#please enjoy.

[cry-ptidd]

Comic style Laura⁉️

[transsongtaewon]

"It's down, we're done""

Peace stretched, shaking shaking off the worst of the grime. There was still blood stuck in his coat, making it clump unconfortably and he could have burned it off. But Peace would tolerate it for a bit longer.

One of the humans stepped closer to him, the one all the hurt ones flocked around after fights. Peace thought it was fairly obvious that he wasn't hurt, but humans were often slower on the uptake. Still, he didn't want to be touched by this stranger so he just growled, fur rising. He wouldn't actually attack, probably. Dad would get stressed.

Luckily, the human backed away. Peace thought their face was trying to look calm, but the smell of sweat crawling up his nose said differently. Good. Peace was grown and much stronger than the humans here.

They seemed to understand instinctively, staying away from him while they hiked back towards the portal.

Peace walked quickly. He enjoyed the dungeons, the opportunity to tear into weaker beings and become stronger, finally able to be his true self... but he also liked returning home at the end. No matter how much fun he had inside a dungeon, there was almost always something very important missing. His dad wasn't there.

And even when dad went with him, Peace would not allow himself to relax. Dad was fragile and had to be protected. As a filial child, Peace would take on this duty without hesitation.

Passing through the portal made his fur stay on end every time. It was the second worst part of travelling, the worst was the horrible air outside the dugeons. Cars were certainly useful if you were slow and quickly exhausted, but only if you couldn't smell the fumes the way Peace did.

But there was an upside to his keen senses. He could tell without even looking that dad was waiting for him just outside.

Knowing this took priority over anything else and he did not bother to humor the humans trying to see if he would start attacking (as though he'd ever lose control like that) before shrinking down and slipping between various legs.

Dad spotted him immediately, very possibly because Peace was causing a commotion. He may get scolded for that later. He did not care overly much, since it meant dad had his arms open for Peace to jump into.

He purred a greeting that dad returned but didn't understand and stuffed his nose into his dad's shirt.

"I missed you too, Peace-yah. Did you have fun?"

Peace said yes, but that the other humans kept bothering him, and Yoojin told him about all the meals he'd had while Peace was gone.

He took one of Peace's paws in his hand, critically examining the pawpad. Dad really liked pressing on it for some reason. "Are you sure you didn't get hurt? You're all covered in dirt, we'll have to bathe you when we get home."

Peace whined and tried to bury his face even deeper. It was childish of him, but dad would never scold him. He even thought it was cute when Peace acted like this. Sometimes, it meant that he paid more attention to Peace than his other kids.

"I know, I know, bathing is horrible. But our Peace is very brave and will manage just fine." Yoojin kept his hand buried in Peace's fur the whole car ride back. It was the only thing that made the ordeal even remotely worth it.

Even water was worth if it dad was there with him. Peace did not need help to clean himself, he had his flames. But it was nice of dad to make an effort with his hands, digging deep into Peaces fur and scratching him until his bones felt all soft and lose. It even helped get rid of his lose fur. So the older child was definitely lying when he claimed Peace didn't need the baths at all.

His favourite part, however came after all the fuss of leaving the dungeon and being checked over and bathed. It was when after all of that, his dad carried him over to the living room, still swaddling Peace in his towel like he was a human baby. Peace growled half-heartedly and then couldn't help but purr when Yoojin booped his nose.

"You've worked hard, haven't you, our Peace? You are the strongest and smartest monster I have ever met." Dad thought for a second, still petting Peace. "Just don't tell Blue."

Blue obviously wasn't very smart because she didn't stick with dad the way Peace did. It was the only rational decision any creature could make. Peace very kindly explained all this to his dad, who did not understand a single thing.

Peace forgave him only because Yoojin stretched out on the sofa and let Peace make himself comfortable on his stomach. Since this was the first time in quite a bit that he and dad were cuddling like this, Peace took his time to find the perfect position and only settled down after he had turned around himself a couple of times.

Dad grumbled a little, "now I'm all covered in fur again, thanks." But he made no move to dislodge Peace. He probably wouldn't be made to move until dad had to go to the bathroom or it was time for dinner. With a bit of luck, he'd fall asleep on the sofa and the other kids wouldn't dare disturb their peace.

And even if they did, Peace thought as he settled his head on his paws, Peace was allowed to sleep on dad's bed with him, so he wouldn't be annoyed for long.

His pur matched the rhythm of dad's fingers in his fur as he settled down for a nap.

Written for Sctir Pride Week day 6: Comfort/Rest

[miel128]

feeling blue

[b1adie]

[irisfixation]

an invite to a show

(experimental writing piece. cw: trance-y language and a gently unsettling atmosphere, perhaps.)

Having a local kinkster acquaintance (in the midst of a play party, no less) ask if you'd like to go see a dance together was somewhat unusual, you'd thought at the time. Even more surprising was the here and now, as you passed between stall and stage, past tent and warehouse, through the local fringe festival, only to find yourself set up in front of a relatively regular theater stage.

Same half-ringed stage. Same curtains; same rows of seats (lower than usual, and with less capacity); same lights, set and framed just as any other, just beyond eye level. They nearly blind you as you step in from the mid-evening blues beyond.

There were other things in the festival you could have expected them to take you in. Adults-only shows, bondage showcases, risque dances in skimpy outfits, stage hypnosis routines, et cetera.

This was clearly not one of those. The banner image just outside the entrance was some classical ballet routine - you didn't recognize it off-hand - and aside from you and your friend you didn't particularly notice anyone else from your little band of Weird Horny Folks™.

Why the hell here in particular? The question bemused as much as it fascinated, really. Was it some elaborate setup, was one of the actors someone they knew? Was this merely an attempt at socializing that went too far? Is this a date?

You look to the one who invited you here. You phrased some of these confusions already when they told you, of course, but they'd just smiled and said a few words of consolation. "I dunno, it could be a date if you wanted it to be" - that kind of flirting, just vague enough to be played off.

Well, either way, you'd be finding out soon enough. A stagehand in shades of burgundy pulls the entrance door to, filtering out first the last streams of sunset light from the entryway, then the chatter and commotion of the festival beyond. The susurration of fellow viewers' friendly chatter dies down to whispers, then naught. The lights dim, slowly yet fluidly.

The curtains pull fully back, the shifting of fabric sliding smoothly across your ears. A beam of light alights upon the very center of the stage. Upon a woman.

She stands there with purpose, the stillness of a bowstring pulled taut, meeting the gaze of the audience before her. Meeting your gaze, within it.

Wordlessly, her chin dips; her arms move to the side as she curtseys. A slow, deep movement.

And then she begins to dance.

You watch, waiting, as she moves. It is a slow thing; hardly a fast-paced spectacle, but possessing of a certain confidence in each of its movements. A turn. A stretch. A slow stride across the stage, each step made as if in slow-motion.

She continues on; somewhere between a ballet and the movements of a sleepwalker. There's a certain sense of autopilot within it, like that of an automaton carrying out procedures done many times before. Of a familiarity that rejects haste.

There's always a certain intentionality to art; a piece of art preserved in a gallery is not so different from something placed on the street, after all. (As the old adage on abstract art goes: "I could have made this!" "But you didn't.") The woman's movements, you think, are similar; you could have easily passed the person in front of you in the street and barely notice. But right now, as you sit and watch, there is an intent clear and pure enough to reject any attempts to turn away.

Her movement winds down. She drifts to the center of the stage, and slowly but certainly ceases her movement.

The moment is heavy, hushed, oppressive. Her gaze holds above it almost tirelessly.

You and her remain there; you rooted to your seat, her anticipant in place, the outside world less than a whisper.

Slowly but surely, she raises an arm. You watch each micromovement as it happens, as her fingers splay out and knucklebones play against taut skin, the muscles across elbow and shoulder tensing, as tufts of her hair brush aside and she places a sole outstretched finger upon her cheek.

There is no music as she moves. None of the crowd says anything, and looking at them would mean missing whatever might come next, so you remain as you are, a body waiting in place for more of the act.

Her index finger, outstretched, traces down slowly but surely, a record needle's slide across grooves intended for teardrops. The edge of her nail moves with painstaking time, alights upon the edge of the lips, sways nigh-imperceptibly to and fro as it waits to move down again. You watch, focus more directed into making sure you see the next moment than it is your body.

It moves down again, slipping across to just beneath the chin. The stage seems to flutter, dreamlike; a buzzing inside scalp and forehead. A tension.

Further downwards, continuing its inexorable journey to just atop her sternum. You watch. (Some part of you wants to watch further down still, but it relents for the time being.) She raises it, phalanges pulling back, the tension within and without building, a bowstring drawn back;

She taps, just once, and you exhale, and the moment is broken and released from tension, and the world sucks in a breath all at once, and the buzz in your head slowly, patiently falls away.

឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵

A warm crescent moon and the warmer lights of the festival greet you as you leave. Your friend flicks their eyes to you momentarily as you exit the building, trying to prompt your opinion out of you.

You don't know. The stint of time inside the theater seemed to slip by before you could process through it all. You tell them simply that it was neat enough; that seems to sate them, and it's not nearly as important as things such as getting back on route after all.

It's gotten late far darker than you expected, after all. Time has moved by and left you in place, and you need to get home.

You'll have time to think properly another day.

[starbuck]

[mithra-del-nord]

Beyond the peaceful sound of the gushing waters, beyond the dance of the flowers with the spring breeze, everything is silent in the blue-painted courtyard. The few artificial lights that still filter through from the rooms of the manor cannot compete with the seductive embrace of the usually imposing moon. Arms behind the backrest, legs crossed, Mithra just sits on the bench, silent and with his head thrown back. Indescribable the expression drawn on his face, because sufficiently hidden by the soft dark of the night hours. It's certain that the relaxed attitude of the body somehow clashes with the civil war just fought on the invisible and intangible field of consciousness. More than a rare rationality, his brazen and absolute love for himself had prevented him from irremediably attacking Chiretta's firstborn, a cruel victim of the soporific power of his own herbal preparation, and from consequently sabotaging his own magic.

The redhead's senses suddenly perceive a magical presence, while his voice leaves his lips straddling a tired and annoyed breath. ❝ What, can't you sleep either? ❞

WITH @1amsong