled, messing with the sleeves. "Why are your arms so freakishly long?"

You didn't answer, biting back a response that included the word 'short.' It would have been entirely unproductive and probably earned a rock thrown at your head. Instead, you focused on the small row of houses you could see on a road in the far distance.

Their windows were small, warm boxes in the dryness, as opposed to the pouring, angry storm only a heathen of some sort would be caught in. It looked the same as it had the week before when you had passed the same area with Wednesday, and you recognised the same lamp that sat in the same spot of the same window on the second floor. It hadn't moved even an inch and neither had the flowers in the pot sitting next to it.

You hummed, "I love streets like those. It looks so warm and comfortable. I could be out here forever and it would still be the same warm place."

"Poetic," Wednesday dryly replied. Poetry had never seemed to move her much, beyond the grim ones from Poe about death and despair. She had tried to teach you about it once, during an impromptu "study session," which was what Wednesday usually called hunting you down after class and sticking your head between her legs.

It was the very first time she had let you stick around after, and the more and more often she let it happen, the more you felt yourself allowing for false hopes. Of course, accusing her of growing fond was a way to end up in an early grave and you knew better.

It had been a whisper, really, what she said with your head resting on her stomach, arms against the skin of her thighs. You were both sweating, terribly so, and then came, "years of love have been forgotten, in the hatred of a minute." It was only a whisper, and you weren't even sure Wednesday had spoken it into existence. But you looked up, and she was staring down at you, eyes unreadable. Her mouth was tensed into a grimace; a symbol for words unsaid.

"What's that?" You asked, leaning your head back.

She had shook her head. "It's Poe. He founded the school."

"I know who Edgar Allan Poe is, Wednesday. I meant what you were saying."

She looked away to the window, like eye contact then would have doomed her. "I'm not sure." It was a lie, and you knew it, but you couldn’t scan Wednesday’s thoughts and it was the first time she had let you stay propped up against her. You knew better than to ruin that.

"Why do you like that kind of poetry, anyhow? It's awfully depressing."

"It's a reminder," she replied, eyes still away and tone flat. "You and I will be in the ground someday, or maybe I will be in the family crypt. 'As you are now, so once, was I.' And other such ruminations. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust." Her gaze sliced back to you, as if she were gaging your reaction. "Either way, we're doomed."

You hadn't known what she meant by that, and you still didn't know, walking through the forest. She spoke in riddles, and it was impossible to know if she wanted you to decipher them or leave them as they were. Her vagueness with emotions was her armour, maybe.

Wednesday was usually cold and efficient and exact, in a way you could appreciate. You were far warmer, and though you seemed to constantly trip over yourself, patiently waiting for any sort of warmth to be returned, she stayed with the same chill that kept you close enough to bring comfort to her fingers, but never close enough to make her melt.

"When we get there, I want you to stay outside and keep watch. Don't come inside with me, I want to look around alone. If you hear anything or any noise or thoughts over the rain, give me the signal I trained you on," said Wednesday, looking through the bowers and thread veins of roots so as not to trip again.

"You're not my boss, Wednesday, and I'm not your henchman," you said, the words spilling out in annoyance. You hated when she went into work mode. She looked over at you, eyes giving an intense challenge.

"What am I then?"

You rolled your eyes at this. "Like my hobby, at best." It wasn't true, and both of you knew it.

"Do you kiss and sleep with all your 'hobbies,' then?" Wednesday's eyes studied you.

"Maybe," you shrugged. "I don't really kiss and tell." Actually, you hadn't kissed anybody since she had made out with you two days prior, and you hadn't kissed somebody other than her since she had first kissed you two months ago.

You knew, though, that Wednesday had done similar peregrinations with the normie boy, Tyler, from town who worked at the Weathervane. Sometimes you wondered if she put her lips on his, too. Other times, you couldn't help wondering if either of you really mattered to her.

She had said no when you asked her that once before, but slow danced and made out with you immediately after answering, at the Rave'N, so your confusion was understandable. It was like she both hungered for you and hated you for it at the same time, and you knew getting thrown around like that wasn’t what you wanted. But if it gave you her, even for a brief moment, you were all too eager.

From behind the both of you, you heard a branch snap, spinning around as the rain poured. There was nothing visibly there; your stupid flashlight didn't reach out that far and no moving through the brush could be heard. "Did you hear that?" you said to Wednesday, freezing completely. She nodded, but did not seem phased even slightly, turning to watch your terror with an eyebrow raised.

“Likely an animal," said Wednesday.

You were still frozen to the spot, staring into the dark as fear screamed at you to run away. “Are you okay?” she asked, puzzled.

You shook your head, sticking your hand out towards her. “No.” It was a question that needn't be asked. Wednesday examined your fingers closely, like she was contemplating if it was a bad idea, but then grabbed your palm and held it tightly in hers, locking the digits in with her own and squeezing it gently. It was an immediate comfort and you unfroze, Wednesday pulling you into the dark.

===+++===

"Your obnoxious coat is warm...thank you." She seemed to spit the last part out with a bit of reluctance, but you appreciated it nevertheless. For around the last half mile, you had been getting rained on instead. Droplets dripped from your hair, rolling down your cheeks and over your lips before dribbling from your chin.

"You can keep it for a while. Until you get your own, I mean," you said, absentmindedly playing with the flashlight. You would rather die than admit you were nervous aloud. Luckily, it didn't seem you needed to.

She stopped short at your words, grabbing your collar roughly with her hand and balling it between her fingers. It was harsh and it was passionate, like Wednesday always seemed to be in flares. Her mouth crashed into yours, teeth clinking together, toes poking into the mushy ground so she could even reach your face.

Unfortunately, it was over as soon as it began, and she pulled away quickly, walking away and leaving you behind, panting awkwardly as your mind began to spin. She was all too much, everything about her. You couldn’t stop yourself. "I love you,” you blurted out.

From the way she whipped back to you, it hadn’t been nearly quiet enough. Silence seemed to echo through the clearing, even in the raging storm around that pounded into trees and pooled in mushy puddles. She stared at you, and all you could do was stare back. Wednesday stomped back over, cheeks red and dark eyes shining with an unusual capriciousness. “What?”

You shook your head. “Nothing. Talking to myself.”

But she didn’t believe you. In previous attempts by you to draw out any indication of her affections, she could blatantly ignore it or change the subject without answering. Now, she was frustrated by how you always wore your heart on your sleeve. And this time, how your words demanded she do the same.

“What did you say,” she demanded. “Tell me right now, or I’ll-“

“I said I love you, Wends,” you cut her off before she could make a threat. God, she stared. She stared and stared and stared at you with her eyes in the dark, looking like she would be the one to read your mind and not the other way around. The humidity of the rain was suffocating you, but the powerful wind filled your lungs with air again, in a vicious, heaving cycle.

She took a small step forward, tilting her head up at you like she was inspecting you up close. “You don’t mean what you say.”

"I really wish I didn't, but I absolutely do." Your tone burned with a relieving candor, and Wednesday's eyebrows furrowed, before she backed away again. Your flashlight turned towards the ground, lowering your face into shadow.

"I told you, I don't want anything more from you," she said. "You're spoiling what we already have." She seemed more agitated than anything, but you stood your ground.

"But I feel like there's more here, Wednesday. I know I'm not crazy, you can feel it too. So I don't know why you're being all tough, when I just want to take care of you. That's all I've ever wanted."

"Learn to want for something else then," she argued back. "We can't work, we won't, I-"

"Why?"

"I told you why," she replied, crossing her arms. "Years of love-"

"No no, none of that bullshit you know you want to confuse me with. Just lay it out, plain and simple."

She bit her mouth shut, then narrowed her eyes at you before giving a huff. "Have you been reading my thoughts?"

"What?" Your forehead creased into lines, staring at her intently. "You know I don't."

"I don't know if you're aware, but I see you, in my visions sometimes. I actually think about the same one often, when I'm with you."

"What am I doing, then?" You asked, feeling a sickness come to your stomach. You didn’t know what future event you would be up to, but you could guarantee Wednesday you would stop yourself from hurting her.

“You’re being killed. By the beast.”

“…Oh.”

“You’re running far away, being chased. I see you get tackled or hit, and you fall into the dirt. Then I see your face being slashed over and over again by a creature, and you appear to bleed out on the floor of a forest.”

“Wednesday, that won’t come true.” You tried to assure her, but a small hand came forward, covering your mouth, shushing you. The gentle palm pressed against your soaked lips, fingertips ghosting the lines of your cheeks.

“I would hate you for it, dying. What I hate even more is that your closeness to me is likely what causes this. I don’t love you, (Y/n). I can’t. Stop trying to make me. It’s only pitiful and painful for the both of us.”

You reached up for her hand, pulling it away. “But how do you know it’s definitely you that ruins it? What if it’s something else, or what if it’s you saying no?”

“Because as painful as it is, I’m certain I break your heart if I indulge you.”

“Wednesday,” your voice shook a bit. “You’re breaking my heart right now.”

“This,” she said, “This is why I cannot give you more than I already have. I’m not my parents, (Y/n). Can’t you just be happy with our current relationship? You always try to complicate things. Like a stupid little puppy.”

You took a step back like a wounded animal. “What? You’re being mean.”

“Maybe if I am it'll get through to you. We won’t work, and if we don’t try to make it work, I won’t end up breaking your heart, and you won’t run away.” Her speaking volume was getting louder now.

“That’s a stupid plan!” You said raising your voice.

“And you’re a fool!” She said back. “I’m trying to protect you and take what I can get at the same time."

"You're hurting me."

"You're hurting yourself. I keep pushing you away. Stop coming back."

You frowned, feeling your face grow hot. "I come back because I care, and I know you care too."

"Caring for you gets me nowhere. You're doomed, (Y/n). I'm trying to protect you, so do us both a favour and get as far away from me as possible. Don't let me pull you back."

"Wednesday, I-"

"Go, you idiot." You swallowed her words. She was still wearing your yellow raincoat, looking at you with the most steely expression you had ever seen. You stepped forward in silence, only the mushing of the leaves filling the space between you. You unwrapped the armband of the flashlight from around your wrist and extended it out to her.

"Here. For the cave." She blinked at you, then she took it. Without another word, you did as you were told, stepping off into the dark and pulling against the magnetic field. With your ability to break past her facades turned off, you couldn't see the deep regret that wormed its way into her stare, watching your back retreat into the tree line.

===+++===

It only took around five minutes for you to regret not having the flashlight. The storm had turned to complete and utter chaos, and you could hear thunder and lightning booming and cracking against the night sky. Everything was so much darker than before, and it seemed to grow up and out like a giant ladder, turning to shadow and fog a few feet in front of you.

Part of you was still mad at Wednesday. Knowing she was scared for you didn't make it any of an easier pill to swallow. Neither did knowing you would likely die soon.

The looming question still sat unanswered, weighing down the wrinkles of your brain and cozying up at the mantle of your thoughts. Would it be weeks? Months? If she never ended up catching it (though that was very unlikely) how many years would you have left?

From behind you, you heard a branch snap again. You spun, looking around. An animal maybe. Then, you heard footsteps. They were big, though not an animal. Maybe it was Wednesday. She wore thick shoes often, with heavy soles.

It was only with the sudden realisation that there was no flashlight with the figure coming towards you, that your eyes began to widen and a chill shot up your spine like a spooked animal. It only took the dropping of your telepathic cancelling to fully realise what was about to happen.

KILL. KILL. KILL.

The monster's thinking was thunderous and loud, and it reverberated within your skull as you turned to run. You stomped your foot into the swampy ground, running the fastest you felt you ever had. KILL. The forest seemed to blur, rushing past you as you fled through the trees and smacking at branches that sagged in your way.

KILL. You heard the footsteps now, coming up quickly. They sounded huge, and with every bound you could hear greenery get smushed behind you as the beast moved through it. KILL. You had no idea how close it was behind you, but there was no time to look either. In one rush, you found yourself back in a stoney quarry, and in the far distance illuminated a KILL. streetlight standing over a mountain road.

You ran towards it, face scratched by a branch in the process as you forgot to swipe it away. The wood KILL. connected with a stabbing pain, piercing your lip as you ran, but you didn't so much as wince. "HELP!" You yelled KILL. out, trying to catch any attention as you ran for the pavement, and you were almost there. KILL.

You were too slow. A set of long, pointy claws latched onto your back, sinking into the skin and ripping you down with a yelp, throwing you to the ground. Your back slid into the tree with a sickening crack, and pain seemed to freeze your body. KILL.

Standing over you was the muscular, horrifyingly disfigured body of a towering creature, its eyes shining with violent zeal. It lowered with a clicking growl, eyeing your heaving, bleeding body and sneering. KILL. KILL. KILL.

Your eyebrows furrowed, blood spilling from your lips. In a single instant, you knew who it was, digging past the monstrous yells to the real thoughts of the boy underneath. "Tyler?"

Its claws sunk into your stomach, and everything went dark.

===+++===

a/n: a part two maybe? idk, i'm no rocket scientist. anyways, this is my very first post, so, here we go i guess? excited to start this and grateful for anyone who reads this. i tried to spellcheck but if it isn't perfect please please please let me know, i would fix it immediately.

#wednesday addams x reader #jenna ortega x reader #wednesday x reader #wednesday addams #jenna ortega x you #wednesday netflix #jenna ortega

[bethanythebogwitch]

It's big, it's strong, its scaly, it's this week's Wet Beast Wednesday topic! An arapaima, also known as a pirarucu or paiche, is any of four species of fish in the genus Arapaima in the order of bony-tongued fish. There is som ongoing debate about the classification of the species, so to keep thing simple, I'm going to use the most common species names of Arapaima gigas (the type species and most well known, and the one with the most confusion about its classification), Arapaima agassizii, Arapaima leptosoma, and Arapaima mapae. Because A. gigas is the most well-studied of the species, unless I say otherwise you can assume everything I say in this post applies to it.

(image: an arapaima)

Arapaimas are bony fish that retain several primitive traits, causing them to sometimes be identified as "living fossils". They are most notable for their size, with A. gigas being a contender for the largest freshwater fish in the world. The maximum recorded size for one was 3.7 meters (10 ft) and 200 kg (400 lbs), but most get to around 2 meters (6.6 ft) long and 200 kg (440 lbs). That average length is decreasing as overfishing of the largest individuals is resulting in a selective pressure for smaller sizes. In addition to their size, they are extremely strong and can move fast if needed. Arapaima are fully capable of leaping out of the water if disturbed or they feel their current pond in unsuitable. Because of their strength, specimens in captivity must be handled with care as they can easy break bones if they slap someone. They live in rivers and lakes in South America, where they are often the top predators.

(image: several anglers with an arapaima)

Arapaimas are obligate air-breathers and will drown if they can't get to the surface to breathe. This is accomplished with a specialized swim bladder. The swim bladder is filled with highly vascularized tissue, letting it act like a lung. This pseudo-lung opens into the mouth using a modified gill arch known as the labyrinth organ. Arapaima gills are too small to sustain them, but they can supplement their oxygen intake with the gills. Juveniles are born exclusively using their gills and transition into air-breathers shortly after hatching. Arapaimas can survive up to a full day out of the water. They typically surface to gulp in air every 15-20 minutes. Breathing makes a loud gulping sound that anglers use to target them.

(image: an arapaima at the surface)

Because of their ability to breathe air, arapaimas are top predators in low-oxygen environments. Non-air breathing fish are forced to slow down in water with low levels of dissolved oxygen as they can't get enough oxygen through their gills. Since Arapaimas breathe air, they can easily chase down lethargic smaller fish. They are especially potent predators during the low season, when water levels lower. A combination of rotting vegetation reducing oxygen levels and ponds getting cut off from rivers and losing a supply of oxygen lets the arapaima reign supreme. Arapaimas are primarily predators that feed on smaller fish, though they will hunt other types of animals and eat fruits and seeds. Even land animals aren't safe as arapaimas have been known to launch themselves out of the water to catch animals near the shore. A combination of sharp teeth and their bony tongues are used to debilitate prey.

(image: an arapaima with its mouth open)

Not content with powerleveling their attack stat, arapaimas also have excellent defense. Their scales have been compared to bullet proof vests. Each has a hard, mineralized outer layer over multiple layers of collagen fibers. These layers are all oriented at an angle to each other to provide extra strength. This orientation of layers is called a Bouligand-type arrangement and is similar to how plywood is assembled. The harder outer layers and flexible inner layers work together to allow for both strength and flexibility. These scales help provide protection form large predators such as caiman and small threats like biting piranha. They also like provide protection from other arapaima, as the fish are aggressive and will fight each other.

(image: a diagram showing the composition of arapaima scales. source)

You probably wouldn't expect a swimming tank of an animal to be a good parent, but you'd be wrong. Arapaimas work together in mated pairs to build nests for their eggs, then cooperate to guard the nest. Once the eggs hatch, the male will practice mouth brooding, keeping his young safe in his mouth. The female will also help by patrolling the area around the male to ward off predators. They secrete pheromones from their heads to ensure the young don't swim too far away. Eggs are laid either in in the low season or as water levels are starting to rise, ensuring that the young become independent during the high season.

(Image: baby arapaimas)

Arapaima are classified as "data deficient" by the IUCN. This means there isn't enough data to properly assess their conservation needs. They are known to be threatened by overfishing. Arapaima make up a large part of the diet of many South American populations. Habitat loss and pollution are also believed to threaten them. They have been introduced to many areas out of their native range and are an invasive species in placed like Florida, Malaysia, and India.

Does anyone else remember these cards? (image: the arapaima card from Weird n' Wild Creatures)

#wet beast wednesday #fishblr #fish #biology #zoology #ecology #animals #aquatic biology #animal facts #absolute unit #arapaima #pirarucu #paiche

[cemeteryknives]

being a gerardie makes every day a celebration because we have suck them thru the shorts sunday. milf monday. tiny skirt tuesday. wet beast wednesday. thigh biting thursday. fuck them on the floor friday. life is beautiful

#gerard #mcr #journal tag

[phasdraw]

dragon mieras bc every day is wet beast wednesday

#flight rising #frfanart #fr bogsneak #ocs #oc: mieras #oc

[how-to-t-u-m-b-l-r]

Chapter 3. Merry… *checks notes* Ides… of.. March?

A beginner’s guide to Tumblr holidays

These just happen sometimes:

DAY 15 GIVE IT UP FOR DAY 15

Thursday the 20th

The Fifth of Wednesday

Sometime in June: That One Halloween Post Starts Circulating

Sometime in July: Dancing Pumpkin Man Video/Gif

Every week these happen:

Every Monday: El Muchacho Monday

Every Tuesday: Tuesday Again? No Problem...

Every Wednesday: Wet Beast Wednesday

Every Thursday: Out of Touch Thursday

Every Friday: Flat Fuck Friday

Every Saturday: Don't @ Me, I'm Chilling/Caturday

Every Sunday: Fingers In His Ass Sunday

Every year these are holidays:

January 16: Appreciate a Dragon Day

January 29: Threshold Day

All of February: Funguary

February 14: Aromantic/Asexual Day

March 9: Miku Day

March 10: Mario Day

March 14: Pi Day

March 15: Ides of March

March 23: Ever Given Got Stuck Today

April 1: Mishapocalypse

April 2: Dashcon Announcement Anniversary

April 3: Dannypocalypse

April 8: Rex Manning Day

ALSO April 8: MARGARET THATCHER IS DEAD

April 13: Neil Banging Out The Tunes

ALSO April 13: Homestuck Day

April 20: haha 420 blaze it

April 25: The Perfect Date

April 28: Ed Balls Day

April 30: It's Gonna Be May

All of May: Mermay

May 3: Beginning of Dracula Daily

May 4: May the 4th Be With You

May 5: Revenge of the Fifth

May 25: The Glorious 25th of May

All of June: Pride Month

ALSO All of June: IT'S HALLOWEEN TIME TO GET SPOOKY

June 5: Barricade Day

June 16: Let Papyrus Say Fuck

July 20: Moon Landing

September 8: The Queen Is Dead and Sans Undertale Killed Her

September 21: DO YOU REMEMBER-

All of October: SKELETON WAR

ALSO All of October: Inktober

October 3: Mean Girls Day

ALSO October 3: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood Day

October 20: Unnecessary Feelings Day

October 31: HALLOWEEN

November 5: honestly what didn't happen that day

November 19: Goncharov

All of December: Will the Gävle Goat Get Destroyed Again?

December 10: Please, It's Christmas

December 24: ALMOST CHRISTMAS MEANS IT WASN'T CHRISTMAS

More advice here!

#twitter migration #tumblr guide #twitter refugees #twitter exodus #twitter #reddit migration #reddit exodus #reddit #reddit refugee #reddit blackout #169 #169 blackout #Chapter 3. Merry *checks notes* Ides… of.. March?

[pupyr0arz]

mermaid!soap x ghost. Unfinished Drabble.

He speaks thrice a week. He has it down to the ticking of the clock in his hut, the one source of noise down there by the rocks aside the wave and the braver sea-birds. Every Monday when the sun crests the horizon he takes the long path down to the docks and stops by Price’s inn. He greets him with a fatherly grunt and a comment about the weather, cautious and concerned. 

He doesn’t listen to any of Price’s warnings of bad weather, and Price knows it too. 

Wednesday is the next time he hears his voice, when he takes the catch in. Gaz comes by and if he didn’t count the handful of responses he gave it still would because he speaks for an entire village. Tells him what feels like every detail of every man, woman and child’s business up and down the country. Trots beside him on the fussy beast of a creature he calls a horse and sticks like a burr to his backside all throughout the afternoon. Gaz minds his business when it comes to him, though.

The third and final time is in the dead of night. He walks up the craggy path with a lantern and waits for the moon to rise to light it. He settles on his knees in front of the gravestones, carved deep and true so their names don’t fade for years, and he talks. Inanities, comments and jokes, the happening around town. Old and new, he speaks and speaks and speaks until his throat bleeds and his knees cramp and he nearly tumbles off the cliff when he gets up at dawn. It’s a long ranting, raving speech, he’s sure he’d look entirely mad to anyone stupid enough to follow him up there. He doesn’t let them get a word in edgewise, but it burns in his head nonetheless as he makes his way down, unsteady as a fawn.

Mum wouldn’t be happy at all, she’d be right cross. She was never a fiery woman though, all sad-eyed looks and mournful sighs when she found wrong in the world. She’d fuss over the state of the hut and sit by his bedside, offering wet rags like he’s a lad and sick with a fever like she always did when she wanted to help him. She’d fuss about all of this silence, the loneliness of the ocean. She never did like it when he went quiet as a youth, saying that nothing was worse for the head than filling it full of thoughts left to rot. She’d wanted better for him then, wanted him to go to the city and find work there, leave the craggy cliffs that scraped the sea with their claws and left the great widow-maker to her own devices. She’d wanted him to take that butchery apprenticeship and pack away, leave behind the salt and spray rather than be one of the many non-people to sink among the waves.

Tommy would just be pissing mad, that is. He had their fathers temper, both of them  when had to admit to himself in the quiet of the night. Tommy’s only flared brighter and hotter because he struck out at the world first, clawed at it for his place. Ever the older brother, determined to be the first. He had wanted out since the moment he heard of the city at all. He would’ve been miserable here.

He tries not to let it taint his days. It’s a losing battle, but his trade has settled in his bones now. He wakes and sleeps by the sounds of the tide and he’ll find himself at dawn with the taste of salt in his mouth. He keeps his boat towards the southernmost end, where the sea is as still as stone most days, silent quartz mirror broken by the gentlest of ripples. It reflects him, smoothing the turmoil in his head into quiet nothingness, clouds a blip on the surface of the water. Not once does he dip a finger in. There’s nothing under that calm surface but danger, he knows better than to try it.

He’s not married, and isn't interested in any of the girls that float though or anchor themselves in town. They don’t approach him often, eyeing him with caution. Better odds on picking the humble, inviting town boys than the silent, scarred fisherman. It doesn’t change a thing to him, even if Gaz and Price prod at him every once in a while.

Life is as it is, cyclic, endless in repetition, formation of a thousand possibilities in lockstep. The sun rises, yellow disc carelessly spilling over onto the ocean, flames at the bottom of his boat. The moon rises, perched high in the sky and watching over the rippling grasses. His name loses meaning, and he becomes that loss. Rumors rise and fall. Calm weather and storms trade turns, finding him unmoving as the cliff-stone.

It’s a silent day when the cyclic abruptly crawls to a halt. When the still, silent and waters of Ghost’s soul finds itself parted abruptly, tugged into a fierce upheaval. It comes without warning, without sense, swifter than any arrowhead and sharper than his knife. The apathy that colors his eyes vanishes when they meet his, all blues and greens like the ocean fed a bit of herself into two jewels and placed them for anyone to take in his head. It’s replaced so fast, Ghost doesn’t even notice. He doesn’t miss it, either.

One nameless day, the blue sheen of the water is cut by something, a foreign color that shimmers beneath the surface. He doesn’t recognize it immediately, that catches his eye more than any of its unusual features, blurred beneath the ripples of murky  water and the shadow cast by his boat. It’s slow moving, placid, then it thrashes once the net covers it, but Ghost is used to being jerked around and bites down on his tongue and digs his heel in, cursing to himself as he hauls it’s struggling form inch by inch. It’s almost respectable how violently it fights for its life. 

“I swear on the lord,” he snaps, twisting the net around his hands, the rope biting into his skin sharply, “I will gut you and eat you right bloody here right now, no matter how much you cost.” 

That is novelty enough, the fourth time already breaking the ritual, the strange appearance of the thing in his net that seems more wide-fins and shiny scales wrapped up in a ball than any sort of dish he knows, but then at the sound of his rough cracking voice it stills Ike a frightened rabbit. He nearly falls over from the sudden slack before he recovers.

The net spills open onto the deck, the mistake suddenly so minuscule Ghost forgets the net even exists as the catch flops onto the deck. It’s no fish he’s ever heard of, no eight armed man eating beast that idiot Graves once bragged about catching himself.

It looks almost like a man, almost, head and hair and hands even, but it’s body extends, serpentine and scaled like a fish. It glistens with copper red scales and bright blues, fins sprouting from its skin like any other creature from the sea. 

It looks up at Ghost, wide-eyed. Crystal blue, like sea-glass and the stones the town-men brought back from travels to adorn their brides throats, soft lips and nose.

The first thought, which is less of anything in any coherent language and more of an urge that builds in Ghost’s bones and tugs deep within him at his navel, is that he wants to touch it, cup its face into his hands and trace the contours of skin and scales and the boundaries where they blend and dance together. The second thought is that it’s trying to pull itself overboard. 

The third thought is lost when he leaps forwards to bind it, cut off amid the clumsy scuffle.

#ghostsoap #cod #writing #drabbles/snippets #ghost #soap #simon ghost riley #johnny soap mactavish #soapghost #Gaz is a nickname #Only his mom calls him Kyle

[tallmatcha]

WIP Wednesday

Long time no write.

Tagging: @gilgamish @wraith-caller @archangelsunited @aesadraws @saltymaplesyrup @ludicrous-musings @kookaburra1701 @dirty-bosmer @mirrordaltokki @thequeenofthewinter @nomorescore @whatsarasaid @downontheupside

As always, no pressure.

Rays of Gold - a story of pre-Shattering Leyndell

Chapter 1

Liurnian dawn was identical to Liurnian dusk: bleak, blue, and plagued by a mist so thick that it crept between the plates of Darian’s armor and burrowed beneath his clothes, settling upon his skin like cold sweat. As it collected at the base of his neck and ran down his spine, he clenched his gloved fists and fought the urge to shiver. None of the other men appeared bothered. He would not be the first to complain.

The waterlogged earth sucked at his boots, and the loud squelch that accompanied each step had long since gone from grating to infuriating. Stopping even for a moment would cause him to sink into the loamy soil; so overburdened was he by steel, leather, linen, and the weight of his own pride. He pressed on, ignoring the chill and the ever-present miasma of petrichor and wet rot. Bravely, he straightened his back and looked up to address his Master—or, rather, his Master’s horse, for his head barely came up to the beast’s shoulder.

“They’re saying the new Lord Lowell has Liurnian sympathies,” he declared.

Sir Owain’s horse snorted. Owain himself didn’t so much as glance down at his squire. “And who are they?”

“The men.”

“Which men?” The harshness of his tone caught Darian off guard. “If you volunteer information, be ready to disclose where it came from.”

“Sir.”

“I abhor idle talk, Darian.” 

“Sir. My apologies, sir.”

Had the discussion ended there, Darian would not have pushed further, for he knew better than to test his Master. To his surprise, Owain spoke again. “House Lowell has served Leyndell for centuries. We’ve never had reason to question their loyalty. The new Lord was educated at the Academy of Raya Lucaria. That on its own isn’t indicative of treason.” He shot Darian a pointed look. “Do not suggest such a thing again.” 

With that, Owain urged his steed to a canter and rode to the front of the line. Darian squared his shoulders and apologized to the ground, watching listlessly as muddy runoff welled up in the craters left by Lamaech’s hooves. He imagined the same filthy water seeping through his pores and diluting his blood, then leaching deeper still to rot his bones.

Only the carriage remained relatively unmarred by dirt. It was massive—needlessly so, for it was only meant to carry one passenger—and obscenely ornate, every inch adorned by curling flourishes, scalloped columns and garlands of laurel. Darian assumed it was just as sumptuously appointed within. Lord Lowell would spend the next three days warm and dry, and his sainted shoes need never touch the ground. 

One of the trolls tasked with pulling the carriage sank to its knees, exhausted. Its companion stopped, looked about nervously, then began to moan in distress. Darian felt a pang of sympathy for both creatures as his comrades drew their swords and approached the pair, banging on their shields and shouting threats. 

He glared reproachfully at the carriage. Such trouble, and all for one Lord.

#elden ring #d hunter of the dead #eventual d/rogier #Leyndell #the lands between #matcha scribbles #the golden order #darian elden ring

[sirensense]

I can’t participate in wet beast wednesday because I’m wet beast every day ;(

#sad siren moment #wet beast wednesday #otherkin #sirenkin #oceankin #merfolkkin #merkin #mermaid #mermaidkin #mermaids #merfolk #siren #therian #alterhuman

[possumcollege]

When your outfit weighs 35lbs every day is Wet Beast Wednesday.

#crittertongue #possumcollege #dinosaur sheriff #comic art #WIP #mathilda #my characters #humans #women in armor #art by op #sketch #fantasy #queer comics #urban fantasy #character design

[bethanythebogwitch]

Wet Beast Wednesday: epaulette shark

Stand at attention for the epaulette shark, the honorable (and adorable) general of the tide pools. These little guys really go against the image of a shark in media. Hollywood insist on portraying sharks as massive, violent predators that prowl the waves and will eat anyone and anything they find. The Epaulette shark, by contrast, is small, lives in the shallows, and couldn't hurt you if it wanted to.

(Image: an epaulette shark resting on the seafloor. It is a small, skinny, and long shark with a short snout and highly elongated tail. The two dorsal fins are located on the back half of the body and the pectoral and pelvic fins are long and paddle-shaped. Its body is a sandy brown and dotted with black spots. A large black spot is behind the pectoral fins. End ID)

Epaulette sharks average 70-90 cm (27-35 in), with the largest one on record being 107 cm (42 in). Over half of that length is made of the caudal peduncle, the part of the spine that the caudal (tail) fin grows out of. The actual fin itself is fairly small and does not have a lower lobe, making it look very slender and distinct from the caudal fins of other sharks (though other members of its family, Hemiscylliidae, share this tail structure). This tail structure makes them less efficient swimmers than most shark species. As a result, they tend to stick to the seafloor and do not often rise into the water column. Their bodies are light to dark brown with many dark spots and one large spot behind each pectoral fin. It is these spots that give the sharks their common name. Their placement makes them resemble epaulettes, decorative shoulder pieces that were and still are often used to demonstrate rank in many European and European-derived militaries. The coloration of the shark is used as camouflage against predators, with the smaller spots breaking up the silhouette and the epaulettes resembling the eyes of a much larger animal. Juveniles have a stripy pattern to their skin that fades as they age.

(Image: a juvenile epaulette shark resting on sand. It has the same body shape as the adult, but its skin is pale with darker stripes. End ID)

Epaulette sharks mate from July to December, late spring and summer in the southern hemisphere. Females will often initiate mating by following and nipping the males. Males will use their mouths to hold onto the females while inserting one clasper (the paired reproductive organs of sharks and other cartilaginous fish) into her cloaca. 14 days later, the female will release egg cases, usually two per mating and abandon them. The egg cases will usually get caught in seaweed or coral and remain there. After approximately 120 days, the juvenile sharks hatch. Females are able to mate again immediately after laying the egg cases and can lay up to 50 times per season. Juveniles are born 14-16 cm (5.5-6.5 in) long and grow about 5 cm (2 in) every year. They reach sexual maturity at around 7 years of age when they reach a length of 54-64 cm (21.5-25 in). The maximum lifespan of wild specimens is speculated to be 20-25 years. There have been rare cases of females in captivity reproducing through parthenogenesis after living in tanks with no males.

(Image: an epaulette shark egg case. It is an ovoid brown, translucent object. Visible within the egg case is the developing shark. It has the adult's body plan, but is attached to a large, spherical yolk sac. End ID)

Epaulette sharks are found in coastal water from southern New Guinea to northern Australia. They prefer water under 50 m (160 ft) deep and can often be found in extremely shallow water, especially around coral reefs and shorelines. These sharks are often found in tide pools and have a number of adaptations for this lifestyle. While they are capable of swimming, the sharks prefer to walk. They undulate their bodies while using their paddle-like pectoral and pelvic fins to push against the seafloor. The fins have modified skeletons to allow each fin to rotate, increasing their effectiveness as limbs. Using their fins, the sharks can even walk over land, which they do to move into and between tide pools. Because of this, epaulette sharks are studied by biologists for use as a model organism for the transition of vertebrates onto land in the distant past. Epaulette sharks are nocturnal. During the day, they hide from predators in crevices and other places large predators can't enter. At night, they come into the shallows to hunt. They use smell and electroreception to hunt for prey buried under sand. Their preferred food is crustaceans, worms, and small fish. Juveniles prefer soft-bodied animals like worms and fish while adults consume crustaceans primarily. Their teeth can lie flat, allowing the sharks to switch between sharp teeth for eating worms and fish and a hard plate to crush crab and shrimp exoskeletons.

(GIF: an epaulette shark walking through tide pools and over land, showing the motions it makes from different angles. End ID)

Epaulette sharks often get stuck in tide pools overnight. Life in tide pools is harsh as there is a limited supply of dissolved oxygen available and all the animals in the pool use it up. As a result, epaulette sharks have several adaptations to hypoxic (low oxygen) environments. When in hypoxic water, the shark can drop its heart rate and the rate it passes water over the gills. It then dilates certain blood vessels to divert blood to the heart and brain and away from other organs. This causes its blood pressure to drop by over half. It can also lower metabolic activity for parts of the brain, freeing up ATP (the chemical that provides cells with energy) to be used for more critical brain functions. This is aided by shark rains requiring 1/3rd the ATP as the brains of bony fish, further increasing the survivability of the shark. All of this means that an epaulette shark can survive in extremely hypoxic water for 3 hours while still remaining alert and responsive and can survive with no oxygen for an hour with no negative effects. It's notable that they do this in warm water as most animals that can tolerate extreme oxygen deprivation need to be in cold temperatures to do it.

(Image: an epaulette shark resting in a tide pool. The water is barely deep enough to keep it submerged. End ID)

Epaulette sharks are classified as Least Concern by the IUCN, though they are locally threatened in New Guinea. Their primary threats are habitat loss and bycatch. As they are commonly found in coral reefs, coral bleaching threatens their habitat. In addition, it has recently been found that the warming ocean is resulting in pups being born smaller and weaker than they used to be, reducing juvenile survival rates. They show little fear of humans and wild ones will allow humans on the beach to approach them. They have also been known to approach swimmers and divers. Encounters with curious people can harm the sharks, while their only method of defending themselves is a minor bit and they're too slow to crawl away. Their gentle natures and small sizes make epaulette sharks one of the easiest shark species to keep in captivity, both in public and private aquariums. There is now a small demand for captured epaulette sharks for sale on the pet trade.

(Image: an epaulette shark in an aquarium touch tank. It is resting on sandy sediment while a human arm reaches in from above, touching it with two fingers. A stingray and two small yellow fish are visible in the background. End ID)

#wet beast wednesday #epaulette shark #shark #sharks #fish #fishblr #fishposting #cartilaginous fish #marine biology #biology #zoology #ecology #animal facts #cute #informative #educational #image described

[etherati]

Taproot - (2/25)

So, change of plans. If I only post once a week, it will take half a year to post the entire 25 chapters. So gonna post twice a week - on Wednesdays and on Sat/Sun.

Chapter content warnings: lonely boys, missing their wizard GF. Trevor gets a nice gift and is incapable of accepting it politely. Implied chicken death.

🎵 Music pairing: Undertow - REM

< -- Back | Next -- >

Go to part: one | two | three | four | five | six

It has been a cold goddamned winter in the Carpathian foothills of eastern Wallachia, and it’s barely gotten started.

Trevor kicks the wet, clumpy snow from his boots. It’s starting to come down again, gathering in the fur at the collar of his cloak—not as thick or impressively fluffy as his old one, but the wool’s not worn through in a dozen places and he doesn’t exactly sleep under trees these days, so it’s fine—and the sky is doing something foreboding and miserable out here, clouds roiling and grey and apocalyptic.

Shitbutt bounces at his heels, swallowed up by the snow every time he lands and not seeming to mind at all, and okay, that’s kind of hilarious. One bright spot.

Trevor grins, eases the service door open with his hip, maneuvering the pile of cordwood in his arms around the tall, spiny bushes that nearly obscure it from view. It isn’t that heavy, but it’s awkward as hell, and all that axe-work in the frigid air has left him achy. Between that and the weather and the fact that they already have enough fucking firewood, for God’s sake, it’s time to call it a day.

“C’mon, boy,” he mumbles, jerking his head toward the door; the little beast trots obediently inside, trailing mud and snow and making a mess Adrian will probably pitch a fit over later.

In the little anteroom, heat radiates from more of those copper pipes, filling the space. It seeps in through his clothes, settles against his skin, chasing out the chill; Trevor stands there for a moment, just breathing it in and letting his lungs thaw out—giving the ward over the inner door a chance to recognize him. Boots toed off, then onward: through the labyrinthine passageways that he somehow has learned by heart and that have even stopped somersaulting on him, as if the castle has finally accepted that a little maze solving isn’t going to scare him away.

In the sitting room, there’s already a fire going. Adrian is lounging in one of the soft chairs that he’s pulled right up next to it, one steaming mug in his hand, another on the table next to him.

“You look comfortable,” Trevor says, only halfway meaning the dig, because that’s about all he ever manages these days. A lot of the time, he doesn’t mean it at all. He crosses the room, starts stacking the wood with the rest of it.

“Mm. I am, yes.”

“Must be nice to duck out of chores early.”

That earns him a raised eyebrow and an indulgent grin, Adrian turning his head to regard him. “I cut just as much wood as you did. It’s not my fault I’m faster at it than you are.”

Nope, that would be Dracula’s fault. Trevor grins to himself, shakes his head, doesn’t say it.

“Anyway,” Adrian continues, “someone had to actually start the fire and heat up the wine, else you’d never thaw out.” He picks up the second mug by the rim, holds it out in offering, and it smells incredible—mulled and spicy and sharp, steam curling lazily toward the ceiling.

But there’s no third mug, and as always, that dampens his enthusiasm a bit. Trevor sighs, takes it by the handle, takes a careful sip to gauge the heat. It’s perfect, it’s always perfect, but.

“You look stiff,” Adrian says, dodging the obvious.

Another sip, and this one goes down better, cloves lingering in his nose. “It’s just the cold,” Trevor says, because it is. He can remember waking up feeling this way every single winter morning for years, even with the thicker cloak—like he’d turned to ice overnight and his body was just gradually relearning how to be made of flesh. Wages of the wanderer. “Makes everything sort of seize up. I’ll be fine in a minute.”

“Or twenty or thirty, if left to your own devices.” Adrian takes a long pull from his own mug and sets it aside, points to the floor in front of his chair. “Sit.”

“Really?” Trevor smirks, doesn’t budge. “What am I, the damn dog?”

“No, the dog doesn’t argue half so much.” Adrian sits up straighter in the chair, beckons with a waving hand. “I’ve been in front of the fire long enough that my hands aren’t even cold. Stop being difficult.”

Stop being difficult; he may as well be asking Trevor to stop breathing air. But he’s trying, lately—and there’s also the thought of getting those hands on him without having to do any work for it—aside from all the wood-chopping—and that’s undeniably appealing.

“Fine,” he says, sweeping the cloak off and hanging it on one of the pegs near the fire to dry out. He unhooks the Morning Star from his belt, settles to the floor in front of Adrian’s chair, the weapon coiled up within easy reach. These are tricky times, and knowing he’s prepared for outside threats lets him relax more fully, falling into a lax, messy slump, sockfeet trailing out toward the fire.

Strong, delicate hands alight on his shoulders first, start working their way downward from there, and as usual, Trevor is all at once overwhelmed: the heat from the fire, from the wine, from Adrian’s touch. It’s too soft, too much—too much comfort, too much warmth, too much safety. It’s strange how he never felt this way back when the weather was mild; only now that it’s miserable out there and he’s experiencing these bursts of cold and discomfort again is his body reminding him that that is, in fact, what it’s accustomed to.

Whatever. It can fucking well get accustomed to this. He leans back into the touch, groaning as those fingers dig in under his shoulder blades with impossible precision, loosening the corded stiffness there, letting the tension drain away.

“Enjoying yourself?” Adrian teases, the voice right next to his ear.

“Fuck you, of course I am,” Trevor laughs, as Adrian drags his hands lower, thumbs sliding down along his spine and working the long bands of muscle that run the length of it. “That feels incredi—agh, Christ,” he cuts off, as Adrian finds a knotted up little locus of ache; the sharpness of the pain when he really digs in is enough to take Trevor’s breath away. “Right there, yeah.”

Adrian obliges him, focusing his attentions. “This isn’t just from the cold.”

“No, that’s from using the axe in the same hand all day,” Trevor mutters, wincing around the discomfort; this doesn’t feel good, but it needs doing. “Should have changed it up. Stupid.”

A momentary pause from behind him, hands stilling; then they resume again, and Adrian says nothing.

“What,” Trevor says, “no commentary on that? You’re losing your touch.”

A spike of pain as Adrian twists a finger into the knot, with just a measured touch of sharpness; then the ache fades, as Trevor feels the muscle release its torturous, twisted-up grip on itself. That is—that is basically magic, holy shit.

“You aren’t stupid,” Adrian mutters, distracted, soothing over the spot. “And you don’t need me to tell you that. If anything, you’re a little short on common sense, which—well, neither of us are very good about that, on our own.”

On their own. The two of them. So very much not the way this was meant to be, even if it is just temporary, even if it is so, so much better than actually being alone.

“I’d trade away common sense for what I do know any day,” Trevor grumbles. “Common sense stuff isn’t anywhere near as likely to kill you when you fuck it up.”

“In your case, I’d give it even odds,” Adrian says, the familiar, infuriating sass bleeding into his tone even as his hands keep up their work, gently easing the ache from his muscles. “I’ve seen you nearly killed preparing breakfast.”

Oh, for God’s sake. “That was one time.”

He can almost feel Adrian frown. “One time feels like once too many, given how many actual, serious threats we have to deal with,” he says, and there it is, there’s the real issue—the actual thing that’s causing both of them so much tension. The spectre that’s been hanging over them for days.

“Fine,” Trevor says, trying to keep the sudden swell of despair out of his voice. “I get it; I’m not stupid, I’m just a walking disaster.”

Adrian’s hands still—then he brings them up to the back of Trevor’s neck, thumbs digging into the base of his skull, forcing him to cant his head forward as the tension unravels. Fingers slide forward to card through his hair. “Trevor. What’s really wrong?”

“What, besides the threat of impending attack, the fact that we don’t have any real allies to speak of, and the cornerstone of our defense plans not even fucking being here?” The words imply irritation, but Trevor can’t find the actual emotion in his voice. He just sounds tired, at least to himself. He takes an awkward sip of the wine, finds he’s nearly at the bottom of the mug. Quietly: “God, Adrian. I really miss her. I’m not—I’m not used to missing anyone.”

Another long pause, this one contemplative; then Adrian slips down from the chair, lithe form folding itself effortlessly beside him. He leans into Trevor’s space, deliberate. “Am I not enough for you?” he asks, and it’s so obviously a joke, so blatantly an attempt to distract him, and that makes something warm flutter in Trevor’s chest.

“Nope,” he replies, not looking up; he can feel a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Oh, my wounded feelings,” Adrian sighs, dramatic. “However shall I survive?”

“You’ll make it.”

“I think—I think I’m going to swoon.”

“Oh my God,” Trevor mumbles, because this is so utterly ridiculous, but he makes no move to put a stop to it when Adrian sprawls across his lap in a theatrical faint, his back bowing in such a way as to pull his shirt taut against all the—frankly gorgeous—musculature of his torso, and he is so doing this on purpose, the utter bastard.

Which means he deserves whatever comes next.

Trevor puts his mug aside, sets his hand on the flat, tight expanse of Adrian’s belly. Lets it sit there a moment, heavy and warm. Gives the other man time to consider where the hand might decide to go next.

Then he crooks his fingers in tight against Adrian’s side, spider-walking them across his ribs—and Adrian lets out the breath he’d been holding explosively, curls his body around Trevor’s hand in a spasm of hysterics. He rolls out of Trevor’s lap and onto the floor, mindless with laughter.

Here’s a truth that Trevor had been delighted to learn, about a month ago: Adrian Țepeș, the cold, unflappable bastard, the stoic dhampir that can take a knee to the dick without flinching, is ticklish.

Another truth: he only tolerates exploitation of this fact for so long before retaliating with force he can’t necessarily control. Trevor ended up with a wall-shaped bruise down his side and a very apologetic Adrian on his hands the first time he pushed this too far, so he has learned to extract a little laughter from him and then stop.

And stop he does, and teases him about it like he always does, and lets Adrian use his lap as a pillow as repayment, and it’s nice—another day, other circumstances, and Trevor could fall asleep like this, sprawled before the fire, a warm hand tucked into his own, the weight of Adrian’s presence soothing against all the worries and tensions.

But they’ve heard wolves in the night, recently.

And something’s missing.

They’ve commandeered another of these generic parlors as a study-slash-strategy room; books sit in stacks on the floor, relocated here from both libraries, everything they could find on the history of vampire activity in this area, on the history of the town—even on linguistics, Sypha hoping to pin the archaic variant of French they’d found on the tree down to a specific region and time-frame. All she’s been able to figure out so far is that it’s probably been out of use since the 1200s, which neither makes any sense nor helps them in any way.

They’d made a charcoal rubbing of the carving, and it’s pinned to the wall here, in among Adrian’s rough house designs and floor plans, rough drafts of bestia—compendium entries and mockups of illustrations.

It was joined, four days ago, by a new rubbing—this one of a carving they found very near the first one, in the heartwood of a tree much more freshly flayed:

The longest night is coming. Be ready.

...or something like that. Again, his French is rusty, and this is the same stupid dialect again, so he’s relying on Adrian’s translation. It doesn’t really matter—the gist is clear enough, and it’s nothing but bad news, even if it’s more unequivocally a warning rather than a threat.

To make things worse, it had appeared only after Sypha had left, to visit her family—to delve into some of the deeper magics of her people. To visit her people for the solstice. Which means she won’t be here for whatever’s coming—and a tiny part of Trevor is grateful for that, but it shrinks in fear before the reality that they kind of need her, and also that she will be incredibly pissed off if she gets back in a month and finds them dead and the castle overrun by vampires. Possibly pissed enough to take up necromancy just so she can give them a piece of her mind.

It’s a shitty situation. Trevor, frankly, has no idea what to do about it.

They still have the mirror, at least—the one up in Dracula’s old study, the one that matter, and people, can pass through. Worst to worst, they can probably find her and bring her back that way. It’s something they’ve been loath to do too soon, given how useful this new bag of tricks will be if she actually pulls it off.

This is why all the firewood, though—stacks and stacks of it, more than they should need for the entire winter, in case of a prolonged siege. Trevor cleaned out the dry goods vendor in the Acasă market two days ago, and the stall selling preserves, and while he got some strange looks for it, he hadn’t been sure if it was on account of him being a Belmont or on account of him being a crazy hoarder that needed thirty-seven jars of pickled vegetables. Adrian’s been laying in bandages and medicines, and the hares Trevor’s managed to hunt up in the deep snow are drying into jerky in a cellar somewhere in the guts of the castle.

Trevor’s also gone through the hold, meticulously sorting every weapon he could lay hands on into ‘consecrated’ or ‘useless’. He’s stashed as many of the former as he can into hidey holes all around the castle; finding out that Adrian could actually use the damn things had been a bit of a game changer.

They’ve fortified every entrance, and some of the larger windows. Secured some of the internal doors too, to section off the castle into safe and compromised regions if necessary. He even managed to get his hands on a pretty large supply of holy water, though he hasn’t figured out what to do with it, yet.

It’s not bad, for four days’ preparation.

It has also been a monstrous amount of work. No, he doesn’t only hurt from the cold. But it all has to be done, if they want to get through this.

And Trevor’s still not afraid of dying, not by a long shot—but he does have a preference in the matter, these days.

“Ah, shit.”

He’d just been planning to board over this window. The wood and nails and hammer are right there on the chest of drawers. It'd  only been by some strange impulse that Trevor had decided to take a look out onto the grounds first—and there they are, eyes gleaming in the moonlight, creeping up the main path like the creepy vampire fucks that they are. Six of them. Tightly clumped, easy to take out all at once if he can get the drop on them.

It’s not the solstice yet. And this group is nowhere near big enough to be something worth leaving them cryptic warnings about. He still bolts down the stairs at speed to where he’s pretty sure he left Adrian working on one of the inner doors. “Adrian—!”

“I see them,” the dhampir says, damnably calm, appearing from around a turn in the staircase—forcing Trevor to pull to a stumbling halt. He’s got something made of cloth folded over his arm, burgundy and gold, and he holds it out. “Put this on.”

Trevor blinks, thrown off. He’s already got the Morning Star in hand, is gearing up in his head, thinking through attack strategies—and Adrian wants him to play fucking dress-up?

“It will earn you more respect,” Adrian says, response to his unspoken skepticism. “Which could prevent this escalating into a fight. If it does come to bloodshed, this will protect you more than anything you’re wearing now.”

Right. That whole bit, where Adrian’s trying to remedy their ‘no allies’ problem—and the closely related ‘all the other vampires think he’s a weird hermit with a human fetish like his dad’ problem—by reaching out to nearby clans and covens, offering protection and, maybe more importantly, a voice to those who would prefer coexistence to mindless slaughter.

It’s too low a bar for morality, as far as Trevor’s concerned. And the whole thing reeks of terrible, suicidally stupid idea. But he hadn’t had a better one, so here they are, about to go talk to a bunch of fucking vampires when all the chainwhip at his side wants to do is rip through them like a scythe through wheat.

“What the hell is this?” he asks, taking the garment with one hand, tucking the Morning Star back onto his belt with the other. Shaking it out as they take the stairs two at a time, he can see that it’s some kind of—it’s a coat, trimmed in gold like    Adrian’s poncey thing. Shorter though, and the same deep red as the tapestries down in the hold, with the Belmont crest emblazoned over the left breast in the same gold—

Crowned by the abstract silhouette of a dragon’s head, wings spread.

Oh, fuck no.

“There’s an inner silk layer,” Adrian babbles, “to protect against piercing weapons. The linen should be sufficient to—”

Oh, oh fuck no. Trevor grabs Adrian by the upper arm; he doesn’t have enough strength to actually stop him should he not want to be stopped, but Adrian comes to a halt anyway, spinning on Trevor with impatience flooding his features.

Trevor jabs a finger at the dragon like he could spear it right off the fabric. “That’s fucking Dracula’s.”

“No,” Adrian says, softening, sighing in frustration. “It isn’t.”

“I’ve seen—”

“You’ve seen a red dragon, facing the other direction. I understand your own family seal doesn’t use much in the way of traditional heraldic symbols, but please trust me when I say that those changes matter.”

“You didn’t tell us you were—”

“Trevor. This is very, very much not the time for this conversation.”

And damn him, he’s right. Fine. Fine, okay. He pulls the damn thing on; it fits surprisingly well, nestling across his shoulders like it was made specifically for him, and of course, it had been. No restriction of movement that he can pick up on. Nothing flappy to get twisted up or caught on an enemy’s weapon.

Okay. He can work with this.

“You do whatever you have to,” he says, as they reach the main hall. “I’m going to be ready to take their heads off when diplomacy breaks down.”

“Such little faith in my ability.”

“It’s not what you’re going to do that I’m worried about.”

The last time this had happened, which had also been the first time it’d happened, they’d been caught completely flatfooted. They’d been walking home from the night market, in good spirits, that damn chicken Trevor had been so insistent on sitting idiotically in its wicker cage, swinging from Adrian’s grip. They’d all been armed, but otherwise dressed for a trip to town—nothing fancy, just warm and comfortable clothes that wouldn’t draw attention. Sypha had been carrying some cabbage. Trevor’d been gesturing with a loaf of bread like it was a sword. They had been, in retrospect, completely ridiculous—and then they’d just about stumbled over a group of vampires, waiting on their front lawn.

Not attacking. Not making ready to attack. Tense and agitated, sure, but standing around like they'd wanted to talk. And that had, in fact, been what they’d wanted.

It’d taken some quick thinking on Adrian’s part—drop his hair into his face before they could get a look at him, pretend to just be another servant, promise to head up and get the master of the castle for them—but they’d gotten past the interlopers and inside, and Adrian had changed and held an impressively competent audience with them for having no time at all to prepare. They’d wanted nothing more than to promise the fealty of their small group; they’d stayed out of the war, had no particular love for humans but saw no need for killing them without reason, and of all of those vying for power in a world after Dracula’s fall, they saw Alucard of Wallachia as the most likely to pretty much just leave them alone.

It had gone middling-well. They hadn’t been eager to swear off killing for food—though they saw the logistical sense in keeping their donors alive when possible—and they had ignored Trevor and Sypha as if they were court pets, but compared to the throat-ripping murder-happy lunatics Trevor’s faced down in his day, it had been a start.

They’d left satisfied. Adrian had felt confident he’d pulled off his little deception.

Then Sypha had reached up and pulled a stray chicken feather from his hair.

The group had never come back, never called him out on it. Maybe they had been spectacularly unobservant. Maybe they’d had a good laugh about it, later. Maybe they just hadn’t given a fuck, as long as they were left alone.

Trevor’s chicken stew, full of rich, doughy dumplings and parsnips and carrots, and mushrooms from the woods nearby, and lots of Sypha’s herbs and just two little cloves of garlic—well within Adrian’s tolerance threshold—had been spectacular, for as long as they’d had to wait for it.

So now he’s following Adrian out to the main entry hall at a tight clip, grip on his weapon unfaltering. It’s a more inviting space than it used to be: more lighting, and the carpets all replaced, the new ones a detailed pattern in gold and black, less gloomy and more expansively regal than their predecessors. By the time they’re halfway down the top flight of stairs, the castle’s doors have started to creak open ponderously; Adrian halts them on the landing before the second flight.

Below, the group from the yard wanders nervously inside. They look like they expect the floor to suddenly turn to lava, or to open up and drop them into a pit of holy water.

Actually, that’s not a terrible idea. He’ll have to talk to Sypha about that when she gets back.

But: the vampires. They climb the stairs, when they could just float. They show proper respect. And in the end, their nervousness makes sense.

“We are a small order, but we’re growing,” the female vampire in the lead says, and even Trevor can hear the uncertainty underlying the veneer of confidence. “We choose to value the presence of humanity on the earth—not simply for food, but for their own contributions to the collective culture of sentience.” Her eyes drift away from Adrian, land on Trevor for a moment, then shift back. “We have heard that the heir to this court holds similar beliefs, and we’ve travelled far to reach you.”

Trevor has to admit: this is gutsy. They’re putting themselves out there, in a show of ‘weakness’ that any other vampire lord wouldn’t hesitate to punish with exile or death. On the basis of a rumor, with the only confirmation being the fact that the infamous Alucard’s got a human standing alongside him, neither enthralled nor bound. Armed. Wearing his seal.

“As long as that remains your practice,” Adrian says; the skepticism doesn’t make it into his voice, but Trevor can see it in the cant of his face, in his eyes, “then you will be welcome here. We will provide protection and representation when the need arises, in exchange for your allegiance to our causes.”

And that’s some serious bullshit—vague promises and requests for help with causes unspecified—but apparently that’s how these things are done, because the leader of the group seems unperturbed. “Of course, my Lord. My people are yours.”

So: suddenly, they seem to have allies. Maybe. If they can be trusted.

Maybe Adrian had been right about the stupid jacket after all. Appearances do, sometimes, matter.

The vampires leave a few hours before sunup, their destination unclear. Trevor boards up more windows. They catalogue supplies, weapons, defenses. Adrian helps him rig up some nonsense with the holy water and the system of pipes that are already feeding most of the castle; it’ll be diluted, but maybe it’ll still help in a pinch.

They crawl into bed together at the end of the day, exhausted and weary. Trevor knows he’s going to sleep poorly; has done so for the past week or so, ever since Sypha left.

Ugh, no. She went on a trip. She didn’t leave.

“So. That was new,” he mumbles into Adrian’s hair, after about ten minutes of trying, and failing, to drift off.

“Mm?”

“Those vampires,” he clarifies, tucking himself closer; it’s not an easy thing. It seems like they’re all angles and edges some nights, pieces that don’t quite come together, without—

“Ah,” Adrian says, understanding. His own posture softens, opens up, allows Trevor to find their fit. “They were a strange group, yes. I can’t say I expected any of my people to be quite that adamant about not killing.”

“They’re not really your people,” Trevor says, yawning. Maybe that’s rude, but it’s late and he’s exhausted.

Adrian is, apparently, too tired to take offense. “I know. Easier than spelling out the details every time; indulge me.”

“Fiiine.”

“You’re right, though.” Adrian’s voice sounds odd, distant. “I’m not completely sure whether to trust them. Perhaps it’s my own biases; all the vampires I’ve known have been kowtowing to my father’s court. But it isn’t an attitude I thought existed.”

Trevor sighs, pulling the blanket tighter around his chin. Vampires that don’t want to kill. No, more than that: that want to not kill. Truly unprecedented?

For a moment, he’s fourteen again, hungry and tired and injured and bleeding, the whip in his hands barely obeying him, desperate to prove himself and the honor of his name and how else to do that, except by killing vampires?

Through the window glass, the starlight makes no dent in the darkness, barely illuminates the snow. He closes his eyes.

Back off, kid, the beast taunts in his mind, and thirteen years past, his temper flares, indignant rage. Neither of us wants me to kill you.

He tightens his grip on Adrian, feels a reciprocal squeeze around his shoulders. In his mind’s eye: just another dead monster, blood slicking the end of the whip. Just another hunt. Just doing the work he’d been born for.

“They’re out there,” he murmurs, the truth of it sticking in his heart like a knife.

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#castlevania #netflix castlevania #fanfic #fanfiction #sypha belnades #trevor belmont #alucard #adrian tepes #taproot #wellspring #post-s2 #trephacard

[zeravmeta]

i know it's just one of the many stupid jokes on this website but i really do treasure how we make a celebration out of the weekdays. yeah it IS milf monday lets get it on. we dont have a problem on tuesday. sparkle on theres a wet beast every wednesday. we are all feliz and out of touch on thursday. we made it to electric feel friday sailor even if it its thursday. this Is a radical saturday. we have energy swords and fingers every sunday. like theres just something so genuinely happy and hopeful to me about us just celebrating making it through every day of the week the world may burn the people may rot and the skies may darken but we wont lose the weekdays and we'll all be back here to celebrate having made it through the day

#the intrinsic human modus operandi of kindness got to me alright #other websites wish they had weekday celebrations #and yeah. feliz hueves to all of you.. bulma trunks and even you kakarot

[phoenixiancrystallist]

I'm scheduling more photo dumps to post and getting sad that we're almost to the end of it. Still a whole month and some change to go, but still too close to make me happy. I want to keep doing them! As Cuff says, "Athia has so much to offer the dedicated explorer."

I've got a few ideas, though :) And I was gonna make a poll to see which one y'all wanted to see first, but then I went "well wait a minute, I have seven ideas and there are seven days in the week. I'll just do all of them on a different day!" So behold! A new schedule!! :D

Monday: Magic Monday, shots of every single one of Frey's spells. Every. Single. Spell. ...that isn't, like, cloak enhancement spells or whatever since those have no visual component lol

Tuesday: Tragic Tuesday, pictures of various skeletons scattered across Athia. May or may not but heavily leaning towards may include the drabbles/microfics I promised forever ago

Wednesday: Wet Beast Wednesday! Except most of them aren't wet, lol. Basically a bestiary of everything Frey can murderkill around Athia. Broken, Nightmares, Tanta minions, possibly the Tantas themselves. The possibilities are limited only by the number of enemies in the game! :D

Thursday: Thinky Thoughts Thursday, shots of the interiors of the Cognoscent's Guilds. Because they're cool and I like them.

Friday: Fashion Friday! All the fashions and styles of Athia and beyond, from Frey's cloaks and necklaces to whatever the heck Treahy's hat is supposed to be

Saturday: Caturday, naturally. A day for all kitty cats, both magical and mundane. Probably gonna run out of these sooner than any of the others, though. Still, that's 9 mundane cats, 20 magical kitties, and Homer, so at least 30 weeks of kitty pics :)

Sunday: Sunday Funday, random pretty shots of Athia because I can't stop myself from taking them anyway lol

The last of the current photo dumps is scheduled for Friday, March 8th. This new schedule will start up on Monday, April 1st, to give myself more time to organize and build up a nice backlog. I may add to the dumps ending on March 8th; it turns out Visoria Castle is visible on the horizon before spoilers happen, so I'm probably going to take a ton of pictures in Visoria that include the castle. Because it looks cool and I can :P But those shouldn't take up the rest of March, so expect a photo dump hiatus sometime that month.

#Forspoken #bobbi's being weird again #I have a lot of work cut out for me #and I wouldn't have it any other way :) #also yes all of these will include DLC content 💜