#ridwriting

Bonus Panel

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Smajor1995

Location: Cleo’s unit, Core District, 2nd Floor, 872

💙  🧡  💚

Mother Moon wears white like a bride, but her sword is poison-tipped. She yanks his eyelids back like they’re hooked on marionette strings, nostrils flaring at her command. With every step he takes down the hall back to his and Cleo’s room, Scott walks with his head high, as if a warm metal blade is pressed against his throat. Something red and hot and boiling blossoms in his chest, Cleo tugging the allay bond from just a chunk away. It’s cool. It’ll be cool. It’s… It’s weird, for sure, but it’s one conversation. He’ll be fine.

It’s like I’m talking to Irene and Linda. The Rotten Dragon and the Phantom Dragon. A lie, sure, but when he sets the scene inside his head, somehow it turns discussing what happened with Martyn and Cleo into a thing he can survive. If he can converse with their mums, he can converse with them. They’re on equal footing here.

When he eases the apartment door in again, Cleo and Martyn have moved to the couch, where they’re whispering with heads bent close. Scott can feel Cleo’s spiking nerves, but not their spoken words. Um. He veers mid-step towards the sink to fill a cup of water. Gods, he hates all of this. The people who like throuples seem to work them out, like it comes naturally. Scott’s far too particular about what he likes to gamble it all on juggling, but he admires those willing to risk the mess. To be clear, he isn’t bothered by Martyn specifically, but he wishes they weren’t talking in the room. This is his space too.

He drinks his water. Keeps his feelings folded at his chest. His duty is service with a smile. He’s not here to alter behavior; he’s just here to observe.

And I’d really like to drop my head in Cleo’s lap.

Scott jolts. He feels Cleo’s heartbeats startle, which it nothing he’s not used to. That thought about their lap, though, is something else. And Scott has seen Cub watch a squall with Scar curled peaceably against him enough times to recognize it.

Oh my gods… I really am becoming a vex! Even in my brain. With a shaky hand, Scott lowers the cup to the sink. He stands for three seconds, then rinses it out. He can feel two pairs of eyes burning the back of his neck. Why does this feel even worse than when everyone confronted him in Pearl’s apartment about possibly eating Sniff? Scott swallows, dries his hands, and walks over to join them in the living room.

“Hi. So, um…?”

“Yeah.” Cleo takes Martyn’s shoulder, gathering floppy head feathers in her fist. He looks at her in question. She guides his head down, nestling his cheek against her lap. “You can cuddle if you want, but you have to go on Deafen. I want to talk to Scott in private.”

Scott’s muscles tense up. Um. It’s not exactly polite - or super safe - to expect someone to shut their ears off, muting all surrounding sounds… But when Martyn looks up at her, Cleo’s stare is very firm. He gives the faintest nod. And Scott’s throat fills with scuttling endermite claws. My gods, how long have they been partners?

Martyn feels behind him for a pillow, which he moves into Cleo’s lap. Right. Smart; that will stop him from sinking through. Cleo scruffs her fingers in his feathers and Martyn Deafens without complaint. A couple clicking noises trickle through the air as internal systems adjust. He looks… pliable? Ready for instructions. His eyes dart up; Cleo lowers a hand to block them out.

“And no peeking, Mr. ‘Grew Up With Otters and Can Lip-Read.’”

“Ooh, hot,” Martyn says, but Scott can tell his hearts aren’t in it. He guides one wing towards his beak and starts chewing around one of his few feathers despite the awkward angle. He might be Deafened, but he isn’t Silenced, and every rustle of beak against phantom membrane sends a twitch down Scott’s back. He clears his throat against his fist. Should he sit? Maybe he’ll stand. No, maybe he’ll sit… on the coffee table. Erm. Maybe not. He settles for bracing himself on his hands, tapping lightly at the wood.

“So, um. You and Martyn?”

“It’s not…” Cleo looks unsure, waffling their bond. It twangs against his skin. “It’s only physical. Just, you know… settling down the mob brain. I don’t get my costumes out for him.”

Scott bites his lip. You never let me see you in costume.

Oh, shoot- Something wildly tangled and undefinable flares like a star inside his chest. Scott puts a hand there, pinching skin with respawn-sharp claws. He didn’t mean to come across this cranky. Um. He and Cleo don’t- They actually don’t talk about her costume thing. He’s hung around long enough to catch them working on a sewing project, but they’ll usually finish a thread and put it up shortly after he arrives. She’s shown him current projects, but never anything from The Closet Drawer. No. That place, even if he is her allay, isn’t his to touch.

He swallows spit again. What if I want to see you dress pretty someday, though? He gets that it’s a sensual thing for Cleo - He gets it, he GETS it - and knows playing dress-up is something she’s very sensitive about, what with her past life as a villager before she got bitten by a zombie young. Olivia can’t just raise zombies with her villagers for the exact same reasons Alice and Sylvia were never friends. So Cleo left her mum, left her home, and moved to Underdark Crossing instead. Maybe it was needed for the greater good, but the world of villager role-swapping was ripped away from her. She pours love in every stitch of every robe, cloaking herself in power (and control).

… Scott knows he has no right to see her wear her silly things. He’s curious for purely fashionista reasons. If Cleo ever flirts with him while wearing her gear, then wires got maaaajorly crossed- He likes men, and that’s never changing. No matter how much he wants to watch anime and eat giant pretzels with Pearl again, or how jealous he is of the way WellsGlazes looked at Scar like he held the best territory in the whole perimeter. What’s that even about? Ugh. That better not become a thing. Literally no one wants to see them gooey-eyed. If she were still a guy, Scott’d be tempted to ask her out. Might as well show her what an allay can do that a vex cannot.

He’s happily gay. Don’t forget that for a second. Cleo does not owe him a peek at her sewing projects. Those are her private things.

“I could bring your gear out when you’re with Martyn,” he blurts, then claps a palm over his mouth. The sting jolts his whole system. It hurts his hand; the flash of a glitch makes Martyn jerk up his head. “Cleo, I did not mean to say that.”

“It’s… it’s fine,” she says, cupping Martyn’s eyes again, but she looks as shaken as he is. Scott’s legs get jelly-wobbly. She doesn’t want him in the room. Not when she’s in costume. Scott tries not to let that rattle him, even though allays are a player’s friend. Maybe friends would just be in the way.

Renthedog

Location: Ren’s bedroom, Core District, Central New Star Station

💙  🧡  💚

Ren is by no means an illager. He wasn’t raised near them, he’s never lingered in the Cherry Peninsula, and he makes absolutely no claims of being familiar with the culture. All his learning comes from hefty books and what friends like Cub, Hypno, and BigB have told him about life where they grew up. Mmmaybe a dash of Welsknight and Tango on the side, through the sheer nature of where the blaze spawner stands. Plus Impulse and Skizz’s adventures, of course. Doc’s long-distance friends. Joel and Lizzie’s wild tales. A dashing pinch of Martyn from long summers he spent in the otter spawn hub. There was a time in Last Life when he, BigB, and Lizzie cooked food and washed their skins, which gave them space to talk. BigB answered honest questions, and Ren learned a side of Illager life he never had before.

Ren is Ren. He knows what he knows; he rolls up his sleeves and fact-checks what he doesn’t. You can’t be too careful out there. Either way, he does his very best.

“Doc and I can make some food,” he says to BigB, laying one of his stumps against the man’s glowing elbow. BigB’s fully flared, absolutely: cyan from head to toe. Y’know, some people ask Ren why he wears the shades indoors. Flared friends frolicking fearlessly for friendship frequently fits the reason why. Let’s not get funny about the details, all right?

Look at him, though… BigB stands like an enderman in the middle of his room, his hands stuffed inside his sleeves. He’s a bit stooped in the shoulders, blinking like he might summon phantoms overhead at any moment, but he paints a regal portrait standing there.

Ren scratches his brain like he’s going at it with a back paw. He can’t quite recall the last time he saw BigB in his illusioner robes. He does reveal them on occasion- There’s a hunting sport a good lot of the Illager folks are into, and Ren’s cheered in the stadium for all his friends when they’re out running the field. The fabric’s blue and speckled beneath the all-consuming glow, rippling like a river down his body to the ankles. He’s still wearing leather boots.

Now, there’s a good-lookin’ man. Ren won’t force BigB to show his hands. Be a bit inappropriate, don’t you think? Illagers do all their magic with their hands, so to hold one is to rob them of the ease of self-defense! Most affronting! BigB swivels his head, gazing at him with fuzzy vision. He says nothing. Ren tries again, gently, and brings his other stump up to brush BigB’s cheek. “Busy day, right? Let’s get you out of those robes. You wash up and we’ll cook a meal you won’t forget.”

“I am hungry,” BigB agrees in the soft tones of Illagealt. Oh, baby- They sound like butter on his lips. “That’s very sweet.”

Ren hopes he’s translating all that right. BigB’s body language supports the chill way he’s speaking, though Ren’s grasp on the words is rockier than he’d like admitting. He knows a lot of words that relate to blocks and actions. He knows ‘hungry.’ Sweet? It’s blurry, but he feels like he learned that once upon a time. Ender’s always come a little easier to him; it’s what dragons speak, you know. Had some motivation to figure that one out early on.

“Would you appreciate any help with your dresser-age?”

BigB nods, grunting in the affirmative, so Ren moves his hands to the front of the robes. BigB does the buttons and Ren pulls them up and over his head like a towel off a wet crafting table. He turns away to fold them, and BigB bends to remove his boots on his own. His movements are slow - awkward, undeniably - but he gets them unlatched without assistance. B slides off first one boot, than the other. These, he hands to Ren.

No problem. Ren accepts, resolving to set them by the front door. For now, he vanishes them into his inventory. Illagers freshly back from a patrol seek connection with their tribemates, right? BigB’s giving him the boots on purpose. A sort of, You’re part of the crew gesture that Ren won’t violate by tossing the shoes aside right in front of him.

BigB’s fingers scratch his sweater vest. Taking the invitation, Ren helps him out of that too. It’s not a simple thing to do when you’ve got stumps for hands! Nonetheless, off comes the shimmery cyan shirt, and then the glowing trousers. Easy breezy. “You’ve been here before,” he says, watching BigB cross his hands uncomfortably in front of his chest. Without the sleeves, he’s got nowhere else to put them. Sweet-lookin’ bod, though. Not that he ever forgot. BigB doesn’t spend much time building in Minecraft, but regular jogging sessions and whatever else he does in Roblox (among other worlds) has certainly carved his abs. Nice. “Should I walk you to the tub?” Tub’s new. Toilet’s still in the same place it’s always been.

“Yes. Help. Ren, please- I’m so close, so close-”

Oh no. “To starting a raid?” he asks gently, and BigB grunts. His fingers itch his arms; his chest. Ren eyes the Bad Omen mark on his right-hand shoulder. “Okay. Uh. You’re doing quite well, for a first-timer! Can I bring in Doc to help?”

BigB exhales. His shoulders loosen up a bit, and maybe (Maybe) he’s finally learning to let go. “Yes. Protect the city.”

“Got it.” He turns to walk away, and BigB’s footsteps tail him down the hall. A soft, chirring whine trickles through the air. Ren twitches his ears. He glances at BigB just once, to which the man pulls back his head. If he weren’t already cyan, he’d probably be flushing.

“I need supervision.”

“No problem. If you want to hug me at any time, you’re more than welcome to.”

BigB hums in approval. “To stop my hands. Clever.”