#toadscools

[satoshihiwatari]

what the sweet hell is going on in your icon this made me do a triple take

what do you mean, this is just what I look like irl

[dragontribeadventures]

how similar are beardies and clown agamids? do they have different temperaments and needs?

@toadscools care-wise, beardies and clown agamas are pretty similar, although from what I’ve noticed clowns seem to like it a tad bit hotter and drier. They also seem to be less prone to constipation and other GI issues that beardies get and I never soak Damascus because he simply doesn’t seem to need it. Diet-wise you can feed them the same things but clowns prefer a little more protein than beardies need. They also appreciate lots of running space since they are considerably more hyperactive than bearded dragons. Like beardies they need to be able to both dig and climb, but are much more willing to climb vertical surfaces than any of my beardies have been. Temperament wise they tend to be a little more flighty initially than beardies, but with time and patience most will tame down (Damascus Just has a bad temper for a clown- his vet says he’s the meanest one she’s ever met). Though if you’re looking for a lizard to snuggle with or to sit on your shoulder these guys probably aren’t it. I’ve never seen anyone’s clowns sit around long enough for that. They’re cheeky little guys too. Even though Damascus won’t let me touch him willingly he’ll happily snatch food out of my hands if it looks tasty enough. Personally I love how feisty they can be. Even as a hands off pet Damascus is fun because I can look over and he’s almost always up to something (usually naughty).

As adults I’d say that a 4x2x2 viv is probably what I’m going to consider the minimum simply because of their hyperactivity. They’re smaller than beardies but they can jump a lot farther and seem to be turbo boosted when it comes to speed so it’s a good idea for them to have extra space to stretch their legs.

If you’re looking for something similar to a beardie on crack then clown agamas are great. Very fun and there are tons of ways to interact with them aside from handling if they don’t go for that. I will say that from what I’ve seen from breeders talking and my own experiences that they do seem to be a bit more suspicious to start with than a baby beardy, so I’d say it’s even more important to avoid flooding and build up trust slowly if you want to tame one, but they aren’t impossible to tame. They’re just really smart (honestly as much as I love Aries, I think Damascus is a genius compared to him, or at the very least he seems to need a bit more mental stimulation to keep him from destroying his cage).

Anyways, if you have any other questions feel free to message me or submit another ask. I’m happy to reply.

[feargender]

❓!

Hhhh dad energies. But like. Himbo dad. Himbo that grew up and got a mortgage and is now just a loving, doting fool. You’re just hovering in the doorway like “r ya winnin son?” And giving everyone knitwear to keep em warm

Send me ❓ and I’ll tell you your vibes

[spacemancharisma]

went to sweet boy’s house. made a cake. played with their beardie. talked to their brother about philosophy until 1 A.M. watched both now you see me movies. snugged. was generally gay and in love.

[feargender]

hey kid......hey could i get a 'things you said when you were drunk' for azcrow....

send me a ship and one of these prompts

Aziraphale is not entirely sure about all of the things that make a six-thousand year friendship work. It’s a complicated thing, full of unspoken agreements and compromises. He knows this though: in order to make an immortal friendship between an angel and a demon work, there are just certain things one doesn’t bring up. This made a lot of sense to him about five or six glasses ago. 

However, things have gotten rather fuzzy since then, and not just because he misplaced his spectacles around glass number three. 

They’ve known each other this long, and Aziraphale has never really managed to insult Crowley before. So why not? 

He attempts to gather his thoughts, fails, and then goes on anyway. “Crowley,” he says, cutting the demon off mid-monologue about... something. He had been listening rather intently a moment before, but he can’t exactly remember what it was they were discussing. Crowley trails off, making a noise that is both an affirmation and a question, which ends up sounding a bit like “Weh?” 

“You never really told me. Why, exactly, did you Fall? What did you do?” Aziraphale asks. 

Crowley’s face does a number of funny things, and then eventually he lets a long, loud sigh escape his mouth. “Well, y’know I just,” he gestures widely with his hands, “misbehaved, I s’pose. Asked questions, I think. It’s a bit muddled, before the Fall.” 

“Surely you remember some of it,” Aziraphale presses, pouring wine liberally into Crowley’s glass. 

Crowley gives him a bland look. Aziraphale looks back with an expectant smile, only realizing that perhaps he should have backtracked and changed the subject after Crowley opens his mouth to speak again. He’s got a serious, rather grim look on his face. His jovial drunkenness from a moment before is gone. His cheeks are still red, speech slightly slurred, but all the enjoyment has gone. 

“I just told you, I asked questions. About Her motivations.” Aziraphale sucks in a breath through his teeth. If there were an angel rulebook (which there isn’t), he’s fairly confident that Rule One would be “Do not question God’s motivations.” 

“I wanted to know! Why did She make the things She did? And why did She make them only to discard them for something newer after She’s had her fun? Could She never be satisfied? Make the angels, but nah, they’re no fun anymore. Galaxies, sure, pretty, but couldn’t there be more? Humans, which She supposedly cherishes, but it seems to me all they’re really meant to do is suffer in the name of Her love,” Crowley snaps out, each word harsher than the one before. 

Aziraphale swallows, an apology on his lips, but Crowley just shakes his head. “Best be getting on, angel. It’s late, and I have a whole day of nefarious wrongdoing planned for tomorrow,” he says, staggering awkwardly to his feet. Aziraphale chokes out his name, but Crowley ignores him. 

He stops at the door, and turns just enough to look at Aziraphale out of the corner of his eye. “And you know what the worst part is? She never actually answered any of them.” Then he’s gone, swinging out into the damp London night. 

[feargender]

may i request some big gay nerds getting up to some big gay cuddling

you May!!!!!

Peter didn’t expect Juno to be especially clingy. His detective is almost entirely composed of bladed edges, carved jagged sharp to keep everyone at a safe distance. To have him curved softly along Peter’s spine, warm puffs of breath against his shoulder blade and a heavy leg wedged between his own is… not exactly disconcerting, but also unfamiliar.

Unexpected.

Not even a little unwelcome.

If Juno is sharp and prickly to keep people away, Peter is so completely alienated that no one could even try. He’s always prided himself on his ability to disappear, but it’s left him incorporeal. Entirely unknowable.

His own name hasn’t even been in another’s mouth for near twenty years. Until Juno. Juno tumbled straight through all of Peter’s smoke and mirrors, past his cloak and dagger, caught him up in a tight grip. Pulled the spectral Peter Nureyev back into the light.

Juno shifts at Peter’s back, cold toes brushing his thigh and making him flinch.

Even piled together tightly in the frankly ridiculously small bed in their shared bunk, it’s cold. The freeze of space seeps in no matter how many layers they put between themselves and the outer blackness.

“What’re you thinking about?” Juno asks, voice sleep roughened. He’s been dozing for a while, soft snores tickling across Peter’s skin.

“How do you know I’m thinking about anything?” Peter replies in a hushed whisper, though they are alone. He doesn’t want to disturb the peace between them.

“‘M a detective. It’s my job to know. And you’re a little tense,” Juno says, withdrawing the arm wedged beneath their pillows to prop his head up on his hand.

Peter works to relax his shoulders and rolls over, so close to Juno that he has trouble focusing on his eye. He tracks his gaze over the scar along the bridge of Juno’s nose, the spot on his lower lip where a piercing hole has healed over. The stubble along his jaw. His closed eye, the eyepatch resting on the bedside table, though there’s an imprint where the elastic has been touching his skin for so many hours that is still visible on his temple.

“Nothing upsetting. Just us. You,” he leans in and kisses Juno’s cheekbone, “Me.”

“I sure hope that isn’t upsetting,” Juno jokes lightly, sliding down off of his elbow to press his face into the place where Peter’s neck meets his chest, lips lightly pressed into his collarbone.

Peter slides an arm over Juno’s shoulders. “I’m not sure who I am, really. When you spend the better part of twenty years sliding in and out of different personas without anyone or anything to remind you of the person you are, inside, it gets a little lost. I’ve kept Peter Nureyev a secret for so long that he’s become hidden from even myself. I don’t know what to do with that.”

Juno hums, but doesn’t reply. Peter has learned, for all he talks and talks and talks, he’s actually quite a good listener. “My earliest memory is of a man who lied to me about who I was. I don’t know if Peter Nureyev is another of his fabrications, or if it truly was always my name. I could have been someone else completely before that, I have no way of knowing. The only person I could ask is dead.”

Juno is still silent, and Peter coughs delicately. “Sorry. I suppose I may have lied when I said I wasn’t thinking of anything upsetting.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m just thinking. I don’t know if an identity is completely dependent upon a name. I think… I think you are who you are, no matter what that person is called,” Juno says slowly. “I think you’re both the man behind the mystery, and the mystery behind the man, you know? I also think that most people don’t feel like they have a firm grasp on their identity, and if they do, they’re forcing it. That’s just a part of living.”

“Would you go to Brahma with me?” Peter asks suddenly, then panics. “Not now, of course. Or immediately. Or even soon. But, eventually? One day? I haven’t been back there, since, well. You know.” He’s sure Juno can feel the way his heart thuds, as close as they are. The same way he can feel the way Juno’s mouth curves into a smile.

“Of course. I’d go anywhere with you. Now and eventually. Forever,” Juno replies, so easily it takes Peter’s breath away. There was a time, not terribly long ago, that such a thing would be a lie. Or, if it were true, Juno wouldn’t have ever brought himself to say it.

“Okay. Eventually it is, then,” Peter breathes, pressing his cheek against Juno’s forehead. “Thank you, Juno.”

“Always, Peter,” Juno says, already sounding like he’s ready to go to sleep again. Peter is inclined to join him, tucking his cold nose into Juno’s hair and breathing in the smell of him.

[feargender]

a break from a life of tests where something’s always at stake

read here on ao3

for @toadscools

Juno doesn’t stumble up the stairs to his apartment. It’s almost three in the morning and he’s just getting home, but he does not trip. He does not lean against the wall to catch his shaky breath and clear his spinning head. He is, stunningly, astonishingly, completely sober.

Juno Steel has been sober for a full year. (“Only half of a Martian year!” Mick had been quick to point out, before Rita had shushed him harshly.)

Every day has been difficult. Even after the first month, the first three months, the first six. He aches for it, the burn in his stomach and the way his head feels heavy with cotton and liquor instead of his own soupy thoughts. What he does not ache for, however, is everything else that came with it. The endless hangover that could only be silenced by drinking more, being constantly half out of control, the sluggishness of his body and mind.

This is what he has reminded himself of, everyday. Three hundred and sixty six days, now.

He smiles to himself a little as he balances the box of leftover cake in one hand and opens the door. Rita decorated it herself, yellow cake with chocolate frosting, a crudely drawn bottle of alcohol with a white skull and crossbones on it. Over it, the words “Happy Sobrity Day Juno” are written in pink. Juno didn’t have the heart to mention that Rita misspelled “sobriety” and so took his piece from the middle of the word.

Distantly, there’s a nagging feeling of disappointment. Beneath the contentment, the peace and leftover joy, it lurks. He wishes Peter had been there.

Juno pushes the thought away quickly. It’s been the best night he’s had in a while, he doesn’t want to ruin it with pining over his boyfriend. Peter hadn’t wanted to miss the party, but when you’re elbow deep in a con job on Saturn, you can’t exactly drop everything to fly all the way to Hyperion City.

The apartment is dark, only the neon glow from the window illuminating the room. He usually keeps the curtains drawn, but there’s a pink streak stained across his carpet, flashing some ad for a new stream Rita will no doubt be tuning into.

“Small Fry?” Juno calls, slamming the door shut with his foot. He knows the rabbit will love the cake, chocolate being her favorite flavor. He hears a squeak from the bedroom and groans. Supposedly, Small Fry is not allowed in his bed, having her own soft pile of blankets and pillows in the living room, but he has been known to be… lenient about this rule. But Peter has a small allergy to her fur.

“Small Fry, what have we talked about?” he asks, putting the cake on the counter and pushing the door to his room open. Small Fry squeaks again, tilting her head over to look at him. She’s grown, nearly half his height now, and her upper body is sprawled over a pair of long legs, eyes half closed in bliss as Peter scratches under her chin.

He’s lounging back on the bed, socked feet crossed at the ankles, head tilted against the headboard. He’s already changed into his pajamas, suitcase open on the floor at the foot of the bed.

Juno’s mouth works around his name, but nothing comes out, lips stretching into a dopey smile.

Peter sneezes delicately and says, “Hello, Juno. Have fun?”

“I, uh. Yeah, I did,” Juno says, rounding the side of the bed the cupping Peter’s cheek in his hand, leaning down and kissing him. “What’re you doing here?”

“Well, last I checked, this is where I live,” Peter says, tilting his head to the side. He smiles. “I wanted to see you. Today wasn’t something I was willing to miss.”

Juno toes out of his shoes and crawls into the bed, forcing Small Fry to adjust so that she’s a heavy weight over both of their laps. Her large foot bats against him in protest, but she melts back against Peter’s hands soon enough. Juno rests his head on Peter’s sharp shoulder and breathes deeply. Their bed had almost lost the smell of his cologne, which is how he knows Peter’s been away for too long.

“What about Saturn?” Juno asks.

“Hmm? Oh. Well, priceless royal jewels come around so often, I figured I could afford to miss out,” Peter says casually and Juno jerks back, staring at him with wide eyes.

Peter laughs. “Finished up early,” he says, reaching across Juno toward a briefcase on the end of the bed. Inside, nestled in velvet, is the biggest diamond Juno has ever seen, surrounded by glittering necklaces and earrings. Peter picks up the diamond, the size of his fist, and tosses it toward Juno. He catches it with a yelp and hefts it in his hand, mouth drooping open. Small Fry sniffs at it, but deems it uninteresting.

“I thought these earrings would look nice with that shirt you have,” Peter begins, gesturing to a pair of sky blue dangling earrings that flash in the low lamplight of their room.

Juno fixes him with a heatless glare. “I refuse to wear stolen goods, Peter.”

“I can’t give my lady a gift?” Peter asks, taking the diamond back from Juno’s hands.

“You can. Use the money you make off of all of this,” Juno gestures widely toward the case with his now empty hand, “and buy me something nice.”

“If you say so,” Peter says, nudging the case off the bed with his foot, making Juno grimace at the thump. More money than he will ever see in his life, merchandise worth more than the entire solar system, dropped carelessly to the floor.

Peter leans over, shifting until his cheek can rest comfortably on the crown of Juno’s head and Small Fry’s contented purrs rumble through both of their stomachs. “I missed you,” he says quietly.

“I missed you, too. A lot,” Juno replies.

“I’m very proud of you, Juno. I know this isn’t about me, but I am so proud of you,” Peter says, twining their fingers. “You’re doing so well.”

Juno flushes at the compliment, saying, “I still have bad days.”

“I know. That’s not the point. You’re doing something that takes more strength than many people have, and you do it every single day. You’re amazing, Juno,” Peter insists.

Juno bites back an argument and says instead, “There’s cake. If you want some. Rita made it.”

Peter chuckles. “Maybe tomorrow. I’m very tired. I think what I want is to lay here with my partner and his disturbingly large rabbit.”

Small Fry grunts in protest. Neither she nor Juno had believed that rabbits outside of Mars were generally no more than ankle height until Peter had shown them a picture. “That sounds great. I need a shower,” Juno says mournfully, loathe to get up. However, Mick’s newest million dollar idea is making his own cologne, which frankly smells like a plunge headfirst into a chemical bath, but Juno couldn’t say no when Mick asked him to try it out.

“You do smell a bit like ammonia,” Peter muses.

Juno groans like an old woman as he rises from the bed, back cracking, and shuffles into the bathroom. It still smells like Peter’s body wash, his towel balled up in the corner and a shirt dangling over the side of the hamper. Juno had missed these little signs of cohabitation, evidence of Peter’s presence in his life. The smell of someone else on his pillow, breakfast he didn’t make sitting in the fridge. A flavor of coffee he doesn’t particularly like brewing in the pot.

By the time he’s out of the shower, Peter and Small Fry are both sleeping soundly in the bed, leaving scarcely the edge for Juno to curl up on. He might have missed that the most. He nudges them both out of the way, scooting until he chest is flush with Peter’s side, hand dropping down to stroke along Small Fry’s silky ear.

If he could freeze time and stay in this moment, surrounded by small snores, eyes drooping with the pull of exhaustion untainted by too much to drink, he would.

“Peter?” he whispers, and Peter shifts, humming. “I’m really glad you stole my safe key.”

Peter rumbles out a laugh. “Me, too, Juno.”

[spacemancharisma]

I think the clanging noise of the stool crashing into the wall at the beginning really makes it