#Beak Bunk

[photozoi]

All right, who is in charge of windows in this dump? Get over here and fix this pronto! A gal can’t even see her own reflection in this glass, a travesty! That is what it is, a Travesty!

Between the dogs and the chickens and the fish I feel all I do is clean windows around here. A thankless job.  D:

#Nevar #hen #Ayam Cemani #(Ku is behind her) #Beak Bunk #windows #photozoi #original photo #5-2023

[ikemenomegas]

Gave my love

Portgas D Ace x Reader || Shooting Stars

a/n: Make a Wish prompt fill for panda-anon. I am crying because my first draft spun off into the void of my own technological mishaps, so I hope the second version is satisfactory. I'm sorry it took so long (it took forever for me to do the rewrite these last few weeks have been a bit hectic) I hope that you enjoy it! I apologize if Ace seems at all ooc, it's been a long time since I last took a deep dive into his character. He reads to me as someone who would be kind of a tsundere about romantic feelings but able to be happy if he told himself it was "just friends" so he could pretend to be normal about it. The boy has so many excuses: Butterflies? he's happy to see you, feeling hot? he's made of fire, jealous of your attention? you were his friend first... (also the linked song aged remarkably well, it's fun and noisy and is where the title came from) Thank you so much to my friend who braved an omegaverse fic to edit for me. I hate editing my own stuff and she did such a good job making sure that things weren't too obtuse. cw: omegaverse, alpha!reader, Ace's canon compliant self worth issues

The trouble with narcolepsy isn't the daytime hours. He'd learned to manage those when he was a kid. The trouble comes at night, when his body is visited with the opposite impulse.

Ace rolls over for the nth time. Now, with the same insistence it had put him to sleep, his body pulls him awake.

He follows that pull with heavy, silent steps. He stretches his arms above his head and feels his back pop. He leaves his hat by his bunk, suddenly eager for the sea breeze through his hair.

He hesitates for a moment. Though he no longer gets cold, he considers wrapping something around his shoulders. His pillows and blankets still smell faintly of you. He looks at the bed.

No one is around to accuse him of something so treacherous as longing, but he still jerks his head away and pretends as if he hadn't spent much too long considering such a thing.

When he leaves the covered floors of the ship a bird - he cannot see where it come from - flutters down and nearly clips his head. It's not a seagull. He wonders for a moment, could it be?, but he quickly casts the thought away. Probably not.

A flash of light streaks across the sky, distracting him.

The worn railing is smooth, almost soft, beneath his fingertips when he leans over it. He folds his arms and lays his head in the cradle of his elbow.

He's been dealing with insomnia for the better part of a decade, either waking in the night or not sleeping at all. He'd see Luffy, sprawled out on the floor of the hideout, snot bubbles and not a care in the world. Even though his little brother didn't often notice his midnight absences, even when Ace would show up with prey in the morning, being unnoticed had not left him feeling unwanted.

Knowing someone was waiting staved off the loneliness. Becoming Whitebeard's son had been the best decision of his life. Yet tonight, he has no desire to disturb the sentries or wake a crew member for company.

A glossy black crow lands on the rail within easy reach. It cocks its head at him, warbling low in the back of its throat. Ace narrows his eyes at it, staring until the crow shrinks back, feather ruffling. This was the bird that had almost hit the back of his head, he's sure of it.

It looks almost sheepish at it places a little bag on the rail between them.

When he doesn't pick it up right away, the bird pushes it closer with one delicate claw, bobbing its head.

He picks it up slowly, keeping an eye on the bird. It tilts its head back and forth, clicking in the back of its throat. It takes him a moment to catch it in the dim light: the reflection of your Eye in the black marble of the crow's.

A grin showing teeth makes its way across his face.

"Hey," he said.

"Hi." Sound comes out of the crow's open beak like there is a microphone in its throat, like there's a snail in its belly. It doesn't move in synchrony with the words, but in an unsettling sort of pantomime.

Your voice is made ragged by the crow, but even with one word he knows it is yours. His grin goes lopsided and he weighs the pouch in his hand.

"Fancy seeing you here, pretty bird" he says.

The crow makes a hacking sort of cough he knows to be its version of your scoff coming from its mouth, but the bird rubs its beak against the gleaming wood of the ship, as though to take the sting from the sound.

"I do occasionally have good timing," it says with your voice.

He leans his head on his arms and looks directly at the bird. His gaze cuts through the animal in front of him and to you on the other side. One side of his bangs falls across his eye.

He has some idea of what you do, but not exactly. He knows it's dangerous, for a certain value of dangerous. You go to places he hasn't seen yet.

When he asks you where you are, you tell him about places you've been, never where you recently were. You don't relent even when he pries, whining low in his throat at your typical evasiveness. The crow speaks the rusted over name of some island he's never heard of.

When he asks you how training is going, the bird does some funny little movements that require it to over-correct when it nearly falls off the rail and imitates the sounds of bo staffs colliding.

The sentry peeks down from a higher level. Ace waves them off, feeling suddenly defensive. He wants to keep this moment a secret.

The bird freezes, looking up from where it's hunched over in an all too human kind of expression that reminds him of the last time you were a guest of the Whitebeard pirates and you'd raided the kitchens with him, sneaking around with unnecessary stealth, pressing back as if to hide him from every passing shadow until he was giggling into your shoulder, you scents mingling as you sweated under the hot atmosphere of a nearby volcanic island.

He snickers as the bird shakes its feathers flat again, giving an experimental little croak and finally straightening up when the noise doesn't immediately bring the sentry back running, looking out for his crewmate. The bird bumps his hand, as if to draw attention to it, and Ace draws his fingers through the soft, smooth feathers.

When you creakily ask him about his own recent adventures, you offer tidbits from the news to get him started, and it warms him in a very strange way to think you've been keeping an eye on him.

Eventually, the late night catches up and a comfortable quiet settles around the two of you.

Ace listens to the crow's low gargly kkqrk as it moves on its perch. He smirks to himself at the sight of the shining black bird shifting against the star scattered, velvet night.

"Are you going to open it?" you, finally ask. The bird pecks emphatically at the rail by the velvety bag.

All of the bird's expressive hopping and pecking for excited emphasis is so very un-human. It amuses him to imagine you puppetting the creature, instructing it to dip and flap for his benefit, even though he knows it is more akin to the bird itself interpreting your emotions.

Even so when the bird, looks at him, he can almost see the pleading look only you can pull off. Truly and delightfully uncanny.

He sighs as if it is all a chore, bobbing the pouch up and down on the string wound around his fingers. The crow follows with the movement with its beak and then its whole body.

"Should I?" he muses. "Suppose I save it-"

The bird all but stamps its little grey scaled foot in expressing your impatience and he laughs at you, at the odd humanity of the motion, as he finally does open the bag, drawstrings tangled in his fingers.

The contents of the pouch glitters, even in the starlight.

"How nice," he says, opening the mouth of the bag wide to reveal an array of crystals inside. "A good bit of shine."

All pirates of course liked things that gleamed. As did crows. The bird tilts its head between his face and the bits of rock in his hand.

He shifts them around in the bag. There are many colors.

"You should try one," it - you - says, shifting its weight. The bird stayed almost perfectly still, head tilted as it took in his incredulous expression.

"I am not dumb enough to eat rocks."

"I know."

The bird, peers up at him, blankly expectant.

Ace looks back in the bag and eventually plucks one of the crystals out. It's orange bleeding into purple like a storm ridden twilight and edged like the inside of a geode.

He glances once more at the bird, at you, but the creature just shuffles its wings to sit more primly against its body. Ace has never been very good at backing down from a dare.

Still he bites down very very carefully.

The crystal cracks apart under his teeth and spills sweetness on his tongue - plum and passion fruit, tart and bright and dark again, like the last touch of a setting sun. The outside is hard and cool like stone, but falls away to jelly by the time his bite sinks to the center.

He cannot help the way his eyes go slightly wide.

"Where are these from?" he asks.

"I made them," your voice slips from the bird's parted beak, almost shy. "The King of Kettles taught me," you add fondly.

He nibbles on more of the crystal, candy he now knows. Rock candy, he thinks as he grins to himself. He's not sure when the last time someone brought him candy of all things. Sugar is expensive no matter its source, and sometimes hard to find among the islands. Even syrups made from fruit would take a long time to make.

"Make sure to brush your teeth!" The crow interrupts his thoughts with a trumpeting, too loud, cackling sort of caw.

He stuffs a corner of the crystal into the crow's beak, interrupting the sound with a choking, fluttering, sputtering.

One thing about birds is that regardless of interpretation, they are sometimes not very good at managing their volume.

The crow hunches over, sending Ace as dirty a look as it can manage. You consider having it play dead, just to get back at him, but the shuffling attention of the sentries has you, the crow, freezing in his shadow.

You are reminded, somewhat guiltily, that your welcome on Whitebeard's territory does not give you unrestricted access, even for stolen moments like this.

But again, Ace waves off the inquisitive sentries, and they go, because he is the commander of the second division.

Ace can tell that they're curious, but this is for him, for now. In the morning if they or anyone asks, he will tell and laugh and tease. And it will be real.

This is real too. He feels protective of this moment, even if it is only a crow with your Eye as a glossy, curved reflection. It's his little secret.

It's not in his nature to keep secrets. Not for long. But for a while, he wants to keep this one. Not out of shame, not like the other, but because this one is warm like a glowing coal.

It is his, to follow the direction of a falling star and have a bird deliver him a gift and a conversation. You can't tell him where you are or where you're going, but you have frequent, funny little names that are familiar enough that you can tell him stories and he knows of whom you speak. The King of Kettles, Catfish, the Forlorn Maiden - all of them people he has never and likely will never meet.

Do you have a secret name for him, do you tell people about him? Something meant to safeguard him from the world?

Will there ever be a time when he isn't the secret? When that secret doesn't drag a darkness along behind it to cover those who know?

Another flash of light goes across the sky - blink and you'll miss it.

He sees it, you don't, going in the same direction as before. It flies away into the night.

Slowly, through the odd technicolor vision of the crow, you see a closed off, thoughtful expression take the place of the easy smile from before.

"What are you thinking of?"

The crow's hissed approximation of a whisper should be unsettling but it isn't.

Ace leans his arm on the railing and looks over at you, at the crow. The corner of his mouth lifts up, but he can't put enough of his heart into it to cover the melancholy.

He finds himself wishing for your scent. Sending a bird is one thing, but if he had not seen the Eye, he wouldn't have even been able to tell you it was you there, and not some well trained pet.

"I wish you were here," he sighs, reaching out to run a finger over the bird's smooth head feathers.

The bird ruffles its wings and says nothing. There is a long moment of nothing, long enough that Ace thinks of going back to bed. Sleep is finally reaching for him, he can feel the chill of it on his skin.

It's through the quiet of the dark that it finds him, a dull sound, almost at the edge of hearing.

He reaches out with his awareness, scanning the sea for any creature stupid enough to attack one of Whitebeard's fleet. A Sea King would be a bit of bedtime fun. Or it might be the distant sound of canons, although intuition tells him that isn't it.

The sound gets closer. It is not canons or the writhing movements of a deep water monster. It is more like someone shaking out sheets, but as regular as a sleeper's heart - the flap of wings.

He sees a shape, black on black, in the distance. It vanishes between one blink and the other, melting into the night. Another shimmer of light falls overhead while the wingbeats suddenly disappear.

Ace remembers owls and the way they hunt, swooping silently down upon their prey. He looks up to see if the watch is at all disturbed, and then to his left. The crow is gone.

The wingbeats return, now soft and so close. Right below him. He looks over the rail and a familiar face rises up to meet him.

This crow upon which you sit is longer than him if he were to lay down, feet and fingers pointed as far as they would go. It drifts upon the shallow eddy stirred up by the ship, drifting alongside.

"Hello," you say. You're smiling. Teasing snatches of scent get caught in the sea breeze.

From behind, the crow that had been your mouthpiece swoops down upon your shoulder.

"Willful thing," you say to it.

It croaks, head bobbing cheekily.

"Hi," he says. His heart feels like it's soaring, light alongside you, every whoosh of blood a wingbeat.

"I heard you," you say, nudging the crow's chest with your finger.

"You do occasionally have good timing," he says, grinning wide.

The enormous bird flaps a few times, slowly, up to the level of the rail.

He catches you when you slide over the side of the ship and step onto the deck. He never feels the flames when they come from him, but your palm sliding over his makes him feel like he's burning.

"I think I'm going to be in trouble with your Father," you say, shrugging a shoulder, "for the bird."

It croaks again, and then caws, as if to prove a point. The both of you wince.

"I'll tell him you came for me," Ace replies. He doesn't bother to keep quiet now, but that's alright. The bag of sweets you brought him dangles around his wrist like a charm.

You're a little breathless when you look at him. He can see stars reflected in your eyes.

"Whenever you want me."

#portgas d ace #portgas d ace x reader #one piece x reader #one piece #it's implied that the reader is somehow involved with the revolutionary army #alpha!reader #omegaverse #panda anon #thank you so much for your patience #this was super fun to write #and i really enjoyed getting back into his character a little bit #hope that i did it justice! #i forgot how young and repressed ace is XD #he will absolutely reject outright romance so you can't tell him that shhhh #just pretend there's another reason he's special and it'll be fine and give him time to figure it out #prompt fill #make a wish prompt fill

[koukaaa-descent]

so! there is a life before all of the tragedy, even if it's impossibly short

In the depths of space, it gets very lonely. The stars should be enough company—but they never quite filled the silence as another living thing could.

Indigo is staring at the bottom of the bunk above. He is contemplating something that he should not be contemplating. A low warble echoes into the quiet, low and hardly audible, the little creature that made the sound having just woken up. Again.

He tries to blink the exhaustion out of his eyes, but it hardly works. Indigo yawns, jaws opening wide and baring every single sharp tooth to nobody at all. It's only been three days caring for this little thing, and he's exhausted. There were only so many times that one could wake up ten minutes into a nap before sleep stopped having meaning. Crawling his way out of the stiff bed, Indigo limply falls onto the cold steel floor instead.

A thin, helpless chirrup goes gently into the quiet. In some odd way, it echoes through him, pressing against every bone and organ inside of his body with an insistence he could not yet recognize.

Indigo drags himself upright, blinking hard to clear the spots from his eyes. Bundled in the bunk just above his own is a little creature, marked by his presence. Changed, perhaps. Dark skin spattered with his namesake. Eyes still squinted-shut, talons still underdeveloped. Unable to even crawl.

And yet.

"You have no business having so much energy," Indigo rasps, half-baffled by its restless form. It makes soft, snuffly little sounds, thick with something that Indigo had no name for. He can barely see the dull glow of its scrunched eyes, brief and fleeting.

At the sound of his voice, the little beast finds it in itself to throw its head back and let out a plaintative croak, clearly hungry. "You have no reason," Indigo repeats again, not even irritated.

Figuring out how to butcher the wildlife on Vow was an interesting experience, sure. Storing the meat on the ship was a whole other ordeal that Indigo does not want to think about. Three hours spent contemplating and planning only to learn that there was a refrigerated compartment in the wall near the bunks. Three.

He crouches down to crack the fridge open, staring at the amount of meat left inside. He should really consider seeing if the Company sells bags. The amount of blood pooling inside is... decidedly not very sanitary. Indigo had tried to drink it at one point, but, well, it started clotting. Nobody ever wants to drink clotted blood.

Getting a soaked towel and throwing it outside when there's dogs is the closest thing to useful as the blood-puddle can get, honestly.

Indigo has been staring at the raw meat piled inside of his mini-fridge for at least a minute. The little beast croaks more insistently this time, growing impatient. He closes his eyes and tries not to give in to the strange sense of melancholy the sound makes him feel. There would be time to contemplate his emotions later.

The meat is ice cold in his hands, perfectly preserved. Indigo debates with himself as to whether or not he wants a snack as well, but eventually tells himself that he can eat the next time he lands on Vow or March. Both have enough wildlife for any purpose.

Idly, Indigo holds the strip of flesh above his little beast's hooked beak, resigned to the inevitable. As usual, it darts out and swallows most of the gore in one quick snap. It also happens to latch onto his hand and pierce the skin. Again.

Just as it has, already a dozen times before.

Just as it will, a thousand times more.

(He's going to lose a finger at this rate.)

#oc indigo #oc monsoon #this was written whenni was really tired and actively falling asleep #help #kokadrafts

[aftermathfanfic]

“Yeah, no shit, huh? This has nothing to do with you wanting to help me, you just had a moment of, ‘Oh, hey, look at Louie over there, he looks like shit, maybe I should go over there and make him feel better-’”

“What, is trying to make you feel better a crime or something?”

“It is when you’re just doing it because you think I’m fragile-!”

“You are, man!”

Louie froze stock still.

Dewey wanted to punch himself.

--------------------------

Warnings: Gore, graphic violence

--------------------------

Three Years Ago

“…Dewey?”

Dewey didn’t respond, tucked up in his bed and staring at the wall.

“…Um… Uncle Donald wanted me to tell you that dinner was ready.” Huey said nervously from the doorframe.

Dewey kept quiet. He wasn’t sure if he felt like dinner.

Huey didn’t say anything. Dewey heard him enter the room, then clamber up the bunk bed.

“…You doing okay?” Huey asked again. He was beside Dewey now.

Dewey still didn’t respond.

Huey pulled himself up onto the bed, sitting next to him. “…Louie’s gonna be alright.” He said reassuringly. “Mrs Beakley is gonna take him to a psychiatrist. Someone who’s dealt with soldiers and police. He’ll be fine.”

“…Is he?” Dewey asked, his voice cracking. “Or is that what Mom and Uncle Donald told us?”

“…I dunno.” Huey admitted. “I mean… I wanna believe he’s gonna be okay. It… just might take a while.”

Dewey sat up in his bed, barely caring that his brother could see that he’d been crying. “…I messed him up, man.” He whispered.

“…What?”

“He never would have found that dagger if I hadn’t pointed it out. He wouldn’t have…”

“What? Hey, no!” Huey said quickly as Dewey started to cry again. “You didn’t-!”

“No, it was my fault, man!” Dewey choked. “I showed him that dagger, if I had just…!”

“You didn’t know what would happen! None of us did!” Huey countered. “You didn’t make him k… you didn’t make him do what he did, okay? You can’t hold yourself responsible!”

Dewey curled up into his brother’s lap, sobbing. He felt Huey’s own tears splashing against his cheek as they held each other.

“H-hey.” Huey stammered, wiping his eyes. “We’re gonna be okay. Louie’s gonna be okay. It wasn’t anybody’s fault, not even Louie’s, so… so we just gotta stay strong, okay?”

“…Okay.” Dewey whimpered.

--------------------------

Castelo de Cristo, Portugal

Dewey leant against the dungeon wall, frowning concernedly.

He was watching Louie doing the same thing at the other end of the room, his hands in his hoodie pockets and tension written across his face. It was no secret he wasn’t okay with this adventure anymore. A trap-filled dungeon, unexpected people inside… this was exactly what happened in Mexico.

Dewey looked over at the others. Webby was pacing back and forth anxiously, biting her beak with her arms folded. May and June were whispering concernedly to each other, while Uncle Donald was looking back and forth between the door Scrooge had gone down, and the way they’d come from. He looked relatively calm, at least for Uncle Donald.

Dewey stepped off from the wall and started to walk over to Louie. He caught Donald giving him a wary look as he did, but he held up his hand to let him know it was alright.

Louie looked up at him as he approached. “Hey.”

“Hey, man.” Dewey replied, gesturing at a nearby open cell. “Can we talk?”

Louie raised an eyebrow. “…About?”

“Just… come on.”

Louie narrowed his eyes at his brother, then sighed reluctantly, walking into the cell with Dewey.

Once they were out of sight from the others, Dewey asked him, “You doin’ alright, man?”

Louie looked away, taking a moment before he answered. “…I don’t like this, Dew. I don’t like any of this.”

“Yeah, me neither.” Dewey agreed. “But, you know… we’ve gotten out of worse.”

“I know… doesn’t make it any better.”

Dewey couldn’t disagree with him.

He scratched the back of his head, looking at the floor. He didn’t know if this was a good time to bring this up, but he didn’t want to leave it for later, either. “Um…” He started to say quietly. “I know this is outta nowhere, but… can we talk about Webby?”

“Webby?”

“It’s just… did you and her, like, have a fight the other day?”

Louie immediately stiffened. He’d gone into defensive mode.

“…She told you?” Louie asked.

“…I overheard her talking to May and June. She was pretty upset.”

“Hm.”

Neither of them said anything. This was the tricky part – how to confront Louie about this without sounding confrontational. Huey was much better at it than Dewey was, which was precisely why he tried not to confront him about stuff.

But if he was taking out his shit on Webby now…

“…Look, man.” Dewey murmured. “I know you don’t like us butting into your stuff…”

“And yet…” Louie muttered.

“…But, I really think you should let Webby in on… whatever it is you’re doing.”

“You do, huh.”

“Yeah, man, she just wants to help you.”

“I don’t need her help. I’m fine.”

“Come on, dude.” Dewey sighed. “You’ll take a stranger’s help, but you won’t take ours?”

“She isn’t a-” Louie glared up at him. “Why do you guys think that this is some kind of diss against you? This has nothing to do with you guys, I just don’t need your help!” Louie hissed at him.

This already wasn’t going very well, but Dewey couldn’t back down. “You’re pushing us out, man.” He told him.

Louie scoffed. “What, because I’m not letting you guys coddle me?”

“That’s not what-”

“Yes, it is! That’s all you guys do! You treat me like I’m made of glass, like I can’t handle myself!”

“We don’t- that’s not what we’re doing, man!” Dewey protested, keeping his voice down.

“It’s not what you think you’re doing, but it is.” Louie rebutted. “Jesus, just when I think you guys have figured it out-”

“All we’re doing is trying to help you. You’re the one who never lets us in. You never let us in on your schemes anymore-”

“No? Say, do you remember a couple weeks back? When I asked you and Huey whether you wanted to join in on my Glomgold scheme?”

“Yeah, for the first time in, like, years.”

“Yeah, do you remember how you said no? Where was all your concern back then, huh?”

Dewey hesitated. “…Okay, maybe we should’ve helped you out-”

“Yeah, no shit, huh? This has nothing to do with you wanting to help me, you just had a moment of, ‘Oh, hey, look at Louie over there, he looks like shit, maybe I should go over there and make him feel better-’”

“What, is trying to make you feel better a crime or something?”

“It is when you’re just doing it because you think I’m fragile-!”

“You are, man!”

Louie froze stock still.

Dewey wanted to punch himself.

He ran his hands over his face, trying to compose himself before speaking. “…I don’t coddle you, dude. I’ve always tried to treat you the same as before. You know that.”

Louie didn’t say anything.

“The only reason I’m saying all this stuff is because I feel like you’re pushing Webby away, and I don’t think that’s fair. She’s not trying to make you feel like a baby, she just… wants to help. And maybe she’s not asking the right way, but that’s all she wants to do.”

Louie was looking at the floor.

“…Come on, man.” Dewey pleaded. “Let her-”

A horrendous crashing sound interrupted them, followed by the panicked shouts of the rest of the family.

They both jumped in alarm, then bolted out of the cell. Donald had jumped in front of the girls, facing the door they’d entered the room from. Another smashing sound came from the other side, prompting both Dewey and Louie to run backwards towards their uncle. They stared at the door in fear, hearing now the metallic scraping of claws against stone.

Something was coming.

“All in favour of not finding out what that thing is, say aye.” May murmured urgently.

“Aye.” Everyone said in unison.

And then they turned around and bolted, heading down the path Scrooge had gone. They ran down the corridor, glancing over their shoulders as they ran as the sound of a splintering door echoed from the other room. The hallway led to a T-intersection, both sides of the path identical to one another.

They turned right.

Their retreat led them down a flight of stairs, further into the dungeon. The corridor branched off to the left, though there was another door leading straight ahead. Donald quickly rushed for the door, quacked in anger as a quick test confirmed it was locked, then led them further down the corridor.

It ended in another locked door.

Donald rattled the lock furiously, squawking in panic and rage, while May tried to smash down the door by slamming her shoulder into it. June spun around, facing back and getting into a fighting stance. Webby immediately started scanning the nearby walls, running her hands across the brick and muttering feverishly to herself, “Secret door, secret door, secret door…”

Dewey looked across at Louie, standing with his back flat against the wall. He looked about ready to pass out.

“Aha!” Webby cried victoriously, pushing in one of the bricks in the wall. A section of the brickwork started to swing inward, and Webby declared, “I found-!”

With a warbling warcry, Donald ran backwards, then charged head-first into the door, smashing it off its hinges and sending him tumbling into the next room.

“…A secret door.” Webby finished lamely.

May and June picked up their foster father, who’d knocked himself dizzy from the impact, and started to drag him to his feet towards the secret door. “In there!” May hissed. “Now!”

The kids darted through the hidden passage, which turned out to be another narrow corridor. Once they were all inside, Webby quickly and quietly closed the door behind them.

Then, they all took a few steps back. June held a finger up to her beak, and everyone held their breath as the claws came closer.

Dewey felt his heart crawl into his throat as the creature’s claws scraped against the hidden door.

There was a pregnant silence.

Then they heard the creature slink away.

They didn’t let themselves relax until the sound of the claws had died down completely. Once they were certain they were safe, they all let out a collective sigh of relief, leaning against the walls and collapsing to the ground. Dewey slumped against the wall, closing his eyes and letting himself calm down.

Then his eyes snapped open again. “Uncle Scrooge.”

“Oh, crap!” Webby gasped, scrambling back to her feet. “He doesn’t know! What-”

“He could’ve gone down the other path.” Louie murmured, looking down at the ground. “We have no idea where he is.”

They all looked at each other.

“…We’ve got to try.” Dewey said decisively. “We can’t let him face… whatever that thing was on his own.”

Webby nodded in agreement. Louie, however, protested fearfully, “So, what, we follow where it went and hope we don’t get spotted?”

“Scrooge said not to come back for him.” May added, looking wary.

“I don’t care.” Webby replied flatly. “We don’t leave family behind.”

“Even if they tell us to?” June asked confusedly.

“Especially if they tell us to.” Looking at Louie, she said, “And we don’t have to follow the creature. If Scrooge went down this way, he would’ve found this passage.”

Louie seemed hesitant. He looked towards Donald, who’d gotten to his feet now, rubbing the bruise on his head.

“…Alright.” Donald quacked reluctantly. “But the second that we get into danger, we’re getting out!”

Louie sighed tensely, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Slowly, the family continued down the secret passage, all of them keeping an ear out for the beast that had chased them. The passage ended with another door, which Webby and Dewey pushed aside into the room beyond.

This room seemed to be a large archive, with bookcases full of black, red and blue tomes lining the walls, and a desk directly in front of the hidden door. Two more doors, one beside the desk, and one on the other side of the room, beckoned to them. The chamber was illuminated by a pair of burning torches, shedding flickering firelight across the room.

“…Uncle Scrooge?” Dewey asked the room quietly, hoping to get a response.

Nobody answered.

The family entered the room cautiously, Louie taking up the rear, nervously looking over his shoulder. Dewey carefully opened up the closest door, looking down to confirm that it was another hallway. He turned back to Webby, who was approaching the nearby desk. A book laid upon it, closed, with a red page marker sticking out from the bottom.

“…Do you guys smell that?” June asked suddenly.

Louie paused, then sniffed the air. “…Cigarette smoke.” He murmured.

Dewey could smell it too, now that he thought about it. It was faint, but unmistakable.

June immediately started searching the room, looking over every corner of the chamber. Webby, meanwhile, hesitantly picked up the book, with Dewey looking over her shoulder. The book had a black cover, with an illustration of a goat’s head on the front. The goat had long horns, a torch sconce protruding from its head, and on its forehead was a five-pointed star – a pentagram.

“…Uh…” Dewey said nervously. “What was the name of that idol we’re looking for again?”

“…Baphomet.” Webby replied, not sounding too brave herself. “Beast of Blasphemies.”

“Does he look anything like that?”

Webby didn’t respond. Slowly, she opened the book up to the bookmarked spot. On it was a detailed illustration of a minotaur, the likes of which none of them had seen before. The creature, drawn with its arms outstretched, was long, emaciated, and sickly-looking, sporting a third eye in the middle of its head. A long scorpion’s tail extended down between its legs, and each of its hands ended in long, wicked claws. Written around the drawing were long paragraphs in a language Dewey didn’t quite understand, with one word printed in capital letters directly above it – ‘BULEZAU’.

May looked over Webby’s other shoulder, frowning at the page. “Huh… Webby, you’re the expert on ancient languages here. Any idea what all that says?”

“Uh…” Webby replied uncertainly, her eyes rapidly scanning the words. “It’s hard to read… it’s like a weird mix of… Latin and old Germanic. But this bit here…” She pointed at the section right next to the diagram, reading aloud. “O pestilent bull of Baphomet, o vile herald… heed our… I think that’s either ‘call’ or ‘request’… uh, the next few lines, I don’t understand, but that word means ‘virgin’ or ‘maiden’…  feast upon the… uh… the infidels, on the impure and the sinful… and then it kinda goes on like that…”

“Jeez.” Dewey winced. “It’s like, a creepy prayer or something.”

“It’s more than that.” Webby realised. “This is a Demonomicon. Violet’s talked about these things, they’re used to summon demons!”

“…Like… demons from Hell?” May asked in disbelief.

“Ehhh… it’s not quite like that. I’m not really familiar with how it all works, but I think demons are just, like… evil, super-intelligent aliens.”

“And that thing…” Dewey pointed at the diagram. “…Is that what was chasing us before?”

“Probably… this bit here,” Webby pointed at one of the paragraphs. “This reads like an ingredient list. Brain of a plague-ridden cow, powder of brimstone, a gem of the reddest hue… ‘virgin’ is mentioned here again…”

Dewey’s eyes widened. “Oh my God- that girl! The missing girl from the village!”

Webby looked at him, horror washing over her face. “Oh… you think…?”

“She was kidnapped by whoever used this book to create that… bullyzu, or whatever it’s called!” Dewey declared.

“Probably the same person whose cigarettes we’re smelling.” May mused. “They’re probably guarding the idol, too.”

“I wanna leave.” Louie suddenly spoke up. He was hanging back at the entrance with Donald, distress written across his face. “I don’t- we shouldn’t be here, guys.”

Donald held him concernedly, then looked at the rest of the kids and said sternly, “Louie’s right. We need to go.”

“Wait, wait-” Webby said quickly, picking up the book and peering closely at the text.

“What about Uncle Scrooge?” Dewey protested.

“Scrooge would want you safe!” Donald told him. “I’m not taking any chances!”

“This ritual, that girl is part of it!” Webby insisted, flipping back and forth in the book. “If she’s been kidnapped by this… this cult, then we can’t just-”

“Webby… we don’t know if that girl’s still alive.” May said softly. “If they used her to summon that thing…”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out, how she fits into the ritual.” Webby rambled. “If I could just translate this-”

“I found her.”

Everyone turned to look at June, standing before the door at the end of the room and staring into the room beyond. Her voice had a strange, detached inflection to it.

Slowly, everyone approached the door.

The room beyond was about ten feet wide on either side, illuminated only by what little light was filtering in through the open door. A rotting ram’s head was mounted on the far side of the room, its eye sockets hollow and evil-looking, and its horns twisting backwards in a spiral. An overpowering stench of decay, mixed with the scent of sulphur and burnt flesh, greeted them as they approached the door, and Dewey gagged at the smell. A pentagram had been drawn in the centre of the room in powdered red stone, with black candles marking the spots where the star points met the circle.

In the middle of the symbol was a body. The body of a young duck girl with brown feathers and messy black headfeathers. The girl’s stomach had been ripped open from the inside, her entrails blackened and burned like strips of meat at the bottom of a grill. Coagulated blood was splattered across the floor like thickened marinara sauce, mixed with splashes of black ichor, and her wrists had been bound to a pair of iron loops sticking out from the floor. Her face was frozen in the last expression she had worn – pain and terror.

Dewey heard Louie hiss in shock from behind as he and the girls stared at the body. Before they could look at it for more than a few seconds, Donald got in between them and the scene, his arms extended. “Get back!” He said urgently. “Don’t- don’t look at-!”

“Fuck this.” Louie spat, his voice trembling as he started to back up. “Fuck this. I’m done.”

“It’s okay, we’re leaving.” Donald told him, pushing the kids away from the scene.

“Wh- wait-” Dewey started to stammer.

“Now!” Donald grabbed Dewey by the back of his shirt, dragging him back toward the secret door.

“But Scrooge still doesn’t know about the monster!” Webby argued, though her voice was shaking somewhat.

“Scrooge can take care of himself.” Louie muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets as he followed his uncle.

“We can’t just abandon him!” Webby cried as her family started to retreat. Desperately, she reached to grab Louie’s sleeve. “Please, we-!”

Louie whirled around, roaring in her face, “I get enough of this shit when I go to sleep at night, Webby!”

Webby recoiled in alarm. May and June immediately interposed themselves between them, though Louie didn’t stay long enough for either of them to say anything. He spun back around and followed after Donald, who had paused at hearing the outburst. He watched Louie pass by him concernedly, then he gave both the twins a stern look.

“…Come on, Webby.” May murmured, following after them.

“I…” Webby looked helplessly back at the door, where the girl’s body laid. She couldn’t see much of it from her angle, only the shape of the body lying broken on the floor. Butchered.

Violated.

“…Okay.” She whimpered.

#ducktales aftermath #aftermath #ducktales #ducktales 2017 #dt17 #fanfiction #dewey duck #dt17 dewey #louie duck #dt17 louie #donald duck #dt17 donald #webby vanderquack #dt17 webby #may duck #dt17 may #june duck #dt17 june #huey duck #dt17 huey #cw: gore

[monsterfloofs]

Hello I know you’re busy with other stories but I was hoping to request before I forget Teddy accidentally coming by and hearing artist reader singing to themself when they think they’re alone and his thoughts on their voice. Even if you could put it in the back of your to consider prompts list and when you are feeling better, it would be really appreciated and thank you! Wishing the loveliest of lovely days!

Thaddeus (Vampire) x Anonymous Reader (Sfw)

Laying in bed, eyes staring at Pip’s slumbering form. A gentle twitter coming for the skellybirds beak as they snooze on. Thaddeus smiles faintly, using his thumb and forefinger to massage the bird's plumage.

“It’s no use. I suppose I’ll have to get up sooner or later.” Teddy yawns, a hand pausing over his mouth, finger tips splayed.

“It will be better than pretending to sleep in anycase.” He sits up and leans forward in a stretch. Elbows over his thighs as he rests his face in his hands. Another restless day, with a mind too busy to even think about dozing.

As he scoots out of bed he notices the little bird has stolen his spot in bed, which causes him to laugh softly in amusement.

“Well, I knew I was bunking with a blanket thief, but I never realized how agile of one you were Pip!”

He leans over and kisses the skeleton bird on the forehead.

“I suppose our little human friend is up and about, perhaps I shall see them. And leave you to rest.”

He tucks in his shirt and throws on a jacket, heading for the door. As the door is pulled open and he breezes out into the hall he pauses. Tilting his head, a soft sound, undetectable by human ear could be heard from the kitchen.

“Hm?” A thoughtful hum alights on the back of his throat as he moves down the stairs. He pauses at the bottom, a hand resting on the railing.

From the faint firelight of whispering candles, there was a faint bobbing figure, swaying in place and singing to themselves.

Thaddeus' eyes twinkle as his mouth turns into a smile. He takes care to creep quietly past the entrance to the kitchen, settling himself down into his favorite reading chair beside the fireplace. A slender finger tapping along to the soft melody. Resting a hand on his cheek he sits still, listening to the song in the other room, until he feels himself nod off, eyes closing as he leans heavier into his palm.

#monster x reader #monster x human #floofyrambles #sfw #exophilia #floofyocs #vampire x reader #vampire x human

[levi-venn]

My Favorite Meatbag

(Tech & TAY-0)

(w/ special appearance by Crosshair and Egg the Crow from the Cross and Crow series)

Also found on AO3 here

"We're baaaaack!" Omega's voice bounced with her steps as she bolted down the Marauder’s ramp. She was greeted by a crowd of Pabu villagers who responded to her cheer with equal excitement. 

Tech was hoping no one would notice their arrival, yet it sounded like the whole island was present.

"Yeah! Woo! We made it!" Wrecker shouted, shaking the whole ship as he ran down the ramp after Omega.

Tech was still seated on his bunk as he watched Hunter and Echo follow Wrecker. They graciously accepted pats on the back and warm hugs from the villagers as they descended, expressing a level of ease and good humor that eluded Tech on even his most social days.

He wished they had arrived in the dead of night, so that he may sneak off to his assigned quarters, decompress, and then acclimate to this new life on his own schedule. 

"Are you coming?" 

Crosshair stood at the top of the ramp, his newly befriended crow, Egg, sitting on his shoulder. 

Crosshair and Egg gave Tech an intense stare, and they both had a toothpick in their mouth and beak respectively. 

"Not yet," Tech said. “I will be along shortly.”

He wasn't making an excuse, but it was a convenient last errand before he unofficially retired with his siblings.

“Suit yourself,” Crosshair shrugged. “We’re going to the beach. Less people. C’mon, Egg, let’s stretch our wings.”

Tech waited until Crosshair exited the ramp before closing the hatch. Not being interrupted by loud, friendly locals was preferable, especially during this rather delicate procedure.

Tech sat at his work bench and produced a soft cloth bundle from his munitions cache where he had stored the racer droid’s head over a year ago. 

The sudden destruction of TAY-0 was jarring to say the least, and it had felt wrong to leave him behind on Safa Toma to be melted down and turned into who-knows-what.

Tech removed TAY-0’s faceplate, studying the tangled and frayed wires within and seeing a clearer path here than he did in his own future. Beyond the Marauder’s ramp there were too many variables to quantify, but here he still had some semblance of control and he wasn't going to leave the ship until TAY-0 was up and running.

It took twenty minutes longer than he anticipated, but by the time he was done the cacophonous joy outside the ship had dissipated, and was replaced with the crisp sounds of TAY-0’s circuits jolting to life. 

Tech replaced the faceplate just as the three eyes and series of rectangles that shaped the droid’s mouth began to flicker.

“I…regret…nothing!” TAY-0 said, repeating his final words expelled moments after being blown to bits by a fellow riot racer’s pod. 

"Hello," Tech greeted. "How are you feeling?"

“Woo! What a rush!” TAY-0’s triple eyes flashed and his face plate tried to spin, but was blocked by the workbench. He bobbled clumsily across the surface. “Safa Toma’s finest is back, baby! Can’t keep a good TAY-0 dow-…wait…what?! Why can’t I move?!”

Tech picked up the disembodied head. “I’m sorry to have brought you back in such a state, but I wanted to make sure I could restore you, before building you a body.”

TAY-0 flipped his face plate around once. Then twice. Then spun frantically. “Where is my everything, human?!”

Tech adjusted his goggles. “In a scrap pile, I imagine, to be melted down and reused for future Riot Racer repairs.”

"Well, aren't you just a meatbag full of sunshine and confetti? TAY-0's in pain here, human, how about a little sympathy?"

“You don’t have any pain receptors,” Tech said.

“Emotional pain!” TAY-0 said. “TAY-0’s heart is broken, literally and figuratively!”

“It…isn’t ideal, I admit,” Tech said. “Now that we've docked however, I can put together something more mobile for you. I again, apologize for your condition and how long it took me to revive you."

“What do you mean ‘how long’?” TAY-0 balked. “Give it to me straight, doc. How long was TAY-0 out for?”

Tech did a quick calculation, subtracting the two initial attempts to revive TAY-0. “Fourteen standard months, and thirteen days.”

“A whole year?!” TAY-0 cried. “An entire year of my life gone?! What about TAY-0's family, huh?! TAY-0's wife probably ran off with some smarmy R2 unit! Soooo typical."

Tech's eyes narrowed.

"I am not a stranger to sarcasm." Tech said, dryly. This was…partially true. He did miss sarcasm more often than not, but TAY-0’s sarcasm was as thick as Crosshair’s and easily identifiable. 

"Caught on, huh? Fourteen months is nothing," TAY-0 said, cheerfully. “I'm gonna live forever.” His face plate did a 360 turn. "So, when's the next race? You better not have trashed my pod while I was out of commission."

Tech frowned. "There is no race. I don't believe this planet has racing of any kind."

Surprisingly, TAY-0 didn’t have an immediate response. In fact, he looked at Tech with what could be described as a blank expression. “Hey, not to look a gift eopie in the snoot, but why would you bring TAY-0 back if not for racing?"

"I don’t understand the question.”

"My owners bring me out for two things: Racing and Prepping for a Race. If I’ve completed those tasks, boom, TAY-0 is shut down and shoved in a locker until the next race. So what’s the play here? Why bring me out if I’m not useful?”

“I…” Tech blinked. "I was unaware of this arrangement. Did you not have a choice in the matter?"

"Hah, a droid with a choice? Cute, human, real cute. Droids get powered up to make credits for the meatbags, that's just how it is."

"It isn't like this everywhere. Certainly not here."

Again TAY-0 was quiet, tilting his face plate down as though deep in thought. "Okay…so…you still haven't answered my question, human."

"It's not a complicated reason." Tech said. “It bothered me that you were destroyed. I wanted to restore you.”

After a moment, Tech added. “You also call me ‘human’, and I find it fascinating.”

“Okay, wow…well, if calling someone by their species is all the criteria I need for a friendship I’d be much more popular.”

Tech hadn’t mentioned friendship. This was simply a gesture of good will. Nothing more. Probably.

“I am a clone of a human," Tech clarified. "and what’s more, I am a variant clone, an experimental project. As such I grew up being called all manner of things, but never 'human'. My brothers and I have owned the moniker ‘bad batch’, but I do not believe I am ‘bad’. In fact, I feel far superior to regs…regular clones and humans.”

"Huh…"

Tech waited for a snarky reply, mocking him for just the simple pleasure of being considered human.

Surprisingly, all three of TAY-0's eyes dimmed briefly, with some sort of emotion Tech couldn't immediately decipher. 

“TAY-0 knows how lonely it is at the top. It's hard being this good-looking and talented, y’know? Well you probably don’t know, but trust me. Everyone is jealous of me on Safa Toma.”

Tech’s eye twitched. “I see…”

“Well anyway! So you freed TAY-0 and that’s great news and all, but I have a pretty big existential question here, human: TAY-0 is good at racing, right? And if there’s no racing then what am I good at exactly?”

The question struck Tech like clanker shrapnel to the heart. "As it happens, I have been asking that very same question of myself. I was a soldier, then a mercenary of sorts, now…I have a stable home, and no mission. The future is uncertain and it bothers me greatly."

"Same boat, huh? Well, human, you're in luck, because I have an exceptional mind and you're pretty smart, too. We're going to come up with new purposes. Between the two of us we can figure it out, yeah?"

Tech smiled faintly. "Perhaps we can."

“Sooo, where did you bring me, human? Where are TAY-0’s new stomping grounds, assuming you’re going to give me some stomping feet?"

“You may receive treads, but we’ll deal with that later,” Tech said. Holding TAY-0’s head-frame firmly, he went to the cockpit, bringing up a holomap to accompany the rather spectacular view. 

To the East was an uninterrupted landscape of calm ocean, the sapphire waters wearing the golden sunlight like a shimmering cape. 

To the West was home.

“This…is Pabu.”

The single mountainous island was a quiet sentinel in the dreamy sea, rich in natural history, peaceful at times, violent in others. The domestic structures built all over the island seemed to add to the beauty, not tame it, as if the island itself granted permission to let these villagers thrive.

TAY-0 gasped. “Wow…”

Tech’s smile widened, with an unexpected sense of pride.

“...this place is cuuuuuute.”

Tech’s lips thinned. 

“And by cute, I mean tiiiiiny. Did you find this place at the bottom of a mantell mix box? Where are we going to live? In conch shells? Like hermit crabs?! Ahahahaha.”

Tech turned TAY-0’s head frame sharply toward him, cupping the face plate so he couldn’t move, forcing TAY-0 to look directly at Tech in his goggled eyes. 

“When we leave this ship, you are going to behave yourself. You will be gracious. You will be respectful. This island is a safe haven and a carefully guarded secret. Kindness to these very generous people will go a long way if you are to make any friends here.”

“Friends?” TAY-0 asked. He looked…hurt. “But, TAY-0 thought we were friends.”

Another mention of friendship…

…Tech waited for the punchline. 

There wasn’t one. 

TAY-0 looked quietly at Tech as if waiting for a response.

Tech hesitated.“You…don't even know my name,” Tech reasoned.

“Sure I do, human.”

“...it isn’t-”

“It’s not human,” TAY-0 said, quickly. “I know that!”

Tech tilted his head.

“Ah ha, trick question,” TAY-0 ventured. “You don’t have a name.”

“This is not how a friendship starts,” Tech said, not knowing the first thing about cultivating an actual friendship. Though he imagined an exchange of names would be included. “My name is Tec-”

“Tech!" TAY-0 took over. "Your name is Tech. Uh yeah, of course it is, how could TAY-0 forget a name like that. It’s so…” 

Tech frowned.

“...short.”

“Brevity is the spice of life."

“Uh huh, yeah, That's not something TAY-0 will crosstitch on a pillow anytime soon. TAY-0 doesn't do brevity.”

“Obviously.”

“Well, Tech, you’re in luck because it just so happens there's a vacancy for TAY-0’s best friend. You’re it! Congratulations!”

Tech considered this, pressing the edge of his finger to his chin in thought. “I’ve…never had a friend that has elevated me to a ‘best’ status before.”

“Oh yeah? How many friends you got?”

“Apart from my siblings?”

“That…sounds like the number's zero.”

“Correct. It is zero. And how many friends do you-”

“Hey, hey, we’re not talking about TAY-0 here.”

Tech didn't push the issue. 

They were a pair of friendless entities, brilliant and unappreciated though Tech had far more humility regarding how superior he was to others. Naturally.

“Are you ready to go outside?” 

“Wait! One more thing,” TAY-0 said.

Tech held TAY-0 up to his face again. “What is it?”

TAY-0’s eyes flickered, and while the blinking facial expressions were unknowable to Tech, he had the impression that TAY-0 was growing emotional again.

“I’m glad it was you who brought me back, human. Tech. You're my favorite meatbag.”

"Full of sunshine and confetti?"

TAY-0's eyes flashed with apparent mirth.

"Exaaaaactly!" 

Tech snorted a laugh.

And with that, Tech punched the button for the ramp, relieved to find the crowd had indeed dispersed. 

Tech took TAY-0 to the beach where only Crosshair sat, boots beside him as he hid his feet in the sand, watching Egg soar around his new home. 

“This is an ideal stretch for Riot Racing,” TAY-0 said, eyes glowing, face plate spinning enthusiastically.

“As I said before, there is no racing here.”

‘Well, we’ll just have to change that. This island is in dire need of a little TAY-0 style.” 

"This is a peaceful island, TAY-0.”

"Ugh, fine. We’ll have Quiet Racing. Quiet Riot Racing! Hey that could be your name, Texx: The Quiet Riot Racer!"

“It's Tech, and we’ll see.” 

It wasn't a bad nickname. The announcer at the Safa Toma Riot Race seemed disappointed with announcing the winner as just "Tech".

"Or you can continue being the Spectacled Spectator! Your brother loved it.”

“Technically, you’re the one spectating, as that's all you can do currently.”

“Oh haha, you're hilaaaarious, y'know that, bestie?"

"Let's start with 'friend', first," Tech said, sitting on a bench just behind the beach line. He set TAY-0's head beside him so he could also enjoy the view. 

In the distance, Crosshair and Egg tossed a piece of shiny shell back and forth.

"We can revisit our status when you remember my name." Tech decided.

"I haven't forgotten it, human…it's…Ted."

"Tech."

"That's what I said!"

Tech's laugh came out loud and unexpected, a short burst of mirth that was unfamiliar to his own ears. These days mild amusement was most he could conjure as it had been a hard year. A harder several years actually since the Empire took over.

And even before then…when had he felt comfortable enough to laugh?

The sound carried to Crosshair and Egg who both whipped their heads back in equal startlement.

"What's that about?" TAY-0 challenged. "Ol' toothpick over there never heard a human laugh before?"

"Not this…human." Tech felt something loosen in his chest, like an overtightened gear cog finally shaking off the rust of fear and worry and instability. 

He took a deep breath of the salty, fresh air.

He felt very human. 

"Tech…" TAY-0 said, his gaze fixed to the ocean. "Thanks. I mean it. You didn't have to bring me back and you did. TAY-0 doesn't forget kindness like this."

Most likely because few have shown TAY-0 kindness at all, but Tech kept this observation to himself.

He put a hand on TAY-0's head frame as the sun meandered its way towards the horizon. 

"You're welcome, my friend."

***

If you enjoyed my writing, please consider checking out my queer sci-fi murder mystery novel “Error: Detective Not Found (A Cake Pop Noir)”. You can also find more info on it and my original works on my main tumblr account @blueberryhelper

***

My Taglist is currently one person, but thank you for being on it @motte-the-goblin :3

#tbb #tbb tech #tbb Crosshair #tbb tay-0 #tay-0 #badbatch #badbatch tech #badbatch Crosshair #tbb egg #egg the crow #was anyone else as upset as I was when TAY-0 exploded #fixit fic no one asked for #i love him youre honor #an excuse to give egg his own toothpick #Bad Batch

[ruins-and-rewritez]

She can not prepare for the shock of it. Even it's constant synchronous rhythm is not enough. It is not enough that each blow is perfectly timed a never-ending cycle. One following the other like ripples in a pond. A uniformed chorus. Every strike is it's own exquisite blossom of pain under the clumsy hands of Van Eck's hired tormentor.

She is determined not to give them the satisfaction at the start but that same resolve is snapped as easily as the bones in her calf. She screams from rage or pain she isn't sure but each one reverberates from one end of the hall to the other. Somewhere in the back her mind comes the nonsensical thought that this would be the best performance this theatre ever had if only it were staged.

Van Eck smiles maliciously, enjoying every second of breaking Brekker's spider. Knowing that stopping his flow of information will staunch his power if only until she can be replaced.

The man beside her raises the hammer, an executioner playing the role of torturer, readying another blow when a cry that could wake the dead echoes strangely from the wings. Sounding like it comes from several places at once.

"Inej!"

She is dizzy with pain, with blood loss, because Kaz is coming toward her. Scuffling across the dusty rotting planks that cobble together as the stage. His eyes lit with hellfire, brimmed in flamed, so encompassed in his rage she couldn't help but wonder if this was how others could call him demjin.

A specter. A fantasy. The devil himself come to make a final attempt to pull her soul away from the light of the Saints.

Kaz? No. He would never do something so foolish. So dimwitted. Eyes blurred and head fogged she was surely losing her mind.

The man is a shadow, swift and punishing, he flickers from one attacker to the next, swinging that crow-headed cane like a club drawing blood as the golden beak finds skin. A spray of crimson coating the shadow, the stage, the scofflaws that litter it.

He saves Van Eck for last. Watching him scurry from human sheild to the next purposely avoiding him as he plows through each man intent on his destruction.

The fight is minutes or hours. Each second so antagonizingly slow at some moments she isn't sure whether or not time has stopped completely.

There is no brute violence against the Councilman other than a simple whack on the head that sends him sprawling on the floor.

Kaz, the demon in him vanished, appears at her side. His lips form words that might be apologizes, might be promises but they're so muddled she can't tell.

When Van Eck rises to the floor she strains to warn him. Her arms limp and tied to the table. Throat dry and raw.

He draws the gun with shaking arms and blood drips from the small wound near his temple and for an instant she believes that the Saints will spare the man grabbing her hand and stroking her hair before the older man trembling behind him manages to fire.

Van Eck fires a single shot collapsing before it hits his target.

She knows undoubtedly that her prayers are useless and her hopes of making it out of this alive scatter like leaves in the wind.

"-rry I'm so so sorry Inej please please stay with me stay with me your invaluable and irreplaceable what are the crows without you what am I without you so please don't leave me stay with me Inej hang on hang o-"

Bang! Splat

"Kaz!"

It's not the first time she's woken screaming for Kaz. Her breath is short and her heart pumps painfully as Inej crumples back into her small bunk.

This dream is a familiar one but it never, not once, has it ceased to fill her with fear. What could have been if Kaz had been more rash in his decisions. Less cunning in his choices. If he'd shed his armor when she wanted it most and needed it least.

Inej is grateful that this particular nightmare of hers always seems to visit while she's at sea instead of upon her return to land. Knowing very well if Kaz were aware of such a thing that the demon Brekker of her mind could easily become reality.

As if he'd allow someone who haunts her as she sleeps to live beyond the following sunrise if only to attempt to assuage her fears briefly.

Inej scrubs at her face with her hands before pushing herself up and heading up to the deck.

The Wraith cuts across the docile water and splashes of moonlight, seemingly eager to return to her home port.

Inej can't blame her ship, she strokes the guardrail lovingly, she herself often feels the trembling excitement mixed with anxiety of returning to Ketterdam.

She leans on her forearms and closes her eyes. Feeling the cool breeze as the ship skims lightly over the water, imagining she's instead perched at her window in the Slat.

The soft glow of light from Kaz's desk radiating over the stacks of paper there and intersecting with the square of dim gray drifting through the open window.

"Not feeding the crows again are you?"

"Of course not."

She spares him a glance, to see his soft grin at the ledger settled under his fingertips, amused at her lie.

"What if I was?"

"I'd have to expel you from the gang obviously."

He smiles so much more freely now. Or at least exponentially more than before.

"And what prey tell would the great Dirtyhands do without his beloved spider?"

He's quiet, and she watches him carefully as he attempts to respond.

"I suppose, I might become lost, without her many hands to guide me through this treacherous city."

He does not look at her as he speaks, turns a page in the leather bound book, but still Inej hears the sincerity in his voice.

She smiles, "good thing I'm not feeding them then," she places another handful of seed on sill.

The memory is a good one that she often visits when the nights are getting to her. It calms her, knowing that Kaz too feels a sense of attachment toward her, even if he isn't very well versed at expressing it.

She misses him.

She feels it so often at sea, like a wound in her chest, leaking spattered drops on the deck.

There's a comfort there. Knowing he'd challenge the Saints themselves if it would keep her from harm. Even if it would be undeniably reckless of him.

Inej searches the horizon, the familiar silhouette of Hellgate peeking above the waters surface. And beyond that...home.

The Slat, the new Crow Club, Wylan's manor, gambling dens and brothels, restaurants and warehouses, shiny and new and dilapidated and forgotten.

Yes, she fears what could have been, in that abandoned building in those dark city streets at the hands of Van Eck and unscrupulous cronies, but she is unflinchingly certain that a greater threat controls those roadways and alleys now. And for once, that same threat is on her side.

#inej obviously has plenty of things that she has nightmares about #most of the time shes just grateful kaz isnt there #because as much trash as there is in the city #she doesnt want to be responsible for Kaz setting the entire thing on fire in retribution #because #he would #long post potato 🥔 #six of crows duology #kaz brekker #my love <3 #inej ghafa #kanej #ruinwrites #ruinwrecks #rarzo

[barovianbitches]

Veiled Superstition - Bettany Blackstarr

Trigger Warning: Blood and Gore

(This story takes place during events in the campaign)

Bettany had gotten into an unfortunate habit of sleeping as different animals, usually a bat or a cat of some sort. When he shifted, he noticed that his dreams weren’t as vivid as they were when he slept in human form. Something must have happened that night at the Kolyanovich’s manor, for he slipped from his cat form briefly, where he lay at the foot of Rorali’s bed. The tiefling acted as though she was annoyed by his presence, grumbling and protesting about it, though he caught her smiling while she thought he was asleep- she even reached down to scratch between his ears. Bettany dreamt of a garden, a large swing tied from the branches of a sturdy oak in a field of wildflowers, and thick bushes of thorns creating a wall from the outside world. Trees overhead shaded the area with green light, almost entirely obscuring the sky… it truly was a little pocket just for Bettany.

The garden around him shimmered, sunlight spilling through the green canopy of leaves above. Bettany let the light touch him, radiating in its warmth as he ran his fingertips along the thick ridges of the thorn bushes that barricaded the outside world from the ecosystem.

The bushes might be an eyesore to others, a nuisance due to their sharp thorns, but Bettany appreciated their strength. These tremendous bushes provided a strong fortress, protecting the other plants from the dangers of the outside world. 

Every plant deserves the opportunity to thrive and the chance to reach its fullest potential, whether it be a delicate lilly or a stubborn weed. He felt safe in his skin with the traveling party, which is probably why he accidentally slipped back into his own form. The brief moment he let his guard down was all his mind needed to fuck him up again.

“You feel safe?” A velvety voice hummed in his head as Bettany twitched in his sleep, “But they don’t know, do they? What would they think of you?”

The voice chuckled as the scenery faded.

The garden unfurled, spilling into blurred unfocused blobs like water dripping onto ink.

The sunlight that bathed the garden turned into moonlight, a large blue moon hanging low in the sky as the plants around Bettany’s feet withered and died. The ground cracked and warped, becoming uneven and bowed.

Bettany felt something rise in his throat, nauseated, he raced to the stone birdbath- purging into the basin. Bettany’s distress worsened when he realized that the contents of the basin weren’t stomach bile or vomit, but rather deep crimson blood that sloshed and swirled.

The blood oozed from his mouth, almost like someone had turned on a tap inside his body. He stumbled back from the birdbath, furiously trying to wipe the blood away from his lips using his sleeve, though it only smeared the gore across his face.

“What would they think, boy?” 

From the depths of the stone bowl shot a taloned claw, skeletal and decaying with age. The sickly skin blistered and tore as it reached for his face, puss-filled boils attempting to scratch out his eyes, he lept back, smacking his elbow on the rough ground behind him. Another hand broke free from the ground, a ghastly blue magic smoked around it as hordes of undead limbs erupted from the cracked earth. Dozens of Owlfolk in various stages of decomposition screeched as they hobbled towards Bettany, who attempted to call upon the earth to help him, but the swarm managed to grab ahold of him. Their beaks pecked at his flesh, talons piercing into his skin as their high-pitched cries reverberated in his ears. 

The Owlfolk were blasted off of him by a blast of blue energy, their bodies crumbling away into black dust. 

The surrounding area fell into darkness.

The voice laughed, low and scratchy, “Who could ever love a monstrous thing like you?” 

Bettany jolted awake, knocking his head onto the wooden bunk above his and Rorali’s cot. Holding back a yelp so he wouldn’t wake Tyyran who was snoring away in the corner, notably snuggling with his new silver lute. The strange displacement of weight on the bed alerted Bettany to Rorali’s absence. The only thing other than himself on the bed was Geronimo, who chirped softly in his sleep. He slid from the bed, making his way to the washroom that Ireena and Ismark had shown him and his friends on the way to the guest quarters. He quickly bolted the door behind him and slid to the floor, folding into himself- convinced if he was as tense as possible he could squeeze the fear out of himself. 

“Just a dream, it wasn’t real, just a dream…” He repeated to himself, heartbeat thudding in his ears. It was then that a pungent smell overpowered him…

He had a keen sense of smell, due to his drudic heritage and being a gardener, he had to be able to identify certain plants, poisons, and scents.

The sharp smell of flowers, sickeningly sweat, daring to lure him from sanity... Though the perfume couldn’t disguise the smell of death underneath- the dusty scent of centuries walking among the living. 

The Kolyanovich’s residence had visitors earlier, Two of them. And they weren't human.

Vampires. 

Vampires had walked in this house unnoticed and infiltrated a space where his friends had felt safe. And he didn’t know, he let it happen. He’d slept through the threat like a goddamned fool.

The stairs creaked, making Bettany jump. He slowly opened the door, peeking out of the restroom as Ireena and Rorali trodded up to the second floor, speaking in hushed voices. The scent trailed the two of them. Bettany’s large yellow eyes caught two deep puncture wounds on Rorali’s neck.

“Fuck,” Bettany clamped a hand over his mouth, scampering back from the door so as not to be heard. He’d never liked curse words, he’d always thought that they were a crutch for inadequate fools who were unable to express what they truly meant. 

But as the smell of two undead filled his nose, their scent lingering on Rorali as she followed Ireena to her quarters, Bettany appreciated the existence of curse words because that’s how he felt.

Entirely, and utterly…

Fucked. 

#Bettany #Bettany Blackstarr #Lore

[blueskyscribeupdates]

Secure Own Oxygen Mask

Part 7

You are Soundwave. Your hearing is exceptional. 

Also, your room is adjacent to the cassettes' and the walls are thin.  Not only can you hear their ruckus, but also Skullcruncher, in the room to the other side of them, swearing and banging on the wall.

You keep your visor powered down for a few minutes, waiting to see if they will sort things out and quiet down.  The shouts increase in volume, accompanied by a crash. You slide off your berth and trudge next door.

Ever since the cassettes received their coveted "own room", they have held odd hours. Ravage has become nocturnal and Frenzy and Rumble have–they used to–they imitated him.  The birds' sleep schedule is more standard, awake in the day, asleep at night.  Arguments from the cassettes' quarters are not uncommon.

But not arguments like this.

You stand in the doorway. Buzzsaw and Frenzy are battling over a snare drum, Buzzsaw's talons clutching the instrument's rim, Frenzy maintaining a deathgrip on the drum stand.  Flapping her wings and firing her thrusters, Buzzsaw drags Frenzy across the floor as they scream at each other.  

"Give it back before I blast you out of the base, bird-brain!"

"Let go, you plebeian! You philistine!"

"I'm gonna make you eat those words!  Whatever they mean!"

Ravage is nowhere to be seen. Laserbeak is roosting in his bed, looking on.

"Not my fault," he squawks at you.

"Ravage?"

"Left. Too loud."

Yes, it is very loud. Skullcruncher bangs on the wall again. You send him a brief apology and assure him you are handling the situation.  The banging stops. You turn back to Laserbeak.

"Cause of conflict?"

Laserbeak's expression is always hard to read, even for you, but he sounds irritated.  "Buzzsaw: feeling artistic."

With a discordant crash Frenzy trips over the rest of the drum set; victorious, Buzzsaw carries the snare drum to the top bunk.

"Frenzy, Buzzsaw—" you begin, but your voice is overpowered by a cacophony of rolling cymbals and falling drums as Frenzy leaps across the room, violently shaking the bed frame.

"Get offa my bed!  Give that back!"

"No, I won't!" Buzzsaw spreads her wings over the drum.  "It's not yours."

"It's not yours either!"

"I need it!"

"Buzzsaw." You speak louder this time; their heads whip towards you. "Why?"

"Because." She lifts her beak towards the ceiling. "I am going to create a magnifient sculpture honoring Rumble."

"Out of his stuff!" Frenzy howls, turning towards you in appeal as she points at the instrument.

"Well, he's not using them anymore," Buzzsaw snaps.  "Who's going to play them?  You?"

Frenzy gives the bedframe another shake. "Maybe I fraggin' will!"

"Oh yeah? While you play your guitar?"

"I can trade off!"

"You're so selfish." The steel plumes on Buzzsaw's neck begin to bristle.  "Greedy, greedy, greedy."

"Me?!  Who's trying to destroy Rumble's drumset?"

"I'm making a memorial. You just want to hog them for yourself!" Buzzsaw's voice rises, her wings as well. "You can't keep a beat! That's what Rumble always said!"

Frenzy's fists clench and she leans her whole body into her scream. "RUMBLE HATED YOU!"

Laserbeak has tucked his beak under his wing, feigning sleep. Buzzsaw is staring, her wings sinking. Frenzy's chest is heaving. 

"He hated you, hated you, he said you were a, a stuck-up tonedeaf turkey—"

"Frenzy."  She looks up at you, violently wiping her eyes with her balled up fists.  Your first instinct is to open your chest compartment and tell her to return. Yet you hesitate.  "You: will recharge in Soundwave's room.  Discussion of appropriate behavior: can wait till morning."

"Fine, whatever," Frenzy mutters, stalking to the door. "Too many bad vibes in here anyway."

When she is safely in the hall you turn to Buzzsaw. "Frenzy: did not mean what she said."

Buzzsaw tosses her head and huffs.  "Oh, so you're a mind reader now?" 

You are not.  But you doubt it would make this any easier.

#Transformers #Earthspark #Soundwave #Buzzsaw #Frenzy #Laserbeak #Earthspark spoilers #fic update #fanfic #Secure Own Oxygen Mask

[cheesecake-the-chicken]

what are some things that give u species euphoria ? :)

thank you so much for asking!! so far i’d say

🪽 vocals!! im very lucky to know some voice things from choir so mimicking my theriotype’s voice isn’t too difficult! (I HOPE TO DROP A TUTORIAL SOON) it’s not exactly perfect but when im able to get it right the euphoria is unmatched :’>

🪽hopping around like a birdy, especially walking down the street! also running with my arms at my sides to feel like im flying, im already pretty “eccentric” (because of being nd and my theriotype traits) so i’ve kind of accepted that people will think im weird LOL

🪽TREE CLIMBING, and perching in general! it may be more of a trauma-related thing but i’ve always LOVED being high-up and “perching” in corners, which is why ive almost always had the top bunk bed lmao

🪽dancing!!! for years whenever i saw a video of a bird dancing i would feel so Seen, and i remember that time i unknowingly got species dysphoria when i saw a video of a cockatoo dancing with a person and wanting desperately to dance more like the cockatoo, not the person 😭 but dancing helps me feel so much more like a bird :>

🪽CUDDLES. i absolutely LOVE having my crest petted, yesterday i got head scritches and was on cloud nine 😭 i’ve also been wanting to “preen” my crest and when i’ve tried it it was really fun :]

🪽using my teeth to open things! i get a phantom beak sometimes but outside of it this really helps me feel like i have one. i’ve also been wanting to use my feet to move things more

🪽 my irl friends!! one of them is robotkin and jackalhearted iirc and it introduced me to therianism in the first place :7 when i told my friends they really weren’t surprised, it had been a long running joke that i was basically a bird in a human body LMAO 😭 but they’ve been super kind and validating which i’m really grateful for

thank you so much again for asking!! :”7

[photozoi]

Two hen/roos, hens with rooster features/behaviours. Bumble Chickskin, Pyncheon x Yokohama and Morgaine/Morgan, Crevecouer bantam. These girls crow after laying an egg!

#chicken #hen/roos #Bumble Chickskin #Morgaine/Morgan #photozoi #5-2023 #original photos #Fort Featherly Flock #Beak Bunk

[askrobouteguilliman40k]

Give minerva a stuffed goose plushie with a knife on its beak

"Don't ask where did I got it" He said

Minerva sits it on her bunk bed... And threatens any scout that touches it with casteration.... She is her mother's child.

[fox-daddy]

The Lazaret part 1 (mc story)

(Here's the beginning to a fic I was supposed to write over two years ago. For Amino. Yet, I only wrote it a day ago.)

Kyle sat at the back of the boat, looking out across the sea. The world was given a red tint under his beaked mask. Something he had once laughed at, which only felt more natural, the more he found himself wearing it. His fingers tapped lazily against the side of the boat as he thought about the letters he had to write.

'Dear Dr. Julian

As I have stated in my other letter, my position has changed to helping the patients on the Lazaret. With more Dr.'s falling ill, and the need to grow my limited knowledge is best sent tending to those there.

I'll be sending you weekly updates about the island since I don't think enough will happen to earn a daily report. Mostly, a lot of dying probably.

~ K. Boivin'

Nodding approvingly, he put the letter away as the boat drew closer to the darkened island. He had left mostly everything back at the shop and only took what he needed, feeling better knowing his more important items outside his cape would be kept safe there. As he looked over the island, he remembered why he was there to help the plague victims in any way he could. This would mostly be running around helping the doctors take readings and making the patients as comfortable as he could. He already could feel a bad feeling growing deeper inside him, telling him to turn back. But for the time, he just had to focus on why he was there. While he was still under the watch of Dr. Julian, Julian was staying on the main island where he could research the disease better, and Kyle was on the Lazaret where he would send Julian weekly reports. His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp chill as he landed on the island. The way the sand clung to his feet only fed into his bad feelings, but he knew he couldn't turn back, not now.

As the sun set on his first day on the Lazaret, he sat on the beach with a cup of tea. He thought about what the day had brought. Lots of death, something told him only more deaths were coming. He took a long sip of his tea before looking at the sunset. Wondering what he should say to Asra. A part of him almost didn't want to write anything, but he knew that would just be petty. Truth was he wanted to know if Asra had left in time.

'Dear Asra

Starting with dear feels weird. But I remember an old person yelling about how you should always start a letter with dear, sir, miss or mama. Or was it madam? It's hard to remember and harder to understand drunk people talk.

Anyway, I'm on the Lazaret. Before you panic, I'm not dying. I'm just there to help with the sick people being sent there. I doubt anything interesting will happen, but hey, at least the view of Vesuvia is nice from here. The sky is filled with so many shades of purples and pinks. I think even you'd appreciate it. I'll write to you again tomorrow even if the only way to send mail is through the boats.

~Kyle

P.S: Tell Faust I said hi'

Scanning over the letter again while finishing his tea, he decided it would have to do as he roughly scrolled it up and headed to where his sleeping place would be. With how few Dr's were there it meant their was only two rooms with bunks for them and even then by the time Kyle made his way to his bunk only a couple of people were sleeping in their beds. While he already had the feeling sleeping was going to be rough, he did know he had to try with the work he had to do tomorrow. The fact is that he also had to be up early enough to give the scrolls to the first boat. Any other time he'd be too busy with work and sneaking out wasn't something he wanted the others to see him doing.

After a restless night of little sleep, Kyle eventually got up, shoving the note he had written to Asra in a small chest of his belongings before heading towards the boatman already ready to leave.

"Could you pass this along to Dr.Devorak when you reach the shore?"

The boatman seemed to give him a look as it dawned on Kyle he had forgotten his mask.

"You know we don't accept sick people back from the island"

"I'm not sick. I'm here to help the sick. I just left my mask behind. Just deliver it to Dr.Devorak. " he could still sense the fact the boatman didn't believe him, but he nevertheless took the scroll. "Thank you." With that sorted, Kyle headed back to the Lazarent to put his mask on and grab something light before he would have to tend to the needs of the sick. Sick or not, he felt like he should do his best to make sure they were as comfortable as they could be while canned into cramped rooms.

After another long day of checking temperatures and eyes, helping a few people write farewell letters, he found himself on the beach again, trying to figure out how to write to Asra. He had the feeling deep down if he even mentioned the Lazaret before saying he wasn't sick that Asra wouldn't even read the rest and would be there and yet especially at this point the last thing he needed was Asra getting himself sick. Or maybe not Kyle wasn't always the best at predicting what the other magician would do. Realizing he was just stalling at that point, he tried to focus.

'Hey, Asra, I hope things are going well wherever you might be by now, and I hope this letter finds you well. I would like to start off by saying I'm not sick, but my position has changed to looking over those at the Lazaret. More and more people seem to come in every day, but more hands make light work, so I've been told. Theirs a lot to do, and even more, I have yet to do. Even then, the sight of Vesuvia across the water is as beautiful as ever. While I'm glad you left when you did even knowing, no, especially knowing what I do now, I couldn't leave these people. With that said, it's probably best you stay away as a small part of me fears with each boat that comes in that you might be among them. Keep safe and give Faust some extra chin scraches from me.

Missing you both, Kyle'

Taking a long look over it, he scrunched it up to add to the chest. He had said he hoped Asra was fine twice in the opening alone, and the last thing he needed was Asra feeling even a bit more sorry hearing the fact he missed them even if it was true. Why was writing so hard?! Noticing the water lick at his foot suddenly, Kyle got up, taking a deep breath. The tide had come in, the sun had set, and he had to head to bed to start another day.

#the arcana original character #the arcana mc #the arcana game #the arcana apprentice #the arcana fanfic #the arcana fan apprentice #fan apprentice

[wispofwillow]

FFXIVWrite - Prompt 3: Temper

Prompt 3: Temper

((Almost went with a witnessed Garuda tempering for this one, but here we are. Rarely would show a loss of temper))

((Still messing around with a lot of tentative ideas and magic sense here))

Temper:

(noun): “a particular state of mind or feelings”

(verb): “improve the hardness and elasticity of (steel or other metal) by reheating and then cooling it” - “to be or become tempered”

(verb): “to moderate or mitigate; to soften or tone down”

(Definitions pulled from Dictionary.com)

Character: Wisp Alsentia

Brief mentions in memory of: Stari King, Lif Silverlode, Mara Kha, August Mercer, X’Khal’a Moui, Allyn Grav'nost (Gravy), Akhutai Urit, Kurenai Nagimae, Ushumgallu Allagbane

Music: A choice!

Vaults - Bodies: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hgB6Ffd3Q_s

Kate Bush - Running up that Hill: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l_b_X6n__pY

Active Child - Color Me: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VUz9TUXXqRU

Focus

In the half-dark of the late afternoon, Wisp sat cross-legged on the rag rug spread in the far corner of their room, almost out of reach of the creeping slant of light through their uncurtained windows. They sat straight, but with their shoulders set back against the leg of the bunk bed behind them, the wood a solid presence against their back, neatly made-up sheets cool against their neck. Sheets still smooth and unmussed for more than just that day.

Between their hands, cupped loosely in their lap, they held a small focus, its colorless crystalline surface gathering and reflecting light against their downturned face, catching along the silvery scars that marked channels like tear tracks beneath their eyes. Their habitual mask sat discarded, for now, on the low desk across from them. It had tipped downward, leaning on the beak of it, so that the shadowed, carved eyes appeared to watch them. Beside it lay their actual rapier and focus. For this, they had obtained a smaller, weaker focus. The rapier felt as though it should be reserved - kept safe, somehow, in a way they could not fully articulate. So, for this practice, a practice focus. It should suffice, in any case, for what they were trying to accomplish.

For this small, simple task. 

The simplest, the smallest, the easiest task they had learned even before their first formal lesson of conjury.

The task they were, as yet, failing.

To channel and direct one’s aether. And only one’s own aether.

Frowning, Wisp resettled themselves against the bed, shifting their legs on the rug below to ease out a cramp. They took in a long breath, a slow breath, held it, and, just as slowly, released it, letting their shoulders fall, keeping their cupped hands deliberately loose around the empty focus. The unwelcome tension of growing frustration would not help them now.

Once again, they reached, calling up the memory of Khala’s description of the feel of channeling his own aether - the catch, the pull of it, the warmth flowing from toes upward. Immediately the familiar sense of it wrapped their senses, a feel of moss pressing softly against the skin, a brush of pine and petrichor and damp earth. Taking in another slow breath as their frown eased, Wisp let the aether flow up and out, into their hands, their fingertips, and, carefully, into the focus, which woke to a soft gold-green glow. It was weak, befitting of the caution they’d taken and what should have been their low reserves following their recent healing and training exertions, and the sleeplessness following the concert of the night before. But that was how they had intended it to be.

There. Just…

Before they could finish the thought, before the satisfaction and relief could settle, the aether twisted. Tangled. Again. Again.

It did not stop, but rather, flared. 

Chained behind their faint cast came not another spell, but a rush of force. The smell of pine grew, whispers of needles on branches behind it, and above it, beneath it, through it flashed the hair-raising static sense presaging a lightning strike. Tiny bolts of static flicked from their fingers to the crystal focus, growing by the second.

No.

Wisp snapped their fingers away from the focus, slamming their mind down against this rush of levin-aspected aether. No. The sparks died, but the tightness to the air did not as the focus rolled from their lap to the floor with a neglected thunk. They leapt to their feet, flexing their fingers as the fur along their tail, their ears, their arms stood straight up.

It had not been their intention to channel any aspect to their aether at all. And there, at the last, it had not been their aether.

Their tail lashed once, twice.

“Are you…tied to something?” Stari’s words echoed up through memory, so quick on the heels of the initial reassurance they’d sought. And with those words, Khala’s voice, as well, speaking of how it was not natural to be so linked to external aether, so unable to shut it out. 

For that’s what this was, somehow, though they’d not called it: aether external to them. And they ought to know the difference, relying ever first on their own aether unless a healing spell absolutely called for ought else. And calling only on the aspect needed to shape a spell of another kind to do harm.

Lif’s voice came to memory now, too, telling them how interesting Mara had found their aether. And with her voice came the wide-eyed, strained fear that had flashed through her as Wisp had started to speak of what had happened. Of what little they knew.

Wisp paced, now, a tight circle in the corner of their room, ears pinned back, still flexing their fingers. Open, closed, open, closed, curled into claws.

This could not continue. They knew it. Like as not, everyone did. Everyone who’d seen, at least.

Their mind offered them up the image of that voidsent, weeks back, Mercer alongside them. When the visions that had latched onto their mind had distracted them enough to give an opening to the creature. Luck, only, that the attack had been on them and not Mercer. But, what of the next time they became so distracted? 

And again, another memory, another creature of the void draining at their own aether, pulling their attention away from healing spells their party needed, distracting the other healers, too.

The lapses of attention were worse, even, than the lapses of time. It had happened again, that night, they knew. The magic of the Shroud that had been worked by the performers at the concert had pulled at their mind, their senses, their aether, in a way that they could not explain, like the echoes of a song stuck in one’s head long after the notes had faded. Even as they had accompanied Ushumgallu and Sari back to the Aetherflow offices, spoken with Gravy, watched Kurenai carried safely to sleep, a part of their mind had not been there. They’d sat down, just for a moment, back in the dark of their own rooms, to rest before changing from their sweat-salt-stiff robes. 

And then, they had woken. If “wake” was the right word to use when there had been no sleep, just hours, gone. And a drifting. Just like with Josie’s funeral.

A hot wash of guilt and loss and shame poured through them, and they put their hands to their face, fingers pressing hard into the corners of their eyes where tears were starting, smearing them before they could follow the silver traces left before by a wholly different kind of tear. Forcibly they pulled their hands away again, away from the scars, fingers curling back into claws.

This training in Red Magic, begun from sheer interest, was something they needed, now. To temper this overreliance on external aether - to balance out whatever it was that had changed in them, with the transformation the sineaters had wrought. And what had been done, after, to undo that transformation. But, a blade of metal that was weak to start with could not well be tempered.

Pausing in their pacing, Wisp relaxed their hands, rubbing their palms briefly together to smooth away the pricked dents in their skin where their clawed nails had left a mark.

Again. Just try again. Khala had told them what it would feel like. And they’d felt it, briefly. They’d kept out the other aether before, had they not? Before the First, an insidious whisper in their mind reminded them. Before the sineaters. Before the rasping scrape of taint along their aether, along their bones as they stretched, warped, twisted. Claws against stone. Fangs drawing down and down. Light overflowing, oozing…

Breathe.

Breathe. In, out. 

The air rattled shakily from them in a whoosh, and Wisp crouched, laying hands flat on the rough surface of the rug to steady themselves again. Hands that were not the sickly white of a sineater. Hands with furred skin along the backs, black-tipped claws kept neatly trimmed back. Their own hands. Just theirs.

These memories would not aid them now. As they had not aided them when they had reacted so strongly upon meeting Teo and learning of others’ travels to the First. Nor did they explain what this tie in their aether was. No, not tie in their aether - tie to their aether.

Which should not prevent them from calling just upon their own aether. It should not.

Clenching their jaw, Wisp reached out for the focus, groping for where it had rolled halfway beneath the bunkbed as they’d jumped to their feet.

How can I be of use - how can I be trusted in danger - if I cannot even master myself? 

The borrowed time they had now, they had never requested, but all the same it would have a purpose to it. It must. More images flashed to mind, now: Arc, his wide smile up into the sun as the wind caught at his hair - trapped now, in their place, on the First; the hollow silence of the village to which they’d been returned when the moss had released them, in their own shape again - a trail they had joined Aetherflow, albeit unintentionally and unvoiced even to Akhutai’s direct question, to pursue; Josie’s face, slack, empty of all light and life.

Focus. 

Breathe. In, out.

Letting their eyes drift shut, Wisp called again upon their aether, letting the feel of it wash up through them. Moss, again, the faint brush of pine, a faint scent and sense of lightning at the roof of their mouth, not so strong as Mercer’s. And then, suddenly, it was. The wash of electricity slammed into their senses, overwhelming the soft sense of their own magic. They leashed it quickly, grasping physically and mentally with both hands.

No. Again. No. 

Mouth pulled back in a silent snarl, fangs bared, Wisp grappled with the flow of the aether seeping into theirs. Shut it down. But as soon as they reached for their own aether again, the rush of the storm came with it.

They failed again. And again. And again.

Wisp breathed in. And breathed out. And instead of abating, the frustration grew, heat prickling up their palms and upward until their whole face, their ears, their skin felt hot. With it, so too came the sparking sense of pressure building. Their fur stood on end, tail lashing once, twice.

And with a last, final growl, they let go their hold that could not keep the aether back.

With a rumbling boom of thunder that shook the room, an arc of lightning leapt from their hands into the focus, bouncing through it and, with no rapier to guide the overflow, outward, a spray of smaller sparks branching out and over their fur and clothing as it went. Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the lightning was gone, the pressure seeped from the room, leaving Wisp lightheaded, the flood of aether from elsewhere slowed to a trickle. But still not gone.

Heavily, they sat on the bed, legs shaking, temper and aether spent. Between their hands, the small focus, never designed to take aspected aether in such a single blow, lay cracked and blackened. Also spent. 

Failed just as they had. Again. 

___

Somewhere in the distance, in a forest huddled along the ridges and feet of a low mountain range, where tall pines flanked the slopes that folded gently down toward a green-blanketed valley below, rain slowed, then stopped. The thunderstorm that had gathered itself earlier in the day, raining torrents down upon the trees as it fetched up against the mountains gradually, dissipated, clouds rolling on and away, shrinking as they went, temper, if one could call it that, spent.

#FFXIVWrite2022 #FFXIVWisp #Wisp Alsentia

[theodorevg923]

Chixy Week!

Day 2: Sick Day

Day 1 | Day 3 | Day 4 | Day 5 | Day 6 | Day 7

Bit short this time, had some motivation issues but I got it done!

Master List

No warning! Pure fluff

- 1,600 words under the cut!

Sept 24, 1999

Roxy sighed as she made another attempt to get comfortable on Chica's couch. After a bad crash in the Raceway, she was laid up with a broken ankle. It was her own fault, she got distracted on her brand new racetrack and spun out of control. Tears pricked in her eyes as she turned her head away from the TV, not wanting to suffer through another early afternoon romcom. She huffed as she sat up and grabbed the same magazine she had read four times that day, and started on her fifth. Nearly finished with the magazine, the door to Chica's studio apartment within the brand new Freddy Fazbear's Mega Pizza Plex opened. Chica chirped as she came in holding a few pizza boxes from an eatery within the building. 

"How are you feeling now?" 

Roxy huffed and rolled her eyes and she threw the magazine onto a stack that scattered the coffee table in front of her. She ignored Chica as the chicken set the pizza on the kitchenette counter and made each of them plates. She didn't mean to be all huffy with Chica, her pride hurt and it ended up slipping out. Roxy managed to grumble a quiet thanks as Chica handed her a plate of sausage pizza. As she took a bite, Chica sat down on the floor beside her. 

Roxy huffed and sat her pizza down on the coffee table to scoot down a cushion. "Get up here."

Chica chirped around a beakful of pizzas as she sat down beside Roxy. "I'm sorry I can't spend more time with you."

"Not your fault, nugget." 

Roxy turned her head as Chica started to rub cheeks with her. She knew the chicken did it with everyone, but it made her feel special every time she received the affection from Chica. As her tail started to wag, she pulled away but Chica followed right behind. Roxy snorted as Chica continued to rub cheeks until she started to lean into the affection. She didn't quite understand how, but over the years Roxy had known the chicken, she came to accept and crave the affection from Chica. Not that she'd ever outright admit it, and only privately, but she still craved more.

With a heavy heart, Roxy finally pulled herself away from Chica's affection and put focus on eating her pizza. Three weeks had already passed since her accident and she still had three more to go according to the doctor's office. If their daily habit of meals kept up, Roxy might give too much away. Granted she probably already had as she'd been bunking with Chica again, even though she now had her own room in her raceway. Roxy quickly chomped through her pizza as she focused on the tv. But slowly her eyes drifted to Chica as the chicken laid her head on Roxy's shoulder. Roxy rolled her eyes as she turned her focus back to the tv.

As the show on the tv ended, Chica chirped sadly. "I have to go get ready for the next show. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Roxy huffed in reply. "Whatever."

As soon as Chica left, Roxy slumped into the couch to mope. She wasn't upset with Chixy about having to leave, it was her role here in the new megaplex, but it still sucked that she couldn't do anything until her ankle healed. She snorted and rolled to her other side to face away from the tv. Tears pricked in Roxy's eyes that she quickly wiped away. For the past three weeks, she had been feeling completely useless. Unable to man her own attraction, help Chica get ready for shows, or even just hang out with the chicken in her brand new cafe. Roxy snorted to clear the thoughts away after she decided to take a nap instead. She let out a long sigh and she readjusted herself on the couch before she forced herself to sleep.

-

Chica had been worried for Roxy the last few weeks and had been struggling in trying to find a way to cheer her favorite Champ up. She had already tried several things such as brushing Roxy's hair daily and nightly, spending every free moment and meal, different types of entertainment, but nothing seemed to last for long. Chica was starting to run out of ways as she didn't know how to run one of Roxy's karts on the brand new racetrack. As she headed back to her studio room that was part of her Mazercise, she ruffled her feathers in an attempt to find something to do. She could do a movie night again, though Chica had already tried that a few times. Maybe it was time to ask someone for ideas.

Chica popped her head into her room to find Roxy sleeping on her couch. She quickly closed the door to let her Champ sleep in peace. Instead, Chica turned away from her room in search of some new ideas. As she walked around the megaplex, she spoke to a few of the other members of her quirky family that had grown in the past three years. Sun the golden furred coyote gave Chica permanent markers in a variety of colors, kiddie bandaids, stickers, while Moon the raven furred coyote twin just told her to let Roxy sleep. Chica skipped Monty, she already knew Monty and Roxy squawked enough like rival siblings. Bonnie wasn't much help either with telling Chica that Roxy needed to stop moping around. Foxy was out on another voyage so he was out of contact except for emergencies. Chica decided to try Freddy next.

Chica stood outside Freddy's office door and knocked on it.

"It's open." Freddy replied through the door.

Chica opened the door to find Freddy sitting at his desk. "I can't cheer up Roxy and I'm running out of ideas."

Freddy sighed and leaned back in his chair as Chica sat down in a chair across from him.

"I've tried everything from movie nights to spending every meal with her."

"Roxy never had been one to sit still, it's why I designed the racetrack for her."

"But she can't race right now, and I'm afraid of those karts."

"Maybe…" Freddy paused as he shuffled some papers around. "Our financials are pretty steady right now and only growing in profit from here on out. How about we let her have her own kart? She is the best racer in the den, and she deserves something to prove that."

Chica cheered up at the thought and chirped excitedly. "Yes! She could design one herself! It would keep her busy when I'm not around."

Chica stood up from the chair and barely managed a happy chirp to Freddy. "Thank you Fred!"

Later after the last show of the day, Chica chirped happily as she headed to her room with dinner she had picked up from El Chip's, Roxy's favorite, and the craft items Sun had given her earlier. As she opened the door, Chica found Roxy was awake again. She set the food and craft items on the coffee as she sat down next to Roxy. She could tell her Champ still wasn't in the best mood and started to rub her cheek against Roxy's in an attempt to cheer her pup up. She heard Roxy huff before the pup ever so slightly leaned into the affection. Chica handed Roxy her favorite order as she picked up her own.

"Oh, I have some good news!" Chica chirped before she took a bite of nachos that had nearly all the toppings.

"What is it this time?" Roxy huffed before she dug into her own burrito.

"Freddy wants to give you your own special kart for your racetrack." Chica chirped excitedly as she noticed Roxy's ears perked up. "Something you designed yourself to prove you're the best in the den."

Despite Roxy's attempt to hide her excitement, Chica had learned over the years to catch all of Roxy's signs. She smiled to herself as she continued to munch on her nachos. Roxy stayed quiet as the pup ate her own dinner, but Chica knew the pup was lost planning out her own kart. Chica left Roxy to her thoughts as she ate and when she had finished, she decided to draw on Roxy's cast. She picked up a couple permanent markers and started doodling little hearts and different tiny foods with faces. Chica lifted her head as she heard Roxy snort, the pup watching her with a scowl. But again, Chica could catch the happiness in the pup's eyes. 

"Any ideas on your kart?" Chica chirped at Roxy.

Roxy looked away in a huff. "Not yet, I have to make sure it's the best."

Chica cooed as she returned to doodling on Roxy's cast. After Roxy finished her burrito, Chica paused as the pup laid down on the couch with a heavy sigh. She looked over at Roxy, worried for a second before she saw the faint smile on the pup's muzzle. She turned back to finish decorating her Champ's cast with some of the stickers and bandaids. As she placed the last couple stickers, she caught onto the slight wag in Roxy's tail and smiled to herself in contemptment. Chica set the markers in the coffee table before she leaned back into the couch. Roxy huffed and shifted on the couch.

"Get over here." Roxy huffed again at Chica.

Chica laid down on the couch beside Roxy and snuggled into the pup. They laid together for a while and watched tv before she heard the faintest whisper from Roxy.

"Thanks, nugget, for making me my best again."

-

Stay Cruel Until The End - Theodore

Posted May 31 '22

#theodore923 #fnaf #fnaf fandom #fnaf security breach #chixy #chixy week #chica the chicken #glamrock chica #roxanne wolf #roxy wolf #roxy x chica #chica x roxanne #fnaf roxanne

[lunaoritur]

kiss roulette

@ursadolls //🎲 / for Skipper 9. A kiss to the eyelid

Luna like sharing a bed with people -- usually Sam, but she had also recently discovered that Dave was a clinger when cold ( and it got c o l d in that submarine. ) However, there had been a couple of times where she'd snuck and stayed at the penguins' H.Q. for a night, telling her cephalopod cohort that she was going to be out for a mission and not to worry about her. And whenever she did, she'd always stayed in Skipper's bunk with him, and it was always much more comfortable for her, strangely enough...she could actually sleep.

Skipper was already all situated and comfortable when Luna slipped up in between his flippers, resting her chin on his chest, gentle ruby red flickering across his face. After a moment, she leaned forward and pressed a little kiss to one of his closed eyes. Then her chin found its place back on his chest, the tip of her beak relaxed on his.

" Has anyone eva' told you you have really pretty eyes ? "

#ursadolls #🔪🌙 // ic #🔪🌙 // answered #🔪🌙 // v / the penguins of madagascar #🖤❤️ // ship with ursadolls / before the dawn has come i'd block out the sun ; if you want it done (luna x skipper) #OWHHHH THEMMMMM they own my heart and soul /silly